Starcatchers 01 - Peter and the Starcatchers

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “I’ll be getting back to St. Norbert’s,” Grempkin said. He turned toward the coach, paused for a moment, then turned back and said, “You boys better watch out for yourselves.”

  In seven years, that was the nicest thing Peter had ever heard Grempkin say.

  “All right,” said Slank, as Grempkin turned back to the coach. “You boys get on board. We’re waiting for one more piece of cargo, and then we cast off.”

  Peter eyed the nicer ship down the wharf. Some soldiers were approaching it, carrying rifles with bayonets. The soldiers wore crisp blue uniforms and black, shiny boots. They walked on either side of a horse-drawn cart that carried a single trunk, black, done all around with chains and padlocks.

  The boys hesitated, taking their first good look at the Never Land. It wasn’t as big as they’d expected, and it looked old and poorly kept—frayed ropes, peeling paint, barnacles and green slime climbing the hull from the waterline.

  “Get a move on!” said Slank.

  “I can’t swim,” whispered James.

  “We’ll be all right,” said Peter. “It can’t be worse than St. Norbert’s.”

  “Yes it can,” said Tubby Ted. “The food runs out.”

  “Sharks,” Thomas reminded them. “Rats.”

  “We’ll be all right,” repeated Peter, and he started up the gangplank, being the leader, but still thinking about finding a way to escape before the ship set sail.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE SECOND TRUNK

  NOT FAR DOWN THE WHARF from the Salty Dog and the Mermaid’s Song, two men toiled in a dark, dismal warehouse, its enormous doors open to the harbor and the ships that were preparing for departure.

  “Are we done, then?” asked Alf, the bigger of the two. He had a nose wart the size and shape of a small mushroom. “Because I could use some grog.”

  Alf, being a sailor, could always use some grog.

  “Not yet,” said Mack. “Slank says we got one more to get aboard, this one over here.” Mack, a thin man, but as strong as any hand on the Never Land, had a tattoo of a snake’s head on his neck, the snake’s body disappearing into his sour clothes.

  Mack pointed to a corner of the warehouse where a filthy canvas was draped over a bulky object. The two men trudged over. Mack grabbed a corner of the canvas and pulled it off, revealing a common-looking trunk made of rough wood but held shut by thick chain and secured by two—no, three—padlocks.

  Alf studied the trunk, frowning. “Ain’t this the trunk them soldiers brought in here this morning?” he asked.

  “It looks like it,” said Mack. “But it ain’t. There was two trunks come in together. The black one got loaded onto the Wasp by them soldiers. Heavy as lead, it was. Then Slank pulls me aside and says he wants us, real careful-like, to put this one aboard the Never Land. He says, tie the canvas tight ’round it and walk it up the main gangway like it belong to one of the travelers. He says if we do this right there’s two bob more in our pay.”

  “Apiece?” said Alf.

  “Apiece,” said Mack.

  “All right, then,” said Alf, who was not one to ask questions when two bob was involved.

  “Let’s tie her up, then,” said Mack. “You lift the end there, and I’ll tuck this canvas underneath, and slip the rope ’round it.”

  “Why don’t you lift the end?” said Alf.

  “It’s me back, Alf,” complained Mack. “You know how it troubles me.”

  “No more than mine troubles me,” said Alf.

  “But I said it first,” said Mack.

  Alf sighed. The longer they argued—and Alf knew, from experience, that Mack would argue this point a good long time—the less chance he’d have at some grog before they set sail.

  “All right, then,” Alf said, and he squatted to grab hold of the end of the trunk.

  Alf was a simple man, of simple wants. What he hoped to get from life was food that was soft enough to chew, a place to sleep out of the rain, and some grog now and again. Alf had never known true happiness, and he didn’t expect to.

  And so he was not ready, not ready at all, for what happened when his rough, callused hands touched the trunk.

  First, he felt it: a warmth, starting in his hands but quickly moving up his arms and down his back and into his legs, and everywhere the warmth went it was … wonderful. Like stepping into a bath. In an instant the pain in his bent old spine, the throbbing pain that he’d lived with since almost his first day on the docks, was gone. So was the aching weariness in his legs. Gone!

  But there was more: there was a … smell. It was flowers. New grass in a meadow right after a spring rain. A fresh orange being peeled. It was cinnamon and honey, and bread just baked and pulled from the oven. And another smell even more wonderful than all the others, though Alf couldn’t place it. Like nighttime, he thought.

  Alf could see light now, swirling around his head, colors and sparkles, moving to music, dancing to the sound of … bells, yes, it was bells, tiny ones, by the sound of them, and it was a sweet and joyful sound, though Alf could hear something else in it, something that seemed to be trying to tell Alf something. He strained to hear it, he wanted to hear it….

  “ALF!” said Mack, shaking Alf’s shoulder harder now, hard enough so that Alf let go of the trunk. And when he did, the wonderful smells were gone, and so were the lights, and the bells, and Alf could feel the weight come back into his body, his back and his arms and his legs, along with all the old aches and pains, and he felt himself settling, as though he’d been—but that was impossible—floating above the warehouse floor, just a little bit of an inch, but floating. He brushed off his hands, thinking someone had put rat poison on the outside of the trunk. He’d seen sailors go into a crazy dance from messing with rat poison.

  “ALF!” said Mack again. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Alf looked at Mack, then down at the trunk, then back at Mack. He put his fingers in both ears, looking silly.

  “I … when I touched it …” Alf said. “Didn’t you hear them?”

  “Hear what?” said Mack.

  “The bells,” said Alf.

  “What bells?” said Mack. “There weren’t no bells.”

  “Bells,” said Alf. “And lights, and …” He stopped, seeing the way Mack was looking at him. “Rat poison!” he said, slapping his hands against his pants, trying to get them clean.

  “You already been to the tavern today?” asked Mack suspiciously.

  “Rat poison!” said Alf, now rubbing his hands on a dirty old towel. Mack was looking at him all funny. “Got to gets it off me hands.”

  “Bells?” Mack teased him, shaking his head. He turned back to the trunk. Alf saw that Mack had slipped the canvas more tightly around the trunk, and the rope around the canvas. A tiny bit of the trunk still showed.

  “Mack,” said Alf. “I dares ya to touch it.”

  “What?” said Mack. “Me?”

  “Just touch the trunk,” said Alf. “On the wood there.”

  “I’m not messing with no rat poison! You remember what happened to Hungry Bob?” Mack considered himself a cautious man, and the truth was, he was afraid to touch the trunk now. He knew that something had happened when Alf touched it; somehow, he’d felt it. No, Mack had decided there was something strange about this trunk. Why else would Slank be giving special orders and offering two bob? Mack was not going to touch it, thank you very much.

  “It’s not our job to fool with it,” Mack said, pulling the rope tight. The canvas now covered the trunk entirely. “Slank said put it aboard the Never Land, and that’s that.”

  “But, Mack,” said Alf. “I’m telling you, God’s truth, rat poison or not, it felt good. “

  “Let’s just finish the job,” said Mack, pulling the knot tight, “and take our two bob to the tavern, get our grog quick-like, and forget about this trunk.”

  “All right, then,” said Alf, though he didn’t think he would soon forget that feeling he’d just had. Maybe once the Never Land w
as under way he could sneak in and visit this trunk again.

  Grunting, the two men lifted the canvas-wrapped trunk onto a handcart, and trundled it out of the warehouse, onto the wharf. A minute later they passed the Wasp, whose crew was preparing to cast off.

  “She’s a pretty ship, ain’t she?” said Mack.

  “What?” said Alf, who’d been thinking about the trunk.

  “I say, the Wasp is a beauty,” said Mack. “I’d love to sail on her someday. They say she’s the only ship afloat that might outrun the Sea Devil.”

  The mention of the pirate ship won Alf’s full attention. The Sea Devil was the ship of the most feared pirate on the Seven Seas. Sailors said that if you caught sight of the Sea Devil, it was time to make your peace with your maker, because you’d be with Him within the hour.

  “No ship can outrun the Sea Devil,” said Alf. “Nobody ever has.”

  “Till now,” said Mack. “The Wasp was built for just that, and Captain Scott is as able a seaman as ever sailed these waters. Unlike the idjit in charge of our bilge bucket.”

  Sneering, Mack nodded toward the Never Land, now just ahead.

  “Aye,” said Alf. “Pembridge could capsize a dinghy on dry land.”

  Cyrus Pembridge, the Never Land’s captain, was widely regarded as the most incompetent man to command a ship since the formation of water.

  “Who in the name of common sense would put to sea on that ship with that man in charge?” wondered Mack.

  “Well,” Alf answered, “we are.”

  “True,” Mack said. “But nobody else’d hire the likes of us.”

  They were alongside the Never Land now. The ship had been loaded and provisioned; the crew was preparing to cast off. Most of the passengers were on deck. Some were looking around anxiously at the decrepit ship, and the scruffy crew in whose hands they were placing their lives. Others were leaning on the dockside rail, watching the cast-off preparations. Among these, Alf noticed, was a group of five boys near the bow. They looked plainly scared, except for one, a wiry boy with bright orange hair—not the largest of the lot, but the one who seemed to be in charge. He had an air about him, Alf thought, the look of a boy who doesn’t miss much.

  “It’s about time,” said Slank, tramping down the gangplank, trailed by two more seamen. “You’re late. Tide’s begun to run.” To the men behind him, he said, “Get this cargo trunk aboard.”

  As the men bent to heft the load, Alf—not thinking; not knowing why he did it—slipped his hand under the canvas flap, thrusting it forward until his fingers felt the smooth wood.

  “Here now!” said Slank. “What the dickens are you doing?”

  “Alf,” said Mack. “What are you doing?”

  But Alf didn’t hear them. Instantly he was lost in it all again—the warmth, and the smells, the music and the floating—and it was so good, especially the sweet song. There was something else in there, too, something the bells were saying, trying to tell him…. What was it?

  “HANDS OFF THAT CARGO!” Slank yelled. Alf felt himself yanked away from the trunk, and then the music was gone, and all the other good feelings with it. Alf was wobbly, but with Mack’s help he managed to keep his feet. Alf watched two men carry the trunk onto the ship, and he felt a sadness come over him, because he knew he might not hear the music again. He almost wept, except that a man like Alf didn’t cry.

  Then—he didn’t know why—Alf looked toward the bow, and found himself looking right into the startlingly blue eyes of the orange-haired boy.

  “Come on, Alf,” said Mack, gently tugging at Alf’s coat, concerned about his old friend’s strange behavior.

  But for a moment Alf held still, his gaze still locked with that of the orange-haired boy.

  “Come on” repeated Mack. “We’re casting off!” Alf turned and followed his friend toward the lines that held the ship to the wharf. After a few steps, he looked back, but the boy was gone. Boys gets into all sorts of trouble, he thought, his ears still ringing from the music of those bells.

  CHAPTER 3

  MOLLY

  PETER TROTTED AFT on the Never Land’s bustling deck, dodging the sailors making final preparations for casting off and getting under way. The forward gangway had been detached, hauled aboard, and stowed; now sailors were working on the aft gangway. When they were done, there would be no way off the ship.

  Peter’s plan was to dart down the gangway just before they finished the job and disappear into the bustle on the wharf. He figured the ship’s departure wouldn’t be held up just for him, a mere one boy out of five.

  He had no plan for what he’d do once he got off the ship; all he knew was, he didn’t want to stay on it. He’d seen enough of the Never Land to decide that it was an unpleasant, dirty place, run by unpleasant, dirty men. They were around him now, stinking of sweat, struggling with lines and sails as an officer shouted orders that consisted mostly of curses. They don’t seem like a happy group, thought Peter.

  He neared the aft gangway and stopped, looking for his chance to flee. Directly ahead, blocking his path, stood the first officer, Slank, supervising the gangway crew. Just beyond, two sailors were carrying the canvas-draped cargo that had been brought onto the ship at the last minute. Peter had watched the cargo’s arrival and the little drama that had played out on the wharf. He’d seen the sailor, the one with the big nose wart, reach under the canvas and touch something; he’d seen the look that had come over the man’s face. He looked so happy, Peter thought. Why did he look so happy?

  Peter studied the mysterious cargo now being maneuvered into the aft hold. It didn’t look heavy; the sailors handled it fairly easily. Peter wondered what was inside.

  He was distracted by a giggle, and turned to see a rare sight: a girl. He’d not seen many girls over the past few years; St. Norbert’s had had only one, the headmaster’s daughter, an unpleasant, sallow-faced child who amused herself by dropping spiders onto the heads of boys passing beneath her third-floor window.

  This girl he saw now in no way resembled the headmaster’s daughter. She had large, wide-set green eyes, and long brown hair that curled slightly and turned to gold at the tips. She wore a long, straight blue dress that accentuated the slimness of her frame. She was perhaps an inch taller than Peter, and by the look of her she took baths. At St. Norbert’s, Peter took one bath a month, unless he could get out of it.

  He straightened his posture and tried to look older.

  The girl stood next to a stout woman, wearing a wide-ranging and complicated skirt and wielding a formidable black umbrella. The woman’s hair was an unnatural shade of red, and she wore a great deal of powder on her face, caked and cracked at the edges of her mouth and nose. She was surveying the ship and crew, and it was clear she did not approve of either.

  The canvas-wrapped cargo was lowered into the hold, and disappeared. The brown-haired girl watched it go, then glanced around quickly. Her eyes fell on Peter. He half expected her to look away, as strangers do when their gazes lock by accident, but she didn’t; she kept her eyes on him, studying him openly, until finally it was he who broke the contact. Peter turned toward the wharf.

  “Ready, sir!” shouted a seaman.

  “Get aboard, then,” shouted Slank. “We’re wasting time!”

  Peter’s attention returned to the gangway, which he saw was about to be hauled aboard. This was it, his chance to escape. He tensed his legs as he prepared for the dash to the wharf. Ready, set …

  “Peter!” He felt a hand grab his shirt from behind. “Peter!”

  It was James. “Not now,” whispered Peter. “Go away.”

  “But I lost you—and—and—and I couldn’t find you, and—and …”

  “Go away!” hissed Peter, pushing James from him. He looked around quickly and saw the girl staring at him. He looked back to where several sailors were preparing to haul up the gangway. Again Peter stiffened, ready to run for it.

  “Please,” James pleaded, weeping, his voice desperate. “I’m sca
red.”

  Peter looked—he didn’t know why—back up at the girl. She was watching him intently. For an instant he thought her expression meant that she disapproved of his shoving James, and it bothered him. Why do I care what she thinks?

  But then the girl shook her head side to side, barely moving it.

  It’s not disapproval, Peter thought. She’s warning me.

  The girl nodded her head toward the gangway. Peter looked that way and saw a huge man—more a horse than a man—who hadn’t been there a minute before. His enormous black-booted feet were braced on the deck. His right hand held a long, coiled whip.

  I wonder what he …

  It happened in a second, at most two. A sailor bolted for the gangplank, his bare feet slapping wood. He had taken perhaps three long strides when the whip cracked—it moved much too fast for Peter to see it—and wrapped itself around this man’s ankle like a snake. The sailor crashed to the deck as the giant jerked the whip back, dragging the man effortlessly, as if he were no more than a dead cat, to the feet of the scowling Slank.

  Slank spat on the sailor.

  “Having second thoughts, were you, now?” he said. “Somebody always does, come cast-off time. That’s why we have Little Richard, here.” Slank nodded back at the huge man, then drew back his leg and kicked the would-be escapee hard in the ribs. The man moaned and squirmed on the deck.

  “You’ll be starting out this voyage with a week in the brig,” said Slank. “Hardtack and water for a week. You can sleep with the rats for a while, and if that don’t improve your attitude, we’ll give you another taste of Little Richard’s lash—only this time he won’t be so gentle.”

  Slank glared around the deck. “Anybody else having thoughts of leaving?” he said. The sailors, avoiding Slank’s stare, busied themselves with their work.

  “I thought not,” said Slank. “Now, get this bag of lice out of my sight.”