As the sailor was lifted, still moaning, and hauled below, Slank resumed his supervision of the gangway crew. “READY!” he shouted. “HEAVE TO!”
The sailors grunted, and the gangway was raised up off the wharf and slid back onto the deck. Slank gave the order to cast off the lines. The bow, pushed by the tide, began to slowly swing away from the wharf. No getting off the ship now.
Peter glanced up again at the girl. She was still watching him. If not for her warning, it would have been his ankle snared by the whip, and his bruised body being hauled off the brig. He nodded to the girl, just a bit. It was the closest he could come to thanking her.
The girl nodded back, her face serious, but her eyes betraying a hint of amusement. And then, to Peter’s surprise, she walked over to the short set of ladderlike stairs that led from the aft deck cabins to the main deck, collected her skirts into a fistful of fabric, and descended.
The stout woman leaned over the rail and called after her. “Miss Molly! Miss Molly!” But the girl paid no mind. She walked up to Peter, who made himself as tall as he could. They were just eye to eye.
“Thinking of leaving us, were you?” she asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said.
“Don’t you?” she said, smiling now.
“No, I don’t.”
“Good,” she said. “Because it would be a shame to miss a voyage aboard such a lovely ship as the Never Land.”
The stout woman leaning over the upper rail snorted, making a noise like an irate duck.
“Lovely ship, indeed,” she said. “It’s a floating stinkhouse, is what it is, pardon my French. And barely floating at that.”
“That’s Mrs. Bumbrake,” said the girl, still looking straight at Peter. “She’s my … governess.”
“Your father buys us passage on a garbage scow,” said Mrs. Bumbrake, “but does he sail with us? Oh no. Not him. He sails on the Wasp, the finest ship in all of England.”
“I’m sure Father has his reasons,” said the girl.
Mrs. Bumbrake made the duck sound again.
“My name is Molly Aster,” the girl said to Peter. “What’s your name?”
“Peter,” he said.
“What’s your last name?
“I don’t know,” he said. It was true. Back at St. Norbert’s, he’d once asked Mr. Grempkin what his last name was, and Grempkin had boxed his ear and told him it was a stupid question. Peter never asked again.
“Well, Mr. Peter Nobody,” said Molly, “do you know how old you are?”
“How old are you?” said Peter.
“I’m twelve,” said Molly.
“I’m thirteen,” said Peter.
“Wait,” said Molly. “I just remembered. Today is my birthday. I’m fourteen.”
Peter frowned. “Wait,” he said. “If you were twelve, and today’s your birthday, you’d be thirteen.”
“Not in my family,” said Molly. “In my family, we only celebrate even-numbered birthdays.”
Peter was impressed. He’d never thought of that.
“I just remembered something myself,” he said. “Today is also my birthday, and I am now”—he paused dramatically—“sixteen.”
“No,” said Molly. “Too much. I’ll accept fourteen. We’ll both be fourteen.”
Peter thought about it.
“All right, then,” he said. “Fourteen.”
“So, Mr. fourteen-year-old Peter Nobody,” said Molly, “why are you going to Rundoon?”
“What’s Rundoon?” asked Peter.
Molly laughed. “You really don’t know?” she said.
“No,” said Peter.
“Well,” said Molly, “you’ll know soon enough, because that’s where this ship is sailing. My father is to be the new ambassador there, in the court of His Royal Highness, King Zarboff”—she held up the three middle fingers of her right hand—“the Third.”
“The daughter of an ambassador!” said Mrs. Bumbrake. “And he puts us on this seagoing dirtbucket, pardon my French.”
“What kind of a place is Rundoon?” asked Peter.
Mrs. Bumbrake made the duck sound.
“Not a terribly pleasant one, I’m afraid,” said Molly. “The people are nice enough, but the king is not nice at all.”
“The king?” said Peter.
“His Royal Highness, King Zarboff the Third,” said Molly, and again she held up three fingers. “He’s a bad man.”
“What do you mean, he’s bad?” said Peter. “And why do you hold up your fingers when you say his name?”
“I’m practicing,” said Molly. “If you don’t salute with these three fingers when you say his name, and he finds out, he has these very fingers cut off.”
“He does?” said Peter.
“He does,” said Molly. “There’s a shop in Rundoon that sells nothing but two-fingered gloves. Does a brisk business, too.”
“Oh,” said Peter.
“But that’s not the worst part,” said Molly.
“It’s not?”
“No. The king’s late father, His Royal Highness, King Zarboff the Second, was eaten by a snake.”
“So?” said Peter.
“It wasn’t just any snake,” said Molly. “It was the pet snake of His Royal Highness, King Zarboff the Third.” Both Molly and Peter held up three fingers this time.
“His snake ate his father?” Peter said.
“Yes, said Molly. “Somehow”—she arched her eyebrows knowingly—“the snake got loose in the father’s bedroom while he was sleeping. They say the son wasn’t a bit upset—didn’t even seem surprised—when it ate his father. And now, as king, he keeps the snake by his throne, and feeds it by hand.”
“What does he feed the snake?” asked little James, speaking up for the first time.
“And who’s this young gentleman?” asked Molly.
“He’s James,” said Peter. “And don’t ask him his last name, because he doesn’t know it either.”
“What does he feed the snake?” repeated James. “I mean, now that his father is gone.”
“Pigs, mostly,” said Molly. “But Father says that sometimes, if one of his servants has disappointed him, the king …”
“Molly!” interrupted Mrs. Bumbrake. “That’s enough!”
James was crying again. “Peter,” he sniffled, “I don’t want to go to where there’s a mean king and hungry snakes!”
“Here, now!” boomed an angry voice behind Peter. Recognizing the tone, Peter was already ducking before the “now” ended, and thus he received only a glancing blow from First Officer Slank.
“You runts ain’t supposed to be here!” shouted Slank at Peter and James. “This here is for first-class passengers. These here ladies …”
He glanced up toward Mrs. Bumbrake, whose skirts swirled in the wind, revealing a plump ankle, a pink flash of shin. Slank’s mouth went slack for a moment, then he smacked his lips. Mrs. Bumbrake blushed and tilted her head down, raising her eyes so she could bat them at the smitten Slank.
“… these here lovely ladies,” he said, turning back to Peter and James, “do not want to be bothered by riffraff like you.”
Molly said, “But they aren’t bothering us!”
“Forward with you right now!” said Slank, ignoring Molly and giving Peter and James a rough shove, so that Peter had to grab James to keep him from falling.
“There’s no need for that!” said Molly.
“All due respect, miss,” said Slank, “but I knows how to handle this here riffraff. We’ve had these orphan boys aboard before, and if you let ’em …”
“Orphans?” said Molly, her eyes widening. “These are the orphans?”
“Yes, miss,” said Slank. “We got five of ’em this voyage.”
Molly, somber now, stared at Peter.
“What?” said Peter.
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Bumbrake.
“What?” repeated Peter. But Molly said nothing.
“Get
moving,” said Slank, shoving Peter and James again. “And if you don’t want to feel Little Richard’s lash, you’ll stay forward until we reach Rundoon. After that, your sorry hides belong to Zarboff.”
Peter froze. “King Zarboff?” he said, slowly raising three fingers. “The Third?”
Slank laughed, pleased by the fear on Peter’s face. “Why, yes!” he said. “You didn’t know? You’ll be spending your days as a servant in the court of His Royal Majesty! He goes through a lot of servants, does the king. Seems we got to bring him a new lot every trip we make. So my advice is, step lively, unless you want to see his snake from the inside.” Slank, roaring with laughter, gave Peter and James another shove. The two boys stumbled forward, James sobbing. When they reached the bow, Peter turned and saw that Molly was still watching him. The Never Land’s sails were almost all hoisted now; the ship was moving out of the harbor. Peter glanced over the side at the dark water, gauging the distance to land, but he’d never tried to swim, and knew this was not the time or the place to learn. Besides, the way James was clinging to his shirtsleeve, if he went over the side they’d both end up drowning.
No, there was no escaping it now. They were on their way to Rundoon.
CHAPTER 4
THE SEA DEVIL
FAR FROM THE WHARF, well across the bay and almost to the open sea, was a tangle of rocks so treacherous that no captain familiar with these waters would sail his ship there. Over the years, many ships had struck these rocks and sunk; they lay in pieces scattered everywhere, masts, bows, keels. It was the perfect place to hide a ship. Angels’ Graveyard, it was called, and it so frightened most sailors that they would not even look in that direction.
But there was a ship in there now, amid the huge rocks, long and low, black as coal, with three masts pointing toward the sky like skeleton fingers. On the foredeck stood two men, one squat and one tall.
“Can you see her?” said the squat man. He wore a striped shirt and blue wool pants that didn’t quite reach his ankles; his blistered bare feet were dark as tar.
“Not yet,” replied the tall man, squinting through a spyglass. He was a strikingly unpleasant figure, with a pockmarked face and a large red nose, like a prize turnip, glued to his face. His long black hair, greasy from years without washing, stained the shoulders of the red uniform coat he’d stolen from a Navy sailor on the high seas, just before escorting that wretched soul over the side of the ship. He had dark, deepset, piercingly black eyes, overshadowed by eyebrows so bushy that he had to brush them away to see through the glass. But his most prominent feature was the thick growth of hair on his upper lip, long and black, lovingly maintained, measuring nearly a foot between its waxed and pointed tips. It was this feature that gave him his name, the most feared name on the sea: Black Stache.
“There’s a hunk of worm food in the way, the Never Land,” he said. “What kind of fool name is that for a ship?”
“It’s a fool name, all right,” said the squat sailor.
“Shut up,” said Black Stache.
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Black Stache moved a few steps to his right, then squinted through the glass again.
“There she is!” he said. “The Wasp. Clear as day. Now, that there is a rival worthy of the Sea Devil. So she thinks she can sting us, does she? Outrun us?”
He laughed, and so did the squat man, and so did the dozen or so pirates within earshot, though they didn’t know what they were laughing at. The crew of the Sea Devil understood: if Black Stache laughed, you laughed. If he snarled, you snarled. If he breathed in your direction, you ran for cover. “Ratbreath,” his sailors called him behind his back. It was said that he liked to eat vermin raw, with a touch of sea salt.
When Black Stache had heard enough laughter, he raised his arm, and the crew quieted immediately. He turned to the squat man, who had been the Sea Devil’s first mate for a year now, the longest anyone had ever gone in that position without being heaved overboard by the captain.
“We’ve got the Ladies ready, don’t we?” asked Black Stache.
“Aye, Captain, we do at that.”
“Then we’ll just see who’s the faster ship, won’t we, Smee?”
“Aye, we will, sir,” said Smee, “if the Ladies hold.”
“The Ladies” were Black Stache’s secret weapon—a special set of sails he’d had the ship’s sailmakers make, using patterns that Black Stache had obtained from, of all places, a ladies’ corset maker. Though they had not yet been tested at sea, Black Stache was convinced that his invention would revolutionize the pirate industry. He was saving the Ladies for just the right moment, when he was heading downwind, closing on his prey for the kill.
“They’ll hold,” he said. He spat on the deck, then turned to the sailors gathered near.
“We’ll see who’s the fastest ship afloat, eh men?” he said. “And when we do, the Wasp won’t be floating anymore!”
The sun-bronzed pirates cheered, and not just because they had to. They knew there would be treasure on board soon, with a share for them. Black Stache saw the greed in their eyes.
“Treasure, lads!” he shouted. “The greatest treasure ever taken to sea!”
The pirates cheered again, louder this time.
“Or so some have said,” said Black Stache, and he turned to stare at a cage on the main deck. There was a man inside the cage, a uniformed sailor. He huddled in a corner, shaking at the sound of Black Stache’s voice.
“And if this scurvy dog is wrong,” said Black Stache, his black eyes boring in on the terrified prisoner, “then he’ll wish he’d never been born, that I vow.”
“The treasure’s on the Wasp. I promise,” cried the prisoner. “I heard it with me own ears.”
“It’d better be,” Black Stache said. “Or I’ll wear them ears on a necklace.”
Ignoring the man’s whimpers, Black Stache turned and raised the glass to his eye again.
“They’re hoisting sail,” he said. “Making to catch the tide. Tell the men to make ready to follow.”
Smee relayed the order, and the pirates swung smoothly into action. They didn’t look pretty, but they were an efficient crew, well trained by the whip.
Black Stache ignored them, his gaze still aimed through the glass.
“You’re mine, Wasp,” he mumbled on foul breath, a rare smile on his thin lips. “You, and everything you hold. Mine.”
CHAPTER 5
CAPTAIN PEMBRIDGE
THE BOYS WERE SHOWN TO THEIR QUARTERS in the Never Land by a gaunt, hollow-eyed sailor called Hungry Bob. He led them down a ladder and along a narrow passageway belowdecks, stopping in front of a low opening.
“Here you go, lads,” he said. “Your home away from home.”
Peter, followed by the others, ducked through the opening. What they found was depressing, even measured against the low standards of St. Norbert’s: a tiny, gloomy, windowless space, lit only by a sputtering oil lamp. The air reeked of smoke and rotten fish. The floor was bare, except for a chipped crockery pot in the corner.
“We’re all supposed to sleep here?” Peter said. “But there’s not enough room!”
“Oh, you’ll be glad you’re close together,” said Hungry Bob. “Keeps you warm.”
“But it smells,” said James.
“It does?” said Hungry Bob, sniffing. “Not so’s I can tell.” Hungry Bob was not exactly a fragrant flower himself. “Anyways, you get used to it.” He pointed to the crockery pot. “I put your dinner in the corner, there. You eat once a day, and you want to eat it right quick when I brings it, or the rats’ll get it first.”
The boys, who hadn’t eaten since the night before, brightened at the prospect of food. They gathered around the pot.
“Where’s the plates?” said Prentiss. “And the spoons?”
Hungry Bob had to grab the wall to keep from falling over with laughter. “Plates!” he roared. “Spoons!”
“Then how do we eat?” said Prentiss.
“Lik
e the rest of us,” said Hungry Bob. “With your hands.”
The boys peered doubtfully into the pot, which contained a darkish liquid. It looked far from appetizing, but they were hungry. Tubby Ted, always the first to take action where food was concerned, cupped his hands and scooped out a handful of the liquid with some small grayish lumps floating in it. He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, then shrugged and took a lump into his mouth. Immediately he spat it onto the floor.
“IT’S ALIVE!” he screamed.
The boys looked at the lump on the floor, and sure enough, it was wriggling.
“It’s a worm!” said Tubby Ted. “He fed us worms!”
Hungry Bob picked up the worm and looked at Tubby Ted.
“You ain’t gonna eat this?” he asked.
Tubby Ted shook his head violently.
“Your loss,” said Hungry Bob. Then, as the boys watched, slack-jawed, he popped the worm into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.
“Moth maggot,” he said. “I prefers fly, but moth is good, too.”
Tubby Ted turned away, retching.
“You eat worms?” said Peter.
“I eats what I can, on this ship,” said Hungry Bob. “Ate a piece of rope once. Two months at sea, we was. Mr. Slank had me lashed for that, but it was worth it. That was tasty rope. You boys’d be wise to eat whatever you get, because you won’t get much.”
“But,” said Peter, “I mean … worms!”
“If you don’t fancy worms,” said Hungry Bob, nodding toward the communal bowl, “you don’t want to know what else Cook puts in there. Let’s just say worms is one of the choicer items.”
Thomas, peering into the pot again, gasped.
“There’s something swimming in there!” he said. “It’s … it’s a mouse!”
“Really?” said Hungry Bob, looking into the pot. “Why, so it is! Cook must be in a generous mood. Usually he don’t serve mouse ’cept on special occasions like Christmas.”
Thomas moved away from the pot. “I’m not hungry,” he said.
“Nor me,” said James, and then Prentiss. Tubby Ted was still retching.
Starcatchers 01 - Peter and the Starcatchers Page 3
