Chapter Seven: Marooned
Captain Hank looked at Angus and seeing that he was serious, nodded his head.
“Okay then. I, too, would like to get back on board the Fearsome Flea. Step into my office, and we’ll discuss it.”
Captain Hank pushed himself up from the log he was sitting on and strode toward a ramshackle hut Angus hadn’t noticed before. Angus clutched the wool blanket around his body and scrambled to his feet. He followed the captain to the structure, a lean-to made of huge driftwood logs sunk into the sand with cedar boughs for a roof. A chair was cobbled together with more driftwood and rope. A rusted slab of metal fastened to four large plastic tubs of similar size served as a table. A neatly folded bedroll rested atop a thick layer of cedar boughs raised off the sand floor by two wooden pallets. Scavenged fishing rope, buoys, rusted nails, and unlabeled cans of food lined the walls. Captain Hank motioned Angus toward the makeshift bed.
“Please, have a seat,” he said.
Angus settled into the cedar boughs. The bed was surprisingly soft and fresh-smelling. Despite its crude appearance, this small abode was ten times cleaner and better organized than anything he’d seen aboard the Fearsome Flea. He looked admiringly at Captain Hank.
“Nice place,” Angus said.
“Thanks. It’s not much, but it’s home,” he replied.
“How did you get here?” asked Angus.
Captain Hank pulled a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, opened a blade, and began whittling on a piece of driftwood.
“It’s not much of a story,” he began. “One day I was the captain of the Fearsome Flea and the next I was marooned on this island.”
“There must be more to it than that,” insisted Angus.
“I was the second son of a lettuce farmer. My early years were somewhat uneventful, except for when my dog ran away from home to join the circus …”
“Maybe a little less information,” interrupted Angus.
“Well, which way do you want it? First you want me to tell you more and then you say it’s too much,” whined the exasperated captain.
“How about you begin right before you were marooned on this island,” answered Angus.
“One-Eyed Billy made me a mug of chamomile tea. I fell asleep, and I woke up on this beach,” said Captain Hank.
“Okay, maybe a little farther back,” said Angus.
“My early school years?”
“Too far.”
“How about you ask me what you want to know,” suggested the pirate.
“Fair enough,” said Angus. “Why did your crew leave you on this island and steal your ship?”
“They’re a bunch of unthankful, selfish, dirty, rotten scoundrels!” shouted Hank.
Angus sighed. “Did they disagree with your leadership in some way?”
Hank’s hands stopped moving, and he stared incredulously at Angus. “I was a fantastic leader! One of the best on the high seas. I might even go so far as to say The Very Best! How dare you imply otherwise?”
“And yet, you find yourself marooned on this island,” Angus said quietly.
The captain’s mouth opened, then shut and opened again. He resembled nothing so much as a very tall, very thin, balding fish. He looked down at the wood in his hand, and began carving again.
“They may not have liked the direction our enterprise was taking,” Captain Hank began. “I was only doing what I thought was right for the Fearsome Flea, for the crew, for myself. I had to follow my conscience.”
Angus waited patiently for the pirate to continue.
“I’ve been a pirate since I was ten,” said Captain Hank. “My mother traded me for a crate of sodium bicarbonate.”
“Sodium bicarbonate?” questioned Angus.
“Yes! You heard me right. Sodium bicarbonate.”
Angus was clearly perplexed.
The captain explained, “Sodium bicarbonate. Miracle powder. You use it for baking and cleaning or when you have acid indigestion …”
“Yes, yes, of course I know NaHCO3. But what did you do to make your own mother trade you for baking soda?” said Angus.
“She was a lovely mother. The best! Do you know how valuable sodium bicarbonate is? You can’t bake a decent chocolate chip cookie without it,” Captain Hank said. “Not to mention how effective it is for cleaning. My mother was an exceptional homemaker.” Seeing that this wasn’t making an impression on Angus, he concluded, “She needed a lot of baking soda. Besides, it’s not like I was the first-born son.”
Angus stared at him, uncomprehending. Captain Hank shrugged and continued. “I grew up aboard pirate ships. I started off swabbing decks and cleaning galleys. I graduated to cannon boy, learned to fix riggings, and watched for merchant ships from the crow’s nest. I learned all I could about sailing, and navigating, and pirating because I planned to one day run my own ship. That was made possible several years ago when I inherited some money. My dear mother, God rest her soul, perished in a grease fire.”
Angus raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” said the captain. “Her beloved baking soda, instead of smothering the flames, caused the grease to splatter around the kitchen and spread the fire. My father and older brother had left town years before to escape the endless cleaning. I am the only living family member the estate lawyers could find. I inherited everything.”
Angus wasn’t sure if he should be sorry about the death of Captain Hank’s mother or happy that the unlucky pirate had inherited money, so he settled for puzzled bewilderment.
“The Fearsome Flea was the first ship I saw. I fell in love with her immediately.” Captain Hank’s eyes sparkled. “I just had to have her. I paid cash, hired on a crew, and bought supplies with what was left. We had a bit of work to do to get her seaworthy but within a fortnight we were on our way.”
“I ran a tight ship. The decks were scrubbed twice a day: Before breakfast and after dinner. The head was cleaned three times a day, more frequently on bean soup days or if any of the crew came down with a stomach bug. The galley sparkled; our cook observed the strictest food safety practices. I even patented my own line of cleansers, all sodium bicarbonate-based, of course,” said the captain.
Angus nodded, and Captain Hank continued his narrative.
“We had a dress code aboard ship. Shirts and shoes were required in all public locations. Ripped and stained garments were repaired by our ship seamstress. The crew was required to wear ties and suit jackets at dinner,” said the pirate.
“I’ve never heard of such things on a pirate ship,” said Angus.
“Well, that was just it. Once I’d inherited my dear mother’s money,” Captain Hank raised his eyes skyward every time he mentioned his mother, “it became clear to me that I didn’t need to fight and steal anymore to make my living. I intended to turn my life around. I began marketing my baking soda cleansers. Some major retail outlets were expressing interest in my products. We were about to set off on a sales tour. I had the crew working double time scrubbing and polishing the Flea. We were going to promote the cleansers with a spotless pirate ship.”
Captain Hank reached behind some cans on the wall and unrolled a banner. It read: “Captain’s Cleanser, for a Shipshape Clean Every Time.” He smiled sadly.
Angus spoke. “I take it the crew didn’t see things your way?”
“They were a rough lot when I first hired them on. They loved a good brawl and didn’t seem to like dressing for dinner. I thought they’d come around when they saw how much money we could make legally with baking soda. I think I could have convinced them, too, if not for Marge.” The captain scowled.
“Why did you hire her in the first place?” asked Angus.
“You’ve seen her. She’s large, strong, and can keep the crew in line,” Captain Hank responded. “I was busy perfecting Captain’s Cleanser. I didn’t have time to concern myself with the day-to-day operation of the ship. Marge had all the qualifications to be a great quartermaster. Unfortunatel
y, it turned out she was a megalomaniac. A little bit of power made her crazy for more. She incited the crew to mutiny. If I hadn’t been so caught up in my work below decks, I would have seen what she was doing above decks.”
Angus said, “Seems like the immoderate love of baking soda was the undoing of both you and your mother.”
Captain Hank sighed and nodded.
“Caw!”
“Ouch!” yelled Angus clutching his head. He jumped to his feet and spun around looking for whatever had just fallen through the roof and landed on his head. In his haste, he let go of the woolen blanket forgetting for a moment that he was wearing nothing beneath it.
“Caw! Yikes! Cover yourself up!”
Angus flushed crimson and snatched up the blanket wrapping it protectively around his naked body.
“Ivy, is that you?” he asked.
“Up here,” she called.
Angus looked through the newly made hole in Captain Hank’s roof and saw a small black crow resting in a nearby tree. Captain Hank reached down and picked up the object that had made the hole.
“My screwdriver!” Angus shouted.
Ivy, in the guise of a crow, proudly announced, “I figured you’d probably want it back.”
“But how?” Angus asked. “I lost it on the bottom of the ocean! However did you find it?”
“I saw it fall out of your hand. After I left you on shore, I swam back, transported my mind into a crab, and found it on the bottom. I would have been here sooner but do you know how difficult it is to walk sideways?” she replied.
“The crow is speaking,” stammered the captain.
“That’s no crow. That’s Ivy,” said Angus taking the screwdriver from the flabbergasted pirate.
After many attempts to explain inter-dimensional travel and body jumping to Captain Hank, Angus and Ivy finally gave up. Captain Hank might be a reformed pirate, a captain of industry, and an exceptional cookie baker, but one thing was certain, he was no scientist. At last, Angus simply told him that he had trained Ivy to speak, much like the parrot on the Fearsome Flea.
Now that everyone was acquainted, it was time for Angus to put his dry clothes back on. His jeans felt like a cardboard box and his shirt was scratchy from dried salt, but Angus was happy to be rid of the woolen blanket. He slipped on his flip-flops, fastened his screwdriver securely around his neck with some frayed rope, and turned around proudly to face his friends.
“You might want to zip your fly,” said a sullen Ivy, annoyed that her scientific prowess had been explained away as mere animal training.
Angus adjusted his zipper, and looked to Hank. “Well then. Let’s build ourselves a boat.”
“Oh, I’ve got a boat,” said the captain.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s get in!” shouted Angus.
“It won’t float,” said the captain. “It sinks every time.”
As an inventor-in-training, Angus was well acquainted with the invention that just doesn’t work. Hundreds of failed experiments had taught him to try and try again. Over the years he had learned to conquer his frustration. A defective invention meant you had to be more creative, more determined. His Incinerator was a clear example that hard work does pay off eventually, even if instead of burning up a cedar cone it conveys you to another world.
“Let’s put it in the water and see what happens,” he said.
The captain shrugged and picked his way over the rocks to a sheltered area. Among the sea-tossed logs rested a non-descript raft.
“That’s your boat?” asked an incredulous Angus.
Captain Hank looked sheepishly at his feet. His shoulders slumped even lower than before. “I never claimed to be a shipwright,” he mumbled.
Angus shook his head and whistled. “Well then, we’ve got some work to do. First, I need to see your recycling.”
“Recycling?” asked the captain.
“Oh, right. We’re on an island,” remembered Angus. “I need some building materials. What have you got?”
The captain shrugged.
“Angus, the ocean’s tidal field is on the other side of the island. More detritus should wash up there than on this side,” Ivy chimed in.
“It’s going to take some time to hike there, and it will be dark soon,” said the captain.
“I can fly there and back before dark to check it out. You can hike there tomorrow if there’s anything interesting,” said Ivy.
“Great idea! That will give me time to draw out a plan. Now, if only I could find a pencil and paper?” Angus looked to the captain as Ivy flew off.
Captain Hank shook his head. “Sorry, nothing like that here.”
Angus pulled the screwdriver off his neck and considered it. He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. “Got it!” he declared, and ran to the forest edge. He plunged his screwdriver into the soft bark of a cedar tree and wiggled it back and forth. He jammed his fingertips into the opening and pulled, working the screwdriver underneath the layer. He pulled and wiggled slowly and forcefully until he held a long strip of cedar bark between his fingers. He ran back to the fire.
“Can I have that?” he asked Captain Hank, pointing at the stick the captain had been whittling. Silently, the pirate handed it to him. Angus knelt down and stuck the tip of the stick into the fire until it began smoking. He pulled it out, blew on it, and put it back into the fire. After ten minutes of this, he tested it on the inner layer of cedar bark. The stick left a charcoal trail on the soft cedar bark.
“Perfect!” pronounced Angus smugly.
He began sketching, relighting the stick as necessary to maintain the dark line. Occasionally he grunted, spat on the bark, and erased an errant line with his finger. By the time Ivy had returned from the opposite beach the sun had set and Angus was rocking back and forth on his knees and looking very pleased with himself.
“I’m back!” announced Ivy.
Captain Hank hurried over to the fire from the hut where he’d been preparing a pallet for Angus to sleep on.
“Did you see any tidal booty?” the pirate asked eagerly.
“I didn’t have much time to look before it got dark but there were some fishing nets and rope,” Ivy began.
“Plenty of that on this beach,” interrupted Captain Hank. “Anything else?”
The crow’s beady black eyes glittered in the firelight. “Just a few boxes of these.” She dropped a plastic object from one of her feet. Captain Hank picked up the object with his skinny fingers and held it close to the fire.
“What the?” he asked.
“Cool!” chuckled Angus, snatching it out of his hand. “I used to have one of these when I was a little kid!”
Angus held a bright yellow plastic duck. As Captain Hank watched, Angus turned the duck over and rotated a knob. He held the duck by the neck and the little plastic duck feet kicked rapidly.
“What do you do with it?” asked the interested pirate.
“It’s a tub toy,” said Angus. “You play with it while you’re having a bath.”
Captain Hank reached over and gingerly took the duck from Angus. He wound up the knob and watched as the little feet kicked. A slow smile spread over his face, and his expression was that of a gleeful child. In that moment Angus remembered the captain had spent his childhood as a slave aboard a pirate ship. He’d probably never had toys or the opportunity to play. Ivy must have been thinking the same thing because she said, “There are plenty more where that came from. Why don’t you keep that one, Captain?”
The pirate looked wonderingly at Angus and at Ivy. Happiness, then distrust, and finally embarrassment crossed his face. He shoved the toy back at Angus.
“Oh, no, no. I couldn’t. It’s meant for children,” he said gruffly.
Angus gazed at him solemnly. “I need you to examine it closely. We may need the parts for our water craft.”
The captain cleared his throat. “Okay then. In that case, I’ll see what I can discover.” He hurried off to the hut clutching the toy.
“Well?” asked Ivy. She landed on his shoulder. “What did you do while I was away?”
Angus pointed to his cedar bark paper and showed her his drawing in the firelight.
“What do you think?” asked the proud Angus.
Ivy chose her words carefully. “Impressive. Truly brilliant. You’ve drawn the hull perfectly. You can almost feel the wind in the foresail.”
“I know. Isn’t it great?” chortled Angus.
“That rocket propulsion system is quite spectacular,” she paused, then continued. “Unfortunately, there were no rockets washed up on the other side of the beach. Perhaps you might consider a small redesign?”
“What?” asked Angus. “Oh, this … no, this isn’t my plan. I was just sketching the world’s coolest Lego. It hasn’t been built yet.”
“I thought you were drawing the boat to get off this island,” questioned the confused crow.
“That one is here,” said Angus, picking up a smaller piece of cedar bark. Two stick figure people and a stick figure crow stood on an overturned trapezoid.
The exasperated crow flew off, cawing angrily.
“Anyone knows you’re not going to find rockets washed up on a beach,” muttered Angus. “Duh.”
Chapter Eight: A Beast in the Night
Dressed in freshly laundered and pressed pajamas, BP entered the bedroom. A lava lamp suffused the room in a soft glow. The sound of waves emanated from a machine on the bedside table. The bedclothes were pulled back invitingly. BP threw himself on to the mattress. The soft feather comforter enveloped him in warmth. He nestled his freshly washed head into the two plump pillows. Warm and pink from the bath, he fell asleep immediately.
And then.
The night was quiet and peaceful. The half-moon shone down from the dark sky reflecting its cool light on the mild waves. The ship swayed gently from side to side as it progressed through the midnight waters. He swaggered jauntily toward the helm. He was the captain of this vessel. His hat, bearing one feather, sat rakishly askew. His sword rested in its scabbard, ready to be wielded. The vessel was stealthily approaching a merchant ship in the dead of night. He was cunning and sly and would catch his prey unawares. Silence reigned on deck. His crewmen waited breathlessly for his orders.
The Pirate's Booty (Inventor-in-Training) Page 6
