He’d been so tired at the end of that day that he had welcomed the soft, warm bed. He had decided to spend one more day on land before venturing back to sea.
On the second day of his internment, Mrs. Clark had taught him how to use the washing machine and dryer, and he’d been required to do all the laundry in the house while she enjoyed a slice of chocolate cake and an hour to read the latest bestselling novel. She had not trusted him to use the iron, so she had put her book down and completed the job while he started the day’s schoolwork.
BP had thought about sneaking out of the house right before Mr. Clark returned from work, but the thought of wrapping himself in a clean, warm towel after climbing out of a sudsy bath caused him to linger a bit too long.
At breakfast this morning, the third day of his suspension from school, Mrs. Clark had announced that she would be teaching him to make the day’s dinner. After consulting her recipes, it was decided that with her help he would prepare the family a roasted chicken served with mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas.
After some initial hesitation, BP came to like the idea. He’d never cooked anything before. He was the Fearsome Flea’s powder monkey, not the galley boy. After he’d finished his schoolwork and completed the household chores to Mrs. Clark’s satisfaction, she gave him an apron and told him to wash his hands.
When he returned from the bathroom, a naked, headless chicken waited for him in the kitchen sink. Under Mrs. Clark’s watchful eye, BP washed and dried the bird, seasoned it, and popped it in the oven to roast. He cut up onions and carrots and put them in a pot with the chicken’s giblets to make gravy.
Mrs. Clark then taught him to shell peas. He peeled open the protective casings and ejected the little green pellets with his thumb. After that, she showed him how to peel potatoes. He still hadn’t found his dagger, but Mrs. Clark assured him that she had a tool specifically for the job. He perched himself on a stool at the kitchen counter and got to work. Slice after slice flew off the potatoes. Mrs. Clark cut them into bits, and BP dropped them into a pot of boiling water.
All the preparations having been completed, Mrs. Clark allowed him to take a break. BP wandered around aimlessly, unsure what to do with this newfound freedom. He pulled absently at his earlobe fingering the pierced holes. He had half a mind to steal himself some new jewelry. He glanced at Mrs. Clark bent over a sink full of dishes and thought better of it.
He wandered up to his clean and ordered bedroom. The empty book bag lay discarded by the closet door. He opened one of the bureau drawers and glanced at the freshly laundered shirts. He could pack the book bag with a change of clothes, climb out the window, and run down to the dock. He’d be aboard the Fearsome Flea before she even knew he was gone. He leaned his elbows on the window sill and peered out at the dreary day, drizzle rolling down the glass pane. He really didn’t want to go out into that weather. The scent of garlic-and-rosemary-encrusted chicken wafted into the room. He certainly didn’t want to leave before he’d tasted the dinner he was helping to cook.
BP pressed his forehead against the cool window pane. He felt drowsy and content. He looked to the fluffy comforter on top of the bed. A nap would feel good right about now. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been able to lie down in the middle of the day. If he tried, Maniacal Marge would be sure to wake him up with a boot kick to his ribs. But the woman downstairs was not Marge; she was his mother.
He curled up under the comforter and closed his eyes.
BP woke to the sound of Mrs. Clark’s voice. “Angus. Wake up, Honey. It’s time to carve the chicken.” He stretched his arms and legs and yawned. He opened his eyes and saw Mrs. Clark smiling down at him.
“Come on, dear. I pulled your roast chicken out of the oven a while ago. While it rests, why don’t we mash the potatoes?”
BP inhaled the delicious scents wafting from the kitchen and jumped out of bed. He felt reenergized and eager to finish making the meal. He hurried downstairs and took the potato masher from Mrs. Clark’s hand. He plunged it up and down into the steaming potatoes while she drizzled cream into the pot. Once the potatoes were mashed, he drained the peas and placed them in a small serving bowl. Mrs. Clark had set the table while he napped and all that was left was to carve the chicken.
“Where’s me dagger?” he asked.
“I’ll carve the chicken, Angus. The electric carving knife is too dangerous for you to use,” said Mr. Clark newly returned from work and hovering eagerly in the doorway.
“I’m no wee lad! I cooked the bird. Surely I can carve it, too!” insisted BP.
“I said it’s too dangerous,” repeated Mr. Clark forcefully.
BP scowled. He knew better than to argue with Mr. Clark when he sounded like that.
“What if we don’t use the electric knife this one time?” Mrs. Clark asked gently. BP stared. What was this? Was she actually going to take his side for once? “Maybe you could teach him how to use the carving knife safely?”
Mr. Clark looked at her, considering.
“I mean, he made the entire meal. It’s only right that he should carve the meat, too,” she said. “But safely. With your help.”
Mr. Clark nodded. “Okay.” He reached to the knife block and cautiously extracted a large knife. He set it on the counter and turned to BP. “Now, the way you hold this is …”
BP’s eyes gleamed, and he grabbed the knife in his right hand. He whipped it through the air, wielding it like a sword. He had trained extensively with Shep on fencing techniques. Shep insisted that he be able to adequately handle blades and defend himself before he could participate in battles.
“Angus! Be careful!” shrieked Mrs. Clark.
Under their astonished eyes, BP proficiently separated the chicken’s wings and legs from its body and rapidly sliced the chicken into paper thin strips. He placed the knife beside the magnificently carved chicken with a flourish and stepped back beaming at the Clarks.
“Where did you learn to do that?” stammered Mr. Clark.
Mrs. Clark shook her head and carried the platter to the dining table. She set it down and turned back to the kitchen to fetch the bowl of peas. BP grabbed the mashed potatoes, and Mr. Clark reached for the gravy.
Sir Schnortle sat beside his bowl of cat kibble and watched the family assemble the meal. The gorgeous scent of roasted dead bird tickled his nostrils. On the table, he watched gentle juices flow down the sides of the succulent meat. He looked down at his unappetizing, dry, diet cat food.
BP watched horror-struck as his nemesis jumped to the table, sat on top of the chicken platter, and then ran off with a chicken wing clutched between his jaws.
“I’ll get ye fer this, ye treacherous villain!” BP yelled. He thrust the bowl of mashed potatoes into Mrs. Clark’s hand and raced off after the fleeing feline.
Sir Schnortle moved surprisingly fast despite his above-average girth. He saw a gap under the living room sofa and scurried toward it. He extended his claws and grabbed the carpet, trying to tow himself under. His swollen stomach slowed him down just enough for BP to reach him before he’d managed to scoot both back legs through the opening.
BP grabbed the cat’s back leg to prevent further forward movement and gripped the animal’s bloated midsection. He pulled, and the body of the heavy cat began moving back out from under the sofa. BP heard the low throated growls muffled by the chicken flesh still clamped in the greedy cat’s jaws.
“Ouch! Ye stabbed me!” shouted a shocked BP.
He hauled out the fat cat, who only now dropped the chicken wing so he could spit and hiss at the young pirate. He swiped his outstretched claws at BP’s face, but BP was beginning to better understand this animal, and he dodged its swipes.
“Ye are a wicked scallywag! No one hornswaggles The Booty Poker, be he the fiercest pirate on all the seas!” pronounced BP.
Mrs. Clark’s calm voice broke through his oaths. “Angus, put Sir Schnortle down.”
“But he ruined me dinner! I worked so hard to prepa
re it,” blustered BP.
“I know dear. But he’s just an animal and doesn’t know any better. We’ll order a pizza or something,” she soothed.
“But I don’t want a pizza! I want me chicken!” said BP.
“I know, Honey. I’m upset too. But you need to put him down,” she insisted.
BP looked at Mrs. Clark and glowered at the hissing Sir Schnortle. “Don’t think this is over, ye bilge rat!” He released the cat.
Sir Schnortle ran to the hallway, then turned around, raised his hackles, glared at BP, and let out one last hiss. It didn’t appear that he was done with the battle yet either.
Chapter Nineteen: The Hold
Captain Hank walked slowly across the deck. He gazed around in wonder, his face glowing. He walked to the helm and stroked the wheel lovingly, like a mother smoothing the hair from a child’s forehead. Tears welled in his eyes. He was home.
Angus and Ivy watched him silently for a moment.
“We’ve got to get moving, Angus,” whispered the seagull. “The pirates are asleep now but dawn is approaching.”
Angus glanced at the lightening sky and knew she was right.
“We have to find my Insectivore Incinerator. Where do we begin?” he thought out loud. “Where do pirates keep their treasure? Ivy, you used to live on board. Where did the crew stash their loot after a battle?”
“I didn’t live here that long,” Ivy began. “I only witnessed a few attacks. Both times, Marge tallied up the items and then personally carried them down those stairs.”
“When I was captain, I recorded the items we had obtained in my log book. The treasure was then stored in the hold, below decks,” the captain chimed in. “I can’t imagine things have changed that much while that usurper has been running things.”
Angus walked to the trap door. “Is there another way to get down there?” he asked.
“No,” Ivy and Captain Hank said in unison.
“That means,” Angus began, the blood leaching out of his face as he realized just what that did mean.
“You have to walk through the bunkroom to get to the hold,” finished Ivy.
“Past all those sleeping pirates. In the dark. Without waking them,” gulped Angus.
“And you’d better do it soon,” added Ivy. The first rays of sun were peeking over the horizon.
The captain handed him a book of matches. “The hold is toward the bow of the ship. Pass all the bunks, and the door is there. Maniacal Marge probably has the key. I don’t know how you’ll unlock the door.”
Angus tugged on his trusty screwdriver hanging around his neck. “I should be able to jimmy open the lock.”
The captain nodded. “Yes, that should work.”
Angus looked down at his too-big pink rhinestone sneakers. They protected his feet but he was clumsy in them. He couldn’t risk tripping on them down below. He unlaced them and handed them wordlessly to the captain. He touched the screwdriver around his neck for good luck, grazed the top of Ivy’s feathery head lightly with a finger, and then reached down and hauled up the trap door. After one last look at Ivy, he crept down the ladder.
When his bare feet left the last rung and touched the floor, Angus tried not to imagine what exactly made it so sticky. He heard the gentle breathing, snoring, and the occasional snort of sleeping men. The bunkroom was black as the wood he’d charred in the campfire. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms against the lids. When he opened them again, he could almost make out the fuzzy outline of the bunks. He scanned the floor ahead of him, and saw some gray shapes there, too. Perhaps some of the crew had fallen asleep on the floor.
He pressed his back to the hull and tiptoed softly toward the bow, carefully avoiding those unlucky few pirates. When he could go no further, he felt the wall in front of him. The fingers of his right hand touched a cold metal ring. He slid them a bit lower and felt the indentation of what he assumed was the keyhole. It was a large opening, and he prodded it with his index finger. He could feel a small piece of metal hanging down. If he could push it upward with his screwdriver, he could probably gain entrance to the hold.
He replaced his right hand with his left and kept one finger in the keyhole. If he disconnected his hand from the door, it might take him several precious minutes to find the hole again in the dark. With his right hand, he removed the screwdriver from around his neck. He poked it into the hole as far as it would go and pushed steadily upward. With a “click”, the lock disengaged.
Angus pushed on the unlocked door, but it was jammed. He glanced warily over his shoulder. All the men slept. He drew a deep breath for courage and threw his weight into his right shoulder. It bounced painfully off the door. He bit his lip so as not to cry out and grabbed his injured shoulder with his left hand. His screwdriver clattered to the floor. He bent down to quickly retrieve it, and the door moved slightly outward. So that was it! The door opened toward the bunkroom, not into the hold.
With another quick look at the slumbering crew, Angus darted into the room. He closed the door carefully behind him and threaded his screwdriver through the metal ring on the inside of the door turning it sideways and lodging it against the door jamb. It would take a bit of effort for someone to open the door from the outside.
He stuck his hand into his jean pocket and drew out the book of matches. He struck one, and it ignited with a tiny burst of sulfur. The few inches directly in front of his face were illuminated. He checked the walls and noted an oil lantern installed near the door. The tiny flame scorched his finger, and he blew it out. He struck another match and lit the oil lamp. The wick caught flame, and a warm glow grew and grew casting light into the hold. Angus quickly lit a matching lantern on the opposite wall. Except for the deepest corners at the far side of the bow, Angus could now see the contents of the hold.
What he saw amazed him. Where he expected casks of gold and chests of jewels, piles of sacks greeted his eyes. He scanned the floor. They looked to be sacks of flour. He bent down and peered at the writing on one: “Sodium Bicarbonate.” He read one label after another. They were all baking soda! He crawled into the corners of the bow and there was more of the same. Except for the occasional bag of ill-smelling and rotting produce there was nothing down here except baking soda.
Angus slumped on to the nearest sack. What kind of lame pirate ship was this? He wasn’t entirely certain how this world worked, but in his world, or at least in the books and movies of his world, pirates attacked merchant ships for valuable treasure.
Focus, focus, he thought. He wasn’t down here for jewels. He was after the Insectivore Incinerator. It didn’t matter to him that the crew of the Fearsome Flea had no piles of money down here. Clearly, they hadn’t stashed his Incinerator down here either. He was going to have to tiptoe through the bunkroom again and tell Ivy they were just as stuck now as they had been before on the island.
He stood and drew a deep breath. Courage. He blew out both lanterns and slipped the screwdriver from the door. He wrapped the string of his screwdriver around his wrist and wielded the tool like a knife. It was his only protection if one of the pirates awoke.
He closed his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the darkness. He put his ear to the keyhole and listened. He didn’t hear any voices and hoped the crew was still asleep. Slowly, carefully, he pushed open the door and slipped out. Back pressed against the wall, he made his way to the ladder. He picked up one foot and silently set it down. Inch by inch, he was creeping past the snoozing crew. He couldn’t wait to get out of this smelly room, breathe some fresh sea air, and wash the stickiness from his feet. He placed his foot on the ground and stumbled over a body. He grabbed the wall and righted himself, but it was too late.
“Watch where ye’re walkin’, matey,” growled a voice, and a hand clamped around his bare ankle.
What were the odds that this pirate would let him go, not awaken the others, that Angus could still find the Insectivore Incinerator and escape?
“Keep it down! Some of us
are gettin’ our forty winks,” grumbled another.
“Aw, great. Now I need to pee,” whined a third.
Angus tugged his leg free and scurried to the ladder. His screwdriver clanked against the rungs as he grabbed them and climbed up. He reached the trap door as the room below him launched into drowsy life. Someone lit a lantern in the bunkroom, and Angus pushed against the door and scrambled on to the deck.
“Well?” Ivy perched on the gunnel, watching him. “Did you find it?”
“No. It’s not down there,” gasped Angus. “And we have bigger problems now. The crew is waking up.”
“What are we going to do? They’ll kill you for sure this time if they find you,” said Ivy.
“I’ll get back into the little boat. Maybe find a way to coast along behind them until I think of something.” Angus peered over the side, but the boat was nowhere in sight. “Where is it?” He was beginning to feel panicky. “Captain?”
Captain Hank was at the wheel, steering the ship. He looked unconcernedly at Angus. “What’s that, lad?”
“The boat. Our little motor boat. Where is it?” Angus asked frantically.
“Hmmm?” asked the captain.
“The crew is awake! I need to get off the Fearsome Flea! Where’s our boat?”
The captain looked puzzled.
“You know, the boat we built when we were living on the island? You did tie it up before you climbed onboard, didn’t you?” asked Angus.
“Well,” drawled the captain. “About that …”
“You didn’t tie it up?” demanded Angus. “You forgot?”
The captain shrugged and returned his attention to navigating the Fearsome Flea.
“What were you thinking?” Angus whipped his head around frantically looking for a place to hide.
“Well, if ye’re not steerin’ the bucket, who is? Ye’re lucky we didn’t capsize in the night!” Angry voices emanated from the bunkroom. Heavy footsteps were on the stairs and the trapdoor was being pushed open.
“Last thing I remember, I was at the wheel. Don’t know how I landed down here,” complained a second voice.
The Pirate's Booty (Inventor-in-Training) Page 13
