Peter and the Starcatchers: Chapters 9–18

He joined the crowd forming a circle around the men as they sat on the deck, dripping, panting, looking apprehensively up at their rescuers.

Slank drew his knife, the blade’s honed edge glinting.

She looked up at him, her face blank, her green eyes devoid of their usual sparkle.

“Magic spell?” scoffed another sailor. “Not hardly. Too much rum, that’s your magic spell.”

There was a tentative tap at the door.

Smee held his hand over his nose, trying to be discreet about it.

He fell back, momentarily staggered by the odor, then scrunched up his face and forced himself forward into the cabin, like a man walking against a gale.

She saw only the ship’s churning wake, ghostly pale by the light of the ship’s lone stern lantern.

She saw only the ship’s churning wake, ghostly pale by the light of the ship’s lone stern lantern.

She squinted at the patch of dark water where she thought she’d seen something, at the rightmost edge of the roiling wake.

He crouched for a moment, breathing deeply, seething with feelings of rage and betrayal.

“And you understand that, as such, I am privy to certain information that is not generally available?”

“Our lookouts have seen no other ship for days, save for the frigate flying the Union Jack. She may be an imposter, but even if she means us harm, she’ll never catch the Wasp.”

“And I trust that we shall prevail, Captain Scott. But whatever happens, understand this: the special cargo that this ship carries for the Queen must not fall into our enemy’s hands. It must not. If that were to happen, the consequences would be dire. More dire than you can imagine.”

The two men climbed the ladderway, Captain Scott wondering if his distinguished passenger had lost his mind.

The Wasp’s first mate, a burly man named Romelly, came running up, breathless.

Even at this distance they could see the two white waves of wake surging aside as the prow blasted through the water.

Captain Scott, usually unflappable, stood staring at the apparition bearing down on his ship.

Captain Scott, usually unflappable, stood staring at the apparition bearing down on his ship.

“But there’s a guard there,” said Alf, “and he’ll be wary. Slank was right furious at John for falling asleep last time. Had him whipped good and proper. He’s put a new man on guard, an ornery old scone called Leatherface. He won’t be dozing.”

Aster was quiet for a moment, studying the Sea Devil, now close enough that he could easily see the scowling faces of the pursuing pirates, waving swords and shouting vile taunts at their quarry.

“Are you daft, man?” he said. “You can’t outrun that ship in a dory!”

Leonard gestured up the Sea Devil’s huge, billowing double-coned sail, now looming almost overhead.

Black Stache stood at the helm of the Sea Devil, watching his crew work as his ship closed on its prey.

Stache leaned back, appraising the man’s terrified face.

Scott allowed himself a moment’s speculation—I wonder what’s in there, to be worth dying for—then called out to Aster.

Then he climbed into the dory and gestured to the boatswain, who barked a command.

“Attach a mooring buoy to the starboard sheet, then cut them loose. We’ll come back for them later.”

With grudging respect, Scott saw how quickly Black Stache rid himself of the burning black sail, raised new sails, and continued the pursuit.

He could jibe—ducking away from the Sea Devil’s sails—regain the wind advantage, and run for it.

The helmsman spun the wheel and the obedient ship quickly heeled, masts creaking, lines becoming taut.

The two harpoons, well aimed and shot with gunpowder, hit almost simultaneously, their barbed heads thunking into the transom.

The dory began to move backward; the pirates were using winches to drag it to the Sea Devil.

Aster stared defiantly at the pirate.

Despair seeping into his soul, he tied his white handkerchief to the tip of his sword and gave the signal for surrender. The flag was greeted by sullen acceptance from his brave crew, and howls of triumph from the pirates.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the welcome sight of a dorsal fin breaking the surface, followed by the sound of a cheerful chitter.

Peter had also learned, from his many secret food forays around the ship, that the cook kept a barrel of rum in the galley.

Peter had also learned, from his many secret food forays around the ship, that the cook kept a barrel of rum in the galley.

But much of the time, because of the rum, he was slumbering, which presented an opportunity for a small, clever person to creep up, quietly open the barrel’s spigot, and fill a jar.

For several seconds, Molly looked at him, a look of lonely desperation, tears brimming in her luminescent green eyes.