Pirate Pete's Arc

Chapter 1 of 11

Pirate Pete had three barrels of rum hidden in his ship's hold, and his mother would board it at noon. She hated drink. She wore black and expensive pearls and could smell rum from across a deck. So Pete counted the barrels every morning, and this morning one felt light. He tipped it. The rum sloshed low. Someone had been drinking it. Pete climbed to the deck. His crew slouched near the wheel, grinning too wide. Rusty stood at the front, red beard damp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You've been in my barrels," Pete said. Rusty burped. "Just a sip, Captain. Maybe two." He swayed. His breath reached Pete from three feet away. It stank of rum. Pete grabbed Rusty's collar. "My mother arrives at noon. She smells this on you, she smells the whole ship. Then she pours my rum into the sea." Slappy hurried up, rope coiled over his shoulder, red bandana crooked. Of all the crew, Slappy stayed loyal and quick. He hadn't touched the barrels. "What do we do, Captain?" Pete let go of Rusty. He looked at the sun. Two hours, maybe less. "We hide the smell," Pete said. "Slappy, fetch the vinegar and the lemons from the galley. Rusty, you and the crew scrub your mouths and chew these." He tossed Rusty a fistful of dried mint from his coat pocket. Slappy ran. He came back with a bucket of vinegar and a net of lemons. Pete set the crew to work. They rinsed their mouths with vinegar and spat over the rail. They chewed lemon rind until their faces twisted. They packed mint between their teeth. Pete walked down the line and sniffed each man. Vinegar. Lemon. Mint. The rum smell was gone, buried under sour and sharp. He reached Rusty last. "Breathe on me." Rusty breathed. Pete smelled only vinegar. "Good," Pete said. "Now stand straight and say nothing." At noon a small boat bumped the hull. His mother climbed the rope ladder, thin and stiff in her black dress, pearls bright at her throat. She stepped onto the deck and stopped. She walked the line of men. She leaned close to Rusty and breathed in through her sharp nose. Her lips pressed thin. "You reek of vinegar," she said. "The lot of you. Like a pickle barrel." She turned to Pete. "What are you hiding under all that vinegar, my son?" Pete's stomach dropped. He had traded one smell for another. His mother had not found the rum. But now she was suspicious, and she had two hours to search a ship with only three hiding spots. "Nothing, Mother," Pete said. She smiled without warmth. "Then you won't mind if I look below." She stepped toward the hatch that led straight down to the hold.