Pirate Pete's Arc

Chapter 11 of 11

The rowboat bumped against Pete's ship. Rusty and Slappy hauled the wet barrel onto the deck. Pete looked past them and his stomach dropped. His mother's black boat had already reached the dock. She stepped out, straight-backed, her pearls bright in the sun. She was walking toward the ship now, and the barrel sat in the open where any eye could find it. Pete waved his crew close. "Get it below. Now." Rusty crossed his arms, red beard jutting. "She's forty paces off. She'll hear us drag it. You want us to run with a barrel and pray she's blind?" Rusty and Slappy had panicked before and dumped Pete's rum overboard. Pete saw the same fear in Rusty's eyes now. He would not let it happen again. "Don't drag it," Pete said. "Sit on it." Slappy blinked. "Sit on it?" "Both of you. Throw a net over it. Toss my old coat on top. Make it a bench." Pete grabbed a fishing net from the rail and flung it across the wood. Slappy snatched Pete's coat and spread it. Rusty dropped onto the covered barrel like a man taking his rest. Slappy sat beside him, knees shaking. Pete's mother climbed the plank. Her sharp eyes swept the deck. "You've been busy," she said. "Two boys sweating over a fishing trip, I hope." "Morning catch," Pete said. He kept his hands loose. "Slow water today." She walked closer. Her gaze landed on the two pirates perched on the lump of net and coat. Rusty grinned too wide. A trickle of seawater ran out from under the coat and darkened the boards at her feet. She looked down at the wet line. Pete's heart slammed. "Your deck leaks," she said. "You never did keep a dry ship." She stepped over the water and turned away, satisfied. "I'll not stay long. I only came to see you hadn't sunk yet." Pete let out a slow breath. "You raised a careful son." She patted his cheek and walked the deck once more, finding nothing. Then she left down the plank and back to her boat. Pete watched the black hull shrink toward shore. The moment she vanished, Rusty shot off the barrel. "Careful son," he muttered. "You near got us hanged." Pete pulled the coat away. The barrel had held. Three barrels safe, and his mother gone none the wiser. He should have felt clean. Instead he pressed a hand to the wood and felt a soft give near the top hoop. Wet rot. This barrel had soaked too long in the tide. "It's rotting," Slappy said quietly. Pete nodded. The cave kept cracking his barrels one by one. He could not leave them there another night. But his mother watched from shore, and Gloria's smugglers still sat in his hold. He had nowhere left to hide his rum, and now the barrels themselves were falling apart.