Pirate Pete's Arc

Chapter 3 of 11

The small boat slapped the waves as Rusty rowed. Slappy leaned over the bow, arms out. But the barrels rode the current faster than three men could paddle. Four dark shapes bobbed apart, spreading wide across the water. Pete gripped the rail of his own ship behind them and cursed. By the time the little boat reached one barrel, the others would be gone. "We can't catch them all," Slappy said. He pulled at an oar until his arms shook. "They're pulling away, Captain." Pete scanned the water. He needed a bigger boat, or more hands, or luck. Then he saw a fishing boat drifting nearby, low and slow, its deck stacked with nets. An old man stood at the wheel. Weeds hung from his gray beard. Barnacles crusted the rail beside him. Pete knew the face. Barnaby Crust had fished these waters longer than Pete had been alive, and he never gave anything away for free. "Barnaby!" Pete shouted. He cupped his hands. "Those barrels! Scoop them up in your nets and I'll pay you!" Barnaby turned. He looked at the drifting barrels, then at Pete. He scratched his crusted beard. "Pay me how much?" "Ten gold coins!" Pete called. "Twenty," Barnaby said. He spat over the side. "Nets don't cast themselves." The barrels drifted farther. Pete had no time to argue. "Twenty! Just get them!" Barnaby swung his boat around. He heaved a wide net over the side and dragged it through the water. One barrel rolled into the mesh. He hauled it up, grunting, and dropped it on his deck. Then he chased the next. His old boat cut through the current where the small rowboat could not. One by one, the net caught them. Rusty and Slappy paddled behind, pulling in the last barrel by hand. Pete let out a breath. All four barrels sat safe on Barnaby's deck. The rum was out of the sea and out of danger. Barnaby rowed close to Pete's ship. He rested one hand on a barrel and grinned through his weeds. "Fine rum, this. Smells strong." He tapped the wood. "Twenty gold. Or maybe I keep these instead. A man could sell four barrels for more than twenty." Pete's stomach dropped. He had saved his rum from the sea. Now it sat on another man's boat, and that man had just decided he liked it. "That's my rum," Pete said. "It's in my net," Barnaby said. He picked up an oar and pushed off, drifting his loaded boat away from Pete's ship. "Bring me thirty gold by sundown. Or these barrels find a new owner." Pete watched the fishing boat pull away with all four barrels aboard. He had wanted them back on his ship, hidden and safe. Instead he had handed them to a thief with a price and a deadline.