Pirate Pete's Arc

Chapter 5 of 11

The four barrels sat in Pete's hold at last. But Pete could not stop pacing. Rusty and Slappy had dumped these same barrels overboard once already. They meant well, but they panicked whenever his mother's name came up. Now a boy on the dock had shouted the worst news of all. A thin woman in a black dress was walking toward the ship. His mother. And Pete could not trust his own crew to guard the rum while she boarded. He found Rusty and Slappy near the hatch. Rusty gripped a rope, already sweating. "She's coming, Cap'n," he said. "We could dump 'em again. Quick, before she—" "No!" Pete grabbed the rope from his hands. "You dump one barrel and I'll feed you to the octopus." He lowered his voice. "Last time cost me thirty gold. I won't chase them across the sea twice." Slappy shifted from foot to foot. "Then what do we do? She smells rum from the dock. You know she does." Pete looked at the barrels. He looked at his two nervous helpers. He could not hide the barrels from his mother while also watching Rusty and Slappy. So he chose. He would not fight both problems. He would move the crew, not the rum. "You two are getting off the ship," Pete said. "Now. Take the rowboat. Go buy nets, or fish, or nothing. I don't care. Stay gone until she leaves." Rusty blinked. "You want us to leave you alone with her?" "I want you far from these barrels," Pete said. "You can't dump what you can't reach." He shoved them toward the rail. Slappy climbed down first. Rusty went after him, muttering. Pete cut the rowboat loose himself and watched it drift wide of the ship. Good. His crew could not touch the rum now. Pete turned to the barrels alone. He rolled them one by one to the far corner of the hold. He piled old sailcloth and coiled rope on top. Then he cracked open a jar of tar and smeared it near the hatch. The sharp smell filled the hold. It buried the sweet reek of rum under something ugly. Boots tapped the deck above. His mother's voice cut down through the boards. "Peter? Where is your crew?" Pete climbed up, wiping tar on his shirt. His mother stood by the wheel, pearls bright against her black dress. Her nose wrinkled at the tar. "Sent them ashore for supplies," Pete said. "Just me today, Mother." She sniffed the air twice. She frowned, but she found no rum in the smell. "Filthy work," she said. "At least you're honest labor now." She toured the deck, peered once down the hatch, and saw only rope and tar. Then she left. Pete slumped against the wheel. The rum was safe. His crew was gone and could not ruin it. But the rowboat was his only small boat, and he still owed Gloria twelve gold by next week. He had saved the rum by cutting his crew loose. Now he had to raise that debt alone.