Pirate Pete's Arc

Chapter 6 of 11

Two days after his mother left, Pete climbed into the hold and stopped cold. The tar he had smeared over the barrels was drying wrong. Long cracks split the black crust. He pressed his nose close and smelled it at once. Rum. Sweet and sharp, leaking through the gaps. The sun beat on the deck above and baked the tar until it flaked like old paint. If it broke apart before he sealed it again, the smell would fill the whole ship. And his mother had promised to return before week's end. Pete had no crew and no small boat. He had cut both loose to save these barrels. Now he needed hands. He climbed to the rail and shouted across the water at the rowboat still tied near the shallows. "Rusty! Slappy! Get back here!" They rowed out fast. Rusty scrambled up first, his red beard dripping seawater. He took one breath of the hold and his face went white. "That's rum, Cap'n. She'll smell it from the dock." His hands moved toward the coiled rope, the same twitch as always. "We could dump 'em quick, before she—" "Touch that rope and I'll break your fingers," Pete said. He stepped between Rusty and the barrels. "We're not dumping anything. We're sealing them." Slappy dropped down through the hatch. He carried a bundle he'd bought ashore, pale cloth wrapped tight with cord. "Got sailcloth," he said. "Lots of it. Cheap." He set it on the boards and untied the knot. "Thought we might need to hide something." Pete grabbed the top fold. The cloth was thick and clean. An idea landed hard. "We wrap the barrels," he said. "Cloth first, tar over the cloth. The cloth holds the tar so it can't crack off." They worked fast. Rusty tore the sailcloth into wide strips. Slappy wound each strip around a barrel, tight as a bandage. Pete followed behind with the tar jar, smearing black over the wrapped cloth until no gap showed. The cloth soaked it up and held it smooth. Pete pressed his nose to the first sealed barrel. Nothing. Only tar and salt. He checked the second, the third, the fourth. The rum smell was gone. Pete leaned back against the hull, breathing hard. Four barrels sat wrapped and sealed, tight enough to fool his mother when she came again. Then Rusty spoke, staring at the empty bundle. "Cap'n. This sailcloth. I bought it on credit." He wiped tar on his shirt. "Told the trader you'd pay him three gold by week's end. Same day the widow wants her twelve." Pete shut his eye. The rum was safe. But he'd sealed it with a debt he couldn't pay, stacked on the debt he already owed. Fifteen gold now, and one week to find it.