Pirate Pete's Arc

Chapter 8 of 11

The word came at dawn. A boy rowed out and shouted up that Gloria's cargo would arrive by midday. Pete stood on his deck and stared at the four barrels lashed under sailcloth. Smugglers would fill his hold with crates. They would walk right past his rum. One bump, one loose corner of cloth, and they'd smell it. Then they'd know Pete had goods he hadn't shared. The barrels had no safe place to hide while strangers worked below. "You can't keep them here." Silas Blackwater climbed over the rail without asking. The old smuggler had warned Pete before, back when he counted Barnaby's coins. He tapped a barrel with his boot and sniffed. "Rum. Gloria's men aren't fools. They'll help themselves or hold it over you. Get it off the ship." "Off to where?" Pete said. "I've no crew and no boat but the little one." Silas jerked his thumb toward shore. "There's a sea cave down the rocks. Empty for years. Dry enough at low tide. Move your rum, let the smugglers work, bring it back when they sail." Pete rowed the first barrel out alone. The cave mouth gaped in the cliff, its edges jagged and streaked dark with salt. Water dripped from the stone. Inside it was cool and hollow. He rolled the barrel deep against the back wall and went for the next. Two hours. Four trips. His arms burned and his shirt clung wet. On the last haul, a voice sang from the water. Priscilla surfaced beside his boat, blue hair slick, green eyes bright. The mermaid had watched him struggle from the shallows. "You'll break your back," she said. "The tide's turning. That cave floods by dusk." Pete froze. "Floods how high?" "Past your knees. Your barrels will float and roll to the mouth." She flicked her tail. "Set them on the high ledge, left of the entrance. Dry all night." Pete found the ledge in the dark and dragged each barrel up onto it, one at a time. The stone held them above the waterline. He stacked loose rocks in front so nothing could roll. When he stepped back, the four barrels sat hidden in shadow, safe from tide and smuggler alike. He rowed back with an empty hold. At midday, Gloria's men swung crates aboard and stowed them below. No sailcloth. No rum smell. Nothing to steal, nothing to question. They finished and left him a folded note with the sailing date. Pete read it on the deck. The smugglers would leave in three days. His mother was due in two. His rum was safe in the cave, but now it sat on shore, off his ship, out of his reach. And the tide would rise every night he left it there.