The Untold Stories of Neverland: The Complete Box Set Page 5

  He made it past the pier, hesitating just long enough to glance at the small boats tied to the dock. There were obviously people about, and so far he had been lucky enough not to encounter any of them.

  But one final ground-shaking crack and the tinkling sound of bells changed it all. The clouds overhead clashed and he ran for the shelter of a nearby tavern, barely escaping the torrent of rain.

  Archie had never been in The Captain’s Keg before. He stopped just inside the door and let his eyes adjust to the dark, smoke-filled room. He realized that not only had he run into the very people he wished to avoid, but that he also had a new problem.

  These men weren’t just sailors.

  He was ready to run back out and take his chances of drowning in the street, when he heard the same tinkling of bells from earlier. This time, it sounded like mocking laughter.

  Well. He might very well be losing his mind, but a coward he was not.

  He straightened to his full height—all six feet and four inches of it—and removed his crumpled hat with a flourish, tucking it under his arm. He walked proudly down the three steps that led into the heart of the tavern—to a bar, teeming with pirates.

  A couple of heads turned at his arrival and those who met his solemn, blue gaze were quick to drop their eyes back to their drinks. His spirits lifted, Archibald nodded to himself more than to anyone else in particular, a slight smile playing on his lips. He was holding his own.

  Still erring on the side of caution, he scanned the length of the bar, finding three open seats. Two were between rather burly, shifty-looking blokes with tattoos. The third seat, on the end of the bar, sat beside an elderly gentleman with longish white sideburns, a round belly, and spectacles to match that sat precariously upon a rather bulbous nose. The gent on the other side was scrawny, his clothes in tatters, thin face in a scowl as he stared at a leaflet of paper before him. Even though he sat still, there was a nervous energy that pulsed off the small man. He gave Archibald the impression of a jittery, starving squirrel. Archibald decided his best chances lay between the old man and the squirrel and so he took his seat, nodding in a genial fashion to the old man, whose watery blue eyes barely gave him a passing glance. The squirrel didn’t acknowledge his presence.

  “What’ll it be, mate?” the barkeep asked.

  Archibald bit his lip to keep from laughing. Every drink in the tavern was the same yellowish liquid. Why the bald man standing behind the bar bothered to even ask such a mundane question was beyond him. Perhaps he was daydreaming again. He did do that a lot and at times it seemed real. “’Tis all ale, is it not?”

  “Aye, but will it be single or double ye’ll be havin’?”

  Archibald lifted one finger and waited for his drink.

  “Ye’d have much better luck with rum, I should think,” the old man said as he stared down into his own glass, “The ale’s watered down. Not fit for a fish to drink, it isn’t.”

  One dreg out of the glass, and Archibald was quite certain the gentleman was more than right. It tasted like something poured from an old boot. Not that he regularly drank from old boots, mind you. Thank heavens he hadn’t ordered twice the amount of the vile stuff. Deciding it better not to even bother asking for the rum, which was most definitely hidden beneath the counter and out of sight, he tossed a couple of coins onto the scarred wooden bar, and sat looking down into the remnants of his glass, listening to the patter of rain on the tin roof.

  A strange thought came. For a bar filled with pirates, it was most unusual. It was rather quiet, an odd comment here or there, but otherwise there was nothing but silence. Surely they weren’t all sitting around listening to the rain. Archie couldn’t figure it out. But he knew one thing: these people weren’t living up to his expectations of the loud, fearless persons he always thought pirates to be.

  The squirrel on his left shifted around on his stool, staring even harder at the parchment. Sweat popped out on a face that was now a color that reminded Archie of the paper in the print shop, a colorless, pasty white. Good for paper, not for squirrels.

  “Well?” a low, deep voice rolled out from a dark corner and broke the silence, startling Archie. “Give us the news then, Harper.”

  Ah, well now. Things may get lively yet, Archie thought, casting a quick look to the corner from where the voice rumbled. It was too dark to see the man who sat against the wall, but Archibald got a good look at the pair of worn, dark leather boots propped up on the table, and the curling wisps of cigar smoke that floated up to the rafters.

  “It says a r-roy, royy…” the squirrel named Harper stuttered, the paper shaking in his hands.

  “Ach! The man canna read it any more than the rest o’ us.” A complaint hurtled from one of the tattooed blokes at the opposite end of the bar.

  As if he were getting more anxious, Harper tried again, his voice in a near squeak, “A royy-alll…”

  Archie spied the lettering, and against his better conscience, whispered just loud enough that Harper would hear, “A royal pardon is offered to those pirates who surrender on or before the fifth of September, this year of 1718.” He waited as Harper relayed the message, then continued, “Being limited to crimes committed before the fifth of January. All other crimes, committed after such date, will be considered for a death of hanging.”

  Archie sensed the old man on the other side of him shuffle about, as if he were searching for something on the insides of his pockets, but Archie’s attention was fixed on the squirrel he saved. Harper turned and gave him a toothless, yet thankful, smile and set to guzzling the contents of his glass as quickly as possible in an effort to calm his shaking nerves.

  “Well, that counts us out, lads,” a dark chuckle came from the corner, “No pardon for the likes o’ us, I fear. We all be hanged.”

  “Aye, but they must catch us first. I won’t be finding me neck in a noose,” a shout rang out, followed by the murmur of agreement from all the others as they lifted their glasses in salute.

  Feeling rather in-tune with the pirates, Archibald picked up his glass as well and toasted the luck of the now boisterous lot, draining the last contents of his glass. Some small part of his brain noted that while the ale was vile before, it also became bitter the longer it sat. The bitterness left as soon as he noticed it, having been replaced with a rather calming sensation.

  Pirates truly weren’t a bad lot, he thought sleepily, just people like everyone else. They were only misunderstood. He turned to convince the elderly gentleman on his right of exactly that, when the darkness came and took over. The last thing he heard was the old man chuckle, singing,

  “Yo-ho, me mateys, yo-ho…”

  “CAREFUL NOW, LADS, mind the poor lout’s head, aye? He’ll be having a dreadful headache come morning without any extra bumps ye’d be givin’ him along the way.”

  The voice was familiar—rather achingly so—though Archie couldn’t quite seem to get his faculties in order to remember who the owner of the voice was. The few times he could open his eyes, nothing at all made sense. It all came and went in blurs with distorted figures he couldn’t quite make out. The darkness came and went, so in the end, he figured it better to keep his eyes shut for the time being and try to concentrate on other things, foggy and confusing as they might seem. He thought he was being dragged along the rough boards of the pier, and while that familiar voice seemed to care about the condition of his head, his legs and backside seemed to be another matter entirely of which the man cared not a whit as they bumped him along each splintering plank. Luckily, the drug slipped into his drink deadened the pain, and he only registered the faint, odd pricks and scrapes where the wood had its way with his flesh.

  “He’s got hair like black candles, he does,” a crackling voice snickered by his head.

  “Aye, Smee, are we taking this poor soul aboard for his long locks? Did the cap’n order you fetch him a wifey, then?” another voice chimed in, followed by raucous laughter, and a low retort from the man named Smee that Archibald c
ouldn’t make out.

  “A good bit heavier than he looks,” the first voice by his head huffed, “Slow ye down a bit, Murph. I’m losin’ me grip. Oh drat, there he goes.”

  And those were the last words Archibald ever heard on the shores of bonnie England as his head hit the pier and the darkness crept over him once again.

  2

  Shanghaied

  HIS HEAD FELT ready to burst into a million pieces at any given second. In a futile effort to keep it whole, Archie clamped both hands on top of his aching skull and gritted his teeth. It would help if the room didn’t feel like it was tilting this way and that. Back and forth, back and forth. Well, it served him right consorting with pirates, he thought ruefully. A most dreadful sort they were and the tavern was no better. He’d know next time to take his chances of drowning in a rain-filled street than to step foot in that particular establishment ever again, or anywhere else where the word keg was sported as part of the name. Yes, better drowned than drunk. A lesson learned the hard way, but still he learned it. That’s all that mattered, though he made a mental note not to share this knowledge with any other living soul. He’d take it to his grave with no one the wiser.

  Eyes still shut against the thumping of his head, Archie rolled to one side and sat up, hands still holding a throbbing brain in his skull, lest it decide to pound its way through his eyeballs.

  There was one thing of which he was certain—he hadn’t felt this terrible in his entire life. But he didn’t have time to sit and feel sorry for himself, the print shop would have to be opened soon, there was work waiting for him. He was already farther behind than he cared to admit. He could feel just as miserable there as he could here—wherever here happened to be. He loosened his hold on his head in an experimental way to make sure his brain wouldn’t escape him, then rubbed his hands against his sore eyes and slowly opened them.

  “Good day.” The old man from the bar nodded from his perch on a bench in the corner of the room. He peered at Archie from behind his spectacles as he whittled on a small chunk of wood.

  Well, at least there was only one old man, Archibald reasoned silently to himself. He expected to be seeing double at this point. The problem was that the room still seemed to be moving this way and that. Back and forth, back and forth—with a slight sloshing sound he attributed to his drunken brain, slogging about in his head. He must have gotten too drunk in the tavern to make it home and be sleeping the remnants of his terrible evening off somewhere. The hangover would explain the tilt of the room.

  “I’m sorry I cannot wish you a good day as well, as I don’t agree with you on how well this day has begun,” Archibald noted wryly, gripping the edges of the cot in an effort to still his roiling stomach which decided to revolt at the pitch of the room. “Due to the current state of both my head and belly, I must also disagree of your earlier assessment of the ale.”

  The old man shook his head. “Nay, ’twas most certainly watered down. Never had a drink in that tavern that wasn’t. Take a wee nip from that jug there near yer feet. It’ll settle yer spirits a bit. May help yer head, too.”

  Archie bent over and picked up the small brown jug and pulled the cork. It didn’t take more than a single sniff to tell him what the contents were. He frowned at the old man.

  “I fail to see how taking yet another drink will solve my present situation as it ’twas ale that got me into my current predicament.”

  “I told ye ye’d fair better with rum, and so ye shall.” The eyes behind the spectacles glared at him as if daring him to contradict him any further.

  Deciding to humor him, lest the old man have a heart seizure, Archie took one mouthful of the rum and was in the process of swallowing, when the old man added, “After all, as this ship’s doctor, I should know what I gave you.”

  Instead of spewing alcohol everywhere, Archie choked, part of the alcohol burning its way down his windpipe. He hacked and wheezed, feeling sicker than before, as he realized the constant moving of the room was due to the fact that his current location was the belly of a vessel at sea.

  “I’m-on-a-ship?” Archibald spat the words out between coughs before he managed to get his breath and his thoughts in order.

  “Aye,” the old man said, putting his hand up to ward off the impending onslaught of questions. “The cap’n gave orders to bring any man able to read or write aboard so here ye are. Stroke of luck to have one such as ye to sit beside me as Harper stuttered about on that paper, I should think. We’d still be sitting there if ye hadn’t helped him. Though I admit, I had strong doubts ye’d finish that ale. We appreciate the toast to our livelihood, to be sure.”

  No good deed will ever go unpunished, Archibald thought as he stared at the man who looked more like someone’s sweet grandfather than a dark, conniving pirate who abducted men for their ability to read.

  “You will release me at once,” Archibald’s voice dropped octaves as he found his bearings and the courage to stand and tower over the old man. He knew he had at least a foot on him and more than a good forty years of youth in his favor.

  “Free to go where ye will,” he shrugged, looking up to meet Archie’s cold gaze with his own, “though I doubt it be far. Ye see, we’ve been at sea two days now. As I didn’t think ye’d drink much more of the ale, I dumped the whole vial of drug in that glass. I’m afraid I gave ye quite the dose that knocked ye on yer arse. Be sure that I extend my most humble apologies. But we be far from any shore, unless ye’d be a mighty fine swimmer…” The sentence trailed off as another shrug followed the first and something dark flitted just under the surface of those watery, old eyes. For the first time, Archie wondered if maybe he’d underestimated the old pirate. There was something sinister that lurked under the façade of the slightly amused look on the man’s face as he fiddled with a knife that looked more lethal by the second. Snowy white hair, arthritic, knotty fingers, and spectacles aside, Archie was sure that the man was more than capable of slitting his throat should the need ever arise, and being as he still didn’t have his sea legs under him, he decided odds were not in his favor. Carefully, he backed to the cot and sat.

  As if reading Archie’s mind, the old man nodded, “Aye, that’s right, lad, just settle ye down now. I’m thinking we might be starting out wrong. Let’s introduce ourselves proper, eh? Name is Artis Smeeson, better known to the lads aboard as Smee. I’d be ship surgeon, occasional cook, and pirate in general for whatever else need be done.” He gave a small mock bow, not bothering to stand from his comfortable seat on the bench. “At yer service, o’course. And you’d be?”

  “Jameson.” Archie didn’t feel obligated to reveal his entire name. As far as he could tell, all the pirates went by a single name anyway. “Which ship am I on and who is her captain?”

  “We be on the Queen Anne’s Revenge.”

  The simple sentence made Archie even weaker in his knees. Thankful he was sitting down, he managed to whisper, “That means her captain is…”

  “Edward Teach,” Smee said. The dark smile that painted his bearded face never reached his eyes.

  Archie bent over and buried his head in his hands. Not only had he the misfortune of becoming shanghaied in a tavern, and woken up on a pirate ship while losing two days of his life, the ship he happened to be on was under the management of the most notorious pirate of the seven seas. Undoubtedly, he was the same man in the corner of the tavern that Archie had never gotten a good look at, but for two worn boots and cigar smoke. Archie was ready to crawl under the cot upon which he sat. Throughout all his daydreams, never had he imagined something like this, and most unfortunate was the part that it was reality. There wouldn’t be any waking up from it. What would become of him on a pirate ship out at sea? There was no telling. With a small smile, he realized he wouldn’t ever be going back to the print shop. That thought made him happier than anything had been able to do in a long while. He was free from the obligation of everything in his life. There wouldn’t ever be a need to daydream again. Adventure
had found him.

  He was sailing with Blackbeard.

  “Smee, the cap’n wants you up top. They-they’ve spotted a sh-ship,” the stuttering voice of the squirrel Archie had saved called down from a dark corner in the room. Archie squinted and barely made out the form of a small set of wooden steps.

  Smee sighed, scooting off the bench as he called out, “Aye, Harper. I’m on me way.” He shot another look at the man sitting on the cot. “I’ll send him down with a bite. Food might help ye see the situation in a better light, eh?”

  Archie gave him a slight nod and watched as the old man made his way up the steps, then listened as he gave orders that food be given to the “poor lout down in the hold.” He rolled his eyes. He’d never been called a lout in all of his twenty-three years, but he supposed there was a first time for everything, and so he decided not to hold it against the elderly, kidnapping, old coot of a pirate. After all, being on a pirate ship—or any ship for that matter—was a first for him. While a small part of his mind still held back in trepidation as his life had been toddling along in a dull manner thus far, there was a small part of his heart that was glad for his perceived misfortune.

  He decided that finding out as much as possible about the ship and her crew would be in his best interest and so he stood up, still wobbling more than he cared to admit, and inspected his surroundings more closely. He was in a small room with many kegs spread about. He bumped one and heard a slosh, and then he smelled a faint, familiar scent. After a quick count, he knew that the thirty-some odd barrels surrounding him contained rum. But other than the barrels, his cot, and Smee’s bench, the hold was sparse. It was too bad he hadn’t the mind to ask the old man for more than just the names of the ship and her captain. He was still pondering what little information he possessed, when a slight form appeared on the steps.