The Buccaneers' Code (12 page)

“It's only me and Charlie,” said Hilary, looking up at the top of the tree where Alice was perched, “and we don't need to be entertained for a moment longer. You can walk us to our ship if you'd like.”

Philomena cast her lantern light on Hilary's face. “I'd better make sure you're telling the truth,” she said. “I know pirates are fond of spinning tales, and Mama will make my life a misery if I let you spin one around me.” Philomena held out her hand, and Oliver passed her the golden goblet she'd had with her on Gunpowder Island. “There's no
need to look so accusing, Miss Westfield,” she said. “It's a family heirloom. Now, magic, if there are any other spies sneaking around Tilbury Park, please bring them here at once.”

“Don't you dare!” said Hilary. She lunged forward and reached out to knock the magic piece from Philomena's hands. Just as her fingers brushed the goblet's rim, however, Oliver stepped in front of her and shoved her to the ground.

“My apologies,” he said, though Hilary was sure he didn't mean any such thing. “That wasn't very gentlemanly of me, was it?”

Hilary glared at him and scrambled to her feet, but the goblet was already working its enchantment. A gust of cold wind swirled around them, rustling Philomena's skirts and making the gargoyle shiver. Then the wind shook the branches of the pine tree, its trunk swayed like a ship's mast during a storm, and Alice flew from the treetop, tumbling curls over petticoats. With a shout loud enough to alert half the Northlands, she landed at Philomena's feet.

Charlie cursed, and Hilary ran to Alice's side. “I'm so sorry,” Hilary said in a rush; “I couldn't stop her. Are you all right?”

Alice blinked up at her. “I'm not entirely sure about this,” she said in a small voice, “but I don't believe one's
arm is supposed to snap quite so loudly when one lands on it.”

“Blast it all; that doesn't sound good.” Hilary tore off her coat and fashioned a sort of sling around Alice's arm, the way she'd once seen Miss Greyson do after Jasper had been injured in a duel. Philomena stood above them with her hands pressed over her mouth; she had dropped the golden goblet, and she didn't seem to be in any hurry to retrieve it. “I hope you're pleased with yourself,” Hilary told her.

Oliver looked down at Alice and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I thought we weren't supposed to hurt them,” he said.

“Miss Feathering climbed a tree,” Philomena snapped. “The wind knocked her out of it. It had nothing to do with me, and I'll thank you to remember that in front of Mama.” Her voice was starting to shake, and with her shoulders hunched against the cold, she didn't look much like a pinpricked and poisonous High Society lady anymore.

“You know,” said Hilary, “your mother may be vile, but that doesn't mean you've got to be horrid as well. You've got a choice in the matter, haven't you? If you left the Mutineers and worked as hard as you could, you might even learn to be kind someday.”

Philomena blinked in the lantern light. She stood up straighter. “I assure you, Miss Westfield, that I am perfectly
capable of thinking for myself. And unlike you,” she said, turning away, “I don't make foolish decisions.”

Alice pulled at Hilary's sleeve. “Terror,” she said softly, “I want to go back to the ship now.”

“Of course.” Hilary put her arm around Alice and helped her up from the ground. “I'm sure Miss Tilbury will let us leave without making a fuss.” She gave Philomena her most fearsome glare, but Philomena wasn't watching. Instead she was staring up at the lit window of Tilbury Park, where Nicholas Feathering stood with his face pressed against the glass.

“Don't think we'll let you go so easily again,” Oliver was saying to Charlie. “Isn't that right, Miss Tilbury?”

“Oh, be quiet!” Philomena shoved Oliver aside and stormed back toward the house.

Charlie shook his head as Oliver hurried away after Philomena. “You know,” he said, “I think she knocked the sneer straight off his face.”

“And she knocked my stomach straight into my toes.” Alice winced. “She's going to be an awful Enchantress.”

“She won't be an Enchantress at all,” said Hilary firmly. “The next time I see her, I'll let the gargoyle sharpen his teeth on her anklebones, and I don't care who knows it.” She looked back up at the mansion window, but someone inside had drawn the curtains. “Now,” she said, “let's get back to the ship. Miss Greyson will need plenty of time to give us all a proper scolding.”

Dear Hilary,

I'm sorry to hear that the Mutineers are still being so bothersome, though I can't say I'm surprised. If they suddenly abandoned villainy in favor of a more suitable hobby, like carpentry or butterfly collecting, I believe I would faint on the spot. (And you know how awful I am at fainting. When a toad peered out from under the embroidery mistress's skirts last term, I was the only girl in the classroom who didn't fall into a swoon.)

I would like to tell you that my magic lessons have been going well, but I'm afraid that would be an enormous fib. Truthfully, Miss Pimm has lost her patience with me five times in the past five days alone. To make matters worse, when she consulted her magical instruments yesterday evening, she discovered that she is no longer able to get even the
slightest glimpse of the Mutineers or their activities. (You know how Miss Pimm prides herself on finding out what everyone is up to, so I'm sure you can imagine how injured she feels.) She says that trying to uncover what is happening at Tilbury Park is like peering into a thick gray fog. Perhaps her ill health is to blame, but I fear that someone-a very powerful someone indeed-may be interfering with her observations. Although I don't have any proof of it, I am sure Philomena is responsible, and the thought has made me more flustered than ever. When I tried to cast an enchantment to harvest plants from the garden, all the carrots sprouted legs and hurried out the gate before I had any hope of capturing them. No wonder Miss Pimm has lost her patience: while Philomena spends her days creating impressive fogs, I am busy chasing vegetables through the town square.

Will you come for tea as soon as you get back to Little Herring Cove? I can't wait to hear all about your travels in the Northlands. I know that Miss Pimm is eager to see you as well, for she has been saving a special plate of spiders for the gargoyle, much to the dismay of the housemaids.

Your friend,

Claire

From

The Picaroon

BEIN' THE OFFICIAL NEWSLETTER OF THE VERY NEARLY HONORABLE LEAGUE OF PIRATES

PIRATE REBELS GATHER NEAR PEMBERTON. Only one month remains until our noble Captain Rupert Blacktooth faces the treacherous Terror of the Southlands in battle. The Terror and her supporters have begun to gather in Wimbly-on-the-Marsh at the home of the freelance pirate Jasper Fletcher, who is not as bold or as fashionable as he believes himself to be. Reliable sources whisper that if the people arriving in Little Herring Cove are the most impressive pirates the Terror can locate, Captain Blacktooth has no reason to be worried about the outcome of next month's battle.

SHOW YOUR SUPPORT! Have you composed a rousing chantey in celebration of Captain Blacktooth's brave deeds? Have you sculpted a flattering likeness of his face or written a sonnet in his honor? Send your presidential tributes to the Picaroon! We will share our favorites with Captain Blacktooth himself. If your submission amuses him, he may invite you to dine with him on board the
Renegade.

TAKE NOTICE. Captain Blacktooth wishes to remind all members of the VNHLP that anyone overheard speaking kindly of Pirate Hilary Westfield or her companions will meet a most unsavory end.

“T
HANK YOU ALL
for coming,” Hilary said to the pirates who'd gathered in Jasper's salon. They perched on top of fruit crates, swung in rope hammocks, and wedged themselves into every spare corner of the small room. Mr. Flintlock, who had somehow contrived to look larger than ever, stood outside and peered in through an open window to avoid bumping his head on the rafters. “Are you quite comfortable sitting on that soup tureen?” Hilary asked Mr. Partridge.

Partridge wobbled on his overturned bowl. “Of course, Terror.”

“Then we might as well begin.” Hilary glanced around
at the pirates' faces; nearly everyone looked nervous. “Cannonball Jack, how many supporters did you and your crewmates gather?”

Cannonball Jack sat up straight in his hammock and mopped his brow with his coat sleeve. “Numbers be a tricky thing, Terror,” he said. “Always floppin' about like fish, they be, and ye never know quite how many ye've got—”

“It's three, I'm afraid,” Lucy Worthington interrupted. “We only found three people who were willing to join up, Terror. One is a pirate apprentice who's very keen to go into battle, though he doesn't seem to care much which side he's on. Another is an old mate of Cannonball Jack's.”

“Nine-Fingered Fergus came out o' retirement just fer us,” said Cannonball Jack proudly, “once I promised him a tin o' me famous shortbread.”

“And who's the third?” Hilary asked.

“Mr. Partridge's nephew,” said Worthington. “I believe his name is Godfrey.”

“That's right,” said Partridge. “He's a good lad, though he doesn't like loud noises. He gets a terrible twitch whenever there's an explosion nearby.”

Jasper raised an eyebrow. “He sounds like just the fellow to fire our cannons.”

“I'm very grateful to Godfrey,” said Hilary quickly, “and to the others as well. Now, Mr. Twigget, how many pirates did your mates recruit?”

Mr. Twigget looked as though he would prefer to slip
through the cracks in the floorboards. “None, Terror,” he said. “All the pirates we met were too frightened to say a word in your favor. We did bring you a bucket of haddock, though.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Hilary. If the situation didn't improve quickly, she would have to consider sending the haddock into battle. “And Mr. Stanley? I don't suppose you managed to find two hundred eager pirates, did you?”

“Not exactly,” said Mr. Stanley. “But one scallywag did agree to join us after we catered his birthday party. Mr. Slaughter produced a scrumptious chocolate torte for the occasion.”

Mr. Marrow folded his thin, pale hands. “Gathering supporters was a harder task than we'd expected, Terror,” he said. “It's not that the scallywags aren't fond of you—”

“It's just that they're fonder of keeping their heads attached to their necks,” said Hilary. “I know. And I can't say I blame them one bit.”

“We met plenty of folks who are still grateful to you for giving them their magic pieces,” Mr. Slaughter pointed out. “They remember you well. But they're farmers and librarians and banking clerks—not pirates. Captain Blacktooth's warnings have been remarkably effective.”

The room grew quiet as each and every pirate tried not to think too hard about Captain Blacktooth.

“Wait a moment!” said Worthington. “The Terror hasn't told us how many pirates she's recruited. I'm sure
she had more luck than we did.” She smiled up at Hilary. “How many is it, Terror? Eighty? One hundred?”

“Actually,” said Hilary, “it's twenty. We had nearly as much trouble as the rest of you. We rescued a band of northern pirates from a naval attack, though, and they'll be joining us from Summerstead as soon as they're able.”

“They're very fearsome,” Alice added. “They're fortunate, too, for they're allowed to use swords at the moment.” She looked glumly at her broken arm and even more glumly at Miss Greyson. To no one's surprise, Miss Greyson had been furious when she'd learned what had happened at Tilbury Park. She had scolded everyone from the gargoyle to the queen as she wrapped Alice's arm in bandages and used her magic crochet hook to encourage the bone to mend. She had even declared that Alice should be sent back to Feathering Keep before any more damage could be done. Alice, however, had proven to be so stubborn that not even a governess could remove her from the
Pigeon.
When they'd finally returned to the cabin they shared, Hilary had given Alice her beloved old copy of
Treasure Island
, though she knew it was hardly enough to make amends for the whole affair.

“Well,” said Cannonball Jack at last, “twenty pirates be a good deal better than three.” He looked over at Charlie, who was carving tally marks on the bungalow wall. “How many of us are there in all, lad? I see ye've been keepin' count.”

Charlie set down his knife and studied the tally marks. “Forty,” he said, “not including the Terror, of course. Forty-one if you count the gargoyle.”

“Of course you count the gargoyle!” cried the gargoyle. “I'm the most fearsome one of all—or has anyone else here bitten a Mutineer?” He looked around. “I didn't think so.”

“Forty,” said Miss Greyson, “is a perfectly respectable number. I'm sure most pirates spend half their lifetimes gathering a crew that large.”

“It may be respectable, but it's nowhere near two hundred.” Hilary slumped lower in her hammock. “Captain Blacktooth won't even get his chance to send us all to the bottom of the sea if we have to forfeit the battle.”

“You said the pirates you rescued in the Northlands are loyal to you, Terror,” Flintlock mused from outside the window. “What if we attacked other pirate ships and then rescued the sailors on board? I could be the cannonball!”

“Attacking the pirates we want to befriend?” Jasper said drily. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“I'd rather have a sea slug in me ear,” said Cannonball Jack.

“We're not going to attack anyone,” said Hilary, “and we're certainly not going to trick them into giving us their loyalty. We're supposed to be very nearly honorable, aren't we? Better than Blacktooth and his mates?”

“So we are,” said Flintlock hastily. “My apologies, Terror. It was just an idea.”

“That's all right, Mr. Flintlock. Ideas are exactly what we need.” Hilary looked around the room. “If anyone else has an idea about how to gather up more pirates, I'd very much like to hear it.”

Hilary waited, but no one volunteered a suggestion. Fitzwilliam didn't even dare to chirp. “What do ye say we meet again tomorrow?” said Cannonball Jack. “The Terror be sure to have a plan by then.”

A hearty round of cheers shook the bungalow, and the other pirates all agreed that the wisest thing to do would be to leave the planning to Hilary. With the matter settled at last, they pulled on their coats and wandered out to the garden to practice their swordplay—all except Charlie. “Do you really think you'll be able to come up with a plan by tomorrow?” he asked quietly.

“Truthfully,” Hilary said, “I believe I've got a better chance of convincing Captain Blacktooth to join the Royal Augusta Water Ballet.”

Charlie laughed. “If you can manage that,” he said, “then you deserve to rule the League.”

B
Y THE TIME
Hilary arrived at Miss Pimm's Finishing School for Delicate Ladies that afternoon, she had splattered her breeches with mud and stubbed her toe on a cobblestone, but she still didn't know how in the world she was supposed to convince more than a hundred additional pirates to join her in battle. The gargoyle had tossed
out suggestions from the comfort of the canvas bag as she walked, but Hilary didn't think that a lifetime supply of spiders would tempt many scallywags to take up arms against Captain Blacktooth.

The school door opened promptly when Hilary knocked on it, and a girl in a gray woolen dress and a green cardigan gave Hilary a well-rehearsed curtsy. “Welcome to Miss Pimm's,” she said. Then she lifted her eyes to Hilary's face. “Oh!” she said, taking a step back. “It's Hilary Westfield!”

“It is,” the gargoyle agreed. “Not to mention her gargoyle.”

“I'm Rosie Hatter,” the girl said. “I'm sure you don't remember me, Miss Westfield, but we used to be classmates. I very much admired how you always stood up for Miss Dupree.” Rosie lowered her voice. “Especially on the day we had fish sticks for lunch.”

Hilary didn't remember seeing Rosie in the crowd of schoolgirls during the few days she'd spent at Miss Pimm's, but then again, she had spent most of her time attempting to escape. “I haven't been able to eat a fish stick ever since,” she told Rosie. “I always worry that Philomena will find out somehow and send it flying into my lap.”

“So do I,” said Rosie. “I wish Cook wouldn't insist on serving them every Wednesday. In any case, it's lovely to see you—but I heard you were a pirate now.” She looked down at Hilary's breeches, then up at her feathered hat.
“And I see you truly are one. What brings you back here?”

“Miss Pimm and Miss Dupree invited me for tea, but I'm afraid I'm late. The roads were muddier than I expected, and a good pirate never arrives anywhere promptly.”

“Naturally.” Rosie held the door open for Hilary and took her hat and coat. “Should I take your cutlass, too?” she asked. “We won't learn the proper etiquette for weaponry until next term.”

“I'd prefer to keep it with me, if you don't mind,” said Hilary, “but I'll be sure to take care with it. If I accidentally puncture any schoolgirls, Miss Pimm will be absolutely livid.”

Claire was already waiting in Miss Pimm's office when Hilary entered, and she leaped up so energetically that she overturned the sugar cubes. “I'm so glad you've made it back at last,” she said, crunching a sugar cube under her shoe as she gave Hilary a hug. “It can be very worrying to have a pirate for a friend. Most of the other people I know don't stumble into battles nearly so often.”

Hilary shook Miss Pimm's hand and attempted to balance a steaming cup of tea on its saucer as she settled into her chair. Meanwhile, Claire took the gargoyle from Hilary's bag and placed him in her lap, where he immediately offered up his head to be scratched. “If I hadn't carved him myself,” said Miss Pimm, “I'd swear he was part foxhound.” She shook her head and placed two plates on her desk next to the tea tray, one piled high with cakes, the
other filled with tastefully arranged spiders. “Now, Terror, you must tell us how your work against the Mutineers is progressing. Spare no details, please, for when I don't know absolutely everything, I become quite irritable.”

“There's nothing like a good scratch behind the ears to make you feel better,” the gargoyle told her. “You should try it sometime.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Miss Pimm stirred a sugar cube into her tea. “Please begin, Terror.”

Hilary would have much preferred to chat about anything other than piracy—the spring weather, for example, or the royal croquet team's recent victory—but Miss Pimm's commands were the sort that couldn't be ignored. She told Miss Pimm and Claire about the Ornery Clam and Captain Wolfson, about Captain Blacktooth's warnings to the pirate league and Admiral Westfield's orders to the Royal Navy. She even reluctantly described the disastrous visit they'd paid to Tilbury Park, for she suspected Miss Pimm would manage to find out about it sooner or later.

Hilary decided not to mention that Charlie had begun to carry a magic coin in his pocket, however, or that he often looked at it as though it might bite off his nose at any moment. That was Charlie's news to tell—or, knowing Charlie, to bury deep in the ground and never speak of again. In any case, it was hardly as noteworthy as the news that the Terror of the Southlands was still several pirates
short of an army and likely to be run out of the kingdom in a few weeks' time. “And that's if I'm fortunate,” said Hilary. “If I'm not, Captain Blacktooth will do to me exactly what he did to Pretty Jack Winter.”

Claire leaned forward in her chair. “What did he do to Pretty Jack Winter?”

“Trust me,” said the gargoyle, “you don't want to know. Pass the spiders, please.”

“Oh dear.” Claire turned pale. “This is all my fault. If Miss Pimm and I hadn't placed that advertisement, you wouldn't be in this mess.”

Hilary shook her head. “I was the one who agreed to challenge Blacktooth,” she said. “I thought I could help you become the Enchantress and squash the Mutineers once and for all, but I haven't even come close.” She kicked off her boots and stared down at her socks. “That horrible scallywag at the Ornery Clam tried to scare me off; perhaps he was right all along. Perhaps I should turn this whole battle over to Jasper and surrender myself to Mother and her dressmaker.”