The Ship of Lost Souls 1 (8 page)

“Run!” Tim hollered. The three boys dashed to the door and out into the blinding sun.

“Split up!” Tim called.

Still clutching the knife, Jem swung to the right, just barely out of Deadeye Johnny's reach, and took off down the street.

“Which one do we follow?” one pirate yelled.

“To the right!” another answered, followed by the now-familiar
shing
of a cutlass being unsheathed.

“Blast.” Jem ducked his head and ran harder, rounding another corner and hurdling a wheelbarrow full of coconuts. He dodged a group of King's Men squabbling with a merchant, splashed through a gigantic puddle, and kept running, all the while listening to his pursuers stomping behind, cursing as only true pirates could possibly curse. And to think, just yesterday he'd questioned their very existence!

Jem dove into an alley, hoping to find a place to hide, but instead ran headlong into a skinny woman with a great nest of red hair and a boa constrictor wrapped around her neck.

“Come to see Voodoo Miranda, have you, boy?” Her eyes widened and her scarf writhed and hissed.

“Um, no.” Jem did an about-face and sprinted back out of the alley, just as the pirates entered it. They took one look at Voodoo Miranda, yelped, and stumbled backward over one another to get away from her deadly accessory.

In the next alley, Jem found an empty barrel and crawled inside, pulling the lid tight overhead. The barrel reeked of old rum but felt safe. Jem let out a sigh and rested his head against the wall. They wouldn't find him in here. It wasn't possible. He listened for footsteps but heard none. Safe. He ran his thumb over the pocketknife's ivory handle, now slippery with sweat. Despite everything, he couldn't help but feel proud. He'd nabbed a most beautiful knife and evaded a trio of bloodthirsty pirates. Not bad for his first time out. And it hadn't really been
that
scary. As a matter of fact, it was kind of fun.

He was just slipping the knife into his trouser pocket when the lid flew off his barrel and Deadeye Johnny reached inside and grabbed him by the collar. The pirate pulled him up, kicked over the barrel, and gave Jem a toothy leer. His functional eye twitched.

“Gotcha, boy. Now I'm going to make ye pay.” Jem squirmed and tried to wriggle out of the pirate's grasp. “Oh no, ye don't,” Deadeye said, pulling Jem close enough that their noses almost touched. “We're going to start by cutting off both hands with a dull blade, then move on to yer ears. Or maybe yer nose—”

Jem gave one last great wriggle and kicked the pirate in the gut as hard as he could. As Deadeye keeled over, Jem tumbled to the ground, then scrambled to his feet and took off running again.

He took back that last thought. This was not fun. Having his ears cut off by a one-eyed pirate could not, under any circumstance, count as fun. “Whose grand idea was this, anyhow?” he growled. “Scarlet . . .”

He barely noticed Lucas Lawrence as he sprinted past the boy, focusing instead on a door in a mossy brick wall. He opened it and hurtled through, praying for a safe place to hide. He found a dark corridor. Damp. Empty.

Trembling, Jem inched back toward the door and squinted through a crack in its wooden slats. Deadeye Johnny and one of the other pirates stood a few yards away on the other side of the door, looking winded as they scanned the street. Deadeye was rubbing his stomach.

Then, to Jem's great surprise, Lucas Lawrence sauntered over to the pirates. He began to speak to them as if striking up a friendly conversation with the deadliest pirates around was an everyday occurrence, like cleaning one's ears. Jem pressed his ear, which hadn't been cleaned since he left the Old World, against the crack to hear what he was saying.

“Lucas!” Deadeye Johnny panted. “Ye seen a scrawny cabin boy run by?”

Jem wasn't sure what disturbed him more—being called scrawny or the pirates knowing Lucas by name.

“A scrawny cabin boy?” Lucas repeated, lowering his voice a few notches and rubbing his chin. “There's a lot of those around, Deadeye. Haven't seen one today.”

After a pause, Deadeye squinted at the boy. “Ye wouldn't be lying to us, would ye now, Lucas?”

Lucas laughed. “You know me better than that, Deadeye. If I see your boy, I'll wring his scrawny neck.”

Bewildered, Jem watched as Lucas shook Deadeye Johnny's hand and pat his shoulder before the pirate stumbled off.

Jem slumped against the door and was still leaning on it a few minutes later when Lucas pulled it open. He tumbled out and looked up at his rescuer, who stood with his fists on his hips. At least, he hoped Lucas had just rescued him and wasn't about to turn him in.

“I sure saved you.” Lucas pressed his hands together and cracked his knuckles one at a time. “What'd you do to them, anyway?”

Jem eyed him warily, then shrugged as casually as he could. “Stole a knife.”

Lucas snorted. “Deadeye's one of the fiercest pirates around. What were you thinking, stealing from his crew?”

Jem shrugged again and touched the ivory handle in his pocket, resenting Lucas for looking so smug. He'd gotten away with it, hadn't he? And he probably could have done it without the older boy's help.

“How do you know those pirates so well?” he asked instead of answering Lucas's question.

“Look, I saved you and that's all that matters,” Lucas was quick to reply. “And you're welcome, by the way.”

“Oh. Well, thanks,” Jem said, for in a way he
had
forgotten his manners.

“You're welcome,” Lucas repeated, then jerked his head in the direction opposite to that which the pirates had taken.

“Come on. Let's stick to the alleys. If they catch me with you, I won't be able to save you again. I'll have to hand you over. They'll probably take your nose first.”

As they wandered through the alleys, Jem tried to find logical answers for the many questions that had sprung to mind since he'd spotted Lucas with Deadeye Johnny. Finally he asked, “So, um, pirates from different ships generally get along?”

“What?” Lucas snapped, looking down at him.

“Well, I just thought that . . . since you and Deadeye Johnny seemed to be on, you know, good terms, that—”

“Of course not,” Lucas replied. “Pirates from different ships can't be friends. That's stupid. Defeats the purpose of being a pirate.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Now Jem was very confused. Because if that were true, then this meant . . .

“You know,” Lucas said, “it's Scarlet's fault that you'd be missing your nose now if I hadn't saved you. I knew she was making a mistake, sending you out pillaging on your first day. I would've said something myself, but Miss McCray never listens to me. Never listens to anyone, really, even when she knows she's wrong.” Lucas's hands curled into fists at his sides. “And I'm not the only one who sees that. Just between you and me, Jem, Scarlet's a terrible captain. But you've noticed that, I'm sure. You look like a bright lad.”

Jem wasn't sure what to say. Scarlet, a bad captain? A little bossy, sure, but she seemed to run a tight ship. “I hadn't noticed,” he said.

“Well, you will—”

“Jem! Jem!” Lucas was interrupted by the other Lost Souls running toward them, shouting and waving. “Did they catch you? What happened?”

Jem shrugged as if it'd been as easy as simple multiplication and pulled out Cutthroat MacPhee's ivory and silver pocketknife. Scarlet's eyes widened, and one of the twins gave a low whistle. Even Lucas's mouth fell open.

“Hurray, Fitz!” Scarlet cried, then hastened to lower her voice. “I knew you could do it.”

“Well”—Jem knew it was only fair to give credit where it was due—“I couldn't have done it without Smitty and Tim, of course. And Lucas.” Deep down, however, he suspected he could have done just fine without Lucas.

“Oh.” Scarlet looked a little disappointed. “Well, good for you, Lucas. How'd you help?”

Lucas, who'd grown fascinated with the puddle under his boots, glanced up at Jem just long enough to shoot him an unmistakable warning look. “Ah, it was nothing, really.”

“We'd best get back to the boat,” Tim spoke up, scanning the alley.

They all fell in line behind Scarlet, and Jem soon found Lucas at his side, going on about some planks he needed to repair the hull. Scarlet and Tim glanced back at them quizzically a few times, and Jem wished he were walking with them rather than Lucas. Although he didn't always understand their logic, Scarlet, Tim, and Smitty seemed to have real friend potential.

But Lucas Lawrence? He wasn't so sure.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“One, two, three, PULL!”

With the order hollered by their captain, over a dozen of the strongest Lost Souls bore down on ropes attached to the
Margaret's Hop
's mast. They'd beached her at dawn on the black sand of Castaway Cove for her monthly careen—a sailor's term for a good cleaning. By yanking down on the ropes with all their might, the pirates could tilt the ship just enough to expose her underside, which they could then scrape clean.

“That's it, mates! Just a little more!” Scarlet yelled from the sidelines as the
Margaret's Hop
finally gave in with a groan and flashed them her dirty belly. Like old Scary Mary at bath time, reluctant to bathe her crusty feet. Scarlet giggled to herself, picturing the woman's feet caked with the same treasures they'd find underneath the ship: barnacles, weeds, mold, and even the odd jellyfish.

“That looks jolly. Now, who's on the first cleaning shift?” Scarlet asked.

Without waiting for the order, another half dozen pirates hoisted their scraping tools like battle swords and charged barefoot into the shallows, where they proceeded to attack the
Hop
as if she were a dragon and they were noble knights. Smitty, the shift leader, rallied his cleaning crew with yet another song:

 

Barnacles and tentacles,

Jellyfish and seaweed,

Clinging to the
Margaret's Hop
,

Ready for careening.

 

“That doesn't really rhyme, Averill,” Ronagh commented as she popped a barnacle off the hull with her knife.

“Oh, and I suppose you could do better yourself,” Smitty retorted. “And Averill's
not
the name.” He pried a strip of rubbery seaweed off the hull and tucked it into Ronagh's collar. She shrieked, picked up a long, snakelike piece of kelp, and started to whack her aggressor.

Scarlet laughed and joined in with her own tools. Cleaning could be such a chore, but not with these monkeys around for entertainment.

The pirates were in a particularly jolly mood that day, and who could blame them? Scarlet herself had barely slept a minute the night before, tossing in her hammock until Ronagh sleepily suggested she count sea turtles or pretend she was dead. That last one, the younger pirate swore, always worked for her. It hadn't worked for Scarlet, though, and she passed the rest of the night imagining all the exciting things that might happen the next day. For at ten o'clock sharp, Jem Fitzgerald was going to present his mysterious map to the rest of the Lost Souls. Then they would embark on their hunt for the storied treasure.

Scarlet scraped at a clump of green mold. The
Hop
had to be as clean as possible for the journey. The more spotless her hull, the faster they'd sail. Today's meeting would be good for everyone, she thought as she picked at the mold. Finally, the Lost Souls would feel like they had a real mission, and Scarlet would feel like a real captain. Ben Hodgins had left her some massive boots to fill, and so far she wasn't convinced that she'd been doing a very good job. Ben had been so sure of himself, so capable, so much fun. Scarlet wanted to give her crew everything Ben had given her: a home, a family, an adventure, and a purpose.

If they found the treasure, surely everything would change. Legend had it the treasure would protect the finder from harm. The Lost Souls could certainly use that. And who knew how much money the king would give as a reward. They might be able to buy new boots for everyone! Or even a new ship!

Scarlet patted the
Hop
's belly. “Not that we don't love you,” she told it. “You're just . . . nearing retirement, that's all.”

The
Margaret's Hop
had aged considerably in the last few years. She still sailed well, but many a worm had found a comfy home in her planks, and consequently her sides were a patchwork of mismatched scraps of wood. At this point, your average captain would start looking around for a better ship, then attack it and throw its crew overboard, thus acquiring a newer vessel. But since it would take a half dozen Lost Souls to throw a single grown-up pirate overboard, Scarlet didn't have that option.

After a half hour of scraping, Scarlet handed off her tools to another pirate, who didn't look quite so eager, and took a stroll around the ship. As she rounded the stern, she found Lucas Lawrence prying off a rotted plank and replacing it with one he'd snagged in Jamestown the day before. As happy as she was to see the boy doing such important work, she didn't like to see her newest crew member working alongside him. Since yesterday, Lucas had glued himself like a barnacle to Jem's side, and the arrangement didn't sit well at all with Scarlet.

Jem looked up from the plank he was holding in place and waved at her. She waved back and walked over. Good old Fitz. He seemed to be doing just fine, despite losing his uncle to one of the worst fates imaginable. Or so he thought. Scarlet had tried now and then to discuss the likelihood of the
Dark Ranger
pirates actually sending Uncle Finn to feed the fish when they needed him alive and able to spew his secret. She'd even suggested they go back and look for him, but she didn't push this. For one thing, it would slow the Lost Souls' hunt for the treasure. And worse, it upset Jem every time she brought it up.

Jem had the makings of a jolly pirate. She'd known that the moment he tackled her to retrieve his map. And his daring escape from Deadeye Johnny the day before only reinforced her belief. Oh sure, Lucas played a minor role in the getaway, but Scarlet would bet her only pair of socks that Jem had done most of the work. Anyway, that was no average knife he'd stolen. She'd only gotten a glimpse of it—Jem kept it deep in his pocket and seemed reluctant to let anyone breathe on it, let alone test it out—but that one glimpse had told Scarlet the knife was something special. According to Jem, the original owner's name was Cutthroat MacPhee. Just who, she wondered, was this Cutthroat MacPhee?

“Hello, Captain,” Jem greeted her as she approached.

“Hi, Fitz. Lucas.” Scarlet nodded at the other boy, who didn't look up from the nail he was hammering. “This looks good. Any other spots need fixing?”

“One on the starboard side,” Lucas grunted to his hammer, then whacked it against the nail head with unnecessary force.

“Another rotted plank,” Jem added, watching them both with unease.

For a moment, Scarlet wondered if Lucas had been talking to Jem about her. Be a good captain, she told herself. Rise above it. She forced her mouth into a smile despite her growing urge to spit. “Looks like you're doing good work. Everyone's working hard today.”

Lucas let out a soft snort and met her eyes for just a moment. “Not everyone, apparently.”

Jem's eyes widened, and Scarlet felt her cheeks turn red.

“I've been working as much as you have, Lucas Lawrence,” she retorted, aware that the Good Captain McCray was quickly transforming into the Angry and Tongue-Tied Captain McCray that Lucas always managed to provoke. “I'm taking a break to check on my crew,” she added defensively. Then she turned and stalked away.

Honestly, just who did Lucas think he was, making a comment like that? It was . . . it was insubordination, that's what it was. And in front of Jem Fitzgerald, too. Scarlet's ears burned, and she had an urge to dunk her head into the drink right there. Or better yet, dunk Lucas's fat head into the drink.

Instead she found a flat slab of driftwood and sank down onto it, resting her bony elbows on her bony knees and staring out at the sea without seeing it. This tension between her and Lucas was nothing new—the entire crew knew to expect at least one shouting match per month. Some days they even rated Scarlet and Lucas on the intensity of their glares and the creativity of their swear words. But lately, Scarlet had noted that whenever she happened upon Lucas and his followers—Gil Jenkins and a few other boys—they immediately clammed up and smirked at their boots. Something was up, and Scarlet wanted to make sure Jem Fitzgerald didn't become a part of it, not least of all because he held the map that would change their lives.

It was hard to believe that she and Lucas had been friends once, long ago. They'd boarded the
Margaret's Hop
around the same time, and for some reason, Lucas—who even back then was a boy of few words—saw her as a confidante. He came from a very poor family. His parents had sold him as a cabin boy to the King's Men when he was nine. He didn't want to go, but his mother was expecting another child and needed the money. Sold by his own parents—Scarlet still shuddered at the thought, although she could sympathize with the feeling of abandonment.

Although they let him apprentice as a carpenter's assistant, the King's Men treated Lucas no better than the mold on the underbelly of their schooner, and he quickly grew to hate anyone dressed in blue and brass. On his first day aboard the
Hop
, Lucas told Scarlet that he was meant to be a real pirate, attacking and pillaging naval ships, seeking revenge on the men who treated him like a slave.

And so, while the boy found it jolly to suit up and terrorize ships, he never seemed quite satisfied with his job. He envied pirates like the Dread Pirate Captain Wallace Hammerstein-Whatsit and Deadeye Johnny, who didn't get scolded when they brandished their swords and who, he thought, had cabins full of stolen treasures to keep them happy.

Scarlet used to listen to him without arguing much, although from time to time she'd remind him that the ocean wasn't really bluer on the other side of the sandbar. Even on board a grown-up pirate ship, he'd be expected to share the bounty, obey the captain, and vote when decisions needed to be made. Though they looked like wild animals and smelled like rotting fish, “real” pirates were for the most part a democratic bunch.

The trouble between Lucas and Scarlet began one day after they'd raided a merchant's ship. Scarlet found the boy in his cabin, counting pieces of eight from a sack, which he'd kept for himself while they'd divvied up the rest of the booty.

“Lucas!” she hissed. “What do you think you're doing? The Lost Souls share everything evenly. You know that.”

“Quit being so high and mighty, Scarlet,” he retorted, although his eyes looked scared. He dropped his voice. “Look, don't tell anyone, and we'll share the whole sack. Just you and me. No one will know.”

She hesitated a moment before shaking her head. “You know it's not right. Ben would kill you if he found out.”

“Found out what?” Ben Hodgins rounded the corner at that very moment. “I probably won't kill you, but you better tell me.” His kind brown eyes, suddenly somber, slid from Scarlet to Lucas and back again. Scarlet panicked at the thought of Ben angry with her—Ben who'd saved her in the first place. She bit her lip and tried to keep the secret inside, but it burst out, anyway.

Ben didn't force Lucas to spend a night on the Island of Smelly Wild Pigs as punishment, but he did make him clean the long drop for an entire week and sit out the next two ship raids. Lucas stopped confiding in Scarlet and even stopped acknowledging her, except to shoot her the odd dagger glare. These escalated to cutlass glares—broadsword glares even—after Ben chose her over Lucas as captain of the Lost Souls.

Lately, it seemed he'd decided that glares weren't enough. He'd taken to disagreeing, loudly, with her orders. Almost as if he planned to mutiny. Scarlet sighed. It was all too unsettling. No one had warned her that even as captain she would feel so completely out of control.

At ten o'clock, the Lost Souls collectively dropped their tools, gave their vessel a satisfied once-over, and scrambled up the shore to the shady forest edge. They clustered in a circle around Scarlet and Jem, and the twins passed around some bright orange star fruit they'd stolen in Jamestown the day before. After rubbing it hard on her shirtsleeve, Scarlet sliced off a piece with her knife and nibbled on it. She decided not to comment on, and tried not to remember, how the twins had stuffed the star fruit down their trousers to make their getaway. But in the end she couldn't forget. She ended up burying her fruit in the sand when she thought no one was watching. Then she turned to Jem.

“Well, Fitz? Let's see it.”

Jem pulled a roll of crinkled paper out of his pocket and spread it on the sand between them. The Lost Souls moved closer together, and some of the smaller pirates slipped forward for a better look. Ronagh draped herself over Scarlet's shoulders for the best view.

An island roughly shaped like a cross—or, tilted slightly, an
X
—sat in the center of the map. Around it, Jem's uncle had drawn all kinds of tiny numbers and letters and arrows—navigational marks, Scarlet figured. Not her forte. She concentrated on the island, which was also covered in tiny, precise directions.

In the southern and western arms, Uncle Finn had scrawled, “Jungle. Beware,” and drawn little illustrations of plants that Scarlet didn't recognize but that didn't look too menacing. In the northern arm, he'd written, “Two Peaks. Danger,” and sketched two jagged mountains. In the center of the cross he'd scribbled ominous things like: “Boiling Lake. Hot,” “Panther's Lair. Hungry,” and “Ophidian aggregation. Keep right.” Scarlet made a mental note to ask Jem what an ophidian aggregation was. She had a feeling that “keep right” was an understatement.