All the while Dean raced across the waves, spinning and thrashing, he paid close attention to a length of rope that trailed behind him. The rope was hooked onto a harness on his waist that tethered him to the Reckless. He was careful not to run out of line as he flipped from wave to wave. The fog was thicker than paint, but with a little persistence, he spotted the soft glow of lanterns advancing through the mist. Ringing bells told him a ship was up ahead. Dean turned his sail into the wind and came about, heading for a large square-rigged merchant vessel christened the Santa Clara.
He sped toward the ship, caught a wave, and jumped. A strong updraft carried him high into the air, and he let the wind carry him as far as it could. When he finally began his descent, he waited until the last possible moment and then let go of his sail, which flew off and disappeared into the fog. Dean continued to fall, faster now, bearing down on the Santa Clara and its unsuspecting crew. He pulled his legs up to clear the ship’s gunwale as he closed in and just barely made it over the side. He touched down with a thud, and his board skidded across the deck’s wooden planes with rapid bumps. Sailors’ heads spun around from every direction as they let out shouts of shock, alarm, and general confusion. Dean sprang up onto the quarterdeck, snatching a cutlass from the side of a slow-footed seaman as he ran. Quick as lightning, he unhooked the thick rope tied to his harness and lashed it around the mainmast, thus connecting the Santa Clara to the Reckless. Once he was certain his knot wouldn’t come undone, he started reeling in the slack.
“Who the devil are you?” a voice called out. Dean raised his eyes toward the stern end of the quarterdeck, where a man stood in a cabin door. He wore a bright red coat with fine gold trim, and buttons made of polished brass. Oily black hair fell down around his shoulders in tight curls. He had a thin mustache and the air of a man who thought a great deal of himself. Judging by his formal dress and general tone of righteous indignation, Dean concluded he was the ship’s captain. “Well? Speak, boy!” the captain demanded.
Dean put up a finger, instructing the man to wait as he hauled in the rope that tied the two ships together. The captain stood dumbfounded as the boy went on with his work. Rope piled up at Dean’s feet until at last he pulled and the line did not give. He gave it two good tugs to signal his mates, and dropped the line on the deck. “There.” He clapped his hands together and turned to face the simmering captain. “You, sir. You asked me a question just now. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention. What was it you wanted to know?”
The captain scowled at Dean. “I want this boy in irons. Now.”
Two able-bodied sailors stepped forward to take hold of Dean. They were tough, weather-beaten men with leathery hides and fists the size of horseshoe crabs. Dean grabbed the cutlass he’d stolen as he came on board and cut through the air like a swashbuckler. “I give you fair warning. Any man who lays a hand on me will leave it at my feet.”
The two sailors paused a moment, then shared a laugh at Dean’s expense. They drew out their own blades and closed in on him. Dean stood his ground, waiting until they came close enough to strike. Once they did, he chose the man on the right and lunged forward with his sword, pushing him back. The sailor on the left swung his blade at Dean, but he ducked beneath its edge with time to spare. The sword sailed harmlessly over his head and lodged itself firmly in the mast. As the man tried to pry it loose, Dean delivered a kick to his stomach that knocked the man clean off the quarterdeck. Dean spun and pulled the sword free himself, then turned back toward his other attacker. Swinging both swords, Dean cut a wide swash through the air as he went at the man. The sailor backpedaled and tripped on the tangled line Dean had just pulled on board. He fell hard on his backside, and Dean pressed his advantage.
“Do you yield?” The tip of his cutlass was dangerously close to the man’s throat.
The sailor nodded several times and scurried back like a frightened rat. Dean smiled as he shrank away. The man had taken him for an easy mark. Dean was nothing of the sort. You don’t last very long as a pirate spy if you can’t hold your own in a fight.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the captain demanded. “Who do you think you are, boy?”
Dean cleared his throat and recited the lines that Ronan had made him memorize. “My name is not important. What is important is the message I carry. As of this moment, your ship and its cargo are at the mercy of the pirate Gentleman Jim Harper. You might not believe it, but today is your lucky day. Gentleman Jim will gladly give quarter to any and all who lay down their arms and surrender. You can run up a white flag now, or wait until Gentleman Jim gets here, but it’s faster and more civilized if you surrender before he arrives. My captain is a busy man, and he appreciates your cooperation. I can assure you he will treat you every bit as well as you treat him.”
The ship’s captain stared at Dean in silence, thunderstruck by the boy’s proclamation. After a few quiet moments, a smile formed on the captain’s lips and he burst out laughing. His crew took the outburst as permission to do the same and roared with laughter as well.
“Surrender? To a pint-size pirate?”
“Been too long in the sun, I’ll wager!”
“At his captain’s mercy, he says! Where is he, then?”
Dean shook his head as the rowdy seamen mocked him. He had expected his youth and boyish looks to get in the way of the message he was sent to deliver. With a head full of short black hair, bright blue eyes, and a full set of teeth, he was hardly Blackbeard the pirate. He appealed to the Santa Clara’s captain directly.
“I know it’s hard to accept, sir. No man wants to surrender his command, but please, be reasonable. Are you really going to send all these men to their deaths just to satisfy your own selfish pride?”
The captain’s smile faded into a sneer, and his laughter into a growl. He drew a pistol on Dean. “Mind your tongue, boy. You’re on my ship. I don’t take that kind of talk from my men, and I’ll be tarred if I’ll take it from a whelp like you. What makes you think I won’t shoot you dead and toss your body to Davy Jones right now?”
Dean held out his arms. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a pistol pointed in his direction. He knew full well their accuracy was terrible except at very close range. “Go ahead and shoot. I wager you’ll be lucky to hit the ocean if you try. More likely you’ll hit one of your own men. But that’s not why you won’t fire on me.”
The captain cocked his pistol. “Why won’t I, then?”
Dean glanced down at his feet. The whole time he and the captain had been talking, the line he’d tied to the mast was slowly being drawn out by someone in the fog who was tugging on the other end. What was once a twisted heap of rope was now pulled nearly taut. Dean smiled and stuck to the script. “You won’t shoot because my captain would take that as a personal insult. The offer of quarter would be withdrawn, and my shipmates would cut every throat on this ship, down to the very last man. You see, Gentleman Jim commands a ghost ship, crewed by one hundred of the blackest souls that ever sailed the sea. Stole them right out from under the devil’s nose, he did. They’re so grateful, they do whatever he says, and it’s them who are coming for you now.”
Dean locked eyes with the captain and didn’t blink. The sailors on deck swallowed hard as the rope continued to stretch out before him. A strong gust of wind swept the fog from the deck, and moonlight bathed the Santa Clara in an eerie glow. Murmurs ran from bow to stern like an army of mice. Half the ship’s crew appeared anxious to know what was pulling on the other end of the rope. The other half looked afraid to find out. All of them seemed to regret laughing in the face of death when Dean seemed so certain it was coming to call.
“If it’s blood you’re after, Captain, you’ll have it. But you’d be wise to save your powder for my shipmates. I didn’t come here alone.”
As the last few yards of line went over the side, the tune of a pirate shantey drifted in. All hands on deck, the captain included, stood on guard as they looked around, trying to find the spot from when
ce it came. A moment later, the Reckless—a large, three-masted, well-armed galleon flying the Jolly Roger—emerged from the fog. It was a nightmarish vision. Half of the Pirate Youth stood at the edge of the ship wearing face paint and skull masks. They each held a torch in one hand, a cutlass in the other, and shouted demonic battle cries. The other half flew in from above, riding more kiteboard rigs. They descended upon the Santa Clara like shrieking harpies, and the crew on deck ran for cover. Dean saw Gentleman Jim at the center of it all with his sword held high in the air. He gave the order to attack, and Dean’s ghostly shipmates came over the side like a giant wave crashing to the shore.
CHAPTER 6
THE GENTLEMAN’S CODE
The Santa Clara’s captain dropped his pistol and ran. His men did the same, throwing down their swords before the first “ghost” came aboard. Dean watched the Pirate Youth overwhelm the ship, working fast to round up its crew and bind every man on deck with strong ropes and tight knots. The battle was over before it began, and well before anyone realized they had just surrendered to a ship full of children.
Gentleman Jim came aboard last, moving with no greater urgency than a man strolling down a beach at sunset. He walked up a gangplank to join Dean on the quarterdeck as his crew secured the ship. Back on the Reckless, a team of young pirates turned a massive capstan to haul in the rest of Dean’s line, singing as they worked to pull the two ships together. Gentleman Jim clapped a hand on Dean’s back and gave a hearty laugh. “Beautiful! They all but wrapped her up and tied her with a bow, didn’t they?”
Dean shook his head in admiration. “I have to hand it to you, Captain. This is as good a con as I’ve ever seen. This lot bought it hook, line, and sinker.”
“Thanks to you. Give yourself some credit, lad. It all starts with the right setup. You did well—especially for a first timer. Fine work.”
Dean basked in the glow of Gentleman Jim’s praise. He wasn’t used to that kind of encouragement. It was true, he deserved some credit for spooking the ship’s captain and crew, but as far as he was concerned, the real work had been done by the Pirate Youth. They were professionals through and through. Dean watched as they went about their business, taking control of the Santa Clara in an orderly, bloodless fashion. He liked the way Gentleman Jim did things. It was smart. What was the point of executing brutal raids and innocent sailors when you could simply trick a ship’s captain into giving up without a fight? Dean could see why Gentleman Jim was known to inspire strong loyalty from his crew. Under his command, they not only filled their pockets with gold but had a much better chance of living long enough to spend it. Dean was happy to have played his part in the production well, and lamented the fact that he was there only as part of a larger charade. He could have fit in nicely with the Pirate Youth had they met under different circumstances. It would have been a good life, being part of this crew. But who was he kidding? One-Eyed Jack would never have allowed it. Dean was a spy. That was what One-Eyed Jack wanted for him, and if he was spying on Gentleman Jim, it meant his days were numbered anyway.
Gentleman Jim approached the captain of the Santa Clara. Standing eye to eye, the two men did not seem all that different. Gentleman Jim took his hat off to the Santa Clara’s captain as Ronan relieved the man of his sword and pistol.
“I officially accept your surrender, Captain …?” Gentleman Jim paused and motioned for his counterpart to offer his name.
“Cordoba.”
“Captain Cordoba. You chose wisely, sir. No cargo is worth dying for.”
“Don’t patronize me, you pirate scum.” Cordoba struggled to get at Gentleman Jim, but Ronan and two other pirates held him fast. “Coward! What kind of a man hides behind children like this?”
“What kind of a man surrenders to children? Really, Captain, I thought you Spaniards were made of sterner stuff.”
Cordoba flew into a rage, rattling off an endless string of rapid-fire insults. At least Dean assumed they were insults. He couldn’t say for sure since he didn’t speak Spanish, but judging from the way Cordoba was frothing at the mouth, it was a safe bet.
“Please, let’s not be uncouth, Captain Cordoba. We’re partners now, you and I. The least we can do is speak to each other in a civil tone.”
“Partners? What the devil are you talking about?”
Gentleman Jim smiled. “It’s simple. Your pride is going to help keep our secret. After all, you’re not going to tell anyone you were robbed by children, are you? I doubt that very highly. No, if I have the measure of you down squarely, you’ll swear it was a whole fleet of savage buccaneers, or perhaps even a real ghost ship that struck you. Men like you make it possible for my crew to run our scheme over and over again with impunity. I appreciate your help, sir. You have my thanks.”
Dean watched Cordoba’s face twist into a mask of pure hatred, probably because he knew every word that had just been said was true. Gentleman Jim laughed. “I love the Spanish. Such a proud people.”
Captain Cordoba spat on Gentleman Jim’s lapel, and Ronan punched him in the jaw with the speed and fury of a typhoon wind. Cordoba staggered back in shock.
“It seems you need a lesson in manners,” Gentleman Jim said. He calmly took a handkerchief from Cordoba’s pocket, used it to wipe off his lapel, and tucked the soiled square of cloth back where he found it. “First mate, have you the sock?”
Ronan snickered. “Aye, Captain.”
Dean turned up his nose as Ronan pulled a putrid black sock from his back pocket. He could smell it from ten paces away. The sock smelled even worse than Scurvy Gill’s handkerchief, if such a thing were possible.
“What is that?” Cordoba asked, gagging as the sock’s hateful aroma punched its way into his nostrils. The filthy length of cloth looked like it could stand up all on its own.
“What does it look like?” Gentleman Jim replied. “It’s a sock taken off the dirtiest pirate I ever had the misfortune of sailing with. Now, if there are no further questions?” He gave a nod to Ronan, who stuffed the sock into Cordoba’s mouth and tied it in place with a bandanna. Cordoba’s eyes watered, and he let out muffled cries of anguish and outrage. Gentleman Jim rolled his eyes. “Captain, if you don’t have anything of value to add to the conversation, I’m going to have to ask you to please be quiet.” Ronan and the rest of the Pirate Youth laughed. “Take him away!” The crew of the Reckless carried Cordoba off, and Gentleman Jim flashed a rogue’s smile. “Now then, lads. Let’s get a look at our loot.”
“You heard the captain!” Ronan bellowed. “Get your hides to the hold and haul up your treasure!”
A cargo hatch on the main deck flew open. “Already done that!” said the mangy, spindle-legged boy named Rook. He came up from below, leading a pack of young pirates toting crates, which they dropped on the deck with a thud. Rook took no part in the heavy lifting but, rather, concerned himself with a group of missionaries who had followed him and the others out. Their leader, a white-haired old man with a kind face, tugged at Rook’s elbow, pleading with him to leave their cargo be. Rook pushed the frail clergyman down without a second thought. “Plenty more where that come from, there is.”
Rook seemed quite pleased with the day’s haul, but Dean saw a problem straightaway. The crates were marked with crosses and looked quite hefty. If missionaries had ever traveled with this much gold, it was the first he’d heard of it. Dean watched Gentleman Jim and Ronan trade wary looks. There was a good chance this raid had been all for naught.
Ronan jumped down from the quarterdeck. “Somebody help that man up,” he said, pointing to the old missionary. He slapped the top of a crate with an open palm. “Pry them open, boys. Let’s have a look inside.”
Dean leapt down to the main deck and helped the elderly minister back on his feet. He then grabbed a pry bar and lent a hand with the crates. Just as he had suspected, there was no treasure inside. Instead, the boxes were filled with dried meats, rice, and grain.
Gentleman Jim’s eyes narrowed. He gripped the
railing of the quarterdeck hard enough to leave thumbprints in the finish. “What is this? This ship was meant to be carrying Spanish gold!”
“Gold?” The old missionary limped forward. “No, sir. Our mission booked passage on this ship to aid the hurricane victims of San Petit. Our only cargo is food, medicine, and the good Lord’s word.”
“No gold?” Gentleman Jim leaned forward as his men pried open the other crates. “None?”
Dean inspected each box thoroughly. There was always a chance that the old preacher was a fraud hiding gold bars beneath his Bibles, but it wasn’t very likely. The man’s soft blue eyes twinkled with less guile than a baby dove’s. Dean turned to face his new captain with empty hands. “I’m afraid not, sir. Just food and supplies.”
The missionary stepped in front of the crates, shielding them with his body. “Have mercy, Captain. Let us pass. If not for our sake, then do it for your own! What will you say on the day of your judgment if you steal from women and children barely clinging to life? How will you explain leaving countless innocents to waste away and die? Please, sir, if you won’t think of them, think of yourself. Think of your soul!”
The impassioned plea hung in the air, heavier than ten cannonballs. “Blast it all,” Ronan muttered.
Gentleman Jim shook his head. “Rook, seal up these crates and stow them with the others down below. We’re leaving.”
Rook’s head shot up. “What?”
Dean spun around as well. “We’re leaving?”
“Bless you, sir! Bless you!” cried the old missionary, clasping his hands together.
“But, Cap’n! You can’t!” Rook sputtered.
“We came here for gold, Rook, not the food of starving children.” Gentleman Jim turned back toward the Reckless without touching so much as a single grain of rice. Dean couldn’t believe his eyes.