Chapter Chapter 14 · THE PIRATE SHIP

; she who loved everything to be just so!

“I’ll rescue her!” he cried, leaping at his weapons. As he leapt he

thought of something he could do to please her. He could take his

medicine.

His hand closed on the fatal draught.

“No!” shrieked Tinker Bell, who had heard Hook mutter about his deed as

he sped through the forest.

“Why not?”

“It is poisoned.”

“Poisoned? Who could have poisoned it?”

“Hook.”

“Don’t be silly. How could Hook have got down here?”

Alas, Tinker Bell could not explain this, for even she did not know the

dark secret of Slightly’s tree. Nevertheless Hook’s words had left no

room for doubt. The cup was poisoned.

“Besides,” said Peter, quite believing himself, “I never fell asleep.”

He raised the cup. No time for words now; time for deeds; and with one

of her lightning movements Tink got between his lips and the draught,

and drained it to the dregs.

“Why, Tink, how dare you drink my medicine?”

But she did not answer. Already she was reeling in the air.

“What is the matter with you?” cried Peter, suddenly afraid.

“It was poisoned, Peter,” she told him softly; “and now I am going to

be dead.”

“O Tink, did you drink it to save me?”

“Yes.”

“But why, Tink?”

Her wings would scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on

his shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear

“You silly ass,” and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on the

bed.

His head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room as he knelt

near her in distress. Every moment her light was growing fainter; and

he knew that if it went out she would be no more. She liked his tears

so much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it.

Her voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she said.

Then he made it out. She was saying that she thought she could get well

again if children believed in fairies.

Peter flung out his arms. There were no children there, and it was

night time; but he addressed all who might be dreaming of the

Neverland, and who were therefore nearer to him than you think: boys

and girls in their nighties, and naked papooses in their baskets hung

from trees.

“Do you believe?” he cried.

Tink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to her fate.

She fancied she heard answers in the affirmative, and then again she

wasn’t sure.

“What do you think?” she asked Peter.

“If you believe,” he shouted to them, “clap your hands; don’t let Tink

die.”

Many clapped.

Some didn’t.

A few beasts hissed.

The clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to

their nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already Tink

was saved. First her voice grew strong, then she popped out of bed,

then she was flashing through the room more merry and impudent than

ever. She never thought of thanking those who believed, but she would

have liked to get at the ones who had hissed.

“And now to rescue Wendy!”

The moon was riding in a cloudy heaven when Peter rose from his tree,

begirt with weapons and wearing little else, to set out upon his

perilous quest. It was not such a night as he would have chosen. He had

hoped to fly, keeping not far from the ground so that nothing unwonted

should escape his eyes; but in that fitful light to have flown low

would have meant trailing his shadow through the trees, thus disturbing

birds and acquainting a watchful foe that he was astir.

He regretted now that he had given the birds of the island such strange

names that they are very wild and difficult of approach.

There was no other course but to press forward in redskin fashion, at

which happily he was an adept. But in what direction, for he could not

be sure that the children had been taken to the ship? A light fall of

snow had obliterated all footmarks; and a deathly silence pervaded the

island, as if for a space Nature stood still in horror of the recent

carnage. He had taught the children something of the forest lore that

he had himself learned from Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell, and knew that

in their dire hour they were not likely to forget it. Slightly, if he

had an opportunity, would blaze the trees, for instance, Curly would

drop seeds, and Wendy would leave her handkerchief at some important

place. The morning was needed to search for such guidance, and he could

not wait. The upper world had called him, but would give no help.

The crocodile passed him, but not another living thing, not a sound,

not a movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at the

next tree, or stalking him from behind.

He swore this terrible oath: “Hook or me this time.”

Now he crawled forward like a snake, and again erect, he darted across

a space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip and his

dagger at the ready. He was frightfully happy.

Chapter 14. THE PIRATE SHIP

One green light squinting over Kidd’s Creek, which is near the mouth of

the pirate river, marked where the brig, the _Jolly Roger_, lay, low in

the water; a rakish-looking craft foul to the hull, every beam in her

detestable, like ground strewn with mangled feathers. She was the

cannibal of the seas, and scarce needed that watchful eye, for she

floated immune in the horror of her name.

She was wrapped in the blanket of night, through which no sound from

her could have reached the shore. There was little sound, and none

agreeable save the whir of the ship’s sewing machine at which Smee sat,

ever industrious and obliging, the essence of the commonplace, pathetic

Smee. I know not why he was so infinitely pathetic, unless it were

because he was so pathetically unaware of it; but even strong men had

to turn hastily from looking at him, and more than once on summer

evenings he had touched the fount of Hook’s tears and made it flow. Of

this, as of almost everything else, Smee was quite unconscious.

A few of the pirates leant over the bulwarks, drinking in the miasma of

the night; others sprawled by barrels over games of dice and cards; and

the exhausted four who had carried the little house lay prone on the

deck, where even in their sleep they rolled skillfully to this side or

that out of Hook’s reach, lest he should claw them mechanically in

passing.

Hook trod the deck in thought. O man unfathomable. It was his hour of

triumph. Peter had been removed for ever from his path, and all the

other boys were in the brig, about to walk the plank. It was his

grimmest deed since the days when he had brought Barbecue to heel; and

knowing as we do how vain a tabernacle is man, could we be surprised

had he now paced the deck unsteadily, bellied out by the winds of his

success?

But there was no elation in his gait, which kept pace with the action

of his sombre mind. Hook was profoundly dejected.

He was often thus when communing with himself on board ship in the

quietude of the night. It was because he was so terribly alone. This

inscrutable man never felt more alone than when surrounded by his dogs.

They were socially inferior to him.

Hook was not his true name. To reveal who he really was would even at

this date set the country in a blaze; but as those who read between the

lines must already have guessed, he had been at a famous public school;

and its traditions still clung to him like garments, with which indeed

they are largely concerned. Thus it was offensive to him even now to

board a ship in the same dress in which he grappled her, and he still

adhered in his walk to the school’s distinguished slouch. But above all

he retained the passion for good form.

Good form! However much he may have degenerated, he still knew that

this is all that really matters.

From far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and

through them came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night when

one cannot sleep. “Have you been good form to-day?” was their eternal

question.

“Fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is mine,” he cried.

“Is it quite good form to be distinguished at anything?” the tap-tap

from his school replied.

“I am the only man whom Barbecue feared,” he urged, “and Flint feared

Barbecue.”

“Barbecue, Flint—what house?” came the cutting retort.

Most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about

good form?

His vitals were tortured by this problem. It was a claw within him

sharper than the iron one; and as it tore him, the perspiration dripped

down his tallow countenance and streaked his doublet. Ofttimes he drew

his sleeve across his face, but there was no damming that trickle.

Ah, envy not Hook.

There came to him a presentiment of his early dissolution. It was as if

Peter’s terrible oath had boarded the ship. Hook felt a gloomy desire

to make his dying speech, lest presently there should be no time for

it.

“Better for Hook,” he cried, “if he had had less ambition!” It was in

his darkest hours only that he referred to himself in the third person.

“No little children to love me!”

Strange that he should think of this, which had never troubled him

before; perhaps the sewing machine brought it to his mind. For long he

muttered to himself, staring at Smee, who was hemming placidly, under

the conviction that all children feared him.

Feared him! Feared Smee! There was not a child on board the brig that

night who did not already love him. He had said horrid things to them

and hit them with the palm of his hand, because he could not hit with

his fist, but they had only clung to him the more. Michael had tried on

his spectacles.

To tell poor Smee that they thought him lovable! Hook itched to do it,

but it seemed too brutal. Instead, he revolved this mystery in his

mind: why do they find Smee lovable? He pursued the problem like the

sleuth-hound that he was. If Smee was lovable, what was it that made

him so? A terrible answer suddenly presented itself—“Good form?”

Had the bo’sun good form without knowing it, which is the best form of

all?

He remembered that you have to prove you don’t know you have it before

you are eligible for Pop.

With a cry of rage he raised his iron hand over Smee’s head; but he did

not tear. What arrested him was this reflection:

“To claw a man because he is good form, what would that be?”

“Bad form!”

The unhappy Hook was as impotent as he was damp, and he fell forward

like a cut flower.

His dogs thinking him out of the way for a time, discipline instantly

relaxed; and they broke into a bacchanalian dance, which brought him to

his feet at once, all traces of human weakness gone, as if a bucket of

water had passed over him.

“Quiet, you scugs,” he cried, “or I’ll cast anchor in you;” and at once

the din was hushed. “Are all the children chained, so that they cannot

fly away?”

“Ay, ay.”

“Then hoist them up.”

The wretched prisoners were dragged from the hold, all except Wendy,

and ranged in line in front of him. For a time he seemed unconscious of

their presence. He lolled at his ease, humming, not unmelodiously,

snatches of a rude song, and fingering a pack of cards. Ever and anon

the light from his cigar gave a touch of colour to his face.

“Now then, bullies,” he said briskly, “six of you walk the plank

to-night, but I have room for two cabin boys. Which of you is it to

be?”

“Don’t irritate him unnecessarily,” had been Wendy’s instructions in

the hold; so Tootles stepped forward politely. Tootles hated the idea

of signing under such a man, but an instinct told him that it would be

prudent to lay the responsibility on an absent person; and though a

somewhat silly boy, he knew that mothers alone are always willing to be

the buffer. All children know this about mothers, and despise them for

it, but make constant use of it.

So Tootles explained prudently, “You see, sir, I don’t think my mother

would like me to be a pirate. Would your mother like you to be a

pirate, Slightly?”

He winked at Slightly, who said mournfully, “I don’t think so,” as if

he wished things had been otherwise. “Would your mother like you to be

a pirate, Twin?”

“I don’t think so,” said the first twin, as clever as the others.

“Nibs, would—”

“Stow this gab,” roared Hook, and the spokesmen were dragged back.

“You, boy,” he said, addressing John, “you look as if you had a little

pluck in you. Didst never want to be a pirate, my hearty?”

Now John had sometimes experienced this hankering at maths. prep.; and

he was struck by Hook’s picking him out.

“I once thought of calling myself Red-handed Jack,” he said

diffidently.

“And a good name too. We’ll call you that here, bully, if you join.”

“What do you think, Michael?” asked John.

“What would you call me if I join?” Michael demanded.

“Blackbeard Joe.”

Michael was naturally impressed. “What do you think, John?” He wanted

John to decide, and John wanted him to decide.

“Shall we still be respectful subjects of the King?” John inquired.

Through Hook’s teeth came the answer: “You would have to swear, ‘Down

with the King.’”

Perhaps John had not behaved very well so far, but he shone out now.

“Then I refuse,” he cried, banging the barrel in front of Hook.

“And I refuse,” cried Michael.

“Rule Britannia!” squeaked Curly.

The infuriated pirates buffeted them in the mouth; and Hook roared out,

“That seals your doom. Bring up their mother. Get the plank ready.”

They were only boys, and they went white as they saw Jukes and Cecco

preparing the fatal plank. But they tried to look brave when Wendy was

brought up.

No words of mine can tell you how Wendy despised those pirates. To the

boys there was at least some glamour in the pirate calling; but all

that she saw was that the ship had not been tidied for years. There was

not a porthole on the grimy glass of which you might not have written

with your finger “Dirty pig”; and she had already written it on

several. But as the boys gathered round her she had no thought, of

course, save for them.

“So, my beauty,” said Hook, as if he spoke in syrup, “you are to see

your children walk the plank.”

Fine gentlemen though he was, the intensity of his communings had

soiled his ruff, and suddenly he knew that she was gazing at it. With a

hasty gesture he tried to hide it, but he was too late.

“Are they to die?” asked Wendy, with a look of such frightful contempt

that he nearly fainted.

“They are,” he snarled. “Silence all,” he called gloatingly, “for a

mother’s last words to her children.”

At this moment Wendy was grand. “These are my last words, dear boys,”

she said firmly. “I feel that I have a message to you from your real

mothers, and it is this: ‘We hope our sons will die like English

gentlemen.’”

Even the pirates were awed, and Tootles cried out hysterically, “I am

going to do what my mother hopes. What are you to do, Nibs?”

“What my mother hopes. What are you to do, Twin?”

“What my mother hopes. John, what are—”

But Hook had found his voice again.

“Tie her up!” he shouted.

It was Smee who tied her to the mast. “See here, honey,” he whispered,

“I’ll save you if you promise to be my mother.”

But not even for Smee would she make such a promise. “I would almost

rather have no children at all,” she said disdainfully.

It is sad to know that not a boy was looking at her as Smee tied her to

the mast; the eyes of all were on the plank: that last little walk they

were about to take. They were no longer able to hope that they would

walk it manfully, for the capacity to think had gone from them; they

could stare and shiver only.

Hook smiled on them with his teeth closed, and took a step toward

Wendy. His intention was to turn her face so that she should see the

boys walking the plank one by one. But he never reached her, he never

heard the cry of anguish he hoped to wring from her. He heard something

else instead.

It was the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile.

They all heard it—pirates, boys, Wendy; and immediately every head was

blown in one direction; not to the water whence the sound proceeded,

but toward Hook. All knew that what was about to happen concerned him

alone, and that from being actors they were suddenly become spectators.

Very frightful was it to see the change that came over him. It was as

if he had been clipped at every joint. He fell in a little heap.

The sound came steadily nearer; and in advance of it came this ghastly

thought, “The crocodile is about to board the ship!”

Even the iron claw hung inactive; as if knowing that it was no

intrinsic part of what the attacking force wanted. Left so fearfully

alone, any other man would have lain with his eyes shut where he fell:

but the gigantic brain of Hook was still working, and under its

guidance he crawled on the knees along the deck as far from the sound

as he could go. The pirates respectfully cleared a passage for him, and

it was only when he brought up against the bulwarks that he spoke.

“Hide me!” he cried hoarsely.

They gathered round him, all eyes averted from the thing that was

coming aboard. They had no thought of fighting it. It was Fate.

Only when Hook was hidden from them did curiosity loosen the limbs of

the boys so that they could rush to the ship’s side to see the

crocodile climbing it. Then they got the strangest surprise of the

Night of Nights; for it was no crocodile that was coming to their aid.

It was Peter.

He signed to them not to give vent to any cry of admiration that might

rouse suspicion. Then he went on ticking.