Page 37 of Escaping Pirates (Legends of Neverland #4)

“What’re you doing, Gil? What have you got there?”

“Tar!” Gil answered proudly. “I played cards and got this! I knew the captain needed some.”

A vibration jolted through the barrel as the gangplank thudded onto the dock and I began to be rolled again.

“You know, when a man wins at cards, he usually gets something for himself, not for his captain.”

“Weeeeell,” Gil said, stretching out the word, “I didn’t exactly win it. The tavern owner wanted it gone, and this was something I could do for him to pay him back for the meal he gave me. I told him I’d get rid of it for him.”

Whatever pirate was on station laughed. “Well, I hope this cheers the captain up. The last shift of men fell asleep, and he won’t be happy in the morning. Want any help, little shark?”

“No,” Gil puffed. There was strain to her voice. “Me mam says things like this build big muscles, and I’m gonna have the biggest muscles on the whole”—she gave a mighty grunt and the barrel bumped onto the deck—“whole crew. Is Peter awake? ”

“Probably. He was doing some training down below deck not too long ago. I don’t know if he ever sleeps.”

The barrel finally came to a stop with the knothole pressed against the floor. I prayed that Gil would stand the barrel up soon, but I only heard her ask, “Can you stick this up by the helm?”

One set of footsteps retreated while I felt the barrel lifted into the air.

The man let out a deep grunt of effort, followed by an exclamation of disgust as some of the tar dribbled out of the knothole.

He grumbled about shoddy workmanship from barrel makers and wasted tar as, most thankfully, he sat the barrel down, right-side up, and moved on.

I repeated my action from a few minutes earlier and created a crude tunnel with my hands to funnel the cool air to my mouth. I kept my eyes closed and tried to ignore the tar trickling through my hair and down my neck.

For several minutes, it was silent, or at least as silent as a docked ship could be. The normal creaking from the wood planking, flapping of sheets, and the lapping of waves all sounded muted and distant from where I was sitting.

“We’ve got you covered for the last hour of the night watch, don’t worry,” a young man said, and there was a slapping sound. Had he clapped someone on the shoulder? There followed a grunt of appreciation, and heavy footsteps.

“Here,” someone said right beside the barrel a minute later, and I recognized Gil’s cabin-boy voice. “She’s in this one.”

My insides froze. Please, please, please let her be talking to an ally and not Tyrone.

“So, what’s in it for me?” It was the young man’s voice again, but not one I could immediately put to a face.

“Gold.”

“I don’t care about gold. ”

Gil’s voice changed from wheedling to astonished. “You don’t care about gold? I thought you wanted to be rich! What do you want instead?”

“Favors, allies, and loyalty.” I instantly knew who Gil was talking to—Peter Pan. Just dandy. My only accomplices were an undercover bounty hunter with questionable morals, and a stowaway criminal on the run from the law.

“I’m loyal,” Gil pointed out. “I trusted you with this information.”

“And I appreciate that, but I’m looking for loyalty from someone in high places. I need favors that will get me power, not just a little bit of spending money.”

I could almost hear the gears working in Gil’s brain. “It would indebt one of Berkway’s princes to you.”

“Ernst?” Peter asked, far too quickly.

“No, this is Ernst’s older brother, Jameson. Crown Prince of Berkway.”

My stress level crept up. I’d successfully outed Harlan’s true identity, and to some of the last people he would want to know.

There was a faint tapping. I couldn’t stand not seeing anything, so I pressed my eye to the knothole. Sure enough, the moonlight shone down on Gil and Peter, standing close and murmuring to each other.

“So, what is it that you need me to do?”

“Pick the lock on that chest.”

“That’s all?”

“I may need a little bit of fighting help once we reach Jameson. I’m not as strong as you are yet.”

Peter laughed and ruffled Gil’s hair. “You’ll get there one day, bud. I can’t take on a whole pirate crew, but I can handle a few people and a lock for you.”

So, Peter must still think Gil was a simple cabin boy.

If I were Gil, my head would have already exploded from trying to keep all my different stories straight.

Had she been boasting when she’d claimed that she memorized everything she saw, or was that true?

Did it extend to remembering every conversation?

“Keep a lookout, kid, would you?” Peter asked. The knee patches on Gil’s pants moved slightly as she adjusted positions, and I got a brief view of Peter crouching down beside the trunk and pulling a narrow lockpicking set of tools from his pocket, all wrapped up in leather.

I barely remembered to breathe as I watched Peter fiddle with the lock on the trunk. It didn’t take long before the lid clicked open.

“Perfect,” Gil said in hushed tones. “Give those to me.”

Peter handed over the red and gold flares. “Where are you going to put them?”

Gil’s legs approached the barrel. “Right in here. Can you pop this lid off for a minute?”

“With the girl?” Peter clamped the lock shut again then crossed to where Gil stood above me.

“It’s the last place the captain would look, especially if it’s only a few feet from where the flares are supposed to be.”

There was a slight crunching as the lid was prized off, and the ghostly moonlight streamed in to illuminate my tar-covered body. Both Gil and Peter Pan looked much too smug as they looked at me, crouched like a toddler hiding from its mother.

“Hang on to these,” Gil told me, handing me the flares. “It’s going to be a long day for you. I don’t envy your position.”

Peter stroked the stubble on his jaw. “She’ll be found there. Captain wanted to re-tar some of the rope.”

Gil thought for a moment, then a wicked smile lit up her face.

“The captain wasn’t going to start the rope project until tomorrow, and she won’t be found, even if the barrel’s opened.

Peter, can you give me that old sheet?” Once it was handed over, Gil sliced through the torn sail, then covered the open barrel face so the fabric draped down to rest just above my head.

“We’ll nail this down and fill it up. Even if they open it up, it will look like a barrel full of tar.”

“Great, more mess,” I grumbled.