Peter and the Sword of Mercy (31 page)

O’Neal looked up at the sky, now bright blue. The volcano had sent up a billowing cloud of ash and smoke. But above that, still clearly visible, was the dashed line of smoke he and his men had created. It was a clear signal, visible from long way off.

O’Neal smiled. He was sure of it now: the ship would come.

T
HE
P
LAN

T
HE
LUCY
STEAMED IN TO THE
Royal Victoria Dock in East London. From their side-by-side windowless cells deep belowdecks, Wendy and Peter couldn’t see anything, but they could hear the blasts of the ship’s horn and feel the shudder of the docking maneuvers. Tink, far too tiny to be imprisoned by the cell bars, had already left the brig and was elsewhere in the ship, carrying out her particular mission. Peter and Wendy sat fidgeting on their hard bunks, too nervous to rest, waiting for someone to come fetch them so they could put their plan into action. They’d had plenty of time to discuss it; the question now was whether it would work.

Finally they heard heavy footsteps in the corridor, then saw the two crewmen sent down to escort them out—the same two burly men who had brought them to the brig. The men opened the cells and herded Peter and Wendy up through the ship, one in front and one behind. Peter and Wendy were relieved to note that the men didn’t bother to tie or shackle them; evidently they didn’t expect any trouble from children.

When they reached the main deck, Peter saw that night was falling over London. That was good; darkness would help with his plan. Both the deck and the dock were bustling with debarking passengers and porters pushing carts piled high with luggage. Most of the ship’s traffic flowed down a long gangway from the deck to the dock, where Peter and Wendy spotted their welcoming committee: two London bobbies.

As they reached the top of the gangway, Peter and Wendy exchanged looks.

Ready?
his eyes asked.

Ready,
hers answered.

“Don’t be getting any ideas, you two,” growled one of the crewmen. He gripped Peter’s arm in his meaty hand; the other man gripped Wendy as well. The four of them joined the throng of passengers heading off the ship. The crowd moved slowly; that was good. Still, by the time they were a third of the way down, Peter was worried.

Where’s Tink?

Halfway down, Peter paused to look down at the cold, dirty water of the Thames, in the narrow space between the dock and the ship.

“Keep moving!” barked the crewman holding Peter, jerking him forward. Wendy shot Peter a look:
Where is she!

Peter shrugged: I
don’t know.

They trudged forward several more steps. By the dock lights they could see the faces of the waiting bobbies, looking up at them. A worrisome thought knotted Peter’s stomach: Tink had failed.

Then he heard screams. They started at the top of the gangway and quickly spread downward. People lunged this way and that, trying to escape something, but on the crowded gangway, suspended over the water, there was nowhere to escape.

“Get ready,” Peter whispered to Wendy. The panic spread quickly. They were shoved forward by the mob behind them. The men holding Peter and Wendy tightened their grips. Wendy bit down on her lip to keep from crying out in pain. The crowd surged, nearly knocking them over. The only thing keeping them up was the dense mass of people in front of them. The screams intensified. Then Peter saw the cause of the panic: first one, then a dozen gray shapes slithered down the gangway between the passengers’ jumping feet.

Rats.

A blur of light appeared and, moving almost too fast to see, circled the crewman holding Peter, then the one holding Wendy. The rats converged into a river of gray, matted fur. Before the two crewmen had any idea what was happening, a dozen rats scurried up their pants. The crewmen screamed and let go of their captives, jumping up and down in a frenzy and swatting at the animals clawing at their legs. Peter and Wendy were now free of their captors, but imprisoned ahead and behind by the dense mob of panicked passengers.

Now came the tricky part of the plan.

“Trust me,” Peter shouted to Wendy. Putting a hand on the gangway railing, he vaulted over, disappearing as he fell.

“MAN OVERBOARD!” shouted somebody from the main deck. More screams arose as passengers leaned over the railing, peering into the darkness below. Wendy took a deep breath and slung her left leg over the railing. She was lifting her right leg over when her crewman guard, still swatting at the rats in his pants, saw her, bellowed in rage, and reached for her. He caught her foot and pulled hard, trying to return her to the gangway. She drew back and kicked out with all her strength. Suddenly her shoe came off in his hand and she fell backward over the railing, her cry joining those of the gangway throng. She felt herself tumbling through darkness, then slammed into something

“OOF!” exclaimed Peter. He’d caught her five feet above the water, and was able to slow her fall, but not stop it. The two of them plunged into the ice-cold Thames. After a few awful, disorienting seconds in the icy, pitch-blackness underwater, they came up gasping and sputtering. From above came a chorus of shouts and screams, and the sound of feet pounding on the dock.

“Hang on!” said Peter, positioning Wendy behind him and gathering her arms around his shoulders. With a grunt, he lunged upward, slowing lifting her clear of the river, water cascading off them both. The effort weakened him, making him dizzy; he knew he could not fly her far.

This way! This way!

Peter saw Tink hovering to his left, leading him toward the massive looming stern of the
Lucy.
He flew after her, wobbling from side to side, unable to gain altitude, his toes brushing the water. The shouts receded behind them. They cleared the stern of the ship and flew another hundred yards along a stretch of empty dock before Peter, his strength gone, veered to the right and splashed back into the water next to a piling. It was covered with slime and barnacles, but he wrapped both arms gratefully around it and clung to it, sucking air into his burning lungs.

“Are you all right?” said Wendy, holding on to his back.

“I’ve been better,” said Peter. “You?”

“Likewise,” said Wendy.

The sound of chimes came from a few feet away.

Are you going to stay in the water all night, or are you going to climb up this ladder?

“Tink says there’s a ladder over there,” said Peter.

Wendy let go and swam to the ladder. Peter, too tired to fly, followed. A minute later they were on the dock, dripping wet and shivering cold.

“Well,” said Peter. “Here we are.”

“Yes,” said Wendy.

You’re welcome,
said Tink.

“Thank you, Tink,” said Peter.

“Yes, Tink,” said Wendy. “Thank you.”

You fly like a dead pelican,
said Tink.

“She says, you’re welcome,” said Peter.

“How did she get them to do that?” said Wendy.

“Get who to do what?” said Peter.

“Get the rats to crawl up the men’s trousers.”

“She told them the men had cheese in their pockets,” said Peter.

“She can talk to rats?” said Wendy.

“Oh, yes,” said Peter. “Not just rats.”

They’re smarter than you,
said Tink.

“What did she say?” said Wendy.

“She said we’d better get going before we freeze to death.”

They started trudging toward the lights of London, clothes dripping, Wendy walking on one bare foot.

“Where exactly
are
we going?” said Peter.

“To my house,” said Wendy.

“Is it far?” said Peter.

“I don’t know,” said Wendy.
Wonderful,
said Tink.

“What will we do when we get to your house?” said Peter.

“I’m…I don’t know that either,” said Wendy. “But I’m sure we’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“I see,” said Peter.

They trudged a few more steps.

Definitely not as smart as the rats,
said Tink.

A
N
O
DD
R
EPORT

E
XCUSE ME, SIR
.” The secretary stood nervously in the doorway to Chief Superintendent Blake’s Scotland Yard office.

“What is it?” snapped Blake. He was signing the last of the day’s correspondence and planned to be on his way to dinner in five minutes. He did not appreciate anything interfering with his dinner.

“It’s Superintendent Shroder, sir,” said the secretary. “He says it’s of the utmost importance.”

“It had
better
be,” said Blake. “Send him in.”

The secretary scurried away and a stocky, sweating man entered, holding a piece of paper.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said. “But a matter has come up which I believe is of the utmost—”

“Yes, the utmost importance,” said Blake, drumming his fingers on his desk. “What is it?”

“Sir, you may recall that you gave special orders that you wanted to be advised immediately if any officer reported any…
unusual
activity involving children meeting certain descriptions.”

Blake’s fingers stopped drumming. “Go on,” he said.

“Well,” said Shroder holding out the piece of paper, “a short while ago, two officers turned in an odd report from Royal Victoria Dock. I would go so far as to say it is quite unbelievable, sir. However, since the children involved are …”

“Let me see it,” said Blake, snatching the report from Shroder’s hands. He read it quickly, rubbed a hand through his hair, and read it again. Then he handed it back to Shroder.

“You are to take this report to Buckingham Palace immediately,” he said.

“The palace?” said Shroder. “But…”

“Immediately,”
snapped Blake. “You are to hand it personally to Baron von Schatten’s assistant, Simon Revile, and no one else. You will then await his instructions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go!”

Shroder scurried out the door.

Blake sat still for a few seconds, then pounded his fist on his desk, thinking about the dinner he would not be eating anytime soon.