Captain James Hook and the Siege of Neverland Read online

  Contents

  Title Page Kindle

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Join Our Crew

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Thank you for reading

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgments

  Captain James Hook and the Siege of Neverland

  By Jeremiah Kleckner and Jeremy Marshall

  Amazon Kindle Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-1502449245

  ISBN-10: 1502449242

  Copyright © 2014 Registration Number TXu 1-919-334

  Captain James Hook and the Siege of Neverland

  By Jeremiah Kleckner and Jeremy Marshall

  Copyright © 2014 Registration Number TXu 1-919-334

  ISBN-13: 978-1502449245

  ISBN-10: 1502449242

  This is a fictional work and any resemblance to actual people living or dead, businesses, locales, or events is coincidental. Reproduction of this publication in part or whole without written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book so that others may find it as well. Your support is everything.

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  Chapter One

  August 15th

  The world was darkness, then spun slowly into focus. I reached into my coat pocket with fingers I no longer had for a watch that was no longer there and tore the lining. This iron hook does as much good for me as ill, but in the moments that I forget, I curse its place in my life. It is a trophy of my failure. My weakness. I have no fairies to save me. Just my wits, which now slipped between my fingers like dry sand.

  Thick and foul-colored blood pooled on the floorboards, but not from the hook. I didn’t cut myself. Something else happened. My head. Someone had hit me and now the slick copper taste stuck to my teeth and lips. I worked the hook free of the fabric as my vision righted.

  Smee and Billy Jukes laughed in the dim candlelight.

  “Tasted enough of the butt of my sword?” Smee taunted. He thumbed the handle of his weapon and rocked back and forth on stout legs.

  I spat, pulled the leather straps that held my hook in place tighter, and rose to my feet. “Once more.”

  “Again?” Smee asked. He wiped the sweat from his graying brow and looked to Billy Jukes, who scowled.

  I rose my sword to guard position and used my hook to pull long tendrils of hair away from my face.

  “Sure,” Jukes said, shifting his herculean frame. “Once more.”

  My rehabilitation has been a trial, but Jukes and Smee were kind enough to help. The cabin in the old brigantine is not ideal for this kind of training. Chests cluttered the limited wall space, narrowing an already tight room.

  The two men advanced.

  Smee thrust high at the chest. I parried with my sword, but caught an elbow in the teeth. Blood flowed again down my chin as I drove my forehead into the bridge of Smee’s nose. I then slammed the dull side of my hook down onto Smee’s chest and the Irishman collapsed in a heap.

  Billy Jukes lunged at me, taking only two steps to cover the distance. I rolled underneath his grasp, but with one sweeping movement, Jukes backhanded me and knocked my sword away. He hoisted me high in the air and brought me crashing down onto a pile of books and old maps. He leaned his knee across my chest and made himself heavy.

  “Are you done?” Jukes asked.

  “No,” I breathed, “but you are.”

  Billy Jukes chuckled, but his smile faded as a splash of red warmth grew on the front of his shirt. Jukes got up and opened his shirt, revealing three shallow scratches, one just below each ear and another across his midsection.

  “You’d have gutted me.”

  “And slit your throat.” I leaned myself up against the wall and cleaned the blood from my hook. “Twice.”

  “Didn’t even see you do it that time,” Jukes said. He walked over to a small chest where I keep my private stores of medicines and bandages. He took off his now tattered shirt and added, “You took a hell of a beating, though.”

  “I’d take any number of broken bones over disembowelment.”

  Billy Jukes nodded and went back to cleaning and dressing his wounds.

  I stood up and walked over to Smee. “Are you getting up now?”

  “Aye, Captain. Just a moment longer.”

  I extended my hand and helped Smee to his feet.

  “Next time, I’ll be armed also,” Jukes said, looking again at his blood-stained shirt. “You’re ready.”

  “Aye, Mr. Jukes,” I said. I picked up my sword and practiced drawing it left-handed. My swordsmanship has a long way to go before it will be where it was when I brought Peter Pan to heel. I sheathed the sword and loosened the straps of my hook, shifting the guard to find a comfortable fit. The wound aches constantly, but the right pressure makes it bearable.

  When finished, I noticed my first officer and boatswain standing oddly stiff. Smee shifted his weight and put his thick hands in two sets of pockets before deciding to let them hang at his sides. Jukes dropped his shoulders and breathed loudly through his nose, a sure sign of bad news.

  “Anything to report, Mr. Jukes?”

  “The men are hungry.”

  “Anything more than quarter rations are foolish until we know more.”

  “They’re afraid,” Smee snapped.

  “They should be,” I said. Smee and Jukes looked at one another and waited for me to say more. I didn’t.

  “This place…” Billy Jukes started.

  “There are no stars,” Smee cut in, pointing out the porthole.

  “Stars are everywhere,” I said. I walked over and looked out at the thousands of lights that dazzled overhead. “They are as bright in the day as they are at night.”

  “But no stars we can use,” Jukes said. He stormed over to my desk and unrolled two sets of charts. “We don’t know them and we can’t draw new maps because they’re always moving.”

  At that moment, a soft light washed over the dark wood and gave everything a golden-orange hue.

  “The sun’s rising again,” Smee said, blowing out the candles on my many book shelves. “That’s twice today.”

  “It was three times yesterday,” Jukes said.

  “It’s still early,” I said, pointing to the tall upright clock against the aft wall of the cabin. Its gentle ticking filled the moments between words and thoughts with its rhythmic beat. “It’s barely eleven. How much food is left, Mr. Smee?”

  “We have enough to last another week, if needed.”

  “If you can call it food,” Jukes said. “I could kill a man with the biscuits and the salted beef is as green as it is slick.”

  “The cook is doing the best he can,” Smee said.

  “Aye,” Jukes said. “The best he can.”

  “You’re too good for dried beans, Mr. Jukes?” I asked.

  Billy Jukes and Smee said nothing. I watched them look to one another and build their courage. As important as starvation was, it paled compared to the topic most on the minds and lips of t
he crew of the Jolly Roger.

  “They don’t know what they saw,” Smee said.

  “How would they?” I asked. We chased Peter Pan past the clouds and into the heavens. There were moments when the men thought we lost him, but I didn’t need to see him to know his heading. Stars, whole worlds passed us on all sides, above and below. Then it all stopped. One instant we were surrounded by the night’s sky. In the next, a gentle sea lapped against the hull.

  And here we have stayed for ten days. No wind to fill our sails. No life in the black water below us to fill our stomachs. Ten days in still water does a lot of damage to a crew, especially one that is not accustomed to being idle. The Jolly Roger requires maintenance and upkeep, to be sure, but that is short work for a crew of twenty-seven.

  “They need you to explain it to them,” Billy Jukes said. The tension in his voice disappeared and, for a moment, he looked like the boy I knew when we were both young.

  “If only I could,” I said. “I told them all that I know.”

  “That elf,” Smee said, shaking his head.

  “Peter Pan,” I corrected. “Learn his name, Smee.”

  “Peter Pan, it is,” Jukes said. “What is he?”

  “A child,” I answered.

  “That is no ordinary boy,” Smee said.

  “He bleeds. He cries,” I said, pausing only a moment to savor the thought. “He is a child, aged beyond reason and dangerous, but still a child.”

  “And the sparkling light with him?” asked Smee.

  “She is a fairy,” I said. “And a nasty one, at that.” I walked over to my desk and pulled my red coat on over my shirt. “Is there anything else, Mr. Smee?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Good. See to it that the ship is kept up. Light work will keep the men’s minds off of their stomachs. Who is on watch?”

  “Cecco, but he’s been up there for hours.”

  “Call him down and get him fed. Send Skylights up.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Smee walked through the door and closed it behind him before I spoke again. “How bad is it?”

  “More or less what you heard,” Jukes said. “The men are in bad shape, but they keep looking to you for answers, so we should be alright.”

  I smiled. “We’ve managed to avoid mutiny for another day.”

  “Aye, sir,” Jukes said with a smirk.

  “I’m sure our fathers had it easier.” I chuckled to myself, then looked up into the blank stare of Billy Jukes. “Our fathers,” I said more clearly. “When they commanded this ship, they had to have had it easier than this.”

  “Yes,” Jukes said, “I’m sure they did.” He looked down at his feet, then over to the door. “I should get out there, Captain.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “Do you want me to send in Starkey or Cecco?” Jukes asked. The gentleman and the Italian are fluent in two languages other than English and I insist that they teach me. The lessons are never formal. We talk about wine and rum and the empty promises we made to women.

  I stepped over to my shelves, on which volumes of literature and collected histories in English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, Latin, and Greek taunted me.

  “Not today.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Billy Jukes ducked under the door frame and clicked the door shut behind him.

  I ran my fingers along the spines on a set of books on the fall of Rome. I pulled one off of the shelf and sat with it at my desk. Foreign words are puzzles and I attack them with the same passion I feel for mathematics, though not with the same ease. Deeper and deeper I fell into the rhythm of the language, keeping in time with the brass hands of the upright clock.

  My eyes grew heavy after a few hours, so I turned to my writing. Along with the old clock and an extensive library, the late Admiral Price spared no expense storing jars of iron gall ink and stacks of paper. May he rot.

  The journals I keep are for no one’s benefit save my own, as I am unsure whether my script is even legible in its current condition. Writing, like so much else, has become a clumsy, fumbling practice. So many small habits are harder with an untrained hand.

  Even so, this record is a growing necessity. A haze has settled on my thoughts, no matter how much I eat or sleep. It worsens by the day. What was once a subtle distraction is now a near-constant annoyance, like trying to name a song that plays in your head day and night.

  Then there are the dreams. From that which I have wronged will come an end to all suffering. These words repeat over and over, seemingly unattached to the images that flash across my eyes in slumber. Faces of family and friends. A stone hallway. A cell door. And a single blue light in the darkness.

  Several loud pops shocked me to attention. Gunfire. The ship’s bell rang and an uproar of shouts rose from beyond the cabin door. More gunfire followed. I gathered my hat and stepped out onto the deck.

  Men ran in chaotic circles around the masts of the ship, rocking the Jolly Roger from side to side. Seven of them hung over the fore railing and pointed into the distance. Through their cries and panicked shouting, I heard one voice above the others.

  “Quit your gawking!” Jukes ordered. He grabbed Jack Elroy by the collar and threw him down in front of the nearest gun. “Get those cannons loaded.” Jukes kicked the pirate once in the ribs, but Jack never took his pale and sunken eyes off of the sky. Jukes looked around until he saw me.

  “Like we practiced,” I mouthed. His eyes widened and he nodded his understanding. I elbowed a path towards Smee, who stood staring at the clouds with his mouth agape. The sun cast a deep shadow over every crease and scar on his face. The old wool cap he has taken to wearing recently hung over his shoulder, showing much of his graying hair. The boatswain never looked older.

  “Smee.”

  “Aye,” Smee said slowly.

  I grabbed him by the arm and yanked him away. “Smee, get the men to stop shooting.”

  “How?” he said, shaking his head clear.

  “Just get them quiet and get Noodler ready.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Smee said and sprinted away. The Irishman reached Noodler and gave the order. The man with the backwards hands caught my eyes, nodded, then made for his station on the quarter deck. Billy Jukes assembled the men into their battle positions. The gunfire died down, as did the bell’s insistent ringing.

  The ship was quiet for all but a breath.

  A wind brushed me and my hat flew from my head. I looked up as a small figure weaved through clouds and ducked behind a midday star. A jolt coursed through my heart as I was again transfixed with the impossible. Wonder mixed with a swelling hatred and I stood dumbstruck.

  With mischief in his eyes, Peter Pan dove for my ship. He flew in and out of the lines between the fore and main topsails. He gripped the mast with one hand and braced his feet against the wood. He shaded his eyes with the other hand and looked down. When he saw us, he gnashed his little teeth.

  The memories washed over me in a flood of images and sounds, all out of sequence and painful. I stared at him with all the fire of hating someone who wouldn’t know you if they saw you. In my finer moments, my unrequited hate sat like lead beneath my heart.

  He walked down the topmast past the sail foot over foot as though he were balancing on a narrow beam.

  “Wow, a pirate ship,” Pan said. I could repeat Peter’s greeting without missing a single beat. What fun it would be to play pirates! I want to be Captain!

  “You would get a much better look at it if you come down,” I called out, smiling as best I could.

  “No way!” Peter said. “You’re shooting at me.”

  “We’ve stopped,” I told him, motioning with my arms to show Peter that I was telling the truth. I glanced at Noodler, who shook his head, signaling that he didn’t yet have a clear shot. I widened my eyes and smiled more broadly. “Now, why not come down and play pirates?”

  Pan lowered a few feet, then stopped. A puzzled look grew on his face. A moment later, his head perked
up and he smiled. “You’re trying to trick me.”

  “Oh, you are much too clever for that.”

  “I am,” said Peter. He puffed his chest and put his hands on his hips.

  “It is great fun on a pirate ship,” I coaxed. “We have swords and cannons.” I motioned with my hand and five men wheeled a 600 pound cannon to my side. “Look for yourself.”

  Peter Pan’s eyes grew wide with excitement. He looped twice in the air and floated closer to the deck. I looked over to Noodler, who again shook his head.

  “How do you use it?” Pan asked.

  “I could show you,” I said. I lifted a 10-pound ball high enough for Peter to see it. “You just take one of these and load it into the cannon.”

  “And that’s all?” Peter asked. His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he still drew nearer.

  “There is more to it, gunpowder and all. It gets complicated,” I said with a frown and sighed loudly. “It is hard to explain.” I then brightened my face and said, “I could show you if you come down and help me.”

  I passed a quick glance over at Noodler, but this time Pan followed my eyes and saw the marksman. Peter gasped and a white light burst from underneath his shirt and zipped around him in tight circles.

  “Do it!” I yelled.

  Noodler’s shot rang out and I watched the fairy gather sparks of light about it and blast the bullet into nothing. Not dust. Not shards. Nothing.

  Pan twisted backwards and laughed. With a wave, he dove between Cecco and Phillip Gulley and sent the two men sprawling onto the quarter deck. He then gripped the main boom and swung himself high into the air. The two men fired their pistols and I watched the gunshots tear holes into the sail. At this, every pirate began shooting into the sky again. Some men aimed. Others shot wildly. Everyone missed.

  Peter Pan flew over the forecastle deck. He swooped between the stays and coiled once around the bowsprit before darting out over the water.

  I cursed and stormed over to Long Tom. The constant staccato of gunfire rang in my ears as I aimed the cannon after Peter Pan, just below the clouds.