“Yes, Father, it’s going to be fun, isn’t it?”
“Right you are. Here’s the key. I’m going to stick it into the lock on your side of the door. I want you to lock the door from the inside. And, don’t open it for anybody but Daddy, all right? Now, three knocks, remember?”
The boy crawled up inside and pulled his tattered blanket in after him, tugging it up around his chin. The chains were rough and hurt his skin through his thin pajamas. They were his favorite ones, covered with cowboys and Indians and six-shooters. He wore them every night of his life, never allowing anybody to even wash them. They would certainly get dirty now. It was hot in this place and it didn’t smell very good either.
They’d been sailing for almost two weeks now, and the child had explored every inch of the vessel, learning the names of everything. His father’s new boat, a beautiful yawl he’d christened Seahawke, was on her maiden voyage to the Bahamas and Exumas. She was almost as large as his grandfather’s ancient schooner in England, the one he kept moored at Greybeard Island: a wonderful boat called the Rambler.
“All shipshape in there, my laddie boy?” his father whispered through the opened door. “Still wearing the St. George’s medal Mummy gave you for your birthday?”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” the boy said, reaching inside his pajama top and lifting it up on its thin gold chain for his father to see. “Anchor locker officer of the day, awaiting further orders, sir!” He raised his hand to his forehead in a little salute.
His father smiled and leaned inside to kiss his son on the cheek. “I love you, Alex. Don’t you worry, Daddy will be back soon. Don’t forget, three knocks.”
“Three knocks,” the boy replied, nodding his head. “Aye, aye, sir.”
As his father started to close the door, the boy saw that he had taken something else out of the locker. It was in his hand. His gun. The one from the war days that he always kept in his bedside drawer at home in England. The gun was dangerous and he was not allowed to touch it, even though he knew where it was and had peeked at it countless times.
“What’s wrong, Dad? Please tell me,” the boy said, trying desperately to be brave and not to cry. The gun scared him more than anything did.
“Sniper heard funny noises up on deck, that’s all. He woke me up. I’m going to go up on deck and see.” His father had trained Sniper in the old pirates’ ways. The black parrot would screech or squawk in alarm whenever anyone approached or if he heard any unusual noises.
His dad smiled then and held up the gun. “Look. I’m taking my service revolver, too. Whoever it is, they’ll be dead sorry they picked out this particular boat and this particular naval officer, I’ll tell you that.”
“But who, whoever would come on our boat in the middle of the night?” the boy asked.
“I’m not sure,” the man said with a little smile. And then, just before his father closed the door, the boy heard his father say, “Maybe it’s pirates, Alex.”
Little Alex Hawke’s eyes went wide.
“Pirates,” he repeated to himself in the darkness. He dreamed, it seemed, of pirates almost every night.
“Pirates,” he whispered in the darkness, turning the key in the lock. He put the key in his pajama pocket with the map. He had a great love, and a great fear, for pirates in his little heart. They were certainly bad, murdering thieves, weren’t they? But, still, their adventures were thrilling to hear about late at night with the wind howling about the eaves of the great house overlooking the sea.
Sitting by a crackling fire on rainy nights, listening to his grandfather tell of buccaneers and their bloodthirsty deeds, was one of his life’s great joys. Grandfather seemed to know every horrific pirate story by heart. And every single one of them, he told Alex, was absolutely true.
There was one story Alex cherished above all others.
The bloody tale of the life and horrible death of little Alex Hawke’s famous ancestor, the notorious cutthroat Blackhawke himself.
Alex heard a sharp metallic noise beyond his door.
There were three small ventilation slits in the locker door, and Alex pressed his eye to one of the openings. He could see his father checking his gun, cocking it, and then starting up the steel ladder that led to a big hatch at the top. The hatch opened up on the deck, right up on the bow of the sailboat, the boy knew. When his father reached the hatch, all Alex could see were two bare feet on the middle rung. He could hear his father unscrewing the two latches and pushing the hatch cover ever so slowly open. Moonlight poured down into the compartment, and cool night air, and he knew the hatch was now open.
His father’s feet quickly disappeared up the ladder and then it was quiet for a few moments. Alex took a deep breath and sat back on his blanket. It was still very stuffy and hot in the locker, and he hoped this game wouldn’t last too long. He groped for one of the life preservers he knew was stored here and placed it close to the door where he could sit on it and see through the vents.
No pirates about. Nothing. Just the empty storage compartment outside his door, and, beyond it, the empty companionway.
Still, a thought pushed its way into Alex’s mind.
A bad thing is coming.
He sat back on his makeshift cushion, telling himself it would all be all right. He started to count his blessings, which were many, the way his mother had taught him to do each night at bedtime.
He had a wonderful, happy family.
His mother was beautiful and kind. Famous, too.
His father and grandfather were both retired military men, and later British intelligence officers. His grandfather, upon retiring from the Royal Navy, had ended his long career as one of England’s greatest spies during the Second World War.
His father, whose name he’d inherited, was a commander in the Royal Navy, a great hero. But what he did mostly, Alex thought, was roam the world looking for bad guys. Of course, he didn’t have a big battleship like other captains, but he was a pilot, after all. He was now more of a policeman, really. Tracking down pirates, most likely, Alex thought, for, surely, there were still plenty of them lurking about.
Besides, he had a real pirate treasure map right in his pocket, didn’t he?
Suddenly, there was a sound above—a muffled shout, in some foreign language. Spanish, he thought, like his nanny back in England spoke to him, and he heard his father cry out something in Spanish, too.
The boy put his ear to the door, his heart thudding in his chest. He heard more shouts and more arguing in Spanish and then a loud thump on the deck just above his head. Then footsteps running this way toward the bow and much more shouting just above the hatch.
Alex put his eye to the slot. Nothing. Suddenly, his father came tumbling down through the hatch, landing with a shuddering thud on the cabin floor not four feet from his hiding place. There was bright blood streaming from a wound on his father’s forehead!
A scream was rising up in the boy’s throat, when he saw two feet descending the ladder. Two bare feet and legs coming down the rungs, and then a long black ponytail. The man had something on his shoulder, too, a drawing of a bug? A tattooed spider, he now saw, black with a red spot on its belly.
Spiders were bad. Alex had been terrified of them ever since he’d awoken one night to find one crawling across his face. On his cheek. By his mouth. Had he not awoken, it would have crawled inside—
The man with the spider on his shoulder dropped to the floor and looked around, breathing hard. He had long, dark eyelashes, just like a girl.
“I am looking for a map, senor,” the man-girl said. “This map, this treasure you search for, belongs to my family! Every five-year-old in Cuba knows the story of the English pirate Blackhawke stealing the great treasure of de Herreras!”
The man then kicked his father in the stomach, hard enough to make him cry out and try to get to his feet.
“I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about, old chap,” Alex’s father said, breathing hard.
“I will tell you,” the man said, and kicked his father so hard Alex heard something crack inside his dad’s chest.
“The ancient treasure, stolen by the pirate Blackhawke, senor, it belonged to my famous ancestor, Admiral Andres Manso de Herreras. I claim my ancestor’s gold in the name of my family, senor!”
