Page 71 of Escaping Pirates
The dock attendant was still out cold when we reached the pier leading to theFortune Hunter.
“That simplifies things,” Gil muttered, lifting the lid. “In you get.”
I stepped in, and the thick, glutinous squelch immediately consumed my foot like a sucker fish eagerly slurping at my shoe. The smell from outside the barrel had been bad enough, but the moment I lowered myself inside, it hit my nostrils with such a pungent wave that my eyes watered and I nearly choked. Pinching my nose and breathing through my mouth helped, but only a little.
The barrel was large enough for me to crouch, legs bent and squeezed so tightly to my chest that my chin rested on my knees. Streaks of sticky black tar coated the insides so thoroughly that simply lowering myself down turned most of my clothing black and each strand of my loose hair seemed intent on getting glued to the repulsive residue. A moment of panic clutched me tightly and I stood again, breathing deeply.
“Ripe, isn’t it?” Gil asked with a wicked grin. “Get comfortable. I’m about to nail you in.”
“Nailme in?”
“Wouldn’t do us much good if anyone could open the barrel and see you instead of a shipment of tar. I’ll only use a few. If you really needed to, you could stand up and bust out. Probably, anyway. Depends on how strong you are.”
And she thoughtmyplan was bad?
“And you’re sure it’s just the one day until we meet up with the other ship? We’ll be there tonight?”
“I’m sure. And if you want to save princey-boy, you’ll need to hurry up. I still have to convince my friend to pick the lock and swipe the flares.”
I issued a silent apology to my hair as I knotted it as firmly as I could, then squatted back down and closed my eyes. “Do it.”
The stench was unbearable, and each breath felt like trying to inhale through a puddle of syrup. Why couldn’t Gil have gotten me a barrel of flowers to hide in? Why must everything about pirates reek? And why,whyhadn’t I appreciated the fresh air when I had it?
A shuddering pounded the barrel as Gil tamped the lid into place. A new fear shot through my mind. Just how tight was this barrel? Would I run out of oxygen?
“Gil,” I hissed. “I need air.”
“You’ll be fine. There’s a knothole here.” Gil tapped against a spot near eye level.
I wouldnotbe fine, but she was right. A small knothole pierced the side of the barrel, no wider than a coin. I cupped my hands around it, pressing them flush against the tar-slick wood to form a crude tunnel. With my face buried in my palms, I drew in a thin thread of outside air, sharp and salty but blessedly free of tar. It wasn’t much, but it cut through the stench inside like a lifeline, and I clung to it, taking slow, careful breaths as the fumes clawed at the back of my throat.
“Here we go,” Gil said.
The barrel tipped sideways so I nearly faceplanted into the tar-lined side, and then I began to roll. Splatters of tar rained down on me as Gil rolled me all the way down the pier. The noise of the barrel’s exterior grinding over theuneven planking was amplified inside the barrel, echoing as I became dizzier and dizzier. Gil’s footsteps, however, sounded oddly muffled and distorted so that I felt more claustrophobic than ever.
It was all for Harlan, I repeated to myself. This would all help Harlan in the end.
“Oi! Lower the gangplank!” Gil’s boyish voice pierced the night so unexpectedly that I nearly shouted aloud. Luckily, I was too disoriented and dizzy to do anything other than keep my head between my knees, taking deep breaths that might have hurt more than they helped from being so heavy with the bitter scent.
“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’texactlywin 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.
