Snake Bite (7 page)

And then the first pirate threw the first grappling hook. It arced across the distance between the ships, trailing a rope behind it like a pencil line scrawled across the blue page of the sky.
The distance was too great: the hook hit the side of the
Gloria Scott
and bounced off, but it was a signal that triggered the rest of the pirates into action. While the first one pulled his
hook out of the water, ready to try again, the others swung their hooks around their heads and let them fly. The air was suddenly filled with sharp metal and wet rope. Most of the hooks fell short,
but four or five of them cleared the
Gloria Scott
’s rail and hit the deck. A great shout went up from the pirates. The ropes were pulled sharply back before any of the
Gloria
Scott
’s crew could get to them – pulled with enough force that the curved hooks embedded themselves in the railing that ran around the edge of the deck. The ropes pulled tight,
forming precarious bridges over which the pirates could clamber like monkeys, but before any of them could get all the way across, the
Gloria Scott
’s crew started sawing through the
ropes with swords and knives, or swinging at them with axes. Others tried to prise the hooks from the wooden rail by hand. None of those first ropes lasted longer than thirty seconds, sending the
pirates who were climbing along them falling into the narrowing strip of water between the two ships, but by that time there were twenty more hooks embedding themselves in the
Gloria
Scott
’s deck and rails and masts, or tangling themselves in the ship’s rigging. Sherlock glanced around desperately.

Pretty soon there would be too many hooks and ropes for the crew to deal with.

‘Look lively!’ Mr Larchmont yelled. ‘If you ever want to see your wives and girlfriends again, don’t let these barbarians set one pox-ridden foot on this ship!’

Sherlock saw that as well as climbing along the ropes, the pirates were also hauling on them from the safety of their deck, trying to narrow the distance between the two vessels. It seemed to be
working. The
Gloria Scott
and the pirate ship were nearly side by side now, and there was barely five yards between them.

A hook hit the deck next to Sherlock’s foot. Before he could do anything the rope pulled taut, and the hook whipped away from him, catching in the wooden rim surrounding one of the
hatches. Sherlock leaped towards it, desperately sawing at the fibres with his knife, but his blade was blunt and slipped off the wet surface. He grabbed at the hook and tried to pull it out of the
wood. His fingers kept scrabbling for purchase.

He glanced up. There were pirates already on board, fighting hand to hand with the crew! Ignoring them as best he could, he let his gaze trace the line of the rope to where it crossed the rail.
A pirate with wild, shoulder-length hair and a massive scar down the side of his face was already halfway across!

Sherlock redoubled his efforts. The grappling hook shifted beneath his hands: the barbed tines hadn’t penetrated very far into the sun-baked wood, and by straining every fibre of his
muscles he could just about pull it clear.

Sherlock gave one last heave, and the grappling hook shifted so that only one tine was caught on the wooden hatch. He glanced up. The grinning pirate was almost at the rail now.

Sherlock kicked at the grappling hook, desperately trying to dislodge it.

Somewhere on the ship a gun fired, and fired again. The Captain?

Still kicking at the hook, Sherlock looked up again.

It was too late. The pirate had reached the deck of the
Gloria Scott
. He took a step towards Sherlock, raising his sword menacingly.

He had a dragon tattooed on his forearm: a beautiful, sinuous creature rippling over his muscle and coloured in iridescent blue. For a split second that seemed to last an eternity Sherlock found
himself admiring the artistry.

The pirate’s upper lip pulled back in a sneer of triumph. His teeth were mottled black with decay, and spaced like gravestones.

More in sheer frustration than in hope, Sherlock kicked the grappling hook one last time. It tore free of the hatch with a ripping of wood and a spray of splinters. At the same time a freak roll
of the waves pulled the two ships apart by ten feet or so. The rope suddenly went taut and the hook hurtled back towards where it had come from. The sharp points caught the pirate in the shoulder.
His face took on a look of pain and astonishment as the rope yanked tighter, dragging him off his feet and back towards the railing. His back hit the top of the rail with a sickening crunch and he
vanished over the edge. Despite the sounds of clashing steel, shouts and gunfire that filled the air, Sherlock could swear that he heard a terrified scream cut short by a splash.

With the ships that close together, Sherlock didn’t give the pirate much of a chance of climbing back up. If he didn’t drown straight away then the hulls would probably squash him
like an insect as they came together.

And good riddance too.

In a moment of relative calm, Sherlock glanced around, trying to orientate himself. His impression was that the battle was evenly matched. There seemed to be as many pirates as there were crew,
fighting hand to hand, and a quick glance at the unoccupied web of ropes that now linked the two ships together suggested that all of the pirates who could come across had done so. The remainder
were presumably needed to man the pirate ship, to steer it, and stop it from suddenly veering sideways and smashing into the
Gloria Scott
.

Off to one side he caught sight of Mr Arrhenius. The veiled man had emerged from his cabin to see what was going on. He was standing half hidden by the ship’s middle mast. He raised his
hand, and Sherlock saw that he was holding a pistol. Carefully he took aim and fired. A pirate across the other side of the deck suddenly jerked and fell down.

Arrhenius glanced at Sherlock and nodded. Sherlock raised a thumb in acknowledgement of the passenger’s help.

As Sherlock turned away a movement caught his eye. One pirate had broken off from the fight and was slipping along the raised deck towards the rear of the ship, aiming for the doorway in the
middle – the doorway that led back towards the cabins. He was small, and what little hair he had was pulled back into a waxed pigtail. It was the surreptitious way he was moving that
attracted Sherlock’s attention. In the midst of a chaos of wildly waving weapons and grappling figures, this man moved as if he didn’t want to be noticed.

Amyus Crowe often told Sherlock to look for the things that stick out, the things that don’t belong. Those are things that have a story to tell. Those are things that need to be
explained.

So Sherlock followed.

By the time he got to the doorway the pirate had vanished into the shadows of the corridor. Sherlock hung back for a moment, in case the man was going to turn around and come straight out, but
after a few seconds he went in after him.

The clamour of the fight outside died away quickly. Sherlock paused while his eyes got used to the relative darkness. The pirate had gone directly to the door of Mr Arrhenius’s cabin. But
Arrhenius was out on deck, fighting – Sherlock had seen him. What on earth was the pirate looking for?

The door was open a crack, and Sherlock moved quietly closer. He looked inside.

The pirate was a dark shape illuminated only by the meagre light shining through the portholes, but Sherlock could see him bending over a table. He seemed to be gazing intently at something.

Sherlock wished he could see what it was. As if fate had heard him, the ship suddenly pitched sideways, and Sherlock found himself falling against the cabin door. It swung open and he staggered
into the room.

The pirate’s head snapped up. His gaze skewered Sherlock. His fingers, which had been holding a set of papers on the table, let go, allowing them to roll up, but Sherlock had time to see
that the thing the pirate had been looking at was a set of diagrams that looked like spider’s webs of lines.

What was going on?

The pirate grabbed at the papers and came around the desk towards Sherlock. He snarled something in Chinese, and it took Sherlock a moment to translate it. ‘Out of my way, boy, or I will
cut your heart out and eat it.’ At least, that’s what Sherlock
thought
he said.

Sherlock straightened up. ‘Put that back,’ he found himself saying.

The pirate sneered. He stepped towards Sherlock, holding the bundle of papers in his left hand. He raised his right hand, and Sherlock saw with no surprise that he was holding a knife. He
lunged, aiming the knife at Sherlock’s chest.

Without thinking, Sherlock blocked the lunging knife with a sweep of his outstretched left hand, then thrust his right hand out, hitting the pirate’s right arm with the heel of his palm.
The impact temporarily paralysed the pirate’s muscles. His fingers spasmed, and he dropped the knife. Sherlock realized with amazement that he had performed a classic
T’ai chi
ch’uan
move, but faster than ever before.

The pirate took a step backwards. Still holding the papers, he twisted around and lashed out with his right foot, raising it high enough that if it connected it would break Sherlock’s
nose. His body leaned backwards to maintain balance. Anticipating what was going to happen, Sherlock dropped to his hands and bent left leg, and scythed his right leg around parallel to the floor,
knocking the pirate’s own right leg from beneath him. The pirate fell, sprawling clumsily. The papers flew out of his hand and landed beneath the table.

Sherlock was amazed. It was as if his body already knew what to do without his brain having to tell it. Thank heaven for Wu Chung’s gentle instruction.

The pirate scrabbled across the deck, heading for the papers. Whatever they were, he wanted them badly. And Sherlock wanted to stop him just as much. He grabbed hold of the pirate’s right
foot and pulled him back. The man’s fingers clutched at the carpet, but when it became obvious that he couldn’t stop himself moving he rolled over and kicked out viciously. The heel of
his boot caught Sherlock on his cheekbone. A lightning bolt of red-hot agony shot through his head, blurring all of his senses and all of his thoughts.

Hands grabbed him around the throat and started to squeeze.

Spikes of pain shot up Sherlock’s neck and down into his chest. His heart was pounding but his blurry vision was narrowing into a dark-edged tunnel.

He brought his hands up between the pirate’s forearms and then, with all his remaining strength, knocked them apart. The grip on his neck loosened. He sucked in huge gulps of air until the
pirate’s hands snaked back around his neck and began to squeeze again.

Sherlock’s vision was restricted to a spot the size of a coin held at arm’s length. His skin and his muscles tingled as though someone was poking needles and pins into every square
inch of it. He could hardly raise his hands, they felt so heavy.

Desperately, blindly, Sherlock reached out for the pirate’s face. He clamped his fingers on either side of the man’s head, and put his thumbs where he thought his eyes were. When he
felt his opponent’s eyelids, squeezed shut beneath the pads of his thumbs, he pushed as hard as he could.

The pirate screamed. His hands vanished from around Sherlock’s throat. He pulled away, leaving Sherlock to fall backwards. Dimly Sherlock was aware of a scuttling, a blundering, as if the
pirate had tried to get to his feet and run out of the cabin but had run into the wall and the door frame on the way. Sherlock rolled over and got to his hands and knees, then pushed himself up
until he was standing. His vision was coming back now. The cabin was deserted. He put a shaking hand on the table and leaned there for a few moments until he thought his legs could take his weight
without crumpling.

The roll of papers was beneath the table. The pirate hadn’t taken it when he left the cabin.

When he felt strong enough he bent down and picked the papers up. He was about to put them back on the table and take a closer look when he noticed a box in the corner. It was the one he’d
seen loaded on to the ship with Mr Arrhenius’s belongings. There was something in it, scuttling around. Before he could investigate, he heard a voice from the doorway.

‘What do you think you are doing?’

Mr Arrhenius was standing in the doorway. He was holding a gun, and frowning.

‘One of the pirates got in here,’ Sherlock said, feeling a painful rasp in his throat. ‘I followed him in. We had a fight. He ran off. I don’t know where he
went.’

‘I saw him stagger out on to the deck,’ Arrhenius said. He raised his gun and tapped it against his forehead, beneath his veil. ‘I . . . stopped him, then I came in to see what
he had been doing here.’

‘He was trying to take this,’ Sherlock said, holding the roll of papers up.

‘Was he now?’ Arrhenius said. There was something strange about his voice, and he was looking oddly at Sherlock.

‘What is it?’ Sherlock asked, feeling bolder now that he had got his breath back.

‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

Arrhenius extended his hand for the papers. Sherlock handed them over. He still desperately wanted to know what they were, but he knew that the strange passenger wasn’t going to tell
him.

‘What’s happening on deck?’ he asked.

‘Captain Tollaway and the rest of the crew are turning the tide,’ Arrhenius declared. ‘It seems to me that they are going to repel the boarders. You should go and join
them.’ He glanced around the cabin. ‘I must see if anything else is missing.’

Sherlock headed out on to the deck. A crumpled body lay to one side. It was the pirate who had attacked Sherlock in the cabin. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then turned away. He
didn’t feel any grief, or remorse, or fear. In fact, apart from the pain in his throat and the pounding of his head he didn’t feel anything.

Mr Arrhenius was right – the crew seemed to be beating back the pirates. A handful of bodies were scattered around the deck, contorted in various positions, and a few of the pirates
appeared to be withdrawing, injured.