Liberty (14 page)

Dickens bounded out of the water and shook like a dog. “Why are you two fighting?”

Santiago motioned for Penelope to answer.

She studied Dickens. He had grown a foot—maybe two—already, and judging by his feet, it was clear that he would grow much, much larger. His hide today was a rich warm brown. He was inquisitive and intelligent. He forced her to think about everything from biology to astronomy and explain it in a simple way, while omitting none of the complexities of the world. She would never have known Dickens if they hadn't taken the risk of coming to Liberty, if they hadn't taken the risk of rescuing a helpless baby.

Life should get easier as it went along, but it didn't. They had taken many risks to get to Liberty, and once there, there had been more risks to get to Boston and to get a position on a ship. It should be getting easier. But the struggle remained the same: she could choose safety and a small life. Or she could risk everything on the chance that there was more out there. Safety was an illusion; clinging to it could make you miss the best things in life. She wanted—yes, she still wanted—a full life.

“We're trying to decide which island to visit next,” Penelope told Dickens. “And I'm scared. We don't know what we'll find. But we're going to face the fears together, the three of us, and have an adventure.”

“Hurrah!” Dickens yelled. “Adventure.”

So, they climbed aboard the
Liberty
and sailed to another island, and then another.

One island especially remained in their hearts. It was another black-sand island, but smaller this time. The lagoon was particularly large and deep, and wide open to the ocean. They anchored that first night and went to sleep, Penelope, Santiago and Dickens nestled together in the cockpit. Penelope woke in the dark. Through the open hatch, she watched the mast swaying gently, sweeping the stars. Water lapped at the boat, rocking them on the ocean's breast.  

Then she heard it again. It was a long, low melodic sound, and she recognized it at once: the song of the humpback whale. While the Ice King cut blocks of frozen water to ship world wide in the frozen north, the humpback whales were singing in the warm waters of the south Caribbean. The whale songs rose up out of the sea and filled the
Liberty
.

Penelope was aware that Dickens and Santiago were awake also, but it surprised her when Dickens rose and slid up to the deck. Before either pig knew what was happening, Dickens was in the water, swimming with a small pod of humpback whales. The whales' flippers slid over Dickens, examining him. Though he was longer and sleeker than the whales, they seemed to accept him. He tucked his legs tight against his body and glided in and out of the whales in a dance of celebration. Dickens sang with the whales, his quicker, lighter grace notes blending with their deep slow song. Now and then, a humpback breached or slapped his tail for added percussion. Penelope watched and listened until the beauty of the creatures and the song and the ocean and the stars filled her heart with joy.

It was for wonders like this that they had taken the risks needed to come to Liberty: Life was indeed full.

And so, they explored tropical islands for ten months. But the letter had asked them to bring Dickens home at the end of a year and a day. Dickens wasn't their child, Santiago reminded Penelope. They had to take him back to his mother.

As the end of the year drew near, Penelope began to worry about Dickens. He had grown into a long, sleek creature. His baby teeth were gone. In their place, new teeth were pushing up. Sharp new teeth.

“What kind of creature is he?” Penelope asked Santiago.

Dickens had taken to coiling himself around the mast for his afternoon naps.

“A one-of-a-kind,” Santiago said. “A treasure.”

Penelope nodded. “I love him, too.”

Santiago put his foreleg around Penelope's shoulder, and they watched the moon rise. “What will happen to him when we get back?”

“Don't know,” Santiago said, “Don't know.”

Still, they had no choice, for he wasn't their child; they boarded the
Liberty
, unfurled the sails, and set a north western course.

O
ne night
, sailing back across the Caribbean, Dickens was singing shanties and ballads, as usual. It was dark, no moon. Only the smudge of the Milky Way reflecting off the water. There were phosphorescent algae in the water—the real thing, not a joke like Odds played on them so long ago. As always, Dickens' voice held a hint of whale songs, of tides that rise and fall, and sweet rains upon the waves. The algae heaved upwards and then settled quietly, as if disturbed by a whale. Penelope wondered what lurked under the water, but try as she might, she saw nothing.

“Tell me about my mother,” Dickens asked for the hundredth time that day. He leaned over the railings and watched the deep waters.

Penelope watched, too, for the algae to heave again. As she had many times before, Penelope told about the letter they'd found with him, and their promise to deliver him back to the bayou where he'd been found. Dickens could recite the story from memory, but he still liked Penelope to tell it. “And the letter said to bring me back in a year and a day.”

“Yes. That's only a month from now.”

“Where is the bayou?”

“It's not on a map. We'll just have to find the place again.”

“One month,” Dickens repeated.

Although the weather had been pleasant, they hit a storm. The waves weren't particularly violent, or the wind particularly strong, or the rain particularly fierce, but somehow the combination of waves, wind and rain ripped off the hatch, and before they could get the latch fixed and the hatch back in place, their remaining flour, sugar, and coffee were soaked. They could eat fresh fish, but they needed fresh supplies.

“You know what this means?” Santiago warned.

“Bermuda,” Penelope moaned. “It's closest.” Somehow, they would have to hide Dickens while they made repairs and bought food.

Santiago nodded.

“We'll regret it,” Penelope warned.

This time they decided to risk docking near St. George's. They could restock supplies quicker there and also look for Captain Brice. Penelope still wanted to retrieve her journals and harp. Because they were going to St. George's, they didn't enter the Great Sound again, but this time, they left Dickens on a tiny outlying island, which lay at the barb end of the fishhook formation. The island had fresh water, a good fishing cove, and lots of trees for cover.

“Whatever happens, don't come looking for us,” Penelope said. “Promise.”

“I'll be safe,” Dickens said.

“We'll only be gone 24 hours,” Santiago reassured him.

“I'm almost a year old,” Dickens said indignantly. “I'll be fine.”

The Talberts sailed to St. George's and tied up at a marina several miles away from the harbor. It was a busy marina meant for small sailboats like the
Liberty
; the sky bristled with masts. No one here, they hoped, would notice their comings or goings.

They ordered supplies and quickly loaded them. They waited until dark to walk to St. George's harbor. The late summer heat lingered, making the sands warm. Coming to the harbor so late meant most boats had their lanterns lit and a skeleton crew manning them. The air was heavy with the sweet smell of sugar canes, mingled with a fish smell. The Talberts were careful to stay out of the bright moonlight. If the
Endurance
was docked, they wouldn't risk going aboard, but look for Captain Brice in her favorite taverns.

Staying in the shadows, well away from the water, they edged around the harbor, looking more for the familiar shape of a schooner than for the names on the side of the boats. It was a busy season, and the harbor was full. Finally, they spied a schooner.

Santiago dropped to all fours and crept in close; when he scampered back a moment later, he was smiling. “It's the
Endurance
, all right.”

They crept back to the shadows of a store before standing upright again. Just as they did, a paw clapped Santiago's back and spun him around.

“Well, look what we just found,” Captain Kingsley said.

Penelope yelped in surprise, “No!”

Santiago shrugged off the paw and drew himself up, bravely. Though he was only half the height of Captain Kingsley, he was still a Berkshire boar in his prime. He would go down fighting. He threw the first punch, his hoof catching Captain Kingsley square in the stomach. The polar bear sagged for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

Penelope's own stomach went hollow; she didn't know if she was more scared before or after Santiago hit the Captain.

Thinking fast, she turned toward the
Endurance
and yelled to anyone who might hear her. “Find Captain Brice. Tell her Penelope needs help. Find Captain Brice.” She didn't know if the watchmen on the
Endurance
would do as she asked. It was a slim hope, but they were desperate.

In a wild attempt at escape, Santiago shoved Penelope down an alley and followed her. Frenchie, his webbed feet flapping, chased them. Captain Kingsley made up for his slow reaction to being punched by pounding after them. With his long strides, he easily caught up to Santiago.

Penelope tried to scream, but terror left her speechless.

Captain Kingsley spun Santiago around; this time, the Captain hit Santiago with his open paw, which was as large as Santiago's head. It caught him square on, making Santiago topple like a broken mast.

Penelope surged toward Santiago, but stopped. She caught her breath. The Captain was advancing upon her. She lifted her fore-hooves, ready to strike, but he towered over her. She and Santiago were both lost.

Santiago, though, rolled towards the Captain, kicked out and got his hooves tangled in the Captain's feet. The polar bear tripped, waving his forelegs in a desperate attempt to stay upright. He landed with a tremendous thump.

With that, it was Frenchie who reached Penelope first, with a knife in his wing. He taunted her with it. “Where is zee sea serpent?” He tossed the knife from wing to wing. “We've ‘eard rumors zis year. Zat you took aboard a strange foundling.” He nodded at her look of dismay. “But we're patient. We've shadowed zee
Endurance
for seven months. Captain Kingsley was sure zat you'd try to see Captain Brice—sooner or later. What a boring seven months!”

The alley was dark, not well lit. The sugar and fish smell of the harbor was replaced by the smell of garbage, making Penelope almost gag. To fight was hopeless; Frenchie and Captain Kingsley were better fighters, more vicious and cruel. There would be no help, either. Alley fights among sailors were common, and seldom did anyone pay attention. She and Santiago were alone. Despair tasted bitter in her mouth.

On the ground, Captain Kingsley and Santiago were rolling; first the white polar bear was on top, and then the black and white pig. Penelope had no time to watch. She faced Frenchie squarely and watched his shoulders; if he was really going to slash her, the shoulders would tell her which direction to dodge. Though she had avoided most sailor fights, she had learned a lot by watching.

Frenchie stepped left, but his shoulders didn't move. Penelope leapt right, just a fraction of a second before he tried to slice her stomach. She bent, scooped up trash and flung it at Frenchie's face.

Startled, he jumped backwards.

It wasn't much of an opening, but she took it. She shoved past the penguin and untangled Santiago from Captain Kingsley. She thrust up her husband, and they raced for the street again. This time pursuit was slower. They found their way to the beach and raced toward the marina where they had left the
Liberty
.

Finally, the penguin appeared behind them. Where was Captain Kingsley? What was he planning?

The beach sand pulled at their feet as they ran. Penelope ran closer to the water, where the waves washed the sands, and gave a firmer surface. Frenchie didn't gain on them, but they didn't leave him behind either.

At the marina, they snatched the mooring ropes loose, leapt onto the
Liberty
and shoved off, leaving Frenchie standing on the dock. They unfurled the mainsail and turned to head out of the harbor. The wind hit Penelope's face, and the bow sang sweetly; they would soon be in the open waters, where nothing could catch their boat. Penelope's heart lifted.

But a sail hove into view, just outside the harbor: the
Hallowe'en
!

The large sailboat rounded the point and now stood blocking the mouth of the harbor. A rowboat shoved away from the point and soon pulled alongside the
Hallowe'en
. Captain Kingsley climbed aboard. He quickly strode to stand it the bow, glowering at the pigs' small sailboat.

Jerkily, Santiago dropped the sails. His black brow was furrowed with despair. “We were so close to getting away.” He beat a hoof on the ship's wheel.

“What now?” Penelope asked.

But Santiago just shook his head. They were bottled up in this harbor, like Captain Kingsley bottled his gruesome trophies in the green jars.

Behind them, Frenchie untied a rowboat and jumped in. He rowed steadily until he reached the
Hallowe'en
and was taken aboard, too. For long minutes, the
Hallowe'en
and the
Liberty
faced each other in a stand off. It was a test of nerves, and Penelope felt like she was melting in the moonlight that glistened on the waves.

Santiago paced. Back and forth. He stopped and studied the
Hallowe'en
. She didn't move. Back and forth. Finally, Santiago said, “We've got to make a run for it.” He drew close to Penelope to explain the details of his plan.

“Okay.” Penelope's heart thumped loudly in her ears. It was a foolish plan, but they had to try something.

The pigs hauled the mainsail back up, and when the wind caught, they ran straight for the larger boat, as if they would ram her. Blessed by a stiff breeze, they surged faster and faster. At the last minute, Santiago executed a perfect 90-degree turn, and ran at right angles to the
Hallowe'en
until their stern was ten feet past her, before executing another perfect 90-degree turn back toward the open water.

“We made it,” Penelope whispered. Did she dare hope?

Just as they skimmed past Captain Kingsley, the
Hallowe'en
's cannons spoke. Boom! Boom! Boom! Cannon balls whizzed through the air.

“No!” Santiago cried.

 Splash! Splash! Two cannon shots landed far short, but one—Crash!—caught the edge of the
Liberty
. Water poured into a small hole on the stern.

“We didn't make it.” Penelope's despair made her voice crack.

“Man the pumps!”

Penelope jumped to the pump and started lifting and lowering the mechanism's handle, pumping water from the hold.

Santiago leaned over the tiller and tried to study the hole beneath him. From the hull, splintered wood jutted out.

“A big hole. It's bad!” he called. “Pump harder!”

Now, Santiago had to steer and handle the sails by himself. He was adept at this, but everything was slower with only one performing each task. For several minutes, each pig concentrated on his or her job.

Their momentum had indeed carried them past the
Hallowe'en
into the open water. The larger sailboat was turning to follow, but it maneuvered slower. They had a slim head start.

Would it be enough?

Penelope heaved at the pump harder, trying to lighten the
Liberty
. Finally, as the rhythm of the pumping took over, Penelope was able to look around. “Oh!” she cried. “Why'd you sail toward Dickens' island?”

Looking over her shoulder, she saw the
Hallowe'en
's sails billowing out like great clouds. Captain Kingsley was giving chase.

Santiago sagged. “I wasn't thinking. I just headed away from the harbor. We'll sail past his island. We won't stop.” He shook his head. “This way, Dickens will know what's happening. Maybe it's better.”

“Frenchie thinks that Dickens is a sea serpent,” Penelope said.

“Of course.”

And Penelope realized that he was right. She had known, perhaps from the first moment she saw him, that Dickens was a sea serpent baby. That his mother had been injured by Captain Kingsley's harpoon and had followed them through the storm. She just hadn't wanted to admit it, because she liked the small thrill of not knowing. But it was true: Dickens was a sea serpent. Captain Kingsley wouldn't rest until he found Dickens, the last thing needed for the collection. They had to lead him the other way.

Penelope dared not leave the pump unmanned; even with her pumping, she was afraid they were taking on too much water and would slowly sink. If they had time, they could rig a temporary patch, but neither of them could do it now. Somehow, they needed to leave Captain Kingsley far behind.

But as she watched, the Captain's boat gained on theirs.

When the line of islands came into sight, Santiago tacked and headed almost due north, seeking to avoid the outlying islands entirely. This was a mistake. The
Hallowe'en
moved to cut them off. Santiago tried to turn back and go south into the Great Sound.

Penelope's forelegs ached from pumping, but their boat was foundering now, too heavy with water; Captain Kingsley's boat was faster, and he cut off their retreat to the south. Santiago had to turn—the
Liberty
moved even more sluggish now—and slowly, surely, Captain Kingsley herded them into a cove of Dickens' island.

Captain Kingsley meant to send them aground, and then board them, Penelope realized.

She didn't want the Captain's huge paws thumping about on the teak deck that she had swabbed every day for the last two years. She didn't want him in her cabin, hunting for Dickens. She didn't want him within a mile of that sweet child. Yet, they had brought him straight to the island where Dickens was hiding. Despair made her weep.

Penelope stopped pumping and tried to help raise more sail. But it was too late.