side.”
Rat-a-tat-tat!
The heavy machine-gun fire resumes. Whoever these raiders are, they’ve smartly picked the middle of the day, when the chase boats are far away hunting and the
Pequod
is running with a skeleton crew.
Blam!
Another shell slams into the port side. More plates crash.
“Look!” Gwen points. Through a porthole they see a crudely made rope ladder. It’s being pulled taut, the strands slowly twisting under the weight of someone climbing up.
“They’re tr-trying to b-board!” Billy cries.
Suddenly Ishmael realizes what’s happening. The firefight on the port side of the ship is meant to distract everyone while raiders sneak up on the starboard side. He sticks his head out the porthole. Five feet below, a grizzled face covered with crude black tattoos glares up at him from the rope ladder. Ishmael is momentarily transfixed by the man’s eyes, the whites of which are bloodred, making him look like some kind of demon. The man sneers. The few teeth he has are discolored stumps.
Other raiders are climbing up rope ladders to the left and right. Ishmael ducks back inside and grabs a plate from the floor to fling at the raider, but when he sticks his head out the porthole, he finds himself staring down into the black barrel of a gun.
BLAM!
Ishmael jerks back, the bullet whistling past just inches from his face. Next to him, Queequeg has opened another porthole and is throwing everything he can find down on the raiders, who respond by firing pistols.
Bang! Bang!
PIT-CHOING!
A bullet ricochets off the rim of the porthole. Queequeg staggers backward, and for an instant Ishmael fears that he’s been hit, but his friend steadies himself and waves that he’s okay.
A hand grabs the lower edge of the porthole. Ishmael smacks it with a pan. The hand slides off but returns an instant later with a gun, waving it around blindly. Ishmael grabs the man’s wrist and forces his arm upward.
BANG! PIT-CHOING!
The gun fires and a bullet ricochets off the galley ceiling. Ishmael’s ears ring painfully from the sharp, impossibly loud report.
Gwen rushes over and helps him force the man’s arm back.
BANG! PIT-CHOING!
The gun fires again, the bullet ricocheting dangerously close. The blast is a hundred times louder than the loudest thunderclap. Gwen clamps her hands overs her ears, and the raider yanks his arm free.
“O-over here!” Billy yells. A meaty, tattooed arm has reached through a porthole and closed around Queequeg’s throat. Queequeg’s hands are clamped on the raider’s wrist, and he’s gagging while the man tries to choke him.
Gwen and Ishmael dash over and try to pry the thick, mangled-looking fingers from their friend’s neck.
“A knife!” Ishmael shouts to Billy, who stands openmouthed, staring. Ishmael starts to bend one of the raider’s fingers back until he hears a sharp
crack!
But the man’s grip on Queequeg’s throat remains tight.
“Here!” Billy holds out a dinner knife.
Ishmael does a double take, but there’s no time to argue. He grabs the knife and tries to stab the attacker, but manages only a glancing blow. The man’s grip still doesn’t loosen.
Queequeg’s eyes are bulging and his face has turned bright red. Ishmael rears back with the knife and strikes again, this time burying the dull blade in the man’s forearm.
The raider lets go. Queequeg collapses to the floor, gagging and coughing. While Ishmael kneels to make sure his friend is okay, he sees that the wounded raider has climbed up the rope ladder past them, the dinner knife still embedded in his arm.
From the deck above comes the scuffling of hand-to-hand combat. Closer by, a door slams in the mess, followed by rapid footsteps. Billy peeks out the galley door. “It’s Pip!” he cries. “Someone’s after him!”
Ishmael and Gwen sprint into the mess. Pip’s on one side of a table, a tall, rail-thin raider on the other. The man’s long hair is jet-black and greasy, his black clothes tattered, and
Rat-a-tat-tat!
The heavy machine-gun fire resumes. Whoever these raiders are, they’ve smartly picked the middle of the day, when the chase boats are far away hunting and the
Pequod
is running with a skeleton crew.
Blam!
Another shell slams into the port side. More plates crash.
“Look!” Gwen points. Through a porthole they see a crudely made rope ladder. It’s being pulled taut, the strands slowly twisting under the weight of someone climbing up.
“They’re tr-trying to b-board!” Billy cries.
Suddenly Ishmael realizes what’s happening. The firefight on the port side of the ship is meant to distract everyone while raiders sneak up on the starboard side. He sticks his head out the porthole. Five feet below, a grizzled face covered with crude black tattoos glares up at him from the rope ladder. Ishmael is momentarily transfixed by the man’s eyes, the whites of which are bloodred, making him look like some kind of demon. The man sneers. The few teeth he has are discolored stumps.
Other raiders are climbing up rope ladders to the left and right. Ishmael ducks back inside and grabs a plate from the floor to fling at the raider, but when he sticks his head out the porthole, he finds himself staring down into the black barrel of a gun.
BLAM!
Ishmael jerks back, the bullet whistling past just inches from his face. Next to him, Queequeg has opened another porthole and is throwing everything he can find down on the raiders, who respond by firing pistols.
Bang! Bang!
PIT-CHOING!
A bullet ricochets off the rim of the porthole. Queequeg staggers backward, and for an instant Ishmael fears that he’s been hit, but his friend steadies himself and waves that he’s okay.
A hand grabs the lower edge of the porthole. Ishmael smacks it with a pan. The hand slides off but returns an instant later with a gun, waving it around blindly. Ishmael grabs the man’s wrist and forces his arm upward.
BANG! PIT-CHOING!
The gun fires and a bullet ricochets off the galley ceiling. Ishmael’s ears ring painfully from the sharp, impossibly loud report.
Gwen rushes over and helps him force the man’s arm back.
BANG! PIT-CHOING!
The gun fires again, the bullet ricocheting dangerously close. The blast is a hundred times louder than the loudest thunderclap. Gwen clamps her hands overs her ears, and the raider yanks his arm free.
“O-over here!” Billy yells. A meaty, tattooed arm has reached through a porthole and closed around Queequeg’s throat. Queequeg’s hands are clamped on the raider’s wrist, and he’s gagging while the man tries to choke him.
Gwen and Ishmael dash over and try to pry the thick, mangled-looking fingers from their friend’s neck.
“A knife!” Ishmael shouts to Billy, who stands openmouthed, staring. Ishmael starts to bend one of the raider’s fingers back until he hears a sharp
crack!
But the man’s grip on Queequeg’s throat remains tight.
“Here!” Billy holds out a dinner knife.
Ishmael does a double take, but there’s no time to argue. He grabs the knife and tries to stab the attacker, but manages only a glancing blow. The man’s grip still doesn’t loosen.
Queequeg’s eyes are bulging and his face has turned bright red. Ishmael rears back with the knife and strikes again, this time burying the dull blade in the man’s forearm.
The raider lets go. Queequeg collapses to the floor, gagging and coughing. While Ishmael kneels to make sure his friend is okay, he sees that the wounded raider has climbed up the rope ladder past them, the dinner knife still embedded in his arm.
From the deck above comes the scuffling of hand-to-hand combat. Closer by, a door slams in the mess, followed by rapid footsteps. Billy peeks out the galley door. “It’s Pip!” he cries. “Someone’s after him!”
Ishmael and Gwen sprint into the mess. Pip’s on one side of a table, a tall, rail-thin raider on the other. The man’s long hair is jet-black and greasy, his black clothes tattered, and
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