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The Black River Pirates: The Adventures of Peter and Polly, Book I

by Don Clark

136 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1540; ISBN 1-4120-1162-0; US$16.50, C$18.95, EUR13.50, £9.50

Children's adventure fiction with 32 equal-length chapters for read-aloud family time.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpt      catalogue info

About the Book One adventure leads to another as Peter and Polly search the Spice Islands for their lost parents. The evil Black River Pirates are never more than mintues behind the youngsters as the cutthroats try over and over to steal the map that leads to the hiding place of the fabulous Sunrise Ruby.

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About the Author Don Clark is a U.S. Navy veteran of WWII, journalist, editor, former advertising agency executive and is the author of Wild Blue Yonder: how America's first fighter pilots were trained during WWI and co-author of best-selling Brother XII, the Devil of DeCourcy Island, the story of a mystic who drew hundreds from around the world to his colony off the coast of Vancouver Island in the 1920s. Don is a founder member of CHAOS (Cannon Hunters Association of Seattle) and, as an archaeological diver, participated in the recovery and restoration of ancient, muzzle-loading cannon in the U.S. and along Mexico's Yucatan coastline. He and his wife, Tina, live in Cannon House on the Pacific Coast at Ocean Shores, Washington.

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Sample Excerpt

Chapter 23
In the Soup

"How do we get out of this?" Polly whispered.

Peter's answer was a shrug of his shoulders. Their situation was clear. They were surrounded and they were outnumbered. Worse yet, they were caught in someone's back yard, not their own. Peter reached for reasons.

He turned to Polly. "It could be that we're on forbidden ground where the natives hold their secret ceremonies. In that case we're in real trouble."

As Peter went through his list of maybes, Polly pondered another mystery. Don't these people know how to talk? Not a word has been spoken. Not one.

A wave of the leader's hand said "Come with me." That was clear enough. He didn't need words and the four prisoners didn't need to be coaxed. The spear points were very persuasive.

"We'll never be heard from again," Pedro wailed as they were marched into the darkness of the jungle. Polly was surprised that they were allowed to talk as they single-filed down the narrow trail. A good sign, she thought, but she did not like the grins. Their captors apparently found the situation amusing.

"Why are they so darned quiet?" No one answered Peter's question. What he and all of them didn't know was that this particular group of Pygmies was ordered not to talk to the strangers until their chief had spoken the first words.

The warriors sent a runner ahead to alert the village to their success and the capture of four white-skinned strangers. The chief hurriedly changed into his official uniform, ready for the arrival of his guests. Next to him, a huge iron kettle bubbled over a lively fire, ready for company.

It was easy to tell the chief from the others. A full head of salt-and-pepper hair added to the dignity of his majestic manner. A sense of self-confidence was clear in every move, every gesture he made. He did his best to look stern but behind his deep, dark eyes, was a twinkle. If he had a sense of humor he did not intend to let his guests see that side of him.

The symbol of his leadership was a hat that would win first prize in any contest. It was an old British admiral's tricorn. A tall, three-cornered showpiece that leaders wore in centuries long past. The native leader put it on his head in proper fashion, straight up and down. It glistened magnificently in the bright sunlight. The chief loved the old hat as did the many chiefs who had worn it before him.

But none loved it more than a trouble-making parrot that looked upon the scene from the top of a tall palm tree.

"We shall eat well today," the chief announced to his people. He rubbed his hands together with obvious pleasure. A great roar of approval went up from the crowd as they licked their lips and threw more wood onto the blazing fire.

The chief climbed onto a wooden platform and leaned over the edge of the oversized iron kettle. He smiled his approval as he stirred the contents with a long-handled ladle. The crowd cheered, then cheered louder, as the line of warriors emerged from the jungle with the frightened captives between them. No one said a word as the four were led before the Pygmy leader.

Captain Barnacle's face was red from both anger and exhaustion. His crew was ready to fight and the grins on the faces of the Pygmies just made the matter worse. Polly was first to break the silence. She stomped her foot but that didn't work. Well, try something else, she thought. Her eyes met the Pygmy leader's.

"You let us go now, you big bully!" She almost said "little bully" but she knew better.

The Pygmy leader laughed. That wasn't the response Polly expected.

"Well, bully for you, lass. 'Tis my favorite word, y'know * bully, bully, bully. And what stroke of good fortune brought you to us, may I ask?"

Polly was too shocked to answer right away. She took a deep breath and asked a question of her own. "You, ahhhh, you speak English?"

"Aye, lass, it's our second language here. It's our privilege to share your quaint tongue. Now, in the spirit of good old King George and his bully men, let's hear it for our guests." The chief turned to the crowd and led the old English greeting: "Hip, hip, hurrah. Hip, hip, hurrah." Pleased with himself, the chief turned to ask them if they were ready for lunch.

Pedro fainted. Peter and Polly held onto one another for strength. The captain stared at the thing that bothered him most, the boiling pot. "I think we're in the soup now kids." No one laughed so he turned to the Pygmy leader.

"All right, whattaya up to y'old geezer and what's goin' on around here?"

The chief cocked his head and stared at the captain with a puzzled look.

"Blimey," he answered in the language of old-time British sailors. "This is quite extraordinary. You appear to speak English and then again you don't. I cawn't make out many of your words, y'know. Pray tell, you are from England are you not?"

The captain thought about that for a minute. The best thing to do was to keep the native leader talking. Maybe he would forget about lunch. Aloud, he answered. "I say, old man, of course. I was born in Bristol but now I'm American through and through.

The village chief squinted his eyes and questioned the word "American."

Captain Barnacle answered. "Well, Chiefie, America beat up on the British not long after that old ship pulled into the harbor here." Using his pipe, he pointed in the direction of the wrecked vessel and then scratched a match on his pants. The village leader jumped in fear and his guards grabbed their spears to protect him.

They understood fire but not the miracle of a little sliver of wood that made its own fire.

The old sailor explained about the match and demonstrated with another. The smoke swirled from the smelly pipe and the spears raised again. Enough, he figured, and continued to deliver a brief history of the American Revolution. He was interrupted many times, especially when the Pygmy chief recognized such names as Benjamin Franklin and Boston.

"Now, it's you turn," Captain Barnacle said to the native leader. "I just can't believe how well you speak the King's English."

With their heads together, it was easy to see that the two elders enjoyed their exchange of knowledge. It was also clear that the crew members were becoming more and more nervous.

"I hope they're having a good time," Pedro whispered through trembling lips. "I'm not, and neither are those people." He pointed to the villagers who had by now lined up at the tables, forks in hand, to frown at their empty plates.

Finally the captain turned to his own group to explain. "Well then, this is what happened. The British warship here was on its way to America to fight the Colonists when someone bigger picked on them. It sounds like a whole fleet of Spanish ships picked' em off. Those who made it to shore lived out their lives in the Pygmy village and that's how the people here learned to speak English and use those old words we don't hear any more."

The brief moment of quiet that followed was rudely interrupted by the captain's tummy which growled loudly. Everyone laughed except the prisoners. The last thing they wanted was for the Pygmies to think about being hungry.

"Oh, I say," the chief burst forth, "We're neglecting lunch and you're a very important ingredient. Come along now." Pedro slumped

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Catalogue Information

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