The Great Galloon and the Pirate Queen Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Copyright

  No Slugs We

  Dear Reader,

  Throughout these stories of ‘The Great Galloon’ you will find ‘Goodnight points’. You may or may not be familiar with these. If not, why haven’t you read the other stories about the Galloon? You should. Not now! Read this one. But after you’ve finished, beg, borrow or buy the others. ‘Goodnight points’ provide you, or whoever is reading this to you, an opportunity to put the book down and tell you to go to sleep. After whoever it is has gone, you should pick the book back up again and look for the bit where one of the characters says ‘Bumcheek’.

  Chapter One

  In which the author realises that this book

  doesn’t have chapters, so it’s all chapter one.

  Stanley watched in awe as Captain Meredith Anstruther leapt around the wheelhouse of his fabled Great Galloon, yanking levers, tapping dials, and wrestling with the mighty brassbound wheel. Outside, the wind was howling, the rain was lashing down, and the clouds loomed all around like disapproving relatives. The Galloon had run straight into a storm, and it was everything the crew could do to keep her steady.

  ‘Give number twelve a tweak, Stanley!’ boomed the Captain, his being perhaps the only voice in the world that could compete with the screaming of the storm.

  ‘Aye aye, Cap’n!’ said Stanley. He threw both arms round one of the tall wooden levers that was sticking out of the floor, and pulled on it for all he was worth. It creaked and strained, and moved about an inch towards him.

  ‘Woah!’ cried the Captain. ‘That’s it! That’s it, lad! And now read off that dial!’

  Stanley looked to where the Captain was pointing at what he had assumed was a clock. As the Galloon pitched and rolled, he squinted at the two long black hands on it.

  ‘Erm – the long hand’s pointing to “Mustn’t Grumble” and the short hand’s pointing to “Turned out nice again’’,’ he shouted.

  ‘That can’t be right, begad!’ boomed the Captain. With one hand on the wheel, he reached across the wheelhouse and tapped the dial with a huge finger. The hands began to spin, and Stanley watched as they came to rest again.

  ‘Now they’re both pointing at “Nice weather for ducks”!’ cried Stanley.

  ‘Well, that’s something, eh?’ said the Captain.

  Stanley nodded and laughed, though he didn’t know what something it was. The Galloon pitched again, and Stanley was thrown against the plate-glass window. Through it he could see the rain, hammering down on the for’ard deck of the Great Galloon, and little else. They were in the middle of a storm such as Stanley had never seen before. Every plank and rope on the Great Galloon was straining to its limit. Lightning flashed, and Stanley saw the great vessel outlined sharply for a second. The deck stretched out before him, rising to the enormous prow, all overtopped by the tangle of sails and balloons that kept them moving through the sky. As the lightning crackled, a shape hurtled by. Stanley saw long black wings, and a yellow beak, before the darkness reclaimed them.

  ‘Fishbane!’ shouted Stanley, but the shape was gone. Stanley thought he heard the sound of a cry on the wind:

  ‘K­R­A­A­A­A­W­W­W-KAK-KAK-K­A­K-KAK-KAK-KAK-S­K­W­E­E­E­E­E­E­E­E­E­E­E­E-K­R­A­A­A­A­A­A­A­W­W­W­W­W!’

  But could see no more. The Captain however, was listening hard.

  ‘The observatory, you say, my wingéd friend?’ he said. ‘Very well!’

  With his dark eyes flashing in the strange, green light of the storm, the Captain spun round, grabbed Stanley around the waist with one great arm, and flung open the door of the wheelhouse.

  ‘Woooo-hooooo!’ yelled Stanley.

  The wind was now absurdly loud. It blew in through the door and set the levers and pulleys rattling. Stanley was grateful for the Captain’s vicelike grip around his waist. The Captain was looking at a bank of small white plungers, like door knobs or organ stops, set in the back wall of the wheelhouse. He selected one that had ‘Ducks, nice weather for …’ written on it, and one that said ‘Why not try this one?’ Then he hesitated, before pulling another that said ‘Storm in a teacup’ on it. This done, he turned towards the door, and with one hand on the doorframe, managed to heave himself and Stanley out of the wheelhouse and into the maelstrom. As they stepped out, Stanley felt the rain slapping against his face like a shower of angry sprats. It made him gasp, which only made him cough and splutter. It was as close to being underwater as it was possible to be while actually being a few hundred feet up in the air. The Captain took a moment to steady himself, and then began to make his way, ever so carefully, across the deck.

  ‘---- ----- ---!’ cried Stanley, his words whipped away almost before he could think them.

  ‘-- ----- ---!’ agreed the Captain.

  I wish Rasmussen were here, so we could talk to each other in sign language, thought Stanley to himself.

  Just at that moment, as the Captain clung to the quarterdeck rail, and Stanley clung onto the Captain, another sound joined the howling of the wind and the crashing of the thunder. Through the grey sheet of rain, Stanley saw a shape come into view through the clouds alongside the Galloon. It was a spindly, wiry contraption, with huge spinning rotors, like a windmill’s skeleton. Its long thin rotor blades were cracking like whips as they chopped up the air. It wobbled crazily, and jinked to avoid a packing crate that had been blown from the deck. Then it dipped and went out of sight, before slowly reappearing slightly closer. The rain obscured Stanley’s view for a moment, but he felt the Captain laugh, and then gasp. Through a flurry of rain, Stanley saw it was the gyrocopter, one of the many flying contraptions that followed the Great Galloon.

  Through its windshield Stanley could see two figures. One was a woman in a leather hat, who seemed to be struggling with the controls. Beside her, and closer to Stanley, was a smaller figure, in a green dressing gown, with its feet on the dashboard, and a sandwich in its hands.

  ‘Rasmussen!’ he shouted.

  Rasmussen, Stanley’s infuriating best friend, looked up, as if she were sitting in a sunlounger on a deserted beach, and gave Stanley a little wave. In the private sign language she and Stanley had created for just such occasions as this, she said, ‘You look like a drowned kipper,’ and went back to her sandwich.

  Beside her, her mother, the Countess of Hammerstein, looked across and smiled. She tried to mouth something at Stanley and the Captain –

  ‘“We’ve clotted the bland macaroon”?’ said Stanley.

  ‘No, no, she’s saying …’ The Captain squinted through his eyeglass … ‘“We’ve knotted the random buffoon”. Can that be right?’

  ‘I can’t see properly, their windows are steamed up!’ called Stanley.

  Rasmussen yanked the window back with both hands. Her sandwich, which she had been holding in her mouth, was immediately whipped away by the wind. She glared at Stanley with a force that rivalled the storm itself, and signed with both hands, in the language that she and Stanley had created for eventualities such as this.

  ‘WE.’

  ‘We,’ said Stanley, now looking through the eyeglass that the Captain had lent him.

  ‘HAVE.’

  ‘Have.’

  ‘SPOTTED.’

  ‘Could be “spotted”, “splatted” or “twinkly”.’

  ‘THE.’

  ‘Wednesday. No! The.’

  ‘GRAND.’

  ‘Grand – or stinky. Her finger actions are very imprecise.’

  ‘SUMBAROON.’

  ‘Either “racehorse” or “Sumbaroon”.’

/>   Stanley turned to see the Captain scribbling the words down in a soggy notebook. Looking back he saw the gyrocopter pitch wildly as another piece of debris tumbled by, then, as it came back into view, he saw Rasmussen frantically throwing shapes with her hands.

  ‘She seems cross!’ said the Captain. ‘What’s she saying now?’

  ‘She’s saying we owe her a jam and herring sandwich,’ said Stanley, giving back the telescope, and making the sign for ‘fair enough’.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the Captain.

  The Countess pointed frantically down towards the sea, and then the gyrocopter waggled a goodbye, before banking away to relative safety.

  ‘So what’s the message again?’ said Stanley.

  ‘Errm, let me see. It says, “We have splatted the stinky racehorse”. Or “We have spotted the Grand Sumbaroon”.’

  The look on the Captain’s face told Stanley everything. ‘That poor racehorse!’ he said, and felt a lump in his throat.

  ‘Erm, I think perhaps, it’s the second one,’ said the Captain, patiently.

  ‘Right! Of course. Silly me. So they’ve spotted the Grand Sumbaroon.’

  The impact of this took a moment to make its way through Stanley’s embarrassment. When he did, his head snapped up and he and the Captain beamed at each other.

  ‘They’ve spotted the Grand Sumbaroon!’ they shouted, together.

  The chase was on. If Stanley thought the Captain had been impressive before, he was positively awe inspiring now.

  It was later that day – the Captain had still not slept or eaten. Indeed he had barely even spoken, except to bark out orders. He was running from one part of the quarterdeck to another, testing lines, staring into the storm, taking readings from a wide variety of instruments.

  ‘Hard a-port and lower the outriggers!’ he cried at one point.

  ‘Tighten your slack there, Mr Tump, and we’ll make another four knots!’ at another.

  The Galloon, despite her massive size, was fairly racing along in the storm, her lines humming and her mainsail taut as a drum skin. Stanley tripped over a stack of hammocks as he tried to keep up with the Captain.

  ‘Careful, lad! You’re no use to me with a broken ankle!’ said the great man, and Stanley felt a thrill at the idea of being useful at all, broken ankle or no. He staggered to his feet, and saw the Captain disappear into the driving rain, bellowing as he went.

  Stanley upped and followed, and was just in time to see him crouch down near the boatswain’s chair. He was pleased to see the Captain beckon him over. In the relative shelter of the rail, talking was easier.

  ‘To the observatory, lad,’ said the Captain. ‘What’s the quickest way, d’you think?’

  ‘Err – take the lift down to the ’tween deck, then along to the grand staircase, slide down the bannister, through the false back of the broom cupboard, into the dumb waiter, and down?’ said Stanley, sticking his tongue out with the effort of remembering.

  ‘That’s a way, yes, and a fine way when you’re not with me,’ said the Captain. He stopped, turned, and held Stanley by the shoulders. ‘Or we could walk the plank!’

  ‘We could walk the what now?’ said Stanley, a huge smile spreading over his face.

  ‘You heard me, Stanley. Are you game?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘For the last time, I’m no more a sir than you are a goblin!’ The Captain looked Stanley over briefly, from the crumpled unicorn’s horn on his head to the ends of his blue furry fingers. ‘You’re not a goblin, are you?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. What’s a goblin?’ said Stanley, still smiling.

  ‘Well – quite.’ This seemed to be enough for the Captain, who snapped to attention again. ‘The plank, I say! Let’s go.’

  They moved quickly towards the pointy front end of the ship, and were soon standing by a capstan, a thick iron post with a rope wrapped round it. The Captain immediately put his back to the handle that made the capstan turn, and the rope began to unwind. Stanley tried to help, but could barely reach, so he ended up standing on top of the iron contraption, peeping over the edge of the Galloon, where a gap in the rail meant he could see down to the clouds below.

  ‘What’s it doing!?’ he yelled.

  ‘Watch, boy!’ yelled the Captain. ‘You’ll see!’

  Stanley looked out again, and this time he caught a glimpse of something – as the Captain pushed, a plank was beginning to emerge from the deck of the Galloon, and heave itself out over the void.

  ‘Tarheel!’ bellowed the Captain, his enormous voice carrying through the storm. ‘To me, my friend!’

  Crewman Tarheel, struggling by with a coil of rope in his hand, joined the Captain at the capstan, and soon Stanley was watching the plank extending from the deck of the Galloon like a ruler on an almighty desk. It thrummed in a similar way, as the wind caught it, and Stanley couldn’t quite believe that the Captain was planning to walk out on the plank – and to what end? He didn’t know, but he had learned a long time ago to trust the Captain in even his strangest decisions.

  ‘Thank ’ee, Tarheel!’ cried the Captain, and as the crewman saluted, he waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘Wish I could stop people doing that!’ he said to Stanley. ‘Maybe, Stanley, when you’re the … never mind. The plank is out – let’s walk it.’

  Stanley clambered down from the capstan, and grabbed onto the rail for safety. He watched as the Captain lay down on his front, and edged his way to the very lip of the deck – below him, the swirling storm, and the raging sea. Stanley’s heart was thumping in his throat, not for the first time in his adventures with the Captain. But he followed. Lying down on the deck, he half crawled, half shuffled out onto the oaken plank that served as a gangway when they were in port, but now felt worryingly like a diving board. The Captain was now a person’s length away from the deck, and Stanley was right behind him. Stanley told himself that if the Captain was doing it, it must be okay – though he could hear the voice of his friend the Countess telling him that the Captain was only a man, and a man who made as many mistakes as anyone else.

  From this angle, he could see mainly the soles of the Captain’s enormous boots, inches from his head. The Captain called something over his shoulder, but the noise of the storm was so intense here that Stanley could not make it out. The Captain was pointing down and out – so that’s where Stanley looked.

  The gyrocopter was now chuntering along below them. As he stared through the cloud and rain, Stanley could see the side of the Galloon dropping away into the far distance. And next to it, only a few feet clear, the gyrocopter seemed to be keeping pace with them. The Galloon was still racing along, its steam-powered automatic pilot system keeping them on course, so Stanley knew that the gyrocopter was probably flying flat out to keep up. As he watched, the clattering machine began to rise towards them, until it was hovering about twenty feet from the end of the plank.

  ‘Corks,’ said Stanley aloud. ‘He’s not going to …?’

  ‘I am, lad!’ yelled the Captain. ‘And so are you! No time for the long way round – this is how we get to the observatory before the Sumbaroon dives and loses us forever!’

  A gust caught the plank, and for a moment Stanley thought all was lost. But the Captain seemed to be the sturdiest thing in this wind-whipped world. He carefully lifted himself to a standing position. Stanley couldn’t believe his eyes. Hurtling through the skies, in a storm that registered ‘Cor blimey’ on the Rasmussen scale, the Captain stood calmly on the plank as if it were a bowling green. He held out his enormous hands for Stanley, who grabbed them tightly and tried his best to stand up.

  ‘On my boots, lad – you’ll be steadier there!’ said the Captain.

  Stanley stepped up onto the Captain’s boat-like boots. He was soaked to the skin, terrified for his life, and happier than he could ever remember being. The gyrocopter thumped the air below them.

  ‘Where is the observatory, Stanley?’ cried the Captain.

  ‘
On the keel, sir, down below. Lowest point of the Galloon.’

  ‘Yes indeedy – and when you’re up high, and you need to be low, the quickest way is …?’

  ‘To … fall?’ said Stanley above the howling.

  ‘Yup!’ said the Captain – and together, they fell.

  Stanley’s words, breath and fear were stolen away by the wind. Then the Captain was reaching out with one enormous hand, holding both of Stanley’s in the other. He grabbed something – Stanley’s eyes were now shut tight, but he assumed it was part of the gyrocopter – and then they weren’t falling any more, but flying. The ’copter veered away, and started taking them down, down towards the sea. They were pulling away, flying in a wide arc underneath the great vessel. With streaming eyes, Stanley searched for their target – a tiny bubble of glass on the keel of the Galloon, known as the observatory. It was like looking for a drawing pin on a football field.

  They were now right underneath the great flying ship, and coming up again. From here he could see the invisibarnacles, skyweed and crab-rot that clung to the bottom. The observatory itself was now visible – a kind of domed window just sturdy enough for two people to clamber inside. The gyrocopter, though expertly flown by the Countess, was in real peril of being smashed against the keel. As they approached the glass dome, the Captain let go of one of Stanley’s hands.

  ‘The catch, lad!’ he bellowed.

  Stanley looked, and saw that the dome was closed with a simple latch.

  ‘Home and dry!’ the Captain shouted, and he smiled. Stanley reached out, and easily flicked open the window. There was a slight lurch from the ’copter, but soon he was back in place, and he grabbed the windowsill.

  ‘After you!’ cried the Captain.

  Stanley carefully leapt from the Captain’s boots, so now he was hanging by both hands from the bottom-most point of the Galloon. The gyrocopter was rock steady, and as Stanley pulled himself inside, the Captain also made the leap. Stanley was now inside the dome, face down on the glass, while the Captain squeezed in behind him. The noise was still phenomenal, but once they were both inside the observatory, the Captain turned to him and spoke in a more normal voice.