Author's Note: The following chapter is rated for sea-worthy language, mateys.

Six

Outside the barricaded cargo hold, Pedro kept careful watch on the door. Inside, Tintin watched the sky outside the porthole and waited for night. When the sun finally slipped below the horizon and the last red streaks had bled from the sky, it was time to put his plan into action.

The circular shaped porthole opened outwards, and the hold was high enough up from the waterline to stop any waves from pouring in. Earlier, Tintin had examined his options carefully and realised that if he leaned out far enough he could see the row of portholes on the deck above his. One in particular, the porthole directly above his own, had been open all day. All he had to do was get up there somehow and he could escape, or at least get to the comms-room and send a message out, asking for help.

But how to get up there?

It had taken a while, but he'd finally managed to figure that part out too: two wooden planks, stripped from the crates and tied to the end of the rope, could be fashioned into a sort of crude grappling hook. If he threw it a certain way he was sure the wood would hold the rope in place.

Whether or not it would hold his weight, or whether the planks would snap with the extra stress, was another story entirely…

"Well, here goes nothing!" He leaned out and eyed the open porthole above. He took careful aim – Steady… Steady – and tossed the planks up. They reached the porthole no problem, but he'd aimed too far to the left. The wood hit the side of the ship with a loud, metallic Clang! and rebounded, smacking Tintin on the head as gravity did its job and brought the crude construct back down with a bump. Gritting his teeth, he reeled the wood back in and tried again, taking a more careful aim.

He held his breath as the wood soared up, up, up… And in! Elated, he almost whooped with delight and relief, but managed to restrain himself. He tested it by tugging on the rope until it was taking his full weight. Content that it was as safe as it would ever be, he picked up Snowy and arranged the dog safely over his shoulder before beginning his climb up.

It was awkward – made more awkward by Snowy fidgeting around, highly entertained by his lofty new position and determined to make the white-topped waves that leaped from the sea pay for their insolence – but somehow Tintin managed it. Hand over hand, he climbed ever higher, bracing his feet against he side of the ship like Adam West and Burt Ward climbing a skyscraper (a thought that made him grin a little) until – at last! – he had reached the open porthole.

He briefly recognised that there was a man sitting at a desk near the porthole, but he'd already thrown himself inside the open window beore he could stop himself. He rolled forward, landing on the messy bunk below and accidentally kicking the stranger between the shoulder blades. Before the man had a chance to react, Tintin had his gun out, aimed squarely at the stranger's face.

The stranger looked old and worn. A thick head of black, unruly hair matched his magnificent beard – not quite large enough to lose a badger in, but certainly a large vole of some sort. His eyes were dark and bloodshot with heavy bags underneath, and his nose was bulbous and shot through with the red, cracked capillaries of a hardened drunk. Amusingly – or ironically – he wore a thick blue jumper with the motif of an anchor on the chest. In all, he looked a bit like Captain Birdseye's disappointing, middle-aged son.

"What the hell!" the man said, astonished. He took a cursory glance at the bottle of whisky he held. "I thought only absinth had fairies!"

"I'm not a fairy," Tintin hissed. "Don't make another sound. I'll shoot you if I have to." He shook the gun half-heartedly for emphasis.

"Oh yeah? Well, I got a gun too! And who the hell do you think you are, coming in here and threatening me?"

"Those are your fingers, not a gun. And I'm the reporter you people kidnapped!"

"Kidnapped?" the man said with a disbelieving snort.

"Yes! Kidnapped! You guys almost bashed my head in! But the jokes on you: I saw your cargo."

"Call the police! We're delivering John West tuna!" The man put his hands up. "It's a fair cop, guv!"

"John West my butt! What about all the heroin?"

"Heroin?" The man stilled and glared at Tintin. "Son, accusations like that can ruin a man's reputation, so you shut your damned mouth."

Tintin pulled a handful of wraps out of his pocket and tossed them at the man. "So what's that?" he asked coldly.

The man studied the cellophane wraps of heroin. When he looked back up, his face was like thunder. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded. "I'm Captain Haddock, master of this ship! And I don't take kindly to blistering whippersnappers that bring drugs onto my boat!"

"I didn't bring them here," Tintin snapped. "I found them in your precious ship! There's crates and crates of the stuff down in your hold, where I was being held captive. Do you honestly think I wanted to spend a whole day tied to a pipe on board this vile, stinking tub?"

"You watch your damned mouth!" the Captain cried. "I have the shipping manifestos to prove" –

"And I have the drugs!" Tintin pointed out. "They're in your hold, Captain."

"Bollox! There's John West down there or" –

"They're not even in John West tins!" Tintin cried, exasperated. "They're in some red and yellow tin I don't even recognise! And it's crab meat, not tuna."

The Captain stood up abruptly and staggered to a wall-mounted box-shelf that contained a series of thick, ring-binder style folders, the spine of each labelled neatly. He selected one and flipped through the pages until he found the entry he needed. He examined it closely, closing one eye to rid himself of his double vision. "Twenty thousands tins of crab," he said slowly. "Well, that's not right: it should be miscellaneous cans…"

"It's not crab meat," Tintin said earnestly. "It's drugs, Captain."

The Captain's face was ashen as he looked at Tintin. "Jesus Christ," he said weakly. "There's drugs in my hold!" He tossed the folder onto the bunk and staggered back to his chair. "Oh God! I'm a smuggler! I'm a fucking drug-smuggler! Oh Jesus! I'm going to jail! Crap, crap, craaaaaaaaap!"

"Sssshhhh!" Convinced of the Captain's innocence, Tintin put the gun down and tried to comfort him. "Help me get off this ship and I'll help you when the police are involved."

"Allan! You treacherous bastard!" the Captain roared.

"Shhh!"

"I'll kill him! The mutinous, two-faced shite!"

"Shhhh! And for goodness sake, stop swearing!"

The Captain buried his face in his hands. "Oh God! There goes my business! There goes my reputation! Bye-bye, dreams of a legitimate shipping corporation! So long, everything I've spent my entire life working towards! I'm ruined! Oh God: they're going to take my ship!" he reached out and grabbed Tintin's arms. "Don't let them take my ship! She's all I have left!"

"Be quiet!" Tintin pleaded. The Captain was wailing by now. "Stop! Pull yourself together, man! Look at yourself. The only reason they were able to get away with this is because you're a drunk. You must quit drinking, Captain. What would your poor mother say if she saw you like this?"

The Captain thought of his poor mother and promptly burst into tears. "Ahwaaaaaaah! Boo-hoo-hoo! Mummy!"

"This is why I don't drink," Tintin said savagely. "Stop crying!"

"I want my mum!"

Tintin's heart leaped as, in the corridor outside, someone shouted to somebody else. They called out an answer and footsteps came towards the Captain's cabin and the bawling man. Cursing emotional drunks, Tintin dove towards the porthole and prayed he still had time.

x

Allan threw the door open and surveyed the scene. Haddock was crying his eyes out, face down on the desk. With any luck, he'd have finally lost his mind. "What the hell is going on?" the First Mate snapped.

"Oh God!" Haddock wept. "I'm a miserable wretch!"

"You only figured that out now?" Allan refilled the Captain's glass and held it out to him. "Here, drink this: it'll cheer you up."

"I can't!"

"Yes you can."

"Gosh, I never thought about it like that. Thanks!"

The Captain reached out for the glass, but at the last second he knocked it away, splashing Allan. "I can't," he repeated regretfully. "I promised him I wouldn't drink any more."

Allan felt a chill run down his spine. "Who?" he asked urgently. "Who did you promise that to?"

"The Whisky-Fairy!" The Captain gestured at the porthole behind him, and for the first time since entering Allan saw Tintin's crude grappling hook.

"Cock-sucker!" Allan shouted.

"Sock-cooker!" the Captain corrected him. "He also said I should stop swearing. Y'know, for a drunken fairy he wasn't all that keen on vices…"

"Tom!" Allan shouted. "Jumbo!" The two sailors came running, eager to please the Mate when he was in a high dudgeon. "That little bastard managed to get up here!"

"Huh," said Jumbo, examining the grappling hook. "That's actually quite ingenious."

"I'll kill you," Allan warned, his voice perfectly level. He sounded calm, as though he'd just told them they were out of milk. "I swear, Jumbo, I'm about ready to kill someone and you're looking like a good candidate."

"Sorry," Jumbo said quickly, letting the planks of wood fall.

"For that, you get to stay here. Catch him if he comes back. Tom, do we still have that box of explosives? Good. Go and get them and meet me downstairs: I'm gonna blow the door off that stinkin' hold!"

x

Feeling a lot like John Wayne, Allan swaggered back down to the cargo hold. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and waited with Pedro until Tom arrived, a wooden box held in his arms. He patted the box as he handed it over to the Mate.

Allan knelt and set it up. Using a circular saw, he cut a square hole in the bottom of the door and slid the box of explosives in, pushing a crate laboriously out of the way. For a second the whole barricade teetered precariously, and Allan hoped that it would fall, rendering the use of the explosives unnecessary, but the top boxes simply shifted a little and settled snugly on top of the new box.

He lit the fuse and they backed away, dodging down the corridor and into another nearby hold. The fuse hissed and spluttered before a huge explosion rocked the deck. It was a drastic measure, to be sure, but The Duke never would have stood for this sort of thing.

When the ringing in his ears had finally died away, Allan pulled out his gun and sidled back along the corridor, almost hugging the wall. The door was now a sheet of twisted metal, torn clear off its hinges by the blast. Shattered wood and long, lethal looking splinters littered the ground. There was no noise from the hold, though.

"Must've knocked him out," Allan muttered as they neared the door. They stood to one side, waiting to see if Tintin would emerge.

"Or else he's pretending," Tom whispered back. "That kid's smart, Mate. I wouldn't put it past him."

"In that case, just shoot him as soon as you see him."

They nodded at each other and prepared to step around the corner into the room.

A gunshot rang out and a bullet whizzed past them. "The little shit!" Tom swore. "He's trying to kill us! How dare he!"

Pedro looked affronted. "What did we ever do to - Oh, wait, never mind."

"I'll settle his hash," Allan vowed. He leaned around the corner like a gunslinger and let off a shot at where he thought Tintin was hiding. He pulled back in time to dodge three answering shots and –

"A champagne cork?" Tom asked, puzzled. He picked it up and showed it to Allan. Now that the smoke from the explosion was starting to clear they could see at least two other corks rolling around on the ground.

"Oh, God damn it! The champagne!" Now Allan was really pissed: that was a legitimate contract and it was worth a lot of money. He stormed into the darkened hold, fully intending to wreak a terrible vengeance upon Tintin, but instead he took a champagne cork to the face. He swore loudly, and they were driven back as more bottles exploded, shooting their corks through the air at high speed.

It had been a short foray, and not worthy of The Duke, but it had been enough to show Allan that Tintin wasn't in there.

So where the hell is he...? Allan wondered. Unless… Unless he didn't leave the Captain's quarters…

He overtook Tom in his haste, charging back up the metal stairs to the deck above. Through the twisting, maze-like corridors he ran, until he reached the Captain's cabin. He threw the door open and stopped dead in his tracks.

Jumbo was tied to a chair.

"Give us a hand, Mate," the Asian man said. "I swear it: I watched the porthole carefully, like you said, only he was hiding in the wardrobe! And he had a gun!"

His anger rising, Allan kicked out at Jumbo, planting his foot on the man's chest and kicking the chair over backwards. He turned at the sound of scuffle behind him, wary of any more tricks, and saw Jimmy the Greek (who was actually Italian) almost bowl Tom over in an effort to reach the Mate.

"There you are!" he said, breathing heavily, as though he had run a long distance. "I been searching for you everywhere, Mate! All over I run, looking for you. I find radio operator. He been knocked out!"

So they got a message out.

Without another thought, Allan punched Jimmy on the nose. As the Italian went down, Frankie-Boy swanned in, a slight grin on his face.

"It's a rum thing, Mr Mate," he said innocently, "but the long-boat just vanished!"

Author's Note: This story has been read 1,438 times, but it only has 28 reviews. If it's shit, seriously: let me know. I don't want to waste my time writing something that people don't like, and I don't want to waste your time by posting rubbish that you don't like! Anonymous reviews are turned on, and in the meanwhile, I'm going to switch to writing some Christian/Syed (EastEnders) slash-fic. If it turns out that people aren't enjoying this story, that's perfectly fine and a new Tintin fic will be up in a while. But unless I get some feedback, I genuinely don't know what the readers want!