Savage Page 11

  Trudy was set to clean the supper dishes, but Whittle told her there was no need. Then he led her off.

  Michael watched her go. From the look on his face, he figured he was never going to see her again. Not alive, anyhow.

  As soon as Whittle shut the door, I said, “We’ve got to save her. There’s no time to lose.”

  In a snap, his face changed. He wiped off his sorrow and hopelessness, and came up looking all superior and scornful. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

  “If we don’t stop him, he’ll butcher her. You know it as well as I do.”

  “He’ll do no such thing.”

  I was plain astonished. Shouldn’t have been, though. I’d seen enough of Michael to know he had no spine when it came to dealing with Whittle. “We can’t sit here and allow her to be killed!”

  “Don’t raise your voice to me, boy.”

  “Do you wish him to murder Trudy? You saw how he carved up poor Patrick Doolan.”

  His face went a bit slack at the reminder of that.

  “I saw the work he did on a London whore. Why, he just carved her up something awful. He even ate parts of her. I heard him do it. He’ll do the same to Trudy if we don’t stop him.”

  “Nonsense,” he muttered.

  But I could see he believed me.

  “Trudy will be perfectly fine,” he said, “so long as we do nothing to rock the boat.”

  “We might have a go at burning it,” I said. “If we set a fire…”

  “Are you mad?”

  “I’ve given it quite a bit of thought.” I told him. It was the truth. Thirty-six days on the Atlantic had given me plenty of time to hatch schemes, for I’d known it would come down to this if we lived through the voyage. “Once we get the fire going, we’ll cry out an alarm. Whittle, he’ll come leaping out through the door all in a heat to save himself. He won’t care a bit about killing Trudy. One of us will be waiting topside to bring Trudy up through the hatch.”

  “The skiff’s on top of the hatch,” Michael pointed out. He sounded tired and annoyed.

  “Why, don’t you think I know that? We move it clear before we light the fire.”

  “Whittle would hear the commotion.”

  “We’d need to be quite stealthy about it.”

  “The hatch may be locked from below.”

  “Trudy can handle that.”

  “Suppose she can’t? Just suppose we’re unable to open the hatch, and she’s trapped by the fire. And where is Whittle through all this? If he gets past the fire, he’ll come topside and then we’ll be in a fix.”

  I had already considered that. “We block the companionway door. He might not be able to break through it at all before the fire gets him. And if he does, it should still delay him and give the three of us time to escape in the skiff.”

  It was quite a bully scheme, actually. I’m sure Huck Finn would’ve been proud of me. And Tom wasn’t here to ruin it with fancy trimmings. Neither of them were here, except in my head. My only audience was Michael.

  While I explained how we’d keep Whittle below with the fire and make our getaway, he simply scowled and shook his head.

  “It’s too risky,” he finally said.

  “It’s time for risks,” I told him. “Unless you’re eager to have Trudy cut into pieces, we’d better have at it.”

  He only just sat there and kept on shaking his head.

  “Do you have a plan?” I blurted out.

  “The only sensible thing is to leave Whittle be. He promised he wouldn’t harm Trudy. In the morning, he’ll row ashore and that will be the end of it.”

  “It’s certain to be the end of Trudy long before that.”

  “We’ve no choice but to trust Whittle and hope for the best.”

  “I’ll do it myself, then.”

  With that, I hurried on over to the stove and grabbed some matches. Michael went after me into the saloon. There, I snatched a book down from the cabinet. It was an Emerson. I’d never had much use for him, anyhow. I tore out pages by the handful, crumpled them and piled them up on the floor between the berths. While I worked at that, Michael pranced around me, fuming and railing at me in a hushed voice so Whittle wouldn’t hear. He said, “Stop this nonsense,” and, “Don’t you dare,” and, “You’ll be the death of us all,” and such. But I went on with what had to be done. I was yanking a cover off one of the bunks when he jumped me from behind.

  He hooked an arm across my throat and commenced to choke me. I went wild, thrashing and kicking. I tried to tear his arm clear so I could breathe, but that was no use. I went at him with my elbows, punching them backward. Got in a few good licks. He never let up, though. He kept on squeezing till I thought my eyes might pop out. I saw some dandy fireworks. They went off with crashes like cannons, which weren’t cannons at all but my heart thundering.

  Well, I allowed I’d had it. Seemed mighty peculiar that I’d gone and gotten myself killed by Michael instead of by Whittle, and all I’d hoped to do was save the hide of his wife.

  All of a sudden, I wasn’t aboard the True D. Light any more. I was standing in an East End alley with my back to a wall, looking at the fellow I’d stabbed. He was sitting in a puddle, hunched over. He said, “You gone and killed me is what you done.”

  I felt mighty sorry for him and wished I hadn’t done it.

  Then I was on my back, Michael crouched over me and pulling off my belt. All I could do was fight to suck in air. He propped me up and crossed my hands in front and wrapped the belt around me. He cinched it in tight and buckled it. Then he hoisted me onto the bunk.

  I lay there, glad to be alive and figuring him for the biggest fool that ever drew a breath.

  He should’ve helped me, not throttled me.

  Well, he put what was left of Emerson back into the cabinet. Then he picked up all the paper balls and took them topside, where I guess he pitched them overboard. He didn’t want any evidence left around to upset Whittle, I reckon.

  When he came back, he bent over me and made sure I hadn’t slipped my arms out of the belt. “Now you lie still,” he said. “If you give me any more trouble, I’ll pound you silly.”

  He got under his own covers. But he left the gaslamps burning so he could keep an eye on me.

  No sounds came from the other side of the door. If Whittle’d already killed Trudy, he’d been quiet about it and done it so quick she never got a chance to let out a yelp.

  Maybe he’d told the truth, though, and aimed to row away in the morning and leave us alive.

  But I knew the stripe of Whittle.

  Trudy was either dead by now, or soon would be.

  By and by, I figured it was too late for doing her any good. Or any harm, either. I felt awful about that.

  Trudy’d been bossy and annoying, and hadn’t lent a hand the time I had my chance to strangle Whittle. She’d never acted friendly toward me at all unless you count the time she helped me onto the skiff after she’d knocked me overboard. Even still, I never hated her. I only felt sorry for her, mostly, and blamed myself near as much as Whittle for her miseries. I’d saved her from hanging and from drowning, and I might’ve saved her from Whittle’s knife tonight if Michael hadn’t stopped me.

  Resting there on the bed I still wanted to have a go at saving her. But I didn’t see how I could manage it, not with Michael set to get in my way. Besides, I figured Whittle’d already had plenty of time to cut her up.

  I decided I might as well write her off and do what I could to save myself.

  It didn’t take much work to squeeze my arms out from under the belt. Michael had his head turned toward me. What with the dim light and shadows, I couldn’t see whether his eyes were open or shut. He didn’t move or raise a fuss, though, so I figured he must’ve fallen asleep.

  After I’d pulled my arms free, I sat up and slipped the belt around to get at its buckle. I unfastened that, then put the belt where it belonged so I wouldn’t lose my trousers.

  Then I swung my feet down and
took off my shoes. My notion, you see, was simply to dive overboard and swim for land. Would’ve been too dicey, trying for the skiff. But I’d take the life-ring along with me. And my shoes. I was busy tying their laces together so I could hang them around my neck. That’s when a key rattled in the door lock.

  Right quick, I scurried under my covers and pulled the shoes in with me. I shut my eyes, letting on to be asleep.

  The door bumped shut. “Rise up, maties,” Whittle said, just as cheery as you please. “The time has come for my departure.”

  I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “Is it morning?” I asked, though I knew it wasn’t.

  “Why wait any longer? I’m eager to be on my way.”

  Whittle stood with his back to the door. He wore his overcoat. It hung open. There was no blood on his sweater or trousers, nor on his face or hands. Both the knives in his belt had clean handles. I took all that for a good sign. It gave me hope, for just a bit, but then I figured he would’ve stripped naked for the butchery like he’d done that night in Mary’s room. He always kept drinking water in the cabin, too, so he might’ve used it for washing. That sank my hopes some.

  Michael sat up and looked at the door.

  “Trudy’s fast asleep,” Whittle said. “Her assistance won’t be necessary.” With a smile, he added, “I rather imagine she’ll be quite overjoyed when she awakens and learns of my departure. If we’re very quiet about the preparations, perhaps we won’t disturb her.”

  I wished I could believe him.

  He hadn’t locked the door after coming out, but he stayed in front of it as Michael and I climbed out of our beds. I’d untied my shoe laces while he was talking, so he didn’t catch on that they’d been laced together. I brought them out from under the covers with me, and put them on.

  He kept his post at the door and ordered us about, his voice low as if he was being careful not to wake Trudy.

  Earlier in the day, he’d loaded a large valise, filling it with clothes and loot. The clothes were mostly Michael’s, as he was about the same size as Whittle and the father’s duds were too big. The loot was all the money and jewels he’d found aboard the yacht, which was considerable. Michael, Trudy and her father, they’d been rich from the father’s hotel business in New York City. They’d brought along tons of money, not to mention a scad of necklaces and earrings and brooches and bracelets and such so Trudy could fix herself up splendid for dress-up affairs. Whittle, he’d spent some spare time during the voyage hunting around for all the valuables. After finding what he could, he’d asked Trudy about hiding places where there might be more, and she’d obliged him by opening up some secret compartments. So he probably had every bit of it, now, in his valise.

  Following his orders, Michael carried the case topside and I went up after him, empty-handed. He had Michael set it down by the stern. Then the three of us made our way forward.

  It was a calm night, but mighty cold. Not another boat was in sight. A few lights glowed along the shore and inland. I sure wished I was there among them, and judged this might be as good a time as any for a swim.

  But I held off, concerned about Trudy. Maybe Whittle hadn’t killed her yet.

  Maybe, instead of abandoning ship, I ought to have a go at throwing Whittle overboard.

  I glanced back at him. He had a knife in his right hand. Not hankering to catch it in my belly, I went on after Michael to where the skiff was secured. Whittle used his knife to cut the ropes. Then he stood back and watched while Michael and I turned the skiff right-side up. We worked at it slowly, being careful not to raise any sound. Trudy was just beneath the deck from us, after all. Being quiet with the skiff seemed like a way to trick our minds into thinking she was only asleep.

  We lowered the skiff over the side. Whittle walking in front of me, Michael behind, I towed the skiff by its bow line to the stern.

  Whittle told me to tie it. While I did that, he told Michael to pick up the valise. I thought he aimed to have Michael climb down and load it into the skiff for him. But when Michael bent over to grab the handle, Whittle stepped in quick and slashed a knife across his throat. Michael straightened up quick and stood rigid, his mouth wide like he was mighty surprised. Blood squirted out of his ripped neck. Whittle danced out of its way and whirled toward me.

  Well, I flung myself backward. The bulwark caught me behind the knees. As I pitched over the side, Whittle reached and clutched the front of my sweater. He tugged at it, trying to pull me up. But the sweater only just stretched, and I kept falling. So he shoved the knife into my belly. Or tried. Its point jabbed the back of my forearm, instead. I gave out a yell and kicked at him and he let got and I dropped headfirst.

  My head missed the skiff. But my shoulder fetched it a hard thump that sent it scooting. I plunged down into the cold water between it and the starboard side of the yacht.

  I was mighty shocked at how sudden he’d killed Michael and made his play for me. My shoulder hurt like it had gotten clubbed by a cricket bat. My arm hurt, too. And the water plain froze me. In spite of all that, I felt a trifle thrilled that I’d made it overboard alive. I’d gotten clear of Whittle, and that was what counted the most.

  The ticket, now, was to stay clear of him.

  So instead of popping up for air, I swam underwater to where I thought the yacht ought to be. I got my shoes off, then let myself rise, arms overhead. Sure enough, my fingers met the bottom of the hull. It was all slimy, and rough with barnacles. I kept under there, feeling my way around. When I found the rudder, it told me which way to go. I turned myself around and headed the other way.

  Whittle likely figured he hadn’t killed me. He’d be up there, waiting. So it didn’t seem smart to surface where he might spot me.

  I worked my way toward the bow, walking my hands along the hull and kicking a bit. The True D. Light had seemed awful tiny when we were out in the ocean getting knocked about by giant waves. Underneath it, though, with my air running out, it felt ten miles long. I reckoned my chest might explode before I got to the front of it.

  Finally, though, the hull narrowed down to its prow. I let my head come out of the water on the port side, gave a quick look around and didn’t see either Whittle or the skiff. After breathing for a spell, I went down again and hid under the hull for as long as I could stand it. Then I came up for another breath and went down again. I must’ve done that twenty times, till once when I was up for air I heard the splash of oars nearby. Over on the other side of the prow. Well, I ducked under and held my breath forever.

  Down there, I couldn’t hear the oars. But I judged that Whittle was in the skiff, circling the yacht, scouting for me. Finally, I judged he must’ve had time to pass the bow, so I scooted over to the starboard side before bobbing up for air. He wasn’t in sight.

  No sound of oars, either.

  I hung there for a while, then peeked around the end of the bow.

  There was Whittle, a hundred feet off, rowing for shore.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On My Own

  Whittle was almost to shore when I climbed the anchor chain and crawled onto the deck. If the water’d been cold, the air felt twice as bad. I didn’t linger, but scurried along to the stern, keeping low in case Whittle might have an eye on the yacht.

  Michael, he was sprawled out and still. Nothing to do for him. He was in the hands of Providence, now. So after a quick look to make sure Whittle hadn’t turned around, I hurried below.

  The heater was on, but it didn’t give off enough warmth to stop my shudders. Real quick, I stripped off my duds and grabbed a towel out of a storage compartment. While I rubbed myself dry, I kept looking at the shut door to the forward cabin. I didn’t want to see what was on the other side of it.

  With a strip of sheet from my bunk, I bandaged my forearm. Then I put on some dry clothes. Didn’t they feel just fine! They were the father’s, and awful big on me, but I’d gotten used to wearing the dead man’s things for I’d worn this or that of his almost every day of the voyage. I cinc
hed in the trousers with a belt, and turned the cuffs up the way I’d always done. Then I got into his best shoes. Whittle had taken all Michael’s spares, except the pair I’d had on when I went overboard. Those were at the bottom of the bay, and I didn’t relish the notion of stealing the shoes off his body. So these would have to do, even though they fit loose.

  Last, I put on the father’s heavy coat.

  That took care of getting myself dry and warm. There was nothing left but only to check on Trudy.

  All tight and sick inside, I went to the door. I knocked on it. She didn’t answer, so I rapped harder. Then I called her name a few times.

  Nothing.

  Well, I took hold of the door handle and tried to make myself turn it. I just couldn’t, though. Pretty soon, I gave up.

  Topside, I searched the dark waters for Whittle and his skiff. They were nowhere to be seen.

  So what I did, I raised the anchor and set the mainsail. No easy job, but it beat taking a swim. At the helm, I steered for a piece of shore far away from where Whittle’d been headed.

  I picked a long stretch of beach that didn’t have any lights nearby. It took a spell to get there, but by and by I ran the True D. Light straight up onto the sand. She scraped along and stopped with a rough jolt.

  Well, I rushed to the prow, all set to leap off and skedaddle before somebody might show up.

  But then I got to thinking about Trudy.

  I knew she was dead. But I didn’t know for sure.

  So I hurried down below again, and this time I didn’t knock or call her name or give myself time to lose my nerve. I just swung the door open wide and looked in.

  Even though I’d seen Whittle’s work on Mary, it didn’t make me ready for this.

  With a yell, I spun around and heeled it, in such a lather to get away that I stumbled as I raced up the companionway stairs and barked a shin. I gave Michael a last look, and allowed he was lucky to be dead.

  Then I dashed along the deck to the prow and jumped.

  The beach knocked my legs out from under me. I landed on damp, cold sand, picked myself up quick and took just a few running strides toward the distant trees. Then I stopped.