Savage Page 7

  He covered me to the shoulders with the bedclothes.

  Then he crossed over to Trudy’s berth and slapped her across the face.

  “Leave her be!” I yelled.

  He struck her again.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she cried out. “It was him. It was all his idea!”

  He gave her a backhanded smack that knocked her head sideways. She didn’t say much after that. She didn’t fight him, either. She just acted like a big, limp doll while Whittle threw off her covers, sat her up and untied her feet. When he told her to stand up, she obeyed.

  He made a loop at one end of the rope, and dropped it over her head. He tightened the loop around her neck.

  “Strangulation is most unpleasant,” he said. He glanced at me. “I know that from recent experience at the hands of young Trevor.”

  He passed the other end of the rope through the handle of the hatch above Trudy’s head, pulled the slack out of it, then ducked down, hoisting her.

  Trudy’s arms were lashed fast against her sides, just as I’d left them. Her legs thrashed. Her body, wrapped in the white nightgown, twisted and swung. She let out the most awful retching sounds.

  “No!” I cried out. I sat up so fast my head seemed to whirl inside.

  “Stay or you’ll make it worse for her!” Whittle yelled.

  With that, he lowered Trudy until her feet met the floor. She stood there, weaving and choking, dancing about some in order to keep her balance as the boat rocked and bounced.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “I’ll be good. I promise. Please. Let her be.”

  “A promise quickly forgotten once the heat of sympathy has cooled.”

  “No! I promise! As God is my witness!”

  “Witness this, my friend.” He let the rope fall from his hand. While Trudy staggered about, trying to stay on her feet, he stepped around to the front of her and removed the rope that bound her arms to her sides. He slipped the nightgown off her shoulders, pulled it down her body until it lay in a heap at her feet.

  She just stood there, letting him.

  I just sat on my bed, watching. He’d said he would make it worse for her if I interfered, and I believed him.

  After stripping her naked, he tied Trudy’s hands.

  Then he grabbed the rope that was dangling from the hatch above her head. He slipped it between her legs, reached behind her to find it, brought it around to the front, gave it a pull that made her yelp and jump, then tied it around the top of her thigh.

  “How’s that, deary?” he asked her.

  She answered with a whimper.

  He patted her face. “Steady as she goes,” he said. “Should you lose your sea legs, I fear you may hang yourself. And such a pity that would be.”

  He squeezed past her. He smiled over at me. “See what you’ve done to Trudy?”

  Well, it was just too much for me and I started to weep. “Please,” I blubbered. “Please, let her down.”

  “By and by. Perhaps.”

  He withdrew the leather belt from his trousers, doubled it, and whipped Trudy’s back. She flinched and squealed. She pranced to keep from falling.

  I thought of Barnes whipping Mother with his belt. And I wished I had finished him off with the fireplace poker, and I wished I had killed Whittle and I prayed for the Lord to strike him dead and I vowed to kill him myself if God let him get away with this.

  I cried and pleaded and cursed.

  It was all just a blur through my tears. It seemed to go on for hours. I wished it was me instead of her. She looked so beautiful and helpless it just twisted my heart to see the way Whittle lashed her. Each time he struck, she jumped and twitched and cried out. Even in the dim glow from the lamp, I could see red stripes all over her back and rump. A few times, she lost her footing and strangled for a moment before she got the floor under her again.

  When Whittle finally lowered his arm, I thought he was done with her. But what he did was turn Trudy around. He commenced to whip her front, laying the belt across her face and arms and breasts and belly.

  At last, he put his belt back on.

  Trudy hung there, limp and whimpering, shaking all over, shuffling her feet so she wouldn’t fall again.

  When his belt was buckled, he grinned at me. He winked. “Now for my favorite part.”

  He went up close to Trudy, held on to her hips, and took to licking her.

  “Nothing like the taste of blood,” he said.

  He spent a long time licking her. He licked her all over, front and back. Then he fell into Trudy’s bed, pulled the covers over him, and said, “Sleep well, my friends.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Rough, Long Night

  I couldn’t hardly believe Whittle was just going to leave Trudy dangling. I figured he’d get up again, pretty soon, and let her down. But he didn’t. He no sooner covered himself up with her blankets than he got to snoring.

  What with the cold and the way the boat bounced around, Trudy didn’t stand a chance of lasting through the night. It was a toss-up whether she’d freeze to death or hang.

  Didn’t Whittle care? Even though her life meant nothing to him, it seemed he’d want to keep her breathing just so he wouldn’t lose his hold on Michael. Besides that, being the monster that he was, he’d be missing out on a heap of pleasure by killing her this way instead of butchering her with his knife. Didn’t make any sense at all.

  Well, there’s no accounting for the whims of a madman.

  I stayed in bed, listening to him snore and keeping my eyes on Trudy. She’d let up on her sobbing. She just stood there, her head up, her legs apart and bent just a bit, her feet shuffling as the floor tried to throw her. The way shadows hid her eyes, I couldn’t tell whether she was watching me. But she must’ve suspected I was looking at her, for she always kept her hands low as if she was worried I might get a peek at what was between her legs.

  I’d been in her fix, I would’ve been holding on to the rope over my head and let folks look where they pleased.

  She needn’t have bothered trying to cover that part, anyhow, since I got glimpses every now and again when the boat lurched and she couldn’t help but jerk her hands up as she stumbled about. I didn’t see nothing but a bunch of hair, and it pained me how the rope looked like it was digging up into her.

  The sight sure didn’t stir me up, and neither did her bosoms which jiggled and shook considerable.

  There’d been times when I’d longed something awful for a chance to spy what girls had under their clothes. Why, it used to drive me crazy wondering how it might be, and what it would feel like to touch certain places.

  I reckon Sue the whore had a hand in souring my appetite for such things. But nothing like the way Mary soured it, thanks to Whittle. And now here was Trudy, bare as the day she was born and near enough to reach out and touch, and yet I was no more thrilled than if she’d been a fellow.

  It was a peculiar business to be worrying about while she stood there at the end of a rope. But the truth is, I felt cheated. Even though I knew it’d only make me feel guilty if I was taking enjoyment out of watching Trudy, I figured it would’ve been the natural thing.

  Maybe I was just hurting too much to appreciate her. After all, my face and head purely throbbed with pain from the drubbing Whittle’d given me. Or maybe it had to do with feeling so awful about the way he’d tormented Trudy—on account of me.

  I suspect all that played a part in it, but the main thing was Whittle’s work on Mary. She’d been the first gal I ever saw naked, and that was a sight to turn the stomach. I got to thinking Whittle might’ve put me off women forever.

  And I hated him for that. Not that I needed any more reason to hate the filthy swine. The extra bit of hate over how he’d ruined women for me, though, was enough to make me lose caution.

  I pushed my covers down and sat up.

  “What’re you doing?” Trudy whispered.

  “Shhhh.” Not that I figured Whittle could hear her through his own sn
oring.

  As I swung my legs down, Trudy shook her head wildly.

  “Stay where you are.”

  “He’ll be the death of us both if I don’t kill him.”

  “You can’t kill him.”

  “I’ll slash his throat with his own knife before he even wakes up.”

  “If you leave your berth, I’ll scream.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Look what you’ve already done to me with your foolishness. It wasn’t you he strung up and whipped.”

  “I wish it had been me. Honest.”

  “It wasn’t. If you try for him again, there’s no telling what he’ll do to me.”

  “Nothing he won’t do, anyway, if he lives.”

  “Lie down and be still. I swear to the Almighty, I’ll scream if you don’t.”

  Well, I stretched out and pulled the blankets back on top of me. “If you hadn’t made me tie you up,” I muttered, “we would’ve had him. It’d all be over, now. He wouldn’t have hurt you like he did do. We’d be sailing back to London this very minute.”

  “Hush up and go to sleep.”

  “I’ll hush up.”

  “And go to sleep. I’ve had enough of your staring at me.”

  “I’m only looking out for you.”

  “I know what you’re doing. You’re horrible and nasty. Now, stop it and turn your head away.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. If you’d rather I not see your front side, you might turn around.” I don’t know why she hadn’t thought of that.

  “If you must know, I need to see the lamp.” It was by the door past my feet. “It helps me keep steady.”

  “Well, then, stay the way you are. Rest assured, I’m not taking any special enjoyment from the view.”

  She muttered, “Beast,” and then went quiet.

  I kept my eyes on her. She kept shifting about. She seemed to know just which way the floor’d tip next, and changed her footing ahead of time. Good as she was, though, I had my doubts she’d be able to keep it up all night—or until Whittle quit his sleeping and unhanged her.

  I could see how the cold was getting to her. She’d been goosebumpy and shivering all along. As time went by, though, the shivers got worse till she was fairly shuddering. Her teeth chittered together. She shimmied from head to toe. It put me in mind of exotic Arabian harem dancers I’d read about. Then she got too out of control for any sort of dancer. The way she shook and twitched and jittered about made her look like a marionette—one that had a fellow with an attack of palsy running the strings for it.

  All of a sudden, the boat nosed down and pitched Trudy off her feet. She dropped backward till the noose stopped her. She let out a choke. Her tied hands flew up and grabbed the rope beside her face while she heeled the floor. Just when she almost got herself standing, another lurch of the boat flung her feet out from under her all over again.

  Whittle kept on snoring.

  A shout might’ve stirred him up. But I figured he might just let her swing.

  I hurled myself out of bed. My bound feet landed on stew. I gave the floor a smart slam, but didn’t let that stop me. In a blink, I was on my hands and knees, scooting myself toward Trudy. Tied like I was, I didn’t know how to go about saving her.

  What happened, though, I pushed right into her kicking legs. After giving me a few thumps, they quit thrashing and used my shoulders for braces. I scooched forward, head between them, forcing them back, and before long Trudy was standing. She coughed and gasped for a spell, but I could tell she wasn’t getting strangled any more.

  She stood there, shaking and panting, and mashing my head with her knees till I feared my skull might cave in.

  “Let go,” I whispered.

  “I’ll fall.” Her voice had a whiny, scared sound.

  Somebody laughed. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Trudy.

  “Whittle!” I cried out. “Help us!”

  “It’s been a jolly fine show. I shouldn’t like to spoil it now.”

  Had he not been asleep, at all—the snoring a mere ruse?

  “Let her down, damn your eyes!”

  “Please,” Trudy sobbed.

  “You’re both doing splendidly without my interference. Carry on.”

  I railed at him something fierce and Trudy kept on pleading. Whittle laughed as if thoroughly enjoying himself. But finally he must’ve grown tired of our voices, for he said, “Quit your blithering, now, or I may lose my patience.”

  “Let her down at once!” I demanded.

  I heard a loud clap. Trudy yelped and flinched and near crushed my skull. Then she took to blubbering.

  After that, we both kept mum.

  We stayed just the way we were. What with my hands and feet tied, I was none too steady. Trudy’s grip on my head helped to keep me from going over sideways, and I kept her from falling forward or backward. A peculiar arrangement, but it worked most of the time.

  Every so often, we’d take a spill. Then Trudy’d commence to choke till I could get back to my hands and knees and she’d latch onto my head again.

  The cold made me shake. So did the strain of fighting to stay up. Every muscle in me took to jumping around under my skin. I don’t know how a person can work up a sweat when he’s freezing, but I sure did, and the air grabbed hold of all that sweat and made it feel like ice.

  Would’ve felt wondrous to crawl back to my bed and get under the covers. Nothing stopped me from doing that except I knew Trudy wouldn’t last five minutes if I didn’t stay put.

  It got so bad I started figuring it might be best to go ahead and let her hang. After all, Whittle was bound to kill her anyhow, sooner or later. If her neck got stretched tonight, it’d only save her from more misery later on.

  Never quite convinced myself of that, though, I’m glad to say.

  I stuck it out.

  By and by, all the cold and aches seemed to go away. I fancied I was home in bed, safe and cozy. I even heard Mother, off in another room, playing sweet music on her violin.

  I woke up and thought I was home, for I was warm under covers. But the boat was rocking me gently. I opened my eyes, saw daylight, and felt like I wanted to die. Much as I’d hoped to save Trudy, I must’ve lost my wits and crawled back into my bunk, leaving her to swing. I’d betrayed her. I’d killed her.

  I couldn’t look, didn’t want to see poor Trudy slumped at the end of her rope.

  Then I noticed I wasn’t tied any more.

  Confused by that, I went on and turned my head. Trudy wasn’t hung, after all. She was stretched out on her berth, all but her face hidden under blankets. Her face was mighty pale except for bruises and a couple of red marks from Whittle’s belt. Her eyes were shut. I could see her eyes sliding around under the lids, so I knew she wasn’t dead.

  Well, she was such a fine sight I got teary. I hadn’t let her die, after all. And neither had Whittle. Sometime during the night, he must’ve let her down and put us both into our beds. Not that he’d taken pity on us. He had no pity in him. It simply went against his plans to have us turn up our toes when we still had the whole voyage ahead of us.

  He wasn’t on either bed, so I reckoned he’d left us by ourselves.

  I rolled onto my side, flinching and moaning with all my aches, and saw he was gone, all right. He’d shut the door after him. On the floor between our berths were Trudy’s nightgown and a lot of stew—dried gravy and chunks of meat and potatoes and vegetables.

  The sight of that food set my belly to grumbling.

  I got down there. My knees hurt fierce. The air chilled me some, though it felt warmer than last night. I plucked up pieces of meat and potatoes and carrots and jammed them in. They were cold. They tasted almighty fine, though I had a rough time working up enough spit to swallow.

  After a few mouthfuls, I remembered Trudy. She hadn’t gotten much into her before my attack on Whittle, so I reckoned she might be near as hungry as me.

  I gathered some grub in my hands and crawled over to her.


  She looked so peaceful, asleep like that, I hated to disturb her. Did it anyhow, though, figuring she’d appreciate the food and might not get another chance at some for a while.

  “Trudy,” I whispered, close to her face. “Trudy, wake up.”

  Her eyelids squeezed tighter as if she wanted nothing to do with waking up. Then her face scrunched. She let out a few little whimpers.

  “Whittle’s not here,” I told her.

  She opened her eyes and blinked at me.

  “You might wish to eat a bit,” I said, raising my cupped hands so she could see the food.

  She looked at it, but didn’t move.

  “I saved it for you.”

  “Where is he?” she asked, her voice all quiet and scratchy.

  “I hope he’s gone to the Devil, but I imagine he’s only gone to another room. Are you untied?”

  She nodded her head ever so slightly.

  “You ought to sit up and eat, then.”

  “Go away. Leave me alone.”

  Here she was, giving orders again. But she didn’t put much pep behind them.

  I dumped one hand into the other, then pinched up a chunk of meat and put it to her lips. She kept them shut and shook her head. I rubbed the meat across her lips, greasing them up.

  “Stop.”

  She sounded so pitiful, I quit. But then her tongue came out to clean off the mess, and she must’ve liked the taste. She opened her mouth. I put the meat in. She chewed and chewed on it, and made awful faces when she tried to swallow.

  “If you want more,” I said, “you’d best sit up.”

  She rolled onto her side, pushed herself up on one elbow, and brought out her other arm to hold the covers against her bosom. She was in a sorry condition. Her shoulders and what I could see of her chest were just as smooth and white as cream where she hadn’t been lashed. But Whittle’s belt had left little that wasn’t dark with purple bruises, or welted, or striped with threads of dried blood. Her neck was rubbed raw from the noose. It was shiny red and oozing. My knees had looked like that, just the summer before, after I went chasing Tipper Bixley across Marylebone High Street and took a spill and scraped them up something awful. I wound up with scabs that lasted to the start of the school term.