Savage. Part 11

The boat was fairly heaped with a seabag and all manner of bundles and kegs and boxes and sacks.

Whittle called, "Ahoy!" That caused Michael to lift his head. He looked up at us. He was still a fair piece away, but the distance wasn't enough to stop me from seeing the dull, sorry look on his face. He said something to the oarsman.

That fellow checked over his shoulder. He seemed younger than Michael and not more than a couple years older than myself. His rosy face was rather square, with a wide nose and heavy chin.

"He's up and hired a b.l.o.o.d.y Irishman," Whittle muttered.

"Perhaps the fellow's French," I said.

He glared at me. "Better that than an Irish addle-head. Blast him!"

As the skiff glided in close, we tossed out lines to Michael and his crewman. Before long, it was tied up snug alongside.

The Irishman smiled up at us and touched a finger to the small brim of his cap.

"And who have we here?" Whittle said, sounding miffed.

"Patrick Doolan, sir," the fellow answered.

Turning his gaze to Michael, Whittle said, "Were you unable to find a full-grown man?"

"He's an experienced sailor," Michael explained, his voice weary. "And he's eager to go to America."

"If it's after a strong, hard-working seafarer you are, sir, you'll not find one in these parts the match of Doolan himself."

Whittle groaned. But he laid off with the complaints, maybe figuring it wouldn't help any to turn Patrick against him.

Both fellows commenced to hand up the supplies, which we piled on the deck all around us. Each time I went back to the rail for another helping, I gave Michael a look. Not once did he have a pistol in his hand for blowing Whittle to kingdom come, so by and by I concluded either he'd had no luck in finding himself a weapon or he'd been too yellow to take any such risk.

I wondered what he might've told Patrick about our plight. More than likely, not a whit. Patrick went about his unloading ch.o.r.es as if he hadn't a care, all helpful and smiley.

Once the skiff was empty, we lowered a ladder over the side for Patrick and Michael to climb aboard. Then we towed the skiff along toward the bow. We hoisted it out of the water, turned it bottom-up and lashed it secure to the deck. Whittle had us tie it down directly on top of the forward hatch. His idea, more than likely, was to make things all the harder for Michael in case he might take a mind to open the hatch and let Trudy out.

Not that Michael had the sand for such a trick. He was shorter on gumption than any fellow I ever ran across.

Why, there wasn't a reason in the whole world he couldn't have fetched himself a pistol while he was ash.o.r.e buying up supplies and looking for a crewman. If he'd done that, would've been no feat at all to put a ball of lead into Whittle. The man was a monstrous fiend, but not so powerful that a bullet wouldn't have laid him low.

Later on, when we were far out at sea and had a few minutes that the waves weren't trying to kill us, I asked Michael how come he hadn't latched onto a pistol back at Plymouth and filled Whittle with lead.

He gave me just the queerest look.

He said, "I should've thought of that."

He wasn't just a coward, but a numbskull to boot.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Patrick Makes his Play By the time we got done stowing the gear and supplies, it was night. Trudy had stayed locked inside our quarters all the while. Whittle finally went and let her out, so she could make us supper.

Michael and Patrick both looked mighty shocked to see her. It seems like Patrick hadn't known, till then, we had a woman aboard. I'd gotten used to her battered face and skinned neck, but not so her husband or the Irishman. We'd gathered in the saloon and lit the lamps, so there was plenty of light for them to see her injuries by.

Michael let out a moan and rushed to her and threw his arms around her. She petted his hair and wept.

Patrick watched, frowning and looking confused.

Whittle watched, grinning. I don't know which amused him more, how those two were carrying on or how Patrick seemed so perplexed by such matters.

At length, Whittle said, "They're husband and wife."

Patrick nodded. "And what is it that's befallen the lady, and yourself and Trevor? It's only Michael here that hasn't a bit of injury to him."

"Young Trevor befell me," Whittle said, and touched the bandage in the middle of his face. "I befell Trevor and Trudy."

Then he told all. He didn't fudge on a bit of it, but explained how he was the very same Jack the Ripper as had cut his way through the East End wh.o.r.es, and how I'd attacked him in the street and lopped off his nose, and how we'd come aboard the True D. Light True D. Light where he'd slit Trudy's father with his knife and taken her prisoner, and how Michael had sailed us single-handed from London to Plymouth, and how Whittle himself had overpowered me and Trudy when we'd tried to mutiny on him, beating us and causing our injuries, and how the aim of it all was to sail for America where he might journey to the Wild West and cut up women all he pleased, like an Indian. where he'd slit Trudy's father with his knife and taken her prisoner, and how Michael had sailed us single-handed from London to Plymouth, and how Whittle himself had overpowered me and Trudy when we'd tried to mutiny on him, beating us and causing our injuries, and how the aim of it all was to sail for America where he might journey to the Wild West and cut up women all he pleased, like an Indian.

Well, Patrick sat silent, taking it all in. He frowned and bobbed his head and stroked his chin like he was getting a lesson in mathematics, maybe, and was working hard to keep it all straight.

"Is the situation quite clear to you now?" Whittle got around to asking him.

"Is it that you're a foul Devil of a murdering poltroon?"

Whittle smiled, "Precisely."

"And is it that you've slain this poor lady's own father and it was your own cruel hands that thrashed her so sorely?"

"Quite."

"And will you make this this clear to me?" he asked, drawing a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He was seated on the berth beside me, facing Whittle across the narrow aisle. Course, I'd seen he had a knife all along. Just show me a seaman without one. Whittle hadn't tried to get it off him, either. clear to me?" he asked, drawing a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He was seated on the berth beside me, facing Whittle across the narrow aisle. Course, I'd seen he had a knife all along. Just show me a seaman without one. Whittle hadn't tried to get it off him, either.

Seemed a bit reckless, admitting all his crimes to an armed man-even if the fellow wasn't more than seventeen, and Irish.

Well, when Patrick pulled the knife, my heart commenced to wham like thunder. Michael and Trudy laid off hugging and kissing and weeping so they could watch. Whittle, he sat calmly and didn't even go for his knife.

Patrick pointed his blade at Whittle, shook it at him as he said, "Will you make it clear to Doolan, here, why he ought to refrain himself from sending you down this minute to the fires of h.e.l.l which are surely waiting for you?"

"It's quite simple, really. I've no intention of harming you. You seem a fine, stout lad, and I'm sure you'll be a splendid addition to our merry crew. As for my crimes, I've committed none against you or your kin. You needn't bother yourself about them, really."

"By all the saints, you're a strange one."

"Oh, I agree. Strange, but not mad. I'm quite sensible, actually. Quite practical. I'm well aware that, for a successful pa.s.sage, I must have the cooperation of everyone on board. To insure that, I'll be keeping Trudy close at hand. So long as I'm given no trouble, however, I'll not harm her. At the conclusion of the voyage, I'll take my leave of the three of you and we shall all be free to go about our business."

"And it's your business to shed the blood of sorry, helpless women."

"I'm not asking friends.h.i.+p of you, merely your help in seeing us safely across the sea."

"Kill him!" Trudy ripped out.

I jumped half a mile.

Maybe Patrick had already made up his mind to go for Whittle. Or maybe he'd been about ready to put his knife away. But Trudy no sooner shouted "Kill him!" than Patrick hurled himself at the Ripper, going for his throat with the blade. Quick as lightning, Whittle blocked Patrick's slash, s.n.a.t.c.hed out his own knife and jammed it into Patrick's belly so hard it hoisted the young chap off his feet and made his cap fly off. Patrick gave out an awful grunt. As he folded at the middle, Whittle sprang up and hung on to him so he wouldn't fall and kept the knife in him and jerked it around some, making Patrick twitch and yell.

I got up quick, thinking to join in, but Whittle fixed me with a look that stopped me cold. Besides, I was too late to help Patrick.

Michael and Trudy, they weren't stirring themselves. They only just stood there, looking sick.

So I sat back down.

"Good lad," Whittle said. He kept his hold on Patrick and stuck him ten or twelve more times. When Patrick was all limp and saggy, Whittle eased him down to the floor. There was more blood than I'd seen since Mary's room. It was too much for Michael. He heaved and got some on Patrick's head. Trudy just stood there and shook.

Whittle, he picked up Patrick's knife off the cus.h.i.+on.

"The ignorant sod," he said.

Then he told me to give him Patrick's belt. I crouched down beside the poor fellow. His belt was all b.l.o.o.d.y so I got my hands red, but that didn't bother me much. I felt awful sorry for him. He looked so lonesome. His eyes were open, and full of surprise and sadness.

I hadn't known him more than a couple of hours, but I'd liked him. Seemed pretty clear to me that Trudy'd got him killed. I allowed I should try not to hold it against her, though.

Well, I got the belt off him and handed it up to Whittle. He buckled it around his waist, then shoved Patrick's knife into the leather sheath.

"I'm afraid we'll simply have to do without his services," Whittle said. "Trudy, I'm famished." With his own b.l.o.o.d.y knife, he pointed to the galley.

"What about Patrick?" I asked.

"He won't be joining us."

"Shouldn't we...do something with him?"

"He'll keep."

Well, we left him and all went into the galley. I pumped out salt water and cleaned my hands, but Whittle kept his red. Trudy prepared our meal. There wasn't room for all of us at the table, so I ate on my feet. I had a rough time downing much, for I felt plain miserable about poor Patrick. I could see him sprawled out on the floor if I looked through the doorway. And Whittle wasn't much better of a sight what with his soaked sweater and how he piled food into his mouth with b.l.o.o.d.y hands.

I forced myself to clean my plate, anyhow. Michael and Trudy did the same, though they both looked a trifle green. n.o.body said anything.

When we finished, it was clean-up time. Trudy had the easy job. She got to stay and wash the supper things. Seemed as how she rightly deserved to clean up the ugly mess in the saloon, her being the one that got Patrick killed. That job was given to me and Michael, though.

First off, Whittle told us to lug the body into the forward cabin.

"We'll heave it overboard," he explained, "once we're out to sea."

I could see how it might be a risky business to drop Patrick in the harbor where we might get noticed, so I didn't complain but just grabbed his ankles and lifted. Michael took him by the wrists. We commenced to carry him along. My feet slid around on his blood, but I was careful not to step in any of Michael's mess.

We got him into the cabin and Whittle had us put him on the floor between the berths. This was our our quarters, mine and Trudy's. I sure didn't relish the notion of spending the night in it, locked up with Patrick's remainders. quarters, mine and Trudy's. I sure didn't relish the notion of spending the night in it, locked up with Patrick's remainders.

Turned out, it didn't come to that. Which should've been a relief to me, but wasn't much of one.

Michael and I, we shared a nasty time swabbing up the floor of the main saloon. Whittle manned the bucket. He took it topside now and again to dump it over the side.

When he got done, he told Michael we wouldn't sail till dawn. That way, Michael could have a good night of sleep to get set for the voyage. I was to help out on deck.

Well, it came time to turn in.

Time for me and Trudy to get locked inside that tiny cabin along with Patrick.

What Whittle did, though, he told me and Michael to sleep in the saloon. Then he took Trudy along to our usual place, closed the door after they were both in, and locked it.

They were all three shut up tight together in that one little room.

We stared at the door for quite a spell. Finally, Michael sat down at the side of a bunk and hunched over and rubbed his face.

"We'd better get some sleep," I said.

"He's a madman," Michael muttered. "Completely mad. And Trudy...oh, poor Trudy."

"I'm sure he won't kill her."

"Some things are worse than death."

"That may be so, but if we bide our time and keep our eyes open for the proper opportunity, we might kill Whittle and save her yet."

He gave me a sour look. "It's your fault we're in this fix."

"I'm terribly sorry for that," I told him. "However, we're in it, so we'll simply have to carry on."

After that, he crawled under the covers. I shut down the lamps, and got into the other bed. I was no sooner stretched out and comfortable than there came a quick, high "No!" from Trudy. Then Whittle let out just as mean a laugh as I'd ever heard.

That was the start of it.

For just the longest time, all manner of horrid sounds came through the dark from behind that door. Thumps. Shuffles. Whimpers. Trudy pleading and Whittle chuckling. Not a peep came out of Michael. He stayed in bed, but I didn't reckon he was any more asleep than me.

I took a notion to get up and listen at the door. The thing is, I didn't want want to hear what was going on in there, so I gave up on the idea. to hear what was going on in there, so I gave up on the idea.

Well, Trudy fetched up a shriek that turned the marrow of my bones to ice. It ended with a hard clap. Next time she came out with one, the noise of it was soft and m.u.f.fled, so I knew Whittle must've thrown a gag across her mouth. He'd likely done it to keep her from being heard by folks in the boats around us, or even ash.o.r.e, she was that loud.

The gag quieted her down considerable, but didn't stop the yelps and squeals and howls. Every now and then, Whittle'd say something I couldn't quite make out. And he laughed and chuckled pretty often, like he was having himself a jolly time.

I lay there, trying hard not to wonder what he was doing with her. Couldn't get it out of my head, though, that whatever it was, it included Patrick.

By and by, I plugged my ears. That helped. Somehow, I got to sleep.