Part 9 (2/2)

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

”Let her down, d.a.m.n 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 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. 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 sc.r.a.ped them up something awful. I wound up with scabs that lasted to the start of the school term.

Trudy's wrists were bruised and raw, too, but not near as bad as her neck.

I looked her over pretty good while I stuck food into her mouth. I wasn't quite fit as a fiddle, myself, but all that damage on Trudy made my heart ache. I felt so sorry for her. But mostly I felt guilty as sin. I'd done all this to her, just as surely as if I'd strung her up, myself, and given her the whipping.

”I won't let him hurt you again,” I said.

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