Part 10 (2/2)
I didn't care much for the reference to Yorick. After all, he was dead, nothing more than a skull, when Hamlet made that remark about him. Nevertheless, I judged I ought to count myself lucky that Whittle found me so amusing. It might help to keep me alive, at least for the duration of the voyage.
Trudy brought the food over. She sat down and joined us. We ate in silence for a while. It was wonderful to wrap my teeth around the hot eggs and ham. Trudy merely picked at hers. She seemed just as tired and gloomy as she'd been when I first woke her up.
”Why so downcast?” Whittle finally said to her.
She didn't answer. She just stared at her plate and pushed around a bit of egg.
Whittle smiled at her. Then he jabbed her arm with his fork.
She flinched and tears filled her eyes.
”Speak when you're spoken to.”
She nodded.
”Am I to take it you're not enjoying your voyage?”
”I...I'm not feeling well.”
”You must must take better care of yourself.” take better care of yourself.”
”You're going to kill me.”
”Not at all. Perish the thought. Perish it,” he said again, and tipped me a wink. ”Even should I face a sudden urge to-how shall I put this tastefully?-slice your sweet flesh, why, I should most certainly resist it. I've already explained how important you are to the success of our venture. I must keep Michael cooperative, don't you know? Now there's a stout fellow,” he added, turning to me. ”I doubt he's slept a wink since we set sail, and I'm sure it's been no easy task to skipper this yacht single-handed. He's made quite a fine account of himself, all in all. And, unlike some I might mention, he's given me not a moment of aggravation.” your sweet flesh, why, I should most certainly resist it. I've already explained how important you are to the success of our venture. I must keep Michael cooperative, don't you know? Now there's a stout fellow,” he added, turning to me. ”I doubt he's slept a wink since we set sail, and I'm sure it's been no easy task to skipper this yacht single-handed. He's made quite a fine account of himself, all in all. And, unlike some I might mention, he's given me not a moment of aggravation.”
When we were done with the meal, Whittle set us to work. I pumped a bucket full of salt water at the galley sink, and went off to scrub the stew off the floor of our quarters. While I was busy at that, Trudy washed the dishes.
The scrubbing didn't take long. Whittle carried my bucket topside, going up the stairs and out the door at the rear of the galley. Then he came down and ordered Trudy to bake some loaves of bread.
”We'll be having company this evening,” he told her.
I saw some life come into her eyes. ”Michael will be eating with us?”
”More than Michael, I daresay. He's to fetch along an ablebodied seaman.”
I rather hoped he might fetch along, instead, a troop of constables. Or perhaps a concealed revolver.
”He was all done in, actually. I realized it would be the height of folly to attempt our crossing without an extra hand.”
”It's no less the height of folly,” I said.
As usual, he laughed.
”We'll all find ourselves in Davy Jones' Locker.”
”Full fathom five, is it?”
”Make sport of me, then. You'll be whistling a different tune when we capsize in a gale or fetch up on an iceberg.”
”We should take the southern route,” Trudy said, all at once showing some more interest in matters. Maybe my talk of going down had stirred her up.
”A southern route?” Whittle asked.
”Instead of making our way west, we should sail south to the Canaries.”
”A foul idea.” He eyed me, but I gave no hint that I'd caught on to his wordplay.
”This is just the best possible season for it,” Trudy went on. ”We'd have fine, sunny weather for our crossing, and ride the tradewinds and currents all the way.”
”All the way to where, might I ask?”
”To the West Indies.”
”I've no use for the West Indies. Nor for the Canaries. The Canaries! Unless my schooling has been for nought, those islands lie off the coast of Africa! Africa! And they're in the control of the b.l.o.o.d.y Spaniards. Isn't that correct, Trevor?” And they're in the control of the b.l.o.o.d.y Spaniards. Isn't that correct, Trevor?”
”Lord Nelson lost his arm there,” I pointed out.
”You see? That's no place for an Englishman. I'll have none of it.”
Trudy knew better than to push him. So she hauled out the flour, after that, and got started on the bread. Whittle stayed with her.
I went into the main saloon. It had a small library. I found a collection of tales by Edgar Allan Poe, set myself down and tried to read. Couldn't manage it, though. Here I'd been a day or two on the rough seas of the Channel without so much as a touch of sickness, but trying to keep my eyes on the lines of a story while the boat was rocking ever so gentle put my breakfast in jeopardy. By and by, I gave up.
I just sat there thinking and worrying. When the nice smell of baking bread came along, it made me just so lonesome for home I near cried. Later on, Trudy staggered by. She didn't give me a glance or a word, but went straight to the forward cabin and plonked down on her bed. Whittle went topside.
He was up there for a long spell before he hurried down. He locked the door on Trudy, then said to me, ”Come along. Michael's returning.”
I followed him through the galley and up the stairs, coming out on a section of deck toward the rear of the yacht. I glimpsed the wheel and a pa.s.sel of instruments. Didn't give them much of a look, though. It was the harbor that caught my eyes. Every sort of boat and s.h.i.+p was moored around us, plenty near enough to reach with a good, quick swim. The sh.o.r.e itself, with all its docks and markets and crowds, was less than a quarter mile off. The water looked gray and cold, but calm.
Well, I was sorely tempted to plunge in. I didn't have a single doubt but that I could make an escape. I'd be free of Whittle for good, I'd miss out on drowning in the Atlantic, I'd find my way home and be safe and Mother'd weep for joy at my return.
And Whittle'd likely open Trudy with his knife.
I told myself he'd do it anyhow, sooner or later.
But if he killed her on account of me...I just couldn't stomach the idea of that.
Besides, I judged that sooner or later, one way or another, I might somehow get to save her. Couldn't do that if I jumped s.h.i.+p.
That all went through my head as I went with Whittle to the stern and we stood there waiting for the skiff to reach us.
It had two men in it, so Michael'd found himself a hand for our trip. The broad-shouldered fellow had his back to me. A seam of his sweater was split. A tweed cap, tilted at a jaunty angle, topped his scraggly red hair.
The other sat at the stern, his head down. I took him for Michael, as he looked so thin and beaten-down.
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