Part 13 (2/2)

”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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. 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 you have a plan?” I blurted out. 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 ash.o.r.e 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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, thras.h.i.+ng 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 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.” 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 b.a.l.l.s 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.

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