The Cannibals (16 page)

The boat sat firm and steady on the timbers. They served both as a cradle and a launching ramp, while a heavy tackle fixed to the tree held the boat in place. As soon as he touched it, Midge knew it was a boat. “You see?” he cried. “I told you it was here.”

The lady looked at him. She was younger and prettier than I'd ever known my mother to be, but the expression was one my mother had worn many times in the years before her madness. It was a look at once of loving and worry and care, and I felt instantly heartsick.

She put her hand on Midgely, but spoke to Mr. Mullock. Her voice was very lovely. “Tell me,” she said. “What of Mr. Collins?”

“Your husband, missus?” he asked.

“The Reverend Collins,” said she. “Oh, please tell me; have you seen him?”

Mr. Mullock stood bare-headed before her, the rev-erend's own hat turning in his hands. “Not hexactly, missus,” he said. “But I believe he's …Well, he's gone to his maker, missus.”

She sighed. Delicately, she sank to the seat. Her hand was still on Midgely's shoulder, and she pulled him with her, so that they sat side by side. “I feared as much,” she said. “I begged him not to go back. But he wouldn't leave without his silly caul.”

Midge looked up with a triumphant smile. “Is it the same Simon Collins what wrote a book, mum?” he asked.

She uttered a funny little laugh that was half a sob. “Oh, his book,” she said. “How I came to loathe it. Do you know it was the book that brought him to the islands?”

Midgely looked puzzled. “But he wrote it. How …”

She stroked Midgely's arm. “We'll talk of it later, child. Tell me, can one of you operate a steamboat?”

Mr. Mullock bowed again. “You're haddressing a dab hand with the steamboats, missus. Hah! It's a fortunate day indeed.”

How quickly he could change. Not an hour before, he'd been preparing for his end. Now he was all charm. With a wink and a smile, he took her candle and held it to the engine, peering at all the polished pipes and other bits, giving each one a poke and a studious “hmmm.”

“The boiler's full,” he pronounced. “The firebox too. I can 'ave her steam up in a moment. Here, you muggins, give me a 'and.”

It was me he meant. He got me kneeling beside him, at the door of the firebox. “You'll tend to it,” he said. “Keep it stuffed, boy; we'll need every inch of steam.”

He touched the candle to the wood. The sticks were tinder dry, and the flames spread quickly along them. I threw in some more wood and closed the door. A small window let me watch the fire.

“We've only an hour till dawn,” said Mr. Mullock. “We'll 'ave to 'urry.”

He and Boggis launched the boat, easing it down the rails. They pushed and pulled it through the mangroves, then came aboard when we were clear of the trees and the ocean was empty before us. Mr. Mullock held his candle to a little gauge where a needle quivered on a dial. He tapped a small lever, then pushed on a larger one. With a thump and a hiss, the engine went to its work.

A piston moved. A crank swung round. Below the curved hood, paddle wheels were turning, and with a splash of water the boat moved forward. It all seemed too loud to me—a clicking, clacking din that was bound to alert the natives. But the boat chugged along, and what wind there was blew from behind us, gusting our smoke ahead.

There was a tiller in the stern, and Mr. Mullock sat by it. He steered us from the island, and I stuffed the firebox full, then raised my head and looked back.

Where the mission had been was a great glow of embers, a fountain of sparks that shot glittering rockets into the air. Among the trees, the smaller fires of the savages winked and blinked like many red eyes. It was all I could see. Not even the loom of the land was visible, and the sky was solid black.

In the daylight our boat was a beautiful thing. Inside and out it was varnished and polished, and it chugged along at a good clip. The missionary's island, only a slit of green at dawn, had vanished soon after. But a pall of smoke stretched behind us, for the wind had fallen calm.

The engine puffed and rattled. The paddle wheels thumped, and the water foamed along the hull. I watched the sea split at the bow, the bubbles rushing by, and guessed that a cantering horse wouldn't have gone any faster.

I was the only one with a chore. The fire demanded endless work, and I carried wood—and bent and straightened—until my every muscle ached. Each time I opened the firebox, the heat was a sweltering blow to my face. Oh, how I loathed Mr. Mullock then, sprawled as he was on the big seat in the
stern. He was so lazy that he lay back and steered with his foot, and now and then dipped a hand into the sea to sprinkle cooling dribbles on his neck and hair.

Boggis slept, snoring as loudly as the engine. Midgely leaned against the lady, who sat bolt upright on the stern seat, as far as she could be from Mr. Mullock and still be sitting there. Her arm was draped round Midgely.

“The poor little dear,” she said. “He's not made for the sun and the heat.”

She touched his cheeks. They were red and blistered, but I imagined mine were much the same, and maybe worse. As I put more wood in the box, I imagined my eyebrows were being singed away.

“It's shocking,” she said. “We have to do something for him.”

She set about it right then, turning the missionary's umbrella into a parasol for Midgely. She hoisted her skirts and tore away a bit of her petticoat—there seemed miles of it under there—and didn't Mr. Mullock's eyes grow wide? The biggest effort he made that morning was to drop his jaw and gape.

The lady plucked the old bits of cloth from the umbrella wires. She let them flutter from her fingertips and drift away.

“Was that the reverend's?” asked Mr. Mullock, who already knew that it was. “Did you say 'e was your husband, missus?”

“Good gracious, no,” she said. “I'm Lucy Beans. Lucy Elizabeth Beans.”

“A pleasure,” said Mr. Mullock, with a tip of his head.

She ignored him. “I was the nanny. Until Mrs. Collins up and left, and took the children with her. Why, that was not a week ago. Fancy that, Mr. Mullock.”

I'd thought Midgely was asleep, but he wasn't. He tipped up his head. “Why didn't you go with them, mum?”

“And leave the reverend behind?” She patted him fondly. “The poor doddering fellow. If you'd met him, you wouldn't be asking that.”

I wished I could change places with Midgely. She was the prettiest lady I'd ever seen.

“I never cared for Mrs. Collins,” she said. “No surprise to me that she took the first chance to leave. When the ship came, she was on it in a streak.”

“What ship was that?” I asked.

“Oh, a big brown ship,” said she. “The captain was very kindly. I wish I knew his name.”

“Was it Tin?” I asked. “Redman Tin?”

Boggis frowned. “That's
your
name, Tom,” he said.

“Huh!” barked Mr. Mullock. “So that's why you're so keen to meet this ship.”

“Well, no wonder,” said Lucy Beans. She opened the umbrella. “But I'm sorry, Tom, I never heard the man's name. I only called him Captain, and I saw him only briefly. He had an errand in the islands, and didn't tarry long.”

“What errand, miss?” I asked.

“He was most mysterious about it.” She ran her fingers through the wires. “He had a talk with the reverend. Then he was off—quick as that. Oh, in a great hurry he was. Afraid he was too late already.”

It had to have been my father; I was certain of it. He must have called at the mission, searching either for me or for the island where we'd agreed to find each other.

“Where did he go?” I asked.

Mr. Mullock grunted. “Your fire wants tending, you muggins.”

“Why, the boy's worn ragged,” said Lucy. “Why don't
you
tend the fire, Mr. Mullock?”

“I would,” said he. “Hah! But I'm steering.”

With a sigh, she put down the umbrella. “I shall tend it myself.”

“I wouldn't 'ear of it,” said Mr. Mullock. There was a toothed strip of metal set into the back of the boat, and he fitted the tiller to that. Then he rolled himself from the seat, stood up, stretched, and promptly kicked Gaskin Boggis awake. He put
him
to work instead.

I was happy to pass on the chores, happier still when Lucy Beans patted the seat and said, “Sit up beside me, dear.”

Content as a cat, I settled there. The smoke puffed up from the engine and wafted over our heads. The sea went burbling past. “I like this boat,” I said. “It's beautiful.”

“The reverend's pride and joy.” She picked up the umbrella and laid her petticoat across it. “He brought it out from England so that he might putter round the islands. The girls loved it too. Katy, the youngest, called it
Chickadee
.”

It was a splendid name. The engine made just that sound. As I eased back, exhausted, I heard the name repeated over and over in the rattle of cranks, the sigh and puff of steam.
Chickadee. Chuckatee. Chuckatee-chickadee.
It lulled me into sleep.

When I woke, all had changed. Midgely was steering, and Mr. Mullock—for once—was sitting like a proper person, his arm stretched behind Midgely. “Now, you're wandering again,” he said. “But for a blind boy you're doing rather well.”

Midgely was smiling. His face was all in shadow, for above it Lucy Beans was holding the umbrella, now turned to a delicate parasol.

“Where are you heading?” I asked.

“I don't even know, Tom,” he said. “But ain't it grand?”

The compass was arranged so that only Mr. Mullock could see it. When I leaned over, he crossed his legs, blocking my view of the dial.

“Lucy, how long did you live on the island?” he asked.

“A year and a half,” said she. “It was an idyll, Mr. Mullock. There was a village nearby, just a handful of houses. Katy and Mae, they played with the Indian children.”

“With the cannibals?” asked Mr. Mullock.

She laughed. “Hardly. They were the sweetest people. Then those
savages
came. Just a few days ago, I think. They came in a huge canoe with a roof and—gracious!—I don't know how many rowers. They…” She put her hand to her eyes. “I can't bear to think of the horror.”

“I
knew
the Indians here was friendly,” crowed Midgely. “That was in his book, mum.”

“By chance, then,” she said. “That silly book. I called it his fairy tale.”

Poor Midgely. His smile faded; his face collapsed. “It isn't true, mum?” he said.

“How could it be? He wrote it in England.” She tilted the
parasol. “He wrote down the tales of the vagabonds. He plied them with spirits, and they obliged with the wildest stories. But the poor dear took them to heart, and the day he finished that book he told us we were going to see the islands.”

Midgely was crestfallen, but the news was worse for me. It meant I was seeking my father, and he seeking me, in a strange, invented land. I felt suddenly close to tears. “Is there no island that looks like an elephant?” I asked. “There must be one. I'm supposed to find my father there.”

She smiled so kindly. “If it must be so, it's so,” she said.

“Hah!” barked Mr. Mullock.

“Hush, you!” she said. “The reverend didn't invent things wholly. If he wrote of an elephant island, it was because the vagabonds told him of one. It might not be where he said it is, but it's sure to be somewhere.”

Precious good that did for me. I looked all around the horizon, but couldn't see a speck of land. Boggis, in his mindless way, was feeding wood to the fire, and the boat was carrying us on. I had no idea where we were, or whither we were going.

I looked at Midgely steering blindly, at Mr. Mullock glancing at his compass. Then, in the varnished wood, I saw the dial reflected.

“North!” I said. “You're going north again.”

He looked surprised, but only for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I'm taking Miss Beans to Shanghai.”

She repeated the name. “Shanghai? Could there be a place more wild and wicked?”

“I fancy not,” said Mr. Mullock, with a grin.

“No, not since Sodom and Gomorrah,” said she. “Why, I
wouldn't go there if it were the last place on earth. What are you thinking, Mr. Mullock?”

“I…,” he said, faltering. “I thought…I wanted… Well, you see…”

“Where's this elephant island?” she asked.

“More to the east,” I said.

“Then steer to the east,” she commanded.

Mr. Mullock didn't argue. He hauled on the tiller, and the bow swung around. The smoke streamed sideways for a moment, then fell in line again behind us. For nearly an hour I could look back and see the sudden bend in its path. Slowly that dissolved, and there was nothing to show that we had ever being going anywhere but east. The horizon ahead was empty.

We burned through our wood at a staggering rate. Mr. Mullock said we could keep up our speed, or spare the wood, but not do both. “If we run 'er slowly we might go for days,” he said. “But isn't speed of the hessence 'ere?”

“Indeed,” said Lucy Beans.

In the afternoon, a group of islands appeared ahead. They slid toward us on the moving sea, and drew alongside in the evening. The lady made a game of trying to find their hidden shapes, making Midgely giggle with her guesses. “Is that a goose in a bowler hat?” she said. “And look. Isn't that Mr. Mullock? See his big nose?” She saw many things, but not an elephant, and her game lapsed into a dreary sadness.

We chuffed along until dark, then didn't really land at all. We found a place where the shore was steep and wooded,
then tethered the boat to a branch. Mr. Mullock opened the firebox and took out the burning wood. There was a pair of tongs for that purpose, and with those he plunged each stick into the sea. It steamed and hissed, and the water bubbled. Then he lifted the blackened bit—still wet and smoking—and set it in a bucket. The wood had a curious smell, quite tart and strong, that reminded me of gunpowder.

We slept in the boat, in a horde of insects that swarmed below the trees. Mr. Mullock said there might be pythons, and that we should be on our guard. “They like to drop down and stun you,” he said.

“Mercy me,” said Lucy. “But you'll stand watch through the night, won't you, Mr.… What's your Christian name, Mr. Mullock?”