The Castaways (9 page)

I watched him peel potatoes, his knife going back and forth. The parings piled up on the table, but he was mindless of the brown bits of rot that he was uncovering.

“And why would the King want to meet either of
them?”
he said. “No, Tom, it doesn’t make sense. You didn’t understand.”

Well, I did understand. I knew that we would arrive in the West Indies, or America, and that Boggis would meet the King. It sounded most unlikely, but somehow it
had
to make sense.

As we traveled on, I saw the North Star rising higher each night. Over the courses and over the topsails it went, sailing by in the darkness. The great plow was like the hand of a huge clock, its turning a reminder that our journey would end.

I was sitting on the hatch, gazing up at it one night, when Midgely groped out of the darkness and appeared at my side. His cold hand touched my arm.

“Tom, I woke up remembering,” he said. Penny and Boggis were asleep in the cookhouse, and Weedle was steering. “Those sailors what talked to me mam? There was one what knew a fellow so mean they called him
Beastly
.”

I thought of the man in the hold, his last words uttered in fear.
“Beastly, you mean. Of course, I knew Beastly.”

“You see, Tom, it’s like Beezley, but it ain’t,” said Midge. “But he was a captain, Tom, this fellow. They called him Captain Beastly.”

“Oh, Midge, of course!” I cursed myself for being too stupid to see it sooner. “That’s why he’s not on the list, why he’s not in the story. Mr. Beezley was never cast away by the captain. He
was
the captain.”

“You see, that’s what I wondered,” said Midge. “But why would the captain leave his ship? How would the captain get marooned on a bit of ice?”

Well, I had no answers for that. “What else did the sailor tell you?” I asked.

“Only that Captain Beastly flogged three men to death ’cause someone pinched his salt,” said Midge. “Only that he had a price on his head, that’s all.”

I could see the picture coming together. My father had always told me that Goodfellow ships were commanded by thieves and cutthroats. I already knew beyond doubt that our Mr. Beezley had been on this ship, and now I thought I knew why he would always deny it. He was heading for the gold-fields so that he might vanish into the wilds of America.

But what about King George? That remained an absolute mystery as we bashed our way north through the trade winds. The following week we made our landfall.

A chain of scattered islands appeared on the horizon. We worked our way between them, into the wondrous world of the Caribbean, and soon arrived at Mr. Beezley’s destination.

It was a large island—a beautiful place—with a sheltered bay on its southern side. A British flag was flying at the end of a long pier, and the wind smelled richly of earth and trees. As we beat our way toward the pier, five people emerged from the shore, walking out along it.

Mr. Beezley had the wheel. We had already hauled up the courses and the gallants, and now we lowered the jib, leaving only the main topsail. With his mane rippling from his cheeks, his tattooed hands on the spokes, Mr. Beezley aimed the bowsprit right for the pier. He went on so steadily that the people scattered from our path, and even Mr. Moyle looked worried. But at the last moment he rounded the ship into the wind and brought us neatly alongside. After thousands of miles, and days too many to count, we came to a stop at last.

Mr. Beezley looked out onto the pier. There were two men and three boys, brown-skinned all but one. “Why, there he is!” Up went his hand, and he waved gaily. “Good day to you, King George.”

The pale-skinned man stepped forward. He was a stout little fellow in old-fashioned breeches, like a stuffed chicken strutting down the dock on a pair of fat drumsticks. He was wearing a hat of woven grass, and a belt into which he’d jammed a huge pistol. He motioned to his native companions, who set about to secure the ship.

“Your Majesty!” Mr. Beezley shouted. “Please, come aboard.”

The little fellow put a hand on his pistol and clambered over the rail. From a string around his neck hung a set of keys so bulky that it nearly toppled him forward.

Now, there was nothing kingly about the man. Sweaty and pink, he was the most ordinary sort of fellow. He could
have been a costermonger without a barrow, or a crossing sweeper who’d forgotten his broom. But poor blind Midgely, at my side, knelt on the deck. He touched one knee to the wood and bowed his head. “Your Majesty,” he muttered.

“It’s not the
King,”
I snapped. “It’s only a funny man in a funny hat. Now get up, Midge.”

The fellow scowled at Mr. Beezley He raised his little hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You’re more than a month behind times,” he said. “We gave you up as lost.”

“There was trouble, George,” said Mr. Beezley.

“Open the hatch. We’ll have a look below.”

“There’s no need—”

“Indulge us!” shouted the fellow in a voice that was twice his size. “We would like to see what you’ve brought.”

Weedle was hovering nearby like a servant. He hopped forward now. “I’ll do it, Mr. B.”

“Shut up, you toad-licker!” roared Mr. Beezley. “Go and stand by the starboard rail. All of you stand over there.”

We did as he told us. Weedle skulked with his tail between his legs, and Benjamin Penny glanced about like a rat emerging from darkness. I saw Midgely feeling the air with one hand, and regretted my sharp words. I led him to the rail and kept him at my side.

Mr. Beezley and Mr. Moyle circled the hatch, freeing its metal dogs. The little King only watched as they heaved the lid aside. A cloud of flies welled up, and a waft of that terrible stench. Mr. Moyle stepped over the high coaming, into the breadfruit and coconuts. He cleared the trap and hauled it open.

The King peered down into the hold. “Good Lord!” he said. “Good Lord almighty.” He turned away, clearly sickened by what he’d seen. “We deal with slaves, not corpses,” he said.

Neither Weedle nor Penny had any understanding of our true cargo. One turned to the other, and together they asked, “What’s down there?”

The King was already retreating from the ship. Mr. Beezley followed him over the rail, crying, “Wait, Your Majesty! Don’t get all high and mighty; there’s more than what you see.”

“What else could there be?” said the King.

Beezley and Moyle and the little man stood together on the pier. They talked quickly and quietly, with much pointing and head-shaking. Mr. Beezley, especially, kept glancing toward us.

“Mr. B’s striking his bargain with that little cove,” said Weedle. “When he’s done it’s on to the goldfields for us. But not for Tom Tin.”

I had come to the same conclusion. With our voyage over, and the ship secured, there was no need for me anymore. Mr. Beezley wouldn’t wait much longer to get me “out of the picture.”

The cloud of flies brought a cloud of birds. In flashes of yellow and ochre and brown, they darted through the rigging, over the cookhouse, up and down the deck. Their twitters and shrieks were beautiful to hear, but unnerving as well. I had become too used to the sounds of the sea, the rush and pulse of waves that still echoed in my ears.

On the dock, King George took off his hat to flap it at the birds.

Mr. Beezley’s voice was growing louder. “Keep your money, you old pirate,” he said. “It’s shovels and picks and powder I want.”

“All right, all right,” said the King. “Bring your lot ashore.”

As the King started down the dock, Mr. Beezley reached out and snatched the pistol from his belt. The little man tried to catch it as it soared up past his head, and looked for a moment like a fat boy trying to catch a runaway balloon. Then he made sure that his keys still hung at his neck, and, with his hand on his shirt, he hurried away.

“No less than three barrels of powder!” shouted Mr. Beezley. “And have your men clean up the ship. It’s disgusting down below.”

The King trotted down the dock with the birds swooping round his head. Mr. Beezley, now armed, came over the rail again. He bounced the gun in his hand, turning it end for end, then tightened his grip and cocked the hammer. Behind him came Mr. Moyle, who rubbed his flattened nose and smiled a piggy smile.

“Off the ship!” said Mr. Beezley. He pointed the gun at my face. “Go on. And take the blind boy with you. You’ve come to the end of your road, Tom Tin.”

I took Midgely’s hand. He looked sad and disappointed as I led him toward the rail.

“Hurry!” shouted Mr. Beezley. “The rest of you behind him.”

“Except for me, right, Mr. B?” said Weedle. “Ain’t that—”

“All of you!”

I kept hold of Midgely’s hand. I led him onto the pier, where the British flag curled above us in the breeze. Weedle and Penny and Boggis came after us, and the fellows who’d tied the ship now went aboard, plodding glumly to their dreadful task of cleaning the hold.

“Keep walking,” said Mr. Beezley.

The pier was made of planks set crosswise, so that the water flickered in the narrow gaps between them. My eyes knew it was solid and still, but my legs didn’t, nor did my brain. Those planks seemed to heave and bend, and I staggered toward the land. One moment I bumped against Midgely, the next we fell apart to the lengths of our arms.

As we came closer to the shore, I saw a clearing in the trees. More of it came into view with every step we took. There was a woman hanging laundry on a line, struggling with sheets that were white and blowzy. A little girl with a bright pinafore and golden curls was playing nearby at a lonely game. With the sun in the trees, and the birds flitting past, we might have come to a place as pleasant as Fiddler’s Green.

I could hear Boggis walking heavily behind us, Weedle and Penny whispering together. Midge tugged my hand as we tramped along. “Where are we, Tom?” he said. “It feels gloomy, like it’s raining but it ain’t. Tell me the truth now. What do you see?”

“A mother and her child,” I said. The gold-haired girl was seated at a tiny table, and in other chairs sat her dolls,
propped upright like bits of lumber. “She’s having a tea party,” I said.

“What else?” asked Midge. “Tom, I can hear irons.”

There was a wooden fence appearing now, two fathoms tall or more. It reminded me of Mr. Moyle’s brown teeth, for the poles were of a ragged height, chiseled into pointed tops.

We were walking toward it, driven on by Mr. Beezley I could hear him clicking the hammer on his gun, and the others muttering as they trudged behind me. On shore a gate swung open in the wall. The little King stepped through, looking smaller than ever in the oversized door, like one of the girl’s little tea-party dolls.

“That’s far enough,” said Mr. Beezley, and we all came to a halt.

Midgely crouched on the dock. He rubbed his hands along one of the planks, then over the one beside it. He was feeling the edges of a shallow rut that was worn into every plank, that stretched the length of the dock from the shore to its end. “Tom, please tell me the truth,” he said.

I knew right away what had made that rut. I had helped to grind similar marks into the decks of the prison hulk
Lachesis
, where the chains on our ankles had dragged behind us.

Midgely knew it too. “Holy jumping mother of Moses,” he said. “We’re going to be sold as slaves.”

On the heels of the King came six large men. They walked Indian file, in a rattle of metal, for they were burdened down with loads of chain and shackles, with shovels and picks and axes.

Round the neck of each man was an iron collar, and to each collar was fixed the end of a heavy bar. The six men, coupled into a human train, had to keep the same pace with their bare feet pounding. They rocked to the left together, then rocked to the right as one, and with each step came the jingle and rattle of metal.

The little girl looked up from her tea party to watch the slaves go by. There was a small silver pot in her hand, tipped above the tiny cups. A bit of hair had fallen across her face,
but she didn’t brush it aside. She watched the slaves with no expression, as lifeless as her dolls.

Across the lawn, her mother dropped the laundry basket. She ran to the table, swooped on the girl, and snatched her off to the house. The girl cried, reaching back, because one of her dolls had toppled.

Mr. Beezley went past us and down the dock toward the little King. I grabbed Midge and whirled him around, thinking we’d run back to the ship. But Mr. Moyle was there to stop me.

“You’ll not be going anywhere, boy,” said he.

The dock was not more than eight feet wide, and about the same height above the water. There was nowhere to go except into the sea, and I couldn’t do that. I imagined plunging to the bottom, where yellow sand rippled faintly in the sunlight. The vision of my sister pulled drowned from the Thames came suddenly to my mind, followed by a memory of my cold tumble from the prison hulk. I remembered my sense of panic in the water, and knew I couldn’t leap from the pier even to save little Midgely.

The slaves came tramping with their chains. The heaviness of their steps sent trembles through the pier.

Ten paces away, they set down their loads. They made a heap of the chains and irons and tools, then turned back for more. There wasn’t room to turn the human chain on the pier, so each man pivoted within his collar, trying to hold the iron apart so that it wouldn’t scrape away his skin.

The King put his foot on the stack of shovels. “Imagine three barrels of powder added to this. Do you know, I believe it’s a generous offer.”

“Not enough,” said Mr. Beezley. “Not after the troubles I’ve weathered to get here. A mutinous crew; a fever that felled them like flies. We had to abandon ship—Mr. Moyle and myself—in a sieve of a boat that sank within days. We survived on a bit of ice as big as your tabletop.”

So
that
was the tale of Captain Beastly. He had abandoned his own ship in fear of the fever and a crew who despised him. Mr. Beezley—and his “Cruel Mate,” Mr. Moyle—were castaways sure enough. But they’d been cast away by themselves.