Then he told all. He didn’t fudge on a bit of it, but explained how he was the very same Jack the Ripper as had cut his way through the East End whores, and how I’d attacked him in the street and lopped off his nose, and how we’d come aboard the True D. Light where he’d slit Trudy’s father with his knife and taken her prisoner, and how Michael had sailed us single-handed from London to Plymouth, and how Whittle himself had overpowered me and Trudy when we’d tried to mutiny on him, beating us and causing our injuries, and how the aim of it all was to sail for America where he might journey to the Wild West and cut up women all he pleased, like an Indian.
Well, Patrick sat silent, taking it all in. He frowned and bobbed his head and stroked his chin like he was getting a lesson in mathematics, maybe, and was working hard to keep it all straight.
“Is the situation quite clear to you now?” Whittle got around to asking him.
“Is it that you’re a foul Devil of a murdering poltroon?”
Whittle smiled, “Precisely.”
“And is it that you’ve slain this poor lady’s own father and it was your own cruel hands that thrashed her so sorely?”
“Quite.”
“And will you make this clear to me?” he asked, drawing a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He was seated on the berth beside me, facing Whittle across the narrow aisle. Course, I’d seen he had a knife all along. Just show me a seaman without one. Whittle hadn’t tried to get it off him, either.
Seemed a bit reckless, admitting all his crimes to an armed man—even if the fellow wasn’t more than seventeen, and Irish.
Well, when Patrick pulled the knife, my heart commenced to wham like thunder. Michael and Trudy laid off hugging and kissing and weeping so they could watch. Whittle, he sat calmly and didn’t even go for his knife.
Patrick pointed his blade at Whittle, shook it at him as he said, “Will you make it clear to Doolan, here, why he ought to refrain himself from sending you down this minute to the fires of Hell which are surely waiting for you?”
“It’s quite simple, really. I’ve no intention of harming you. You seem a fine, stout lad, and I’m sure you’ll be a splendid addition to our merry crew. As for my crimes, I’ve committed none against you or your kin. You needn’t bother yourself about them, really.”
“By all the saints, you’re a strange one.”
“Oh, I agree. Strange, but not mad. I’m quite sensible, actually. Quite practical. I’m well aware that, for a successful passage, I must have the cooperation of everyone on board. To insure that, I’ll be keeping Trudy close at hand. So long as I’m given no trouble, however, I’ll not harm her. At the conclusion of the voyage, I’ll take my leave of the three of you and we shall all be free to go about our business.”
“And it’s your business to shed the blood of sorry, helpless women.”
“I’m not asking friendship of you, merely your help in seeing us safely across the sea.”
“Kill him!” Trudy ripped out.
I jumped half a mile.
Maybe Patrick had already made up his mind to go for Whittle. Or maybe he’d been about ready to put his knife away. But Trudy no sooner shouted “Kill him!” than Patrick hurled himself at the Ripper, going for his throat with the blade. Quick as lightning, Whittle blocked Patrick’s slash, snatched out his own knife and jammed it into Patrick’s belly so hard it hoisted the young chap off his feet and made his cap fly off. Patrick gave out an awful grunt. As he folded at the middle, Whittle sprang up and hung on to him so he wouldn’t fall and kept the knife in him and jerked it around some, making Patrick twitch and yell.
I got up quick, thinking to join in, but Whittle fixed me with a look that stopped me cold. Besides, I was too late to help Patrick.
Michael and Trudy, they weren’t stirring themselves. They only just stood there, looking sick.
So I sat back down.
“Good lad,” Whittle said. He kept his hold on Patrick and stuck him ten or twelve more times. When Patrick was all limp and saggy, Whittle eased him down to the floor. There was more blood than I’d seen since Mary’s room. It was too much for Michael. He heaved and got some on Patrick’s head. Trudy just stood there and shook.
Whittle, he picked up Patrick’s knife off the cushion.
“The ignorant sod,” he said.
Then he told me to give him Patrick’s belt. I crouched down beside the poor fellow. His belt was all bloody so I got my hands red, but that didn’t bother me much. I felt awful sorry for him. He looked so lonesome. His eyes were open, and full of surprise and sadness.
I hadn’t known him more than a couple of hours, but I’d liked him. Seemed pretty clear to me that Trudy’d got him killed. I allowed I should try not to hold it against her, though.
Well, I got the belt off him and handed it up to Whittle. He buckled it around his waist, then shoved Patrick’s knife into the leather sheath.
“I’m afraid we’ll simply have to do without his services,” Whittle said. “Trudy, I’m famished.” With his own bloody knife, he pointed to the galley.
“What about Patrick?” I asked.
“He won’t be joining us.”
“Shouldn’t we…do something with him?”
“He’ll keep.”
Well, we left him and all went into the galley. I pumped out salt water and cleaned my hands, but Whittle kept his red. Trudy prepared our meal. There wasn’t room for all of us at the table, so I ate on my feet. I had a rough time downing much, for I felt plain miserable about poor Patrick. I could see him sprawled out on the floor if I looked through the doorway. And Whittle wasn’t much better of a sight what with his soaked sweater and how he piled food into his mouth with bloody hands.
I forced myself to clean my plate, anyhow. Michael and Trudy did the same, though they both looked a trifle green. Nobody said anything.
When we finished, it was clean-up time. Trudy had the easy job. She got to stay and wash the supper things. Seemed as how she rightly deserved to clean up the ugly mess in the saloon, her being the one that got Patrick killed. That job was given to me and Michael, though.
First off, Whittle told us to lug the body into the forward cabin.
“We’ll heave it overboard,” he explained, “once we’re out to sea.”
I could see how it might be a risky business to drop Patrick in the harbor where we might get noticed, so I didn’t complain but just grabbed his ankles and lifted. Michael took him by the wrists. We commenced to carry him along. My feet slid around on his blood, but I was careful not to step in any of Michael’s mess.
We got him into the cabin and Whittle had us put him on the floor between the berths. This was our quarters, mine and Trudy’s. I sure didn’t relish the notion of spending the night in it, locked up with Patrick’s remainders.
Turned out, it didn’t come to that. Which should’ve been a relief to me, but wasn’t much of one.
Michael and I, we shared a nasty time swabbing up the floor of the main saloon. Whittle manned the bucket. He took it topside now and again to dump it over the side.
When he got done, he told Michael we wouldn’t sail till dawn. That way, Michael could have a good night of sleep to get set for the voyage. I was to help out on deck.
Well, it came time to turn in.
Time for me and Trudy to get locked inside that tiny cabin along with Patrick.
What Whittle did, though, he told me and Michael to sleep in the saloon. Then he took Trudy along to our usual place, closed the door after they were both in, and locked it.
They were all three shut up tight together in that one little room.
We stared at the door for quite a spell. Finally, Michael sat down at the side of a bunk and hunched over and rubbed his face.
“We’d better get some sleep,” I said.
“He’s a madman,” Michael muttered. “Completely mad. And Trudy…oh, poor Trudy.”
“I’m sure he won’t kill her.”
“Some things are worse than death.”
“That may be so, but if we bide our time and keep our eyes open for the proper opportunity, we might kill Whittle and save her yet.”
He gave me a sour look. “It’s your fault we’re in this fix.”
“I’m terribly sorry for that,” I told him. “However, we’re in it, so we’ll simply have to carry on.”
After that, he crawled under the covers. I shut down the lamps, and got into the other bed. I was no sooner stretched out and comfortable than there came a quick, high “No!” from Trudy. Then Whittle let out just as mean a laugh as I’d ever heard.
That was the start of it.
For just the longest time, all manner of horrid sounds came through the dark from behind that door. Thumps. Shuffles. Whimpers. Trudy pleading and Whittle chuckling. Not a peep came out of Michael. He stayed in bed, but I didn’t reckon he was any more asleep than me.
I took a notion to get up and listen at the door. The thing is, I didn’t want to hear what was going on in there, so I gave up on the idea.
Well, Trudy fetched up a shriek that turned the marrow of my bones to ice. It ended with a hard clap. Next time she came out with one, the noise of it was soft and muffled, so I knew Whittle must’ve thrown a gag across her mouth. He’d likely done it to keep her from being heard by folks in the boats around us, or even ashore, she was that loud.
The gag quieted her down considerable, but didn’t stop the yelps and squeals and howls. Every now and then, Whittle’d say something I couldn’t quite make out. And he laughed and chuckled pretty often, like he was having himself a jolly time.
I lay there, trying hard not to wonder what he was doing with her. Couldn’t get it out of my head, though, that whatever it was, it included Patrick.
By and by, I plugged my ears. That helped. Somehow, I got to sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Overboard
Come sunup, Michael woke me. I looked at the shut door, and then at him. He had misery all over his face.
“I’m sure he didn’t kill her,” I said. “He wouldn’t do that. She’s his only hold over us.”
“I don’t wish to discuss it,” he told me.
Well, we went up on deck. The morning was cloudy, with a stiff breeze blowing. Seagulls were squawking away, and you could hear folks talking soft on boats all around us while they got ready to haul. It seemed mighty peaceful, but peculiar too. We were on a yacht chock full with madness and death, and nobody had a clue but us.
Michael didn’t talk except to give me instructions. Together, we raised anchor and set the sails. He took the helm, and we fairly scooted clear of the harbor.
Later on, he sent me below to fetch coffee and food. No sign of Whittle or Trudy. Their door was still shut. And it stayed that way while I made up a pot of coffee and threw together some bread and marmalade. I used a dull little knife that didn’t even have a point on it for spreading the jelly. But it gave me ideas, so I hunted high and low for a decent knife or any other thing that might do for a weapon. I came up with nothing but forks and dull knives. Whittle’d had plenty of time on his own, and must’ve scoured the galley to get rid of whatever might be turned against him.
I thought to give the saloon a going over, but held off, not wanting to risk it with the door so near. Besides, Whittle wouldn’t have left any sort of weapon-like items lying about in there, either.
So I gave up, for the time, and carried our coffee and bread topside. It tasted mighty fine. We were cutting through the waves at a fair clip, the sails all billowed out pale in front of us, and my only care for a while was how to drink my coffee without spilling half of it.
I sort of let on, just in my own head, that me and Michael were a couple of buccaneers setting forth on a grand adventure. We were on our way to the Far Tortugas or the Happy Isles or somesuch, where there’d be warm breezes and long white beaches aplenty and whole scads of tawnyskinned native girls with bare breasts.
But I no sooner pictured those native girls than Mary’s breast plopped down on the floor in front of my face, and that led to a raft of other thoughts, just as real and terrible, till there I was again on the Death Boat thinking about what I’d heard last night in the dark.
I saw we were empty, so I went down for more coffee. The door was shut yet. Just the sight of it gave me the fantods.
I didn’t linger about, but hurried right up to the deck as fast as I could.
Later on, the coffee got to me. I couldn’t bring myself to go below and take care of business. What they called the head was just too near that awful door. I feared it might open up in front of me and I’d have to see what was in there. So I did it over the side.
Michael had me take the helm while he did the same. After he was done, he let me stay and gave me lessons in a tired voice about how to steer and keep the canvas full. It was bully, actually. For a time, I got to forget about the horrors.
Land was still in sight, though a considerable distance off and not much more than a long smudge way out across the water. There weren’t any other boats near enough to worry about smashing into. Now and then, the sun peeked out from among the clouds and felt uncommon warm and friendly. I did a fair job of steering us along, and Michael told me so, and I judged he wasn’t such a sorry bloke, after all, even if he was a coward.
The whole while, we didn’t speak a single word about Trudy or Whittle. They must’ve been on Michael’s mind, though. They were sure on mine, like a heavy black ugliness that I couldn’t shake off for more than a minute or two at a time.
The longer they stayed locked away, the worse it all seemed.
They didn’t come out, and they didn’t. The whole morning went by. Then the afternoon crawled along. I got hungry, but didn’t mention it to Michael for fear he’d send me down to fetch food.
Near sundown, just after we’d passed Land’s End, Trudy came up through the companionway. She was barefoot, so we didn’t hear her. All of a sudden, she stepped out and was right there with us. We both gawped at her, but she didn’t so much as look at us. She hadn’t on a stitch of clothes. She was blood all over. It was mostly dried and brown. Her hair was caked with it.
She carried Patrick’s head along with her, holding it against her belly by its ears.
Just as casual as you please, she walked past us real slow to the stern and dropped the head overboard. Then she stood there, feet spread and arms out to keep her balance on the pitching deck. She stood there and gazed out behind us. Like she was watching for the head to float off in our wake, though it must’ve sunk like a rock.
We didn’t know Whittle was with us till he spoke up. “Good day, me hearties,” he said, all full of vim and fun.
He gave us a smile. Only his teeth and eyes were white. The rest of his face and the bandage on it were stained with blood. He wore the sweater and trousers from yesterday. They looked stiff.
He just gave Trudy a glance, then swung his head about, surveying the sea. “I trust you managed swimmingly in my absence.”
“My Lord, man,” Michael said, “what have you done to her?”
Whittle smiled, nodded, and patted Michael’s shoulder with a bloody hand. “You needn’t bother your…”
Splash!
We all jerked our heads aft. No Trudy.
Whittle muttered, “Damnation,” Michael stood gaping like an idiot, and I went for the stern. Hanging on to the bulwark there, I studied the water behind us while I kicked off my shoes. I spotted her. Only just her head and shoulders. She was way back, and getting farther off every second. I skinned off my sweater and dove.
The cold water squeezed the breath right out of me. Coming up for air, I heard a call and glanced around. Whittle, at the rear, flung a life-ring after me. It landed short, so I had to lose some time swimming for it. While I did that, I saw Michael turning the boat so it wouldn’t get away from us altogether.
With the life-ring tucked under one arm, I went for Trudy again. For a while, she was out of sight and I figured maybe she’d gone under for good. Bu
t then a wave picked me up high and I caught a peek at her.
If she’d meant to drown herself, she must’ve changed her mind. Otherwise, wouldn’t she just have let herself sink? I wondered if she hadn’t fallen overboard by accident, but then I judged she’d done it on purpose—if not to put an end to her miseries, then ‘cause she simply couldn’t stand all that blood on her body for even a second longer and had to either bathe it off in the ocean or die trying.
Each time a swell hoisted me, I got a look at her. The space between us shortened, but she was still a good piece off. The cold water stiffened me up something awful. She’d been in longer than me, so we didn’t either of us have much time left. I figured it was all up, just about.
Well, then Trudy noticed I was coming after her. She hadn’t seen me before, I reckon, on account of the rough waters. All of a sudden, she came swimming straight at me. It wasn’t but a couple minutes before we joined up, and she hooked an arm through the ring.
We both hung on it, shivering and gasping for air. She didn’t say a thing, not even to thank me. I didn’t hold it against her, though. Neither of us was in any shape to talk, and besides, it was just her way not to appreciate a thing I ever did for her.
We clung to that ring like a couple of strangers. Now and then, our legs collided or tangled, the way we were kicking to help the floater stay up.
Each time the waves hoisted us, we got a look at the True D. Light. It came circling around real slow, and I didn’t hold out much hope of it reaching us before we froze up and sank. But then one time we came out of a deep valley and there was Whittle rowing the skiff toward us.
And wasn’t I glad to see him!
By and by, he paddled right up beside us. Trudy let go the ring. She grabbed an oar he held out to her, worked her way along it, and draped herself over the gunnel. The boat near capsized, but Whittle scurried to the other side and it was all right.
She didn’t have a trace of blood on her. Not that I could see, and I guess I saw every part of her, pretty near, while she struggled into the skiff and then later, after I was in. I didn’t see any fresh wounds, either. She had all the bruises and marks from the whipping and hanging Whittle’d given her, but nothing fresh. So every bit of the blood must’ve been Patrick’s. In its own way, that was almost worse to think about than if the blood had come out of her own body.
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