The Call of the Wild: Klondike Cannibals, Vol. 2

by Herbert Ashe

  A lantern slowly moved about on the ship’s deck, temporarily illuminating stacks of crates, and casting long shadows. Jack figured it must be a guard, out patrolling.

  He waited a few minutes more, until he was certain he wouldn’t be noticed, then stood up and slipped out of the gap. After sitting cramped for most of the afternoon in the narrow crawlspace it felt wonderful to be moving again. His stiff leg muscles throbbed as he made his way over to a small wooden jetty he’d noticed earlier, located about halfway between the Umatilla and the Argo.

  Once there, he stripped down to his underwear, and placed his clothes and shoes in a neat folded pile—just a young man out for a late-night swim down by the docks.

  He walked to the end of the jetty and dove into the black water.

  There was a moment of cool plunging and arcing through darkness and bubbles before his head resurfaced. He swam out a little, wanting to put some distance between himself and the shore, so he would be harder to spot.

  Then he turned around, and casually studied the Argo while treading water. It looked a lot like a smaller version of the Umatilla: it too was overloaded, and sitting low in the water.

  Through the darkness, Jack thought he spotted a ladder running up the side of the ship.

  He swam a little closer. It was indeed a ladder: the first few rungs were encrusted with barnacles and dripping with slime, but he knew he should be able to reach up and pull himself up out of the water without too much trouble.

  From there it would be a quick climb up to the deck.

  Energized by his plan of action, Jack swam back to the jetty, and climbed out of the water. Dripping, he walked quickly over to his clothes. He placed his shoes inside the legs of his pants, and then wrapped his shirt around both, tying everything up into a tight little bundle.

  Then he snuck closer to the rear of the Argo.

  Jack swung the bundle once, twice, then tossed it into the air.

  As soon as it was out of his hands, his stomach clenched tight. He hadn’t thrown it right: it wouldn’t make it over the side of the Argo, it would fall into the water between the ship and the pier, it would somehow make noise, and attract attention…

  But the bundle disappeared silently over the side of the ship. Success! He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Now all he had to do was get on board and find his dry clothes again.

  * * * * *

  Jack slipped back into the water, which now felt very warm to him, and swam back around the side of the Argo to the ladder.

  He managed to climb out with ease, as he’d expected. The iron rungs were cool in his hands and sharp against the sensitive bottoms of his feet. He was halfway up the ladder when he suddenly saw lantern light flashing over his head.

  He froze.

  Now he could hear footsteps on the deck above him, coming closer. Of course the guard would periodically check this ladder, wouldn’t he, while making his rounds? That’s what Jack would do, in his position.

  The guard set his lantern down on the edge of the railing, just ten feet or so above Jack’s head.

  “Hey! You there!” The guard called out, waving his lantern in a broad arc over his head. “I can see you.”

  Jack peered up at him. To his horror, he saw the guard raise a rifle.

  A cold shot of adrenalin coated his stomach. He half-expected a gunshot to ring out at any moment. He tensed his muscles, readying to hurl himself backwards off the ladder.

  But, for some strange reason, he hesitated.

  It was a lucky thing too, because a moment later, Jack realized the guard was not shouting at him at all, but rather at a small rowboat that had been slowly making its way towards the Argo.

  Jack turned around to look at it. There were a couple of men aboard, although in the darkness it was hard to tell exactly how many. As soon as the guard shouted they began rowing away. Jack figured they must be thieves, looking to sneak aboard and steal grubstaking supplies, or anything else they could get their hands on.

  But the guard—and his rifle—seemed to have scared them off.

  Somehow the guard did not see Jack, hanging there on the ladder right below him. After a few moments more, the lantern light moved off, and the guard walked away.

  Jack forced himself to wait, perfectly still, for a minute or two.

  Then he continued up the ladder.

  * * * * *

  Once Jack was on deck he crouched low, so that his silhouette couldn’t be spotted above the railing.

  The good news was that there were a hundred places to hide: there were stacks of boxes and crates everywhere, wrapped in tarps, chained and locked with iron padlocks.

  He waited, watching until the guard’s lantern drew close to the bow of the ship. Then he began moving swiftly in the other direction, towards the stern, where he’d tossed his bundle of clothes.

  But his mind was already running ahead of itself. Once dressed, how exactly he was going to get below decks and find Dr. Fiddler? And what on Earth would he do when he found him?

  He heard something, close by, so he froze in his steps.

  He ducked and crept behind a stack of crates labelled “Tinned Beef.” He listened hard for a minute. He could hear waves gently lapping against the side of the boat, and the pounding of his heart in his ears.

  Nothing else.

  After a few moments, he decided that his mind was playing tricks on him. He was about to start moving when he heard the sound again.

  Footsteps. Real close.

  The night was dark: the thin crescent moon cast a ghostly light. He squinted, but saw nothing except the dim forms of the stacks…

  Then Jack spotted a figure, just a couple of feet away. It was a small Asian boy. About thirteen or fourteen, at most.

  Who is that? Jack wondered. A passenger? A stowaway? He didn’t look like a member of the gang—

  Acting on a sudden impulse, Jack reached out and grabbed the boy’s wrist as he passed by. Who knew? he might provide Jack with invaluable information about the gang or the ship.

  But Jack’s impulsive move proved to be a mistake. As soon as the boy felt Jack’s hand touch him, he shrieked in terror, and leapt backwards, falling over in the process.

  “Shhh!” Jack hissed, scrambling forward. He covered the boy’s mouth with his hand. “I’m not gonna—”

  Red-hot agony shot through his fingers.

  Jack jerked his hand away instinctively. Suddenly the boy managed to twist out of his grip, and dive into a small gap between some nearby crates, disappearing.

  Jack stared down as his bleeding fingers in disbelief. The boy had bitten him!

  In the distance, a dog began barking.

  He clenched his hand into a fist, and felt a wet squishing between his knuckles. The boy’s teeth had broken through his skin in a number of places.

  He stayed where he was, crouching and listening. The boy hadn’t begun yelling or making any noise. From this, Jack figured he wasn’t with the gang after all, or he would be calling out for help. Not that it really mattered, now that the general alarm had been raised.

  Jack hurried on towards the stern.

  He wouldn’t be able to hide anywhere on deck for long, not with a dog sniffing him out. As soon as he found his clothes he’d try to head below deck. Perhaps in the confusion—

  He spotted the bundle next to some crates. It was wedged between them and the inner side of the ship’s hull. He crouched down beside it, and had just begun unwrapping it when he felt the cold press of steel against his throat.

  He froze.

  “Stand up,” a voice hissed. “Slowly.”

  The tip of the blade dug, ever so slightly, into the tender skin of his throat. One push, and his windpipe would split right open.

  He straightened up, very carefully, and turned around.

  “What are you doing here?” the voice asked.

  It was Annie.

  * * * * *

  Her hair was different. Black, the colour of ravens.


  In the dim light of the moon he saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes. How they widened, ever so slightly, when she saw him.

  At first, he was embarrassed that she’d caught him there in his underwear. But his embarrassment was quickly replaced with confusion.

  What was she doing? he wondered. Pictures from dime novels raced through his mind. The Argo was transporting white girls into slavery, somewhere in Africa, or the Orient. The gang knew some terrible secret, and it placed Annie wholly in their power. Maybe she was in disguise, and trying to escape? Maybe that’s why her hair was different. Maybe—

  And then all at once he knew.

  Of course. She was one of them.

  They had all been shills, in that crowd in front of Dr. Fiddler’s gaming-table. Annie, her aunt.

  Everyone except Jack.

  In the first moment of his realization, he felt hurt, stung by betrayal. But almost instantly he hardened. Fine, he thought. It’s better this way. The moment of connection he’d thought he’d felt with her had been a lie, just part of the honey-trap.

  His blood boiled. He’d been so easily suckered.

  He wondered how many others like him there’d been, how many other men she’d played in just this way.

  “I came for my money,” he said.

  “Put your clothes on,” she said. She looked in the direction of the approaching lantern. “Quick!”

  “No.”

  She glared at him and pressed the tip of the knife forward ever so slightly. It hadn’t yet broken the skin, but would soon.

  They could hear the barking of the dog getting closer, and a couple of men’s voices now…

  “Please go,” she whispered. “They’ll kill you if they find you here.”

  He stared at her. He knew he could make a break for the railing and hurl himself off the side of the boat. Sure, it would hurt to hit the water from this height, but Jack had done his share of cliff-jumping in his youth, and knew exactly what to do.

  But he wasn’t going to do that.

  “Let them,” he said, fixing her with a steady stare.

  The barking of the dog got louder and louder, and now they could hear the sound of the dog’s paws scrambling on the deck, too, the slink and slide of its leash, the gnashing of its teeth…

  Two lanterns flew past where they stood, and kept going. The barking receded a little into the distance.

  “This is your last chance,” she said.

  The intensity between them was electric.

  Then a lantern was suddenly thrust towards them, and they were caught in its brittle light.

  “Our hero is back,” Dr. Fiddler said. He seemed a little drunk: his words were slurred.

  “He wants his money,” Annie said quickly. She lowered her blade from Jack’s throat, and took a step away from him.

  “Oh,” Dr. Fiddler chuckled. “Is that all?” He’d seen them there, caught in an awkward moment, Jack was sure of it.

  Annie blushed and looked away.

  Jack got dressed as quickly as he could, trying not to get any blood from his hand on his clothes.

  In the darkness behind the glare of Dr. Fiddler’s lantern loomed Indian Jack, holding a growling German boxer on a short leash on one side, and the Chinese boy, his face expressionless, on the other.

  As soon as Jack was fully clothed, Dr. Fiddler said: “Let’s go below.” He looked at Annie. “You too.”

  “Is that really necessary, Richard?” she asked, her voice turning soft and melodious. “It’s late, and—”

  “Your charms won’t work on me, my lady,” Dr. Fiddler said. He pulled a small bottle of medicinal laudanum out of his black coat, unscrewed the tiny cap, and took a swig. His pale throat shivered a little, and his eyes rolled up into his head for a moment or two.

  “You know that,” he said, grinning at her.

  * * * * *

  They took Annie, Jack, and the boy, below deck, whisking them down a steep staircase and through a set of double-doors into a saloon, thick with blue cigar smoke, where a dozen rough-looking gangsters sat around a large table, playing poker.

  Jack immediately recognized the man with the bowler hat from the carriage, and the three young wolves that came at him yesterday, seated around the table. He was surprised to see Annie’s prim and proper aunt, dressed now like a Parisian whore, sitting on one of the men’s laps.

  “Welcome!” the man in the bowler hat called out in a rich Southern drawl. “Most welcome!”

  To Jack’s surprise, Annie crossed directly over to the man, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Lindy!” She turned to look at Jack. “This… was the one from yesterday I told you about…”

  The man in the bowler hat put his cards face down on the table. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The hero.” He stood up and walked over.

  “Merritt Lind,” he said, extending his hand.

  About forty-five years old, Merritt looked energetic. His black hair was streaked with grey at his temples, and he sported a small and elegant salt and pepper moustache. His eyes were gray, hawk-like, full of intelligence. The cool intellect hinted at in his eyes was warmed in no small degree by the mischievous smile that periodically played across his thin lips.

  “Jack London.”

  They shook hands.

  “A most memorable name! How fortunate for you.”

  Then Merritt noticed the boy at Dr. Fiddler’s side. “And who is the little Chinaman?” he asked.

  The boy didn’t say anything: he just stared stonily down at his feet.

  When the gangsters took notice of the boy, Jack heard a low mutter go round the table. Anti-Chinese feeling had been running high for years, and that was before the recent outbreak of the plague…

  “He is my servant,” Jack blurted out.

  He didn’t know why he did it. Not really.

  Perhaps it was a reflex from his old tramping days when he’d have to invent stories on the spot to beg himself a hot meal, or talk his way out of a tight fix. In troubled times, it paid for tramps to stick together. You never knew when the man at your side would repay the favour.

  “What I mean to say,” Jack continued earnestly, “is that Bao has worked for my family for many years. When his older sister died of consumption last year his care passed to me…”

  Jack was a good talker: he was through and through what the road kids called “profesh.” He could instantly concoct a story with the ring of truth to it. He had a fluid soul that could fill vessels of any shape: he got along just as easily with librarians as with sailors.

  Jack used that skill now, inventing a hundred details about the boy’s backstory as he started recounting the sad story of his sister’s tragic illness, and the family’s hopes for the boy’s education. In Jack’s telling, he’d told Bao to wait on shore while he’d snuck aboard the Argo, but the boy had disobeyed and followed him anyway, out of an excess of loyalty.

  Merritt held up his hand at this. “You intrigue me Jack,” he said. “But I know a bullshitter when I see one.”

  Jack held steady, returning his gaze. “Likewise,” he said.

  A murmur of surprise went round the poker table. Jack knew challenging Merritt like this in front of his gang was dangerous, crazy even.

  But at least he was committed to a course of action. There would be no backing down now. He boldly returned Merritt’s gaze.

  “Ha!” Merritt said after a moment. He took another puff of his cigar. “I like your grit, boy!”

  “I hate to interrupt,” Dr. Fiddler said. His eyes were icy blue, cold as night. There was something of the infinity of space in them. “But perhaps Miss O’Quinn can help us understand this breach in our security.” He turned to Annie. “Just how did you happen to find our friend Jack here running around on deck half-naked?”

  It was as if Dr. Fiddler was intentionally trying to make Merritt jealous.

  Whether he was or not, it seemed to work: a slight frown flickered across Merritt’s brow as he looked first at Annie, and then over at J
ack.

  The gangsters at the table held still, sensing violence.

  “I spotted her on deck and followed her,” Jack said smoothly. “But she got a knife to my throat, in the end.”

  Merritt laughed, and Jack saw the glint of a couple of gold fillings in his mouth.

  “That’s my Sadie,” Merritt said. He turned to look at her. They all did.

  She was even more impossibly beautiful here, by gaslight: there was a wildness in her emerald eyes as she stared back at them, still fuming at Dr. Fiddler’s insinuation that she’d been caught in some sort of intrigue with Jack.

  Merritt turned to Jack and inspected him a little more carefully, as if measuring his potential as a rival. “I suppose you are now madly in love with her. If so, you’d better rescue her quick. You see, we are to be married upon our arrival in Dawson City…”

  Jack felt a surge of hatred for her—Annie, Sadie—whatever her name was.

  “You can keep her,” he said. “I just want my money back.”

  Merritt hardened a little. He waved his hand dismissively. “Consider it a fee for your weakness, my boy,” he said. “A college education in the way of the world. Those who can, take…”

  “Well you’re gonna have to kill me then. Because I’m not leaving.”

  The gangsters sitting at the table chuckled and looked at each other. Jack saw the three wolves exchange hungry glances. The one whose nose Jack had broken reached down and rested a hand on the revolver holstered around his waist.

  Merritt just kept smiling, and Jack noticed for the first time the unusual smallness of his front teeth. “We got your money,” Merritt said, “which is good for us. You get to stay at home, which is good for you. I’d call that a bargain.”

  “I’m not staying anywhere,” Jack said defiantly.

  “So what’s your game then? You want to go North, I suppose?”

  “Yes.” Jack saw no reason to lie.

  “And why should we take you?”

  Jack could see that Merritt was half-serious, and sensed an opportunity. He certainly didn’t have any problems with joining the gang from a moral point of view. After all, the whole world was run by criminals: industrialists, politicians, bankers—none of whom felt the least shame about their crimes. Why should anyone else?