If somehow we got lucky enough to survive the ocean trip, Whittle was bound to butcher all three of us the moment we got in sight of land.
Just no way he’d let us go free.
It all looked mighty bleak except for one thing. He aimed to have me help out, and I couldn’t do that trussed up with ropes.
I lifted my bound hands out from under the covers. “When would you like me to start?”
He laughed at that.
“Michael might need help,” I explained. “You wouldn’t want him to run aground or anything, would you?”
“Nor would I want you to jump ship. I’m quite certain of Michael’s eagerness to cooperate. He’s in love with Trudy, and knows I’ll rip her, so to speak, should he vex me. I trust him entirely. At least so long as I keep Trudy within reach of my blade. She means little or nothing to you, however.”
“I don’t want you hurting her.”
“I shall, of course, if you cause me trouble. Nevertheless, your heart isn’t bound to hers. You might choose to risk her for the sake of your own freedom.”
“I wouldn’t,” I told him. To this day, I don’t know whether or not I spoke the truth.
I surely was eager to get untied and up on deck where I could dive overboard and swim for shore. But if that meant cashing in Trudy’s life…well, I just don’t know.
But I was spared the need to decide.
Whittle said, “You’ll remain here in the cabin with us until we’re well out to sea.”
It wouldn’t do to argue. Any kind of fuss from me, and he’d give Trudy a punch, or worse.
I laid back down and worked the covers up around my neck and turned my back to the both of them. Would’ve been a blessing to fall asleep, but I was in too much turmoil. Besides, my head hurt from the bash Trudy’s father had given it.
He’d whacked me a good one, but I’d killed him just as sure as if the knife had been in my own hand. There he’d been, fixing to set sail for France with his daughter and sonin-law, and I’d led the Ripper right to him. It weighed on me. I told myself it was his own fault for knocking me senseless. If he hadn’t been so quick with his club, I could’ve warned him. Together, we might’ve handled Whittle.
Well, I’d snuck onto his yacht in the wee hours, bare to the waist and a knife in my teeth. He couldn’t be blamed for getting the wrong idea. Then Whittle’d rowed up, no doubt with a story about being attacked on the streets by me, and the old man must’ve allowed him aboard to take me off.
If only I’d picked a different boat, Trudy and her father and Michael, they’d all be on their way to Calais.
I’d done this to them.
For a spell there, I had a mighty hard struggle not to start crying. That would’ve given Whittle no end of amusement and besides I didn’t want Trudy to take me for a sniveling boy.
I wondered if she hated me for bringing the Ripper into her life.
Right then I vowed to save her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ropes
“Trevor? Trevor?”
A sweet, quiet voice woke me, so I must’ve fallen asleep after all. Though I knew it wasn’t Mother calling to me, just for a bit I thought I was home in my own bed.
But my hands and feet were bound and the bed was bouncing up against me and rocking from side to side. That reminded me, all too quick, of where I was and how I’d gotten there.
Opening my eyes, I rolled over. It was night. The cabin was aglow with murky light from an oil lamp.
Whittle was gone.
Trudy lay under covers, only her face showing.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“He went to the galley for food.”
I could scarcely believe that he’d left us alone. With Michael manning the boat and both of us tied, however, he had no choice but to fetch food himself or starve. I rather hoped he would bring some for us. The mere thought of it was enough to set my dry mouth watering, my stomach growling.
“We’ve got to do something,” Trudy said.
I sat up, dragging the bedclothes to my chest. They did little to warm my backside, but this was no time to worry about the cold. Shivering a bit, I gave the cabin a study. It was narrow and just long enough for the two berths, with walls at each end. The wall near my feet had a door in it.
“Where does that go?” I asked.
“Aft,” Trudy said. She sat up, too. Her covers tumbled down to her lap. I could see she was still tied, arms pinned to her sides by ropes wrapped around her middle. “We’re in the forward cabin. The galley’s aft.”
“Through that door?”
“There’s the head, then the main saloon, then the galley.”
I didn’t know what she meant by some of that, but figured she was trying to tell me that Whittle’d gone pretty near to the other end of the boat.
“He quizzed me about our supplies,” Trudy said. “He wants a hot meal. So he’s bound to be away for a while. Come over here and untie me.”
“Well…” I said.
“Quick!”
“Is there a way to get out of here?”
“We shan’t know that until we try. Now, don’t argue.”
“I’m not wearing a stitch of clothing, ma’am.”
“Do as I say.”
Some of my sympathy for Trudy leaked away. For a poor helpless damsel in distress, she seemed a trifle bossy.
But I gave it some thought and saw how this might be a chance to save ourselves. It’d be a shame to miss it on account of my modesty. So I swung myself off the bed. I stood up. Cupping my private parts, I hopped across the space between our beds. Before the jumping floor got a chance to throw me down, I dropped to my knees.
The air fairly froze me. I clenched my teeth to stop their clicking, and reached up for Trudy.
The way my hands were bound at the wrists, I had free use of my fingers. I used them to pluck at the knot in front of Trudy. It was tight against her belly. The twisted bundle of hemp felt hard as iron. My shaky fingers picked at it, slipped off, and tried again.
“Use your teeth.”
I pushed my face in against her and clamped my front teeth on the knot. She was nice and warm through her gown. I could feel her press against me when she breathed. I tried to pay her no mind and only think about the job.
The knot gave some.
I kept on tugging. It made my teeth ache, but I could feel it loosen. I pulled my head away and tore at the knot with my fingers until it came open.
Trudy pulled her arms out of the ropes. She flung her covers aside and leaned forward to work on her ankles. While she was busy with that, I gnawed on the knot at my wrists. I undid it some, and got my hands free.
Sitting on the cold wood between the beds, I struggled with the rope around my ankles.
It seemed like some kind of a race to see who’d get done first. But the race was really to get clear of the ropes before Whittle came back through the door.
Not that I had a notion what we’d do once we got ourselves untangled.
Likely as not, we’d only accomplish getting ourselves killed a little quicker than otherwise.
Trudy beat me at getting free. I was still unwrapping my ankles when she stepped down off her bed and rushed to the door. She tried its handle.
“Drat,” she said. “He locked it.”
“He’d be a fool not to.” I kicked the rope away and got to my feet. While Trudy still had her back turned, I yanked a blanket off my bed and wrapped it around myself. “We might be able to bash through it,” I suggested.
“He’d hear the ruckus.”
She came toward me. I retreated a few steps, and watched her stretch for something that looked like a trap door in the ceiling. She unlatched it and pushed up against it.
“Where does that go?” I asked.
“It’s the hatch to the forward deck.” She shoved again, grunting.
“Let me have a go at it.”
“It’s no use. It must be latched topside.”
“Shouldn’t Mic
hael be able to open it for us, then?”
She didn’t answer that, but commenced to knuckle the hatch with both fists. For a gal opposed to the ruckus of breaking through a door, she was raising a mighty racket.
I doubted it would do much good, though. Even the way we were closed away below the main deck, I could hear all kinds of noise from outside: waves slapping against the hull, sails whapping, the mast creaking, wind whistling through the rigging, all manner of other groans and rattles and clanks. Unless Michael had his ear to the hatch, I didn’t hold out much hope of him catching the sound of Trudy’s whacks.
But Whittle wasn’t likely to hear them, either.
While she kept on punching at the hatch, I knelt on her bed and checked a porthole. It wasn’t big enough to squirm out through, so I didn’t even try to get it open. But I pushed my face against the glass.
All I could see were rough waves, not a blink of light anywhere from a boat nor shore.
“I don’t believe we’re on the Thames any more,” I said.
She paused in her banging long enough to say, “Of course not, silly. We’re out in the Channel.”
I sank inside with the news of that. It wouldn’t do, now, to jump ship and swim for land.
Trying to perk myself up, I thought how the True D. Light was bound to have a lifeboat or dinghy of sorts. That didn’t accomplish much in the way of perking, though. Even if we could get outside, Whittle would surely be on us before we could lower such a craft.
I reckon Trudy hadn’t thought that far ahead, for she continued thumping the hatch.
She stopped when the boat gave a sudden pitch that banged my forehead against the glass and flung her onto me. She pushed and shoved and got herself off, and stumbled backward and dropped onto the other berth.
I turned myself around.
“He’s bound to come back soon,” Trudy said.
“I’m afraid so.”
She shook her head. She sighed. Then she said, “You’d best tie me up.”
“What?”
“Tie me up again.”
“We just finished getting ourselves untied.”
“But there’s no way out. We can’t let him know we tried to escape.” She flung herself back across the aisle, bent over beside me and snatched up one of the ropes. “Get off.”
I stood up. With one hand, I kept the blanket on my shoulders. With the other, I grabbed the handle of the hatch to keep myself from being tossed off my feet.
Trudy sat on her bed and stretched out her legs. She reached the rope toward me. “Be quick about it.”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
“No. I’m not going to tie you up.”
“You’ll do as I say, boy.”
It goes against my grain to argue with women. Besides, it’s generally a great waste of time. But Trudy was starting to irk me with her bossy ways. I told her, “If you had no better scheme in mind than hoping we might slip out a door, you shouldn’t have insisted that I untie you in the first place. Since we are untied, however, we’re no longer entirely at Whittle’s mercy. We’ll have the element of surprise in our favor. And it’ll be two against one.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“I say we put up a fight.”
“What do you know? You’re a child.”
“I fought him once before and made a good showing. It was me who cut off the blighter’s nose, you know.”
“And a lot of good that did. If you’d left him well enough alone…”
“He would’ve murdered a woman on the streets. I saved her from his blade.”
“And led him to our boat.”
“I know. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for what he did to your father, too. But he’s Jack the Ripper! You’ve no idea what a monster he is. I saw what he did to one poor woman. He must be put a stop to, or he’ll do the same to you.”
“He needs me.”
“He’ll butcher you.”
“Don’t be silly. He doesn’t dare kill me, not if he wants safe passage to America. But he’ll certainly punish us for getting free of the ropes, so quit your arguing and tie me up.”
I let go the hatch handle and took the rope from her. She pressed her arms against her sides, ready to have herself trussed.
“Lie down,” I said.
“You’ve got to tie me first.”
“No.”
“Trevor!”
“All right, then!” Though I wasn’t keen on being naked again, I needed both hands so I tossed my blanket to the other bed. Trudy turned her head away. Not before giving me a look, however.
On my knees again, I tucked one end of the rope under her arm, then wrapped her around the middle.
“Tighter,” she said. “He can’t know the difference.”
I gave the rope rather a rough tug. She winced. She deserved a little hurt for being obnoxious, but right away I felt bad about it and apologized.
“Shut up and tie the knot.”
“I’d much rather not. Let me leave it undone. I’ll cover you up, and you lie down and pretend to be asleep. I’ll do the same. We’ll wait for just the proper moment, then jump Whittle and throttle him.”
“There’ll be no jumping of Whittle.”
I sighed.
I didn’t put up any more fuss. I knotted the rope, then scurried down and bound her ankles. When they were secure, I covered Trudy with the bedclothes.
I hurried over to my own berth and gathered the ropes Whittle had used on me. Feeling a bit down on Trudy, I said, “Now, of course, I’m supposed to tie myself.”
“Do your feet first. That shouldn’t present any great difficulty.”
I swung my legs onto the bed, spread them apart, and dropped one of the ropes between them. Then I drew the covers up over my lap.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Trudy asked, her tone snappish.
“I may be a silly child and a fool, thank you, but I’m not a coward.”
“Tie yourself this minute!”
“I have a better use for Whittle’s rope.”
The one in my hands wasn’t nearly so long as the coil I could feel under the backs of my legs. After dragging the covers to my shoulders, I stretched it across my chest and wound its ends around my hands.
“What are you planning?”
“To have a go at playing Thuggee.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Thuggee. A cult of fanatical murderers in India who employ the garrote to strangle…”
I went mum at the sound of a clacking latch. The door swung open. Whittle came in. He carried a bottle and a steaming pot that had a spoon in it. Clamping the bottle under one arm, he turned around to lock the door.
Secured from this side, it wasn’t meant to keep us in but rather to keep Michael out. I supposed he must be keeping all the doors and hatches locked so he wouldn’t need to worry about the fellow sneaking below for a try at rescuing Trudy.
He might as well have spared himself the bother. As I found out later, Michael didn’t have the grit for such a venture.
After fastening the door, Whittle started to turn around. I shut my eyes before he got a look at me.
“Sit up, deary,” he said in that stuffed voice of his thanks to losing his nose. “We shouldn’t like to have you withering away, now, should we?”
I looked. He was on his knees, facing Trudy. He held the pot near her face. With his other hand, he spooned food into her mouth.
“Quite tasty, I daresay. I don’t fancy myself a master of the culinary arts, but this stew is really quite exceptional.”
The odor was delightful. It set my parched mouth to watering again, my hollow belly to grumbling.
He kept shoveling, giving Trudy a few moments to chew and swallow between each spoonful. I wondered if he aimed to save any for me.
It wouldn’t come to that, though.
I slipped out from under the covers, swung myself around and lowered my feet to the floor. Trudy, chewing
, shook her head at me. Whittle started to look over his shoulder. I sprang. Whipped the rope down past his face. Jerked it across his throat as I rammed against his back. The blow flung a spoonful of stew into Trudy’s face. Then he knocked her flat and fell across her chest.
Riding his back, I pulled at the rope for all I was worth. He made choking, gaggy noises. He twisted and bucked under me. He stabbed at my shoulder with the spoon. His other hand dumped the pot down my back. The grub was hot enough to sting, but it didn’t hurt enough to make me ease off. I kept on strangling him.
If Trudy’d lent a hand, I might’ve killed the Ripper then and there and saved the world a heap of grief.
But she was nicely tied because she’d insisted and I’d given in to her.
So she just lay there helpless, leaving the job to me.
Whittle bashed the side of my head with the pot. The world flashed bright, but I held on and kept tugging at the rope. Then he lit into me again and again. I lost count after the fifth bong. But I didn’t lose my wits entirely.
Before long, I was sprawled on the floor and Whittle was sitting on me, wheezing for air, clobbering my face with the bottom of the pot. When he got tired of that, he roped my hands in front of me. He sat quiet for a spell, just staring at me and trying to get his wind back.
“What shall I do with you, Trevor?” he finally asked.
I was too dazed to give an answer, but I reckon he wouldn’t have heeded my advice, anyhow.
He pulled out his knife.
He tapped the end of my nose with its blade.
“Shall I nip it off?” he asked. His other hand reached around behind him and fingered my private parts. “Perhaps I ought to make a girl out of you. Which would you prefer, young man?”
“Cut my throat and…go bugger yourself.”
That got the swine laughing. “You’re too much fun to ruin,” he said. “But you simply must be punished. Ah! I know just the thing!”
He put his knife away, climbed off, and lifted me onto my bed. As he worked on tying my feet, he said, “This will be just the perfect torture for a stout-hearted lad such as yourself. It ought to give you second thoughts, even third and fourth, should you ever take it into your head to tangle with me again.”
Savage Page 6
