The Castaways

by Iain Lawrence

  “Calliope!” I said.

  The King looked astonished, perhaps amazed that I’d figured it out. “There, you see. That’s sharp,” he said. “Now let’s go, Tom, and find that diamond.”

  I was more wary than ever. The King had lied to me more than once, and he still hadn’t told me where Midgely was. Now he jumped to his feet and urged me toward the door.

  Thicker by the moment, the fog swirled yellow round the ratlines. I thought I saw a movement by the rail. I definitely heard a tapping sound, a clatter in the fog.

  “Someone’s out there,” I said.

  Up from the gangway, across the deck, came Mr. Goodfellow.

  It had been more than a year since I’d seen him, but he hadn’t changed at all. He was exactly the same—in white clothes, with a white cape and a top hat. In his hand was his walking stick with its silver knob. He tapped the stick on the deck.

  The little King was gawking past me. “Now who the devil’s that?” he said. “Who’s that fine monkey?”

  I thought his eyes—older than mine—were not so strong or keen. “Why, it’s Mr. Goodfellow, of course,” I said.

  In a flash, the King was behind the door. In another—to my great surprise—he was underneath the table. His breeches vanished last, and then he was peering out between the legs of a chair. “Is it really him? Is that what Mr. Goodfellow looks like?”

  I couldn’t have been more surprised. “You’ve never met him,” I said.

  “Quiet, Tom!”

  “You didn’t go to his office last night. Everything you’ve told me is a lie.”

  “Shhh!” said the King in a whisper. “If he finds me, he’ll kill me. He’s vicious, isn’t he? He’s mean as rats, they say.”

  Mr. Goodfellow, standing firmly now on the deck, adjusted his clothes. He tugged at each white glove, at each white cuff. He smoothed his side whiskers with the silver knob of his stick.

  “Oh, crikey!” said the King, in a squeak. “Go and take him away, Tom. Please.”

  Mr. Goodfellow tapped the wood in front of him. His cape was dusted with black flecks of coal. I bent down and looked under the table, where the little King was quivering.

  “Tell me the truth for once,” I said. “Where’s Midgely?”

  “Don’t ask me that.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I sent them up the ladder, among the warehouses. But, Tom—”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “The god’s truth. I swear it.” The King looked out at Mr. Goodfellow, now only yards away. “You have to save me, Tom. Please.”

  “Why should I save you?” I looked down at him, disgusted. “You schemed against me.”

  “It was Calliope’s fault,” he said desperately. “She wanted to steal the Jolly Stone from you, and … and the ship from Mr. Goodfellow, and… Oh, I tried to stop her, Tom. I tried. But you know how she is.”

  Mr. Goodfellow came closer. The little King, huddled into a tiny ball, begged me one more time. “Go out there and lead him away, Tom. If you save me, I’ll tell you all the story. I can take you straight to Midgely I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  But Mr. Goodfellow was already at the door. He looked in at me, and I looked out at him, and he didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.

  “Good day, Tom Tin,” said he.

  nineteen

  MR. GOODFELLOW TURNS THE TABLES

  Mr. Goodfellow put a hand on the top of his tall hat. He clamped it onto his head as he stooped through the door, into the cookhouse.

  The last time we had been together in the same room was at the Old Bailey. He had sat high in the courtroom then, drumming his fingers on that same hat. He had drummed away while the judge delivered my sentence: transportation beyond the seas.

  Though I was older and stronger now, a thrill of fear ran through me again.

  “You saved my ship, Master Tin,” he said. “I should thank you for that.”

  But he didn’t.

  “You’ve done rather well. You surprise me, in fact.” That was all he said.

  I could hear the King shaking. It was a rustle of clothes, a tremble of breath, like the sound of a squirrel in the forest. Mr. Goodfellow reached out and took hold of the table.

  Now that table had weathered every storm in the ocean. It was a solid, heavy thing. But Mr. Goodfellow flipped it over as easily as he’d turn an egg. It crashed to the deck on its side, and there was the King in his white breeches, staring up with the most fearful look in his eyes.

  “Who the devil are you?” said Mr. Goodfellow.

  “Only a humble servant, sir,” said the King. On his elbows and knees, with his round bottom in the air, he looked like a piglet on a platter.

  “By what name?” said Mr. Goodfellow.

  I felt pity for the little King, he trembled so badly. “George, sir,” he squeaked. “George King.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Goodfellow. “So you’re the wretch who married my half sister.”

  I was dumbfounded. There were now more sides to the story than there were facets on the Jolly Stone.

  Mr. Goodfellow poked his walking stick at the little King’s plump leg. “You’re a fortune seeker, George. You marry your way into my business, but all you bring is ruin. No doubt you’re plotting something else at this very moment.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” said the King. “It’s Tom here who’s doing the plotting. I’ve been—”

  “Do you know you’ve cost me a great deal of money?” said Mr. Goodfellow. He walked down the short length of the cookhouse, rapping the end of his walking stick along skillets and pans that hung on the wall. “A freed slave was found last night wandering the edge of the City. They brought someone in who spoke his lingo, and what a remarkable story the chap had to tell. I shouldn’t be surprised if our loyal opposition raises some questions in the House. I’ll have to grease a few palms here and there. It shall cause me a bit of bother, and not a small expense, you ham-fisted fool!”

  “Mr. Goodfellow, please.” The little King swiveled on his haunches to keep an eye on our visitor, who was then running his stick down a row of carving knives. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Not at all. I understand that you’re a cheat and a thief.” Mr. Goodfellow put on his black hat. “You’re a turncoat. That’s what you are.”

  “Mr. Goodfellow,” said George. “I had the best intentions.”

  “Indeed. You intended to make yourself wealthy.” Mr. Goodfellow looked at me. He rapped his stick on his palm. “Master Tin, do you have the Jolly Stone?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Are you willing to find it and deliver it to me now?”

  “For a price,” said I.

  “Well, of course there’s a price. There’s always a price, you young fool. I would have paid it gladly from the start,” he said. “You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble, Tom. A lot of bother. Here we are, right back where we started. You have the stone, and I want it.”

  “But the value has increased,” I said. “My price has risen.”

  He flushed, but managed a laugh. “Why, you have learned a thing or two, haven’t you? It’s not the same boy who stands before me now; I see that. Perhaps there’s something of your father in you after all.”

  This gave me a grim pleasure. For a moment I looked eye to eye with Mr. Goodfellow, and fancied that I saw something like admiration in his expression.

  It was a strange moment, and the King took advantage of it by leaping from the deck. He dashed for the door.

  Mr. Goodfellow whirled after him. He followed the King over the sill and out to the deck. His hat struck the top of the door and flew from his head. In the yellow fog that hung thickly now around the ship, Mr. Goodfellow raised his walking stick.

  “No!” I shouted.

  But down it came, and twice more. Three swift blows and a single scream, and the King lay lifeless on the deck.

  “Now, Master Tin,” said Mr. Goodfellow, not
even out of breath. “Fetch my hat, and we’ll go and get that Jolly Stone, shall we?”

  It froze my blood, such a deed so easily done, so easily forgotten. I feared that I might be the next to succumb to that stick if I didn’t do as I was told. Yet if I buckled under now, all would be lost.

  I looked away from the crumpled body on the deck and tried to keep my voice steady. Along with the King had gone my hope of easily finding Midgely And without Midge the Jolly Stone was that much more elusive. But I didn’t let on to Mr. Goodfellow. “There are certain things I want from you,” I told him.

  “Mind to whom you’re speaking, Master Tin,” said he.

  “First, you’ll get pardons,” I said. “For myself and the others who were with me. That’s four pardons I want.”

  “I’m not a magistrate!” snapped Mr. Goodfellow.

  “Look in your pockets,” I said boldly. “Perhaps you’ll find one there.”

  He smiled at this. “"Yes, I can pull strings, Tom. Very well, you’ll get your pardons. I’ll have them delivered when I see the Stone.”

  I shook my head.

  “How dare you!” said he. “I’ve given my word; is that not enough?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “It’s not.”

  Such fury and heat came from his eyes that he might have burst into flames on the instant, consuming himself to a little heap of white ashes. But he only walked past me and got his own hat from the cookhouse floor, then led me off into the fog.

  We went to his office, on the third floor of a building by the bank of the river. We walked through an enormous room packed full of clerks, all earnest young men who didn’t look up from their ledgers and ink pots. The only sound came from their scribbling, as though hundreds of mice were scurrying through that cavernous space. We passed through high doorways, through rooms that were each more splendid than the last. The entire floor—the entire building, in fact—belonged to Mr. Goodfellow. There were barristers bustling about, and errand boys who went everywhere at a run, and a man whose only job was refilling the ink pots, and another who minded the lamps.

  Mr. Goodfellow strode through it all, his cape flapping like wings.

  A thin man fell into pace behind us, his polished shoes going clickety-click on the gleaming wood of the floor. He dogged us down the last corridor, through an anteroom, into Mr. Goodfellow’s private office.

  There I looked in wonder, all around, at a fireplace where a heap of coal glowed merrily, at a high desk so long and wide that a team of horses could have stood atop it. There were bookcases that soared to the ceiling, and chairs like the thrones of kings. I felt very tiny, and quite fragile, to be surrounded by such oversized splendor.

  Mr. Goodfellow flipped off his cape, and the man was suddenly there to catch it. Then he moved behind the desk, and, quick as a wink, the man was there to pull out his chair.

  “Bring your pad, Silbury,” said Mr. Goodfellow, and the thin man trotted off.

  The office was in a corner, with towering windows on two walls looking out on the fog and the shadows of buildings. I could hear the clang of bells and the mournful hoot of foghorns on the river, but perhaps only imagined the faint lines of masts and rigging. It was a mystery no longer how Mr. Goodfellow had known that his ship had come home. He had likely watched it sailing in.

  He had to climb to a platform to sit at the desk. There, above me, he flipped through a few papers and said nothing until the thin man came clicking back to the office. Then he spoke quickly.

  “Listen, Silbury. Pop round to Downing Street and see Wellington. Give him my compliments and ask for pardons for these boys. Tom, give him the names.”

  I rattled them off, feeling very important that I was sending a man on an errand to see the Prime Minister of England. “And one for myself, of course,” I said at the end. Silbury looked down his nose at me and said, “And you are?”

  Mr. Goodfellow laughed. “Silbury, this is Tom Tin. The son of Redman.”

  “Ah,” nodded Silbury. “Any news of the father? Has there been some difficulty?”

  “Only that he was captured by cannibals,” said I.

  Mr. Goodfellow’s eyes flickered with that bit of news. There seemed a hint of concern—or worry—but no more than a hint. From Silbury came a little sigh. “Ah,” he said, and made a short note on his pad. I imagined he was recording the loss of a ship, or reminding himself to strike my father from the paybooks.

  “Next thing,” said Mr. Goodfellow. “Master Tin will be leaving with me presently. Assign him a carriage and team when he returns. We can’t have him riding in a hackney, can we?” Mr. Goodfellow gave me a quick look. He may have winked; I wasn’t certain. “Now, Silbury, be sure you tell Wellington this is a matter of some urgency. I need the papers on my desk by nightfall.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Silbury.

  “Have my coach brought round to the door. And send word to Doctor Kingsley that I’m on my way.”

  “Very good, sir.” Silbury bowed, and crept from the room.

  Mr. Goodfellow looked enormously pleased with himself. “You see, Tom,” he said. “Even if money can’t buy happiness, it certainly buys power. In my mind it buys both by the gross.”

  He took a cigar from a humidor made of oak and brass and mother-of-pearl. He severed its tip in a miniature guillotine that had a blade of glistening gold. Then he lit it from a gas jet that bubbled up at his touch from the top of his desk. He was soon enveloped in his own thick fog, as foul as the one outside.

  “Now, Tom,” he said, peering through it. “I confess that I feel rather a kinship with you. You’ve grown, my boy; you’ve changed. You’re all the better for your travels, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. He still hadn’t offered me a chair, and so I stood across that broad desk from him, feeling like an infant, for its top was nearly at the height of my shoulders.

  “Well, you are, and you’ve me to thank for it. That goes without saying, though the words will never pass your lips.” He sucked on the cigar, and a cloud of smoke wafted from his mouth. “What would you think if I said I might find a place for you here in the business? A junior position, mind, with Goodfellow and Company?”

  I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d asked me to sit in the House of Lords. It was a flattering offer, I had to admit.

  “Don’t answer now,” he said, raising a hand from the smoke, palm toward me. “You’ll want to look before you leap, of course.”

  He came down from his high desk, gathered his hat and walking stick, and took me out through the building’s front doors, to a busy London street. The fog restricted my view to only a few yards in either direction, so that I felt as though I looked onto a stage, where countless actors made their entrances and exits through hazy curtains. Carriages and coaches went rolling by. Hurrying businessmen, flower girls, and costermongers passed before us, all fading in and out of view.

  Four snorting white horses pulled Mr. Goodfellow’s wonderful carriage to the door. A footman jumped down and offered us a hand. He was wearing gloves with pearl buttons.

  The coach was covered in gold leaf and gold trim. Even the rims of the wheels were polished and bright. Not a man passed without turning his head to admire it, and I couldn’t help my feeling of importance as all eyes watched the footman help me up. I settled onto a seat as soft as marshmallow, looking down at a toff who was eyeing me jealously.

  Mr. Goodfellow plumped himself beside me, bringing his smell of pomade and perfume. He rapped on the roof with his stick, and the mighty pull of the horses jolted me back in my seat.

  He didn’t ask me where the driver should go. We only started off into the fog.

  twenty

  I FIND THE STONE OF JACOB TIN

  I could feel the silence in the carriage, foggy thick, as we rode along. Mr. Goodfellow, sitting very stiffly, said not a word for twenty minutes. He shined his boots on his stockings, rubbing one against the other like a big white insect. But at last he started talking.


  “Calliope came to my house last night,” he said. “She arrived dragging her girl—and a coffin, no less.”

  “It was full of toys,” I said.

  “Yes. I’d hoped it was full of her husband.”

  The city went by in the fog. Mr. Goodfellow watched through his window. “She told me about the slaves, about Beezley and the voyage home. I nearly dropped dead when she mentioned your name.”

  His head turned as we passed a fire-eater performing on the street. “I called straightaway for the soldiers. I went with them, down to the ship, but you’d already fled into the City.”

  “Did Calliope tell you—” I started. I was going to ask if he knew where Midgely was, but Mr. Goodfellow interrupted.

  “She told me she was leaving that hopeless husband of hers and needed my help. Again,” he said. “She had a scheme of some sort. It involved a ship—of course—and what else, I couldn’t say. I wouldn’t listen to a word of it, but showed her the door. The wretched woman. I put her out on her ear.”

  “Your own sister?”

  “My half sister,” he said.

  I felt sorry for Calliope. I imagined her running from Mr. Goodfellow’s home, dragging poor Charlotte as fast as she could. She must have known that Mr. Goodfellow was sending soldiers to the ship, and would have been desperate to get there before them, to snatch Midgely to safety.

  “The lingering stench of a rotted marriage, that’s Calliope,” said Mr. Goodfellow. “The miserable product of my prodigal father’s rutting with a whaler’s wife.” Just thinking of Calliope seemed to make Mr. Goodfellow boil with anger. “Wasteful, vulgar woman. Gallivanting across the oceans, turning up like a plague every seven years.”

  “I liked her,” I said. It eased my mind that Midgely was safe with Calliope.

  Mr. Goodfellow didn’t answer. He sat grinding his hat between his hands, and it turned round and round like a black boulder in a stone mill. We traveled on through the fog.

  Despite my company, and despite myself, I enjoyed that journey. I sat at the side of the man I despised more than any other, the one I blamed for the death of my mother, the loss of my father, the ruin of my own life. Nothing but my hatred of him had kept me going through the perils of the sea, through convicts and cannibals and castaways.