Read Online The Castaways by Iain Lawrence - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Iain Lawrence
Tags: Young Adult
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it’s not mermaids, then what is it?” said Mr. Moyle.
Ahead of the ship a bit of ice appeared. It was the first we had seen in many days, and the last we would see on the voyage. It had been carried very far, and was nearly fully melted.
The sounds changed to frantic barks and yelps.
“It’s
dogs,”
said a wondering Mr. Beezley “How on earth could dogs be there?”
We passed within fifty yards of the ice. It seemed to turn to solid gold as it took on the light of the rising sun. Spotted across it were small gray shapes that looked very doglike indeed, until they reared up from the ice. If these were dogs they were legless; but of course they were only seals.
Perhaps my eyes were better than those of the castaways, but I would have thought that a pair of sealers might have known their quarry more easily. The two peered over the rail for the longest time before Mr. Beezley laughed. “Why, they’re seals,” he said.
“Fancy that,” said Mr. Moyle.
The third incident followed within the week. As the nights grew warm, and then hot, a richer stench began to rise from the closed-over hatches. Again we heard the buzzing of flies.
By chance, Midgely uncovered another page from the journal—or a fragment of a page. It was rolled into a taper, charred at the end from Gaskin’s fire-lighting. It had been burnt and water-dipped, so that only two paragraphs could be read. From those, one sentence leapt out at me.
“He cares nothing for what lies below the breadfruit.”
Little Midge and I sat and wondered. All that evening we did nothing but ponder. What could lie below the breadfruit?
In the dark of the midnight watch, while Beezley and Moyle and Penny were sleeping—while Weedle had the wheel—I took a lantern and went off to find out. Midgely and Boggis helped open the dogs on the hatch. Then Boggis lifted the heavy lid, and I slipped under its edge, down through a horde of flies.
ten
I LOOK BELOW THE BREADFRUIT
The flies were so thick that I breathed them in. I felt them on my teeth, in my nose, in the back of my throat. So I took off my shirt and tied it like a mask round my mouth. And with my lantern held high, I went down.
The fruit squelched under my bare feet, bubbling pulp between my toes. It reminded me of the first day of my adventure, when I had become glued in the foul mud of the river Thames. Now, as then, I feared that I would sink so deeply I could never get out.
But I came to a sudden and solid stop only knee-deep in the breadfruit and coconut shells. I kicked a clearing round my legs and found a set of iron hinges. In a few minutes more I uncovered a heavy clasp and a handle, and the edgesof a trapdoor. I scooped away the coconuts, kicked aside the breadfruit, then knelt down and lifted the handle.
A cascade of swollen breadfruit went plopping through the trapdoor, into the darkness below me. The flies swarmed up—or down; I couldn’t tell. They merely blackened the lantern in their thousands. They turned the air to muddy water that swirled in eddies and ripples. I crouched at the edge of the hole, waiting for the blackness to settle.
Soon I saw bodies down there. Or parts of bodies. In the rolling gait of the ship, my lantern’s light slid through the shadows and the swarms of flies. I saw faces and hands, arms and ribs. I saw row upon row of dark-skinned people, all chained to the deck, and all deathly still.
I understood everything in that one, terrible look. The real cargo of the ship, its true business, had been hidden below a false panel. What we’d thought were the sounds of a haunted ship had been the last breaths of these people. The taps on the planks had been signals for help. The groans when the ship had pitched hard—those frightening groans that had raised our hairs—had been the sounds of unbearable suffering.
All because of Mr. Goodfellow!
I now knew why he had so much trouble finding captains for his ships, and why he’d sent my father on a winding route
Ahead of the ship a bit of ice appeared. It was the first we had seen in many days, and the last we would see on the voyage. It had been carried very far, and was nearly fully melted.
The sounds changed to frantic barks and yelps.
“It’s
dogs,”
said a wondering Mr. Beezley “How on earth could dogs be there?”
We passed within fifty yards of the ice. It seemed to turn to solid gold as it took on the light of the rising sun. Spotted across it were small gray shapes that looked very doglike indeed, until they reared up from the ice. If these were dogs they were legless; but of course they were only seals.
Perhaps my eyes were better than those of the castaways, but I would have thought that a pair of sealers might have known their quarry more easily. The two peered over the rail for the longest time before Mr. Beezley laughed. “Why, they’re seals,” he said.
“Fancy that,” said Mr. Moyle.
The third incident followed within the week. As the nights grew warm, and then hot, a richer stench began to rise from the closed-over hatches. Again we heard the buzzing of flies.
By chance, Midgely uncovered another page from the journal—or a fragment of a page. It was rolled into a taper, charred at the end from Gaskin’s fire-lighting. It had been burnt and water-dipped, so that only two paragraphs could be read. From those, one sentence leapt out at me.
“He cares nothing for what lies below the breadfruit.”
Little Midge and I sat and wondered. All that evening we did nothing but ponder. What could lie below the breadfruit?
In the dark of the midnight watch, while Beezley and Moyle and Penny were sleeping—while Weedle had the wheel—I took a lantern and went off to find out. Midgely and Boggis helped open the dogs on the hatch. Then Boggis lifted the heavy lid, and I slipped under its edge, down through a horde of flies.
ten
I LOOK BELOW THE BREADFRUIT
The flies were so thick that I breathed them in. I felt them on my teeth, in my nose, in the back of my throat. So I took off my shirt and tied it like a mask round my mouth. And with my lantern held high, I went down.
The fruit squelched under my bare feet, bubbling pulp between my toes. It reminded me of the first day of my adventure, when I had become glued in the foul mud of the river Thames. Now, as then, I feared that I would sink so deeply I could never get out.
But I came to a sudden and solid stop only knee-deep in the breadfruit and coconut shells. I kicked a clearing round my legs and found a set of iron hinges. In a few minutes more I uncovered a heavy clasp and a handle, and the edgesof a trapdoor. I scooped away the coconuts, kicked aside the breadfruit, then knelt down and lifted the handle.
A cascade of swollen breadfruit went plopping through the trapdoor, into the darkness below me. The flies swarmed up—or down; I couldn’t tell. They merely blackened the lantern in their thousands. They turned the air to muddy water that swirled in eddies and ripples. I crouched at the edge of the hole, waiting for the blackness to settle.
Soon I saw bodies down there. Or parts of bodies. In the rolling gait of the ship, my lantern’s light slid through the shadows and the swarms of flies. I saw faces and hands, arms and ribs. I saw row upon row of dark-skinned people, all chained to the deck, and all deathly still.
I understood everything in that one, terrible look. The real cargo of the ship, its true business, had been hidden below a false panel. What we’d thought were the sounds of a haunted ship had been the last breaths of these people. The taps on the planks had been signals for help. The groans when the ship had pitched hard—those frightening groans that had raised our hairs—had been the sounds of unbearable suffering.
All because of Mr. Goodfellow!
I now knew why he had so much trouble finding captains for his ships, and why he’d sent my father on a winding route
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