Free The Castaways by Iain Lawrence Page A

still in his hand. “Have a wash, Tom,” he said. “Then tell us what you seen.”
    Boggis went round the hatch, closing the dogs as I scrubbed my arms and legs. We moved up to the foredeck, where we seated ourselves around the capstan like petals on a flower.
    “So we heard them dying?” said Midge, when I’d told my tale. “Oooh, it gives you the shivers, don’t it?”
    “We could have saved them,” I said.
    “Not if we didn’t know they was there,” said Boggis.
    I watched the stars slide through the rigging, swinging in and out from behind the sails. “One thing’s certain,” I said. “The cook knew Mr. Beezley.”
    “How could he?” said Boggis.
    “Because your wonderful Mr. Beezley was on this ship,” I said.
    “Maybe not,” said Midge. “Did the cook say
when
he knowed him?”
    “No,” I said. “I suppose he didn’t. But when Mr. Beezley saw Weedle in his red sash he—”
    “He thought he saw a lunatic,” said Boggis.
    The pair had an answer for everything, and I didn’t want to argue. I decided that I would have to challenge Mr. Beezley straight out, and that I would do it as soon as he came up to the deck in the morning. During my watch at the wheel I rehearsed the things I would say. When the sails began to take their gray shapes in the blackness, I put a strop on the spokes to stop the wheel from turning and went to stand by the hood of the companionway, where the castaways would soon emerge.
    I quickly regretted it. The pair came tramping up the ladder, unaware that I was waiting. Mr. Beezley was talking.
    “I put the word in Weedle’s ear,” he said.
    “Eager as eggs, is he?” asked Mr. Moyle, hidden below me.
    Mr. Beezley laughed. I heard him take another step toward the deck. “The cripple won’t be any trouble. Nor will blind Batty. I don’t know about the big bruiser.”
    “He’s stupid, but he’s strong,” replied Mr. Moyle. “I want to see the look on King George’s old mug when he gets a squint of Gaskin Boggis.”
    What a riddle that became! It was scarcely possible that someone like Mr. Moyle could expect an audience with King George IV, and even more unlikely that he would take Boggis along. Yet entwined in the riddle was a small thread of hope. If Mr. Moyle even
imagined
that he might meet with the King of England, where could he be heading but to England itself?
    “Now what of Tom Tin?” asked Mr. Beezley. “That boy’s a nuisance. I want him out of the picture.”
    “Soon,” said Mr. Moyle.
    “One fell swoop is best, don’t you think?”
    The pair was nearly at the deck. I saw one of Mr. Beezley’s tattooed hands reaching for a hold to hoist himself up. In a moment he would emerge and find the wheel deserted.

eleven

MIDGELY REMEMBERS A TALE
    The top of Mr. Beezley’s head appeared. I could hear Mr. Moyle pressing up behind him, and my heart was in my throat.
    It was only sheer luck that saved me.
    The ship stumbled on a wave. Held by the strop, like a dog on a leash, it couldn’t round up to the wind. Instead it rolled sideways, sending spouts of green water shooting through the scuppers. Mr. Moyle, caught out of balance, stumbled backward down the stairs. He must have clutched on to Mr. Beezley, for a string of thumps and oaths came through the hatch, then a howl of pain from Mr. Moyle.
    I dashed to the wheel and lifted the strop. The spokes cracked my knuckles as the ship reeled upright. The waterthat had surged across the deck went surging out again, tumbling over the rail in froth and cream.
    When Mr. Moyle came up to the deck he was holding a hand to his jaw. Either he had thumped it on something, or Mr. Beezley had thumped it for him. The pain from those rotted teeth must have been terrible, for his eyes were watering. “You half-boiled nizzie!” he growled. “I’m going to—”
    “Mr. Moyle!”
    Both of us turned to look at Mr. Beezley. The way that Mr. Moyle fell instantly silent and shuffled off to the rail made me see that he,