Whither Thou Goest

Chapter 3-3

There was a meaty sound, and he gasped.

“You think it’s a good idea to slug the skipper’s friend?” one of the other sailors asked.

“Dutch’ll deal with the skipper. Now get this pantywaist the f**k outta here,” Whitey snarled.

Two of the mutineers dragged Mr. Chetwood out in nothing more than his nightshirt. His face was pale, and he held a hand over his stomach. He’d been punched? The men had always shown him a measure of respect, and I was terrified of what they might do to him. I grabbed up a mop, unscrewed the handle, and started to go to his aid, but he saw me, although the other two didn’t. He shook his head, indicating I should stay put, and stopped trying to get out of their grip.

“All right, boys. I guess you’ve got me,” he said with the same matter-of-fact tone of voice he must have used when he’d told his camera-man he’d shot the Javanese tiger charging them. “At least let me get some clothes on.”

The sailors exchanged glances, then shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”

“Hey, Whitey?”

“What the f**k are you still doing here?” The rat poked his head out of the cabin, his face flushed.

“Mr. Chetwood needs something to wear.”

“f**k it.” He stalked back into the cabin, and tossed out a pair of trousers. “Here.”

“Shoes, Whitey?” Mr. Chetwood asked, and he drew on first one trouser leg and then the other, tucked his nightshirt in, and buttoned the fly. “Wouldn’t want me to get a splinter in my tootsies, would you?”

A stream of curses came from our cabin, and after a minute or so, a pair of shoes came flying out. “Now get him the f**k on deck.”

Mr. Chetwood stepped into his shoes and then held out his arms. The two mutineers each took one, and the three of them disappeared up the ladder.

I stayed hidden. Once I learned what was going on, I’d figure a way to rescue my lover.

There were sounds of the cabin being thoroughly searched. “Smith ain’t here, Whitey.”

“No s**t. Anyone check the head?”

“We wasn’t born yesterday. ‘Course we did.”

“Dutch ain’t gonna be happy, that’s for sure,” one of the other men muttered. The first mate was involved as well? Bile filled my throat. What was happening?

Whitey growled. “Billy, Eddie, Snitch, go look for the fag. When you find him, don’t beat on him too much. We get rid of the mucky mucks, and I’m gonna have me some fun with his ass.”

I shivered at the venom in his voice. Lust I could understand—he’d made no bones that he wanted me—but why did he hate me?

“And mebbe I’ll even share, once I’ve had enough of him. I’m going back topside. Dutch wants to keep a eye on the Norwegian. Lillegard says he’s only looking out for us, but Dutch and me, we ain’t so sure of that.”

Footsteps faded as they left the area, and silence descended. I slipped out of the compartment, crossed to our quarters, and stared aghast at the disaster they’d left behind. Clothes had been yanked from cupboards and strewn all over our berth and the deck. Papers were ripped and torn. Not only papers, but pages as well. They’d destroyed the little book Mr. Phipps had given me.

All right, I couldn’t dwell on that. I had to get to Mr. Chetwood. I tightened my grip on the mop handle and made my way to the top deck, slinking through the shadows, taking care to remain unseen.

Captain Johansen faced his men, cucumber cool. “What is the meaning of this?” He prepared his pipe, as if dealing with a mutinying crew was an everyday occurrence. Beside him was Mr. Chetwood, just lacing up his shoes, and Nick, who was holding a bloody rag to his forehead. I wasn’t surprised to see him ranged with the skipper. The wireless operator had always been staunchly loyal to his captain.

“I’ll tell you what the meaning of this is,” Dutch mocked derisively. “We’re onto you. You were heading this old tub back to Iwi Po’o, you and Chetwood. Lillegard told us what happened your last trip out, all the men that died, and we got no intention of joining ‘em.”

Twelve men, Mr. Chetwood had said. Twelve had died trying to rescue Catriona Delaney from the cavemen who had abducted her. One of the men had been gored by what looked like some kind of boar, another crushed between the jaws of a creature that lived in the lake that was almost an inland sea. An earth tremor—not serious enough to be considered a quake but dangerous enough for all that—had caused the rest of the twelve to plummet to the chasm floor fifty feet below. The lucky ones had died instantly, from the fall or from being torn apart by a prehistoric spider so huge it made those “station wagons” Henry Ford was mass producing look like a boy’s toy. But some…some had been cocooned by the spider as a source of food for her eggs, which she’d laid on their bodies. Mr. Chetwood had watched in horror from the other side of the chasm, helpless to do anything to save them.

I’d held him when he’d been tormented by the nightmares.

A sailor cried from the bow, “Bottom. Twenty fathoms.”

“And youse planned the same thing for us,” Whitey sneered. “Well, not on your Nelly, Captain God-almighty-Johansen. We’s taking over this ship. The August Moon be ours now.”

Dutch frowned and gave him a sharp poke to shut him up.

“That’s mutiny.” The skipper sought to reason with them. “Do you all want to hang?”

“It’s only mutiny if we get caught.” Dutch’s gaze was shrewd. “And I aim to see we don’t get caught.”

“How will you do that?”

“Listen,” Dutch ordered, pointing to starboard.

“What are we listening for?” Mr. Chetwood looked from Dutch to the skipper.

“Them’s breakers. We’s about a half a mile from Iwi Po’o.” Whitey was only too ready to gloat, and Dutch glowered at him, irritated.

“Iwi Po’o?” The skipper sounded horrified, and that was when I really got scared. “We aren’t supposed to be anywhere near that part of the South Seas. We’re completely off course.”

“Bullshit. Like we’d believe anything you tell us. You were gonna do this all along,” the first mate insisted. “You’re lucky we don’t throw you to the sharks.”

Again the voice floated back from the bow of the ship. “Bottom! Ten fathoms!”

“This ship draws six,” the skipper said urgently. “Slow her down or she’ll tear out her bottom.”

“Think I don’t know that, Skipper? I been to sea since I was a snot-nosed kid.” But Dutch shouted, “Dead slow ahead.”

The cry came back, “Dead slow, aye!”