The Castaways by Iain Lawrence Read Free Book Online Page B

changed on the man’s face. It was void of expression. “You escaped from Botany Bay, I suppose. Made your way aboard. Hid in the chain locker. Is that it?”
    “No, sir!” cried Weedle. “We never even got to Australia, sir. We was lost and near to death—because of Tom Tin there—when this ship come along. It was days ago, sir.”
    “Where’s the cook? Where’s the carpenter?” said the man. “Where’s everyone gone, boy?”
    Weedle raised his shoulders in a huge, elaborate shrug. “We searched the ship, sir, and there weren’t no one here—”
    “The whole ship?”
    “The whole bleeding ship, sir.” Weedle drew a cross above his heart. “From top to bottom and end to end, and there weren’t no one but the helmsman, who went off his nut and threw himself to the fishes. Tell him if that ain’t true, Penny.”
    “I see.” The man’s tattoos were like rings on his fingers, bands of blue between his knuckles. When he stroked his beard, the painted rings seemed to tangle in his hairs. He studied Weedle for a while longer, then looked at each of our faces in turn, until he was staring into mine. “Your name’s Tin, is it? Would you be the son of Redman?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “Do you know of him?”
    “Who doesn’t?” he asked. “I heard he was searching for you in the islands.”
    “Yes, he found me,” said I. “But the cannibals took him.”
    There was no change in the fellow’s expression, no sign at all of surprise at the news, not a hint of sadness nor pleasure. His hand kept running through his beard, stretching it down from his chin. “Did he mention a man called Beezley?”
    “No, sir.”
    “We met only once.” The man’s hand fell from his beard. At last there came to his eyes a little gleam of light to show they were made of more than glass. It was a look of amusement, perhaps of satisfaction. “I’m Beezley,” he said.
“Mister
Beezley. And this is Mr. Moyle. So if you’re Redman’s son, you can hand and steer, can you?”
    “Him?”
Weedle laughed loudly. “Tom’s no sailor, sir. He was seasick at Chatham! He’s afraid of the water.”
    “No matter,” said Mr. Beezley, in his wooden way. “Mr. Moyle will teach him the ropes. He’ll teach all of you, and you’ll be wise to listen. When he says ‘Jump,’ you say, ‘How high, sir.’ And mind him well, if you’re wise. Mr. Moyle eats children.”
    With this, Mr. Moyle opened his mouth and gnashed his brown teeth. It was a gruesome thing to see. But we weren’t infants, not so easily frightened as that.
    Round the feet of both men were puddles of reddish water. Their sodden clothes were dripping. Mr. Beezley loosened his coat. “Do as you’re told and there’ll be no trouble. That’s all you need to know for now.” He turned his back and walked away.
    “Wait,” I said. “Won’t you tell me of my father, how you know him and—”
    “No,” he said flatly. “I’ve nothing to say to you, boy. We’re not shipmates. And we’re not chums. You’ll do as you’re told and ask no more questions.”
    “You’ve come to
our
ship, Mr. Beezley Not the other way around.” I spoke boldly, though in my innards I quivered. “I’d like to know where it is you’ve come
from
, Mr. Beezley.”
    “England,” he said, and kept walking. The pair went straight to the water barrel. Mr. Moyle flicked the lid aside, and Mr. Beezley lifted the pannikin from its peg.
    “You’ve sailed all the way from England on your iceberg?” I said.
    Weedle snickered, then quickly clamped his mouth shut.
    “Only a lubber would call that a berg,” said Mr. Beezley. “It was barely a splinter.” He dipped the pannikin into the water and stirred it about. Then he took a long drink before he spoke. “There was a sealing ship, boy. It was crushed in the ice down south. We took to the boats, but one by one they foundered. Mr. Moyle and myself would have drowned with the rest if we hadn’t found that ‘iceberg’ of yours.