prepared to knock his head to Elephant Island.
7
Philip
October 16, 1909
L ET THEM KILL EACH other, Philip thought. They both deserve it.
Above him, the men were throwing money around. Thirsting for blood. The Romans. Friday night at the Colosseum. Gladiator against lion. Man against beast. Civilization against chaos.
That’s what it always boiled down to, didn’t it? That was what this trip was all about. What life was about.
Soon they would all be beasts. Every last one.
Chaos always won out.
“Stop this nonsense!”
Ah, the intrepid leader, Winslow the Wise. Still dedicated to the cause, despite the slow breaking apart of his own family.
Winslow ran onto the deck, slipping in the water. He pulled Colin back, wrestling him to the deck.
A few punches had been thrown, all misses.
Pity.
Philip sank back down into the cabin. It was dry there. No use wasting a good warm space during a storm.
The dogs were making a racket, yipping restlessly at the commotion above. A few of the sailors remained, playing cards, recovering from their seasickness.
Philip hadn’t enjoyed the motion much himself. The close quarters and the smell hadn’t helped matters, either. He’d been bedridden through the whole storm.
If “bed” was the correct word for that minuscule wooden box lined with horsehair.
As Philip walked unsteadily across the sloped floor, Ruskey looked up from a game of cards. “Deal you in?” he asked.
“Not for that,” Philip replied.
Ruskey smiled. He caught the hint.
Philip had already slipped him a good bit of change. British, of course, but it could be cashed at any U.S. bank. Then it would make its way into the system, eventually returning to its country of origin, where its history might or might not be discovered, but by then it wouldn’t matter. No one could trace money that closely.
Philip changed into his nightshirt and removed his shoes, then crawled into his bunk and pulled a ratty blanket up to his chin. They’d placed him where he had minimal contact with the other sailors, near the steerage hatch. The indignity of it all.
Quietly he slipped his hand under the bed and slid out his steamer trunk. Pulling it open, he reached under his clothing and flipped up a false bottom.
He pushed aside the newspaper clippings. At this angle, his fingers could just riffle through the pile of money. It felt comforting. He would sleep easier tonight, despite the storm.
He shut the trunk, locked it, and slid it back into place.
The storm seemed to be subsiding now. The weather was like that in the Drake Passage. Easy come, easy go. The men above deck were still noisy, but their utterances sounded happy, relieved.
Philip’s appetite was returning. He eyed the steerage hatch. Below was the food storage. A hundred pounds of chocolate reserved for special occasions.
He’d already helped himself on a couple of sleepless nights. Tonight seemed perfect for another visit. To celebrate surviving the storm, of course.
Philip climbed out of bed, put on his glove-leather slippers, and took a small kerosene lamp from a shelf. Then he tiptoed to the hatch, pulled it open, and descended.
A dim light still shone from the bow, where the engine room was. Philip listened to hear if Kennedy had returned, but apparently he had not.
In the dim lamplight, the sacks looked like carcasses. He stepped closer and read the labels: RICE, FLOUR, MEAT …
A sudden noise made him jump.
A rat, Philip thought.
He held his breath and listened carefully. Now he could hear a scraping sound.
It was larger than a rat.
And it was coming from around the next corner.
“Hello?” Philip squeaked.
He peered around the corner, thrusting his lamp into the darkness.
Something moved. A barrel top.
Philip retreated. He doused his light and clung to the wall. To his right was a supply closet. He tried the knob and slowly pulled it open.
Its shelves were packed with cleaning fluids, but the floor had adequate space. He ducked in
7
Philip
October 16, 1909
L ET THEM KILL EACH other, Philip thought. They both deserve it.
Above him, the men were throwing money around. Thirsting for blood. The Romans. Friday night at the Colosseum. Gladiator against lion. Man against beast. Civilization against chaos.
That’s what it always boiled down to, didn’t it? That was what this trip was all about. What life was about.
Soon they would all be beasts. Every last one.
Chaos always won out.
“Stop this nonsense!”
Ah, the intrepid leader, Winslow the Wise. Still dedicated to the cause, despite the slow breaking apart of his own family.
Winslow ran onto the deck, slipping in the water. He pulled Colin back, wrestling him to the deck.
A few punches had been thrown, all misses.
Pity.
Philip sank back down into the cabin. It was dry there. No use wasting a good warm space during a storm.
The dogs were making a racket, yipping restlessly at the commotion above. A few of the sailors remained, playing cards, recovering from their seasickness.
Philip hadn’t enjoyed the motion much himself. The close quarters and the smell hadn’t helped matters, either. He’d been bedridden through the whole storm.
If “bed” was the correct word for that minuscule wooden box lined with horsehair.
As Philip walked unsteadily across the sloped floor, Ruskey looked up from a game of cards. “Deal you in?” he asked.
“Not for that,” Philip replied.
Ruskey smiled. He caught the hint.
Philip had already slipped him a good bit of change. British, of course, but it could be cashed at any U.S. bank. Then it would make its way into the system, eventually returning to its country of origin, where its history might or might not be discovered, but by then it wouldn’t matter. No one could trace money that closely.
Philip changed into his nightshirt and removed his shoes, then crawled into his bunk and pulled a ratty blanket up to his chin. They’d placed him where he had minimal contact with the other sailors, near the steerage hatch. The indignity of it all.
Quietly he slipped his hand under the bed and slid out his steamer trunk. Pulling it open, he reached under his clothing and flipped up a false bottom.
He pushed aside the newspaper clippings. At this angle, his fingers could just riffle through the pile of money. It felt comforting. He would sleep easier tonight, despite the storm.
He shut the trunk, locked it, and slid it back into place.
The storm seemed to be subsiding now. The weather was like that in the Drake Passage. Easy come, easy go. The men above deck were still noisy, but their utterances sounded happy, relieved.
Philip’s appetite was returning. He eyed the steerage hatch. Below was the food storage. A hundred pounds of chocolate reserved for special occasions.
He’d already helped himself on a couple of sleepless nights. Tonight seemed perfect for another visit. To celebrate surviving the storm, of course.
Philip climbed out of bed, put on his glove-leather slippers, and took a small kerosene lamp from a shelf. Then he tiptoed to the hatch, pulled it open, and descended.
A dim light still shone from the bow, where the engine room was. Philip listened to hear if Kennedy had returned, but apparently he had not.
In the dim lamplight, the sacks looked like carcasses. He stepped closer and read the labels: RICE, FLOUR, MEAT …
A sudden noise made him jump.
A rat, Philip thought.
He held his breath and listened carefully. Now he could hear a scraping sound.
It was larger than a rat.
And it was coming from around the next corner.
“Hello?” Philip squeaked.
He peered around the corner, thrusting his lamp into the darkness.
Something moved. A barrel top.
Philip retreated. He doused his light and clung to the wall. To his right was a supply closet. He tried the knob and slowly pulled it open.
Its shelves were packed with cleaning fluids, but the floor had adequate space. He ducked in
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