The Convicts by Iain Lawrence Page A

me on the shoulders. “Work harder;” he said. “Work faster”
    We were supposed to do it without talking, but a murmur of whispers hummed in the room, and bubbles of silence followed the guards. I was reminded of frogs in a pond. But Midgely knew when to whisper and when to be silent. He asked where I was bom, and why Iwas on the hulks. “Can you read?” he whispered. “Can you do numbers?” But I Mrefy answered, too ill to care. Hundreds and hundreds of times I pushed the needle through the cloth and pulled it out the other side. Soon my fihgertips were punctured, and drips of blood marked every second stitch.
    A boy fell asleep and was bashed awake. Two others were taken from their places and marched from the room.
    “They're going to punishment,” whispered Midgely. “Every morning there's punishment.”
    “Worse than thisT I asked, and he laughed.
    “You'll see.”
    They came back hunched and hobbling, their faces drawn. It seemed they had aged into old men with trembling hands.
    The bell took forever to count up to eight. But finally it did, and we put aside our cloth and thread. We trooped downstairs for our dinner—a bowl of the same gray gruel, and a little chunk of waxy cheese. We held it up and chanted a blessing, and Weedle demanded his share. But Oten Acres wouldn't give up a morsel. “Get stuffed,” he said, staring glumly at his food.
    I remembered my father telling me once about bullies. “They're only seventh-raters, dressed up like ships of the line,” he'd said when I'd come home in tears one day. “Run out your guns, Tom, and they'll strike their colors.”
    The only color Weedle struck was a deep and furious red. He muttered the most bloodcurdling oaths, then demanded a double share from me. I gave it up without a care, and passed the rest to Midgely. “Don't think I'm done with you,” said Weedle.
    Already I hated the bell. It rang once to start our meal, twice to end it, and we formed our lines and climbed through the ship. I followed a rut that irons had grooved in the planks, up past the workrooms and out to the open air.
    I thought then that I would see the sun going down, that my first day was over. But it was only noon, not evening, and I realized that the bells counted half hours. With seven years ahead of me, the difference was nothing. A blink, an instant, was all it was. But the disappointment was nearly enough to break me. I lowered my head and trudged in the line, round and round the deck. My heart felt as heavy as my irons.
    Seven years, I thought. I couldn't last that long. Why, I couldn't last the six months the Overseer had hinted at. If Weedle didn't kill me, I would die from sickness, or wither away from the sheer misery of the place. I dragged my feet until Midgely bumped up on my heels. I whispered back at him. “Do people escape? Has anyone ever got off?”
    His child's fist pushed me forward. “Don't talk to me, Tom.”
    “Tell me,” I said. “Yes or no.”
    A guard came running. He bashed me with his cane, then bashed Midgely, too. I cowered from him, ducking my head, and in the angle below his raised arm I saw the Overseer watching. I took a blow on my elbow, another on my wrist, but poor Midgely caught it worse. The cane whistled up and down, and a pathetic squeal came from Midgely's lips. But he didn't move to protect himself. He only winced and shook with each blow.
    We circled the deck once more, then filed through the hatches and down to the workroom. I took my place and started sewing again. Across fixe table sat Oten, weeping silently. I could see the tears coming from his eyes, his tongue licking them away as they trickled down. Beside me, Midgely sewed his bits of cloth and watched the guards go back and forth.
    Suddenly he leaned toward me. “People have done it,” he whispered.
    I didn't know what he was saying at first.
    “They Ve escaped,” he said.

I thought Midgely was clear off his nut. I couldn't believe I'd heard him