bodies were making their way in well-ordered insectual haste across Merry's cabin floor.
Afterward she was able to reflect with mild pleasure that she had had the presence of mind not to scream. She had simply walked from the cabin, sternly repressing a certain gritty distaste as her feet crackled accidentally on a score of stragglers. Sir Michael had been in the corridor, in conversation with one of the junior officers, who turned and smiled with lush enthusiasm when he saw Merry, his youthful features reddening when Merry told him politely that her cabin was full of ants.
There had been, quite naturally, a good deal of commotion and a good deal of embarrassment later when the ants were traced to a bowl of dusty comfits in Merry's trunk. In two words, spoken in a sinking voice, Aunt April had laid the matter bare: "Henry Cork."
Merry's cabin was unlivable after the liberal application of acrid astringent poisons, laid down to kill the ants. Aunt April's tiny cabin was only large enough for her and Betty, her aproned, aging maid; when the truckle bed was pulled out, there was no room to walk. There were no vacant sleeping arrangements available; and yet Aunt April was nearly stampeded with officers begging to give up their beds for Merry's comfort. Sir Michael's offer carried the day, if only because his were the only quarters not already being shared with another. Sir Michael handsomely agreed to make himself comfortable in a hammock mounted in the captain's quarters.
An hour later Merry shut her eyes for the last time that day, wincing against the headache, in Sir Michael's bunk. The mattress was rude and lumpy, the stark long-sleeved nightdress she had borrowed from her aunt felt scratchy, the sheets smelled as though the ship's launderer had too generous a hand with the bleach cup, and the hot skimmed milk the first mate had kindly brought curdled in her stomach. But the Atlantic Ocean rose and fell beneath the Guinevere like a mother rocking a cradle, and Merry fell almost immediately and blessedly to sleep, with headache intact, her dreams fitful.
She was awakened some time later that night by a noise; and sat up and opened her eyes in a single movement, and found herself staring, from inches away, into a rotund, unshaven, and evilly grinning face. She never saw the blow that came from behind to end once more her wakefulness, and this time there were no dreams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Consciousness returned with the scent of fermented fruit. Merry opened her eyes to a darkness relieved only by thin, glossy spears of sunlight. It had to be day. Could so much time really have passed? She tried to move, wearily, and found first with annoyance and then with terror that she could not. A hasty catalogue of her limbs and joints revealed that her knees were tucked up under her chin and there was no room to stretch out her legs and relax the cramps that were twisting her calf muscles into corkscrews. From without came a rumble of wheels and the murmur of voices. When she tried to call out to them, a sticky, foul-tasting wad of fabric slid deeper into her mouth, choking her words into a rasp that was barely audible, even to her own ears.
Bound, gagged, and thrust like yesterday's garbage into an aged apple barrel, Merry was being hauled off in an unsprung wagon toward parts unknown.
A nerve path cleared suddenly in her brain, and her hearing focused on a man's voice, startlingly close to the barrel.
"The thing I don't like about it is the bloody thin air out here. It's too thin to get aholt of, like thin soup, and it's hard to get enough of in one breath."
"That's right." It was a different voice, also male. "Ya always did have such a way with words, Jack. It's like the air is unsatisfyin'. One longs fer a thick blast o' that good solid New York air, reekin' o' coal smoke and horse manure dust. Out here how can a fellow tell he's breathin' at all? And that ain't the only thing. Yer citizens out here are stoopid. Like
Afterward she was able to reflect with mild pleasure that she had had the presence of mind not to scream. She had simply walked from the cabin, sternly repressing a certain gritty distaste as her feet crackled accidentally on a score of stragglers. Sir Michael had been in the corridor, in conversation with one of the junior officers, who turned and smiled with lush enthusiasm when he saw Merry, his youthful features reddening when Merry told him politely that her cabin was full of ants.
There had been, quite naturally, a good deal of commotion and a good deal of embarrassment later when the ants were traced to a bowl of dusty comfits in Merry's trunk. In two words, spoken in a sinking voice, Aunt April had laid the matter bare: "Henry Cork."
Merry's cabin was unlivable after the liberal application of acrid astringent poisons, laid down to kill the ants. Aunt April's tiny cabin was only large enough for her and Betty, her aproned, aging maid; when the truckle bed was pulled out, there was no room to walk. There were no vacant sleeping arrangements available; and yet Aunt April was nearly stampeded with officers begging to give up their beds for Merry's comfort. Sir Michael's offer carried the day, if only because his were the only quarters not already being shared with another. Sir Michael handsomely agreed to make himself comfortable in a hammock mounted in the captain's quarters.
An hour later Merry shut her eyes for the last time that day, wincing against the headache, in Sir Michael's bunk. The mattress was rude and lumpy, the stark long-sleeved nightdress she had borrowed from her aunt felt scratchy, the sheets smelled as though the ship's launderer had too generous a hand with the bleach cup, and the hot skimmed milk the first mate had kindly brought curdled in her stomach. But the Atlantic Ocean rose and fell beneath the Guinevere like a mother rocking a cradle, and Merry fell almost immediately and blessedly to sleep, with headache intact, her dreams fitful.
She was awakened some time later that night by a noise; and sat up and opened her eyes in a single movement, and found herself staring, from inches away, into a rotund, unshaven, and evilly grinning face. She never saw the blow that came from behind to end once more her wakefulness, and this time there were no dreams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Consciousness returned with the scent of fermented fruit. Merry opened her eyes to a darkness relieved only by thin, glossy spears of sunlight. It had to be day. Could so much time really have passed? She tried to move, wearily, and found first with annoyance and then with terror that she could not. A hasty catalogue of her limbs and joints revealed that her knees were tucked up under her chin and there was no room to stretch out her legs and relax the cramps that were twisting her calf muscles into corkscrews. From without came a rumble of wheels and the murmur of voices. When she tried to call out to them, a sticky, foul-tasting wad of fabric slid deeper into her mouth, choking her words into a rasp that was barely audible, even to her own ears.
Bound, gagged, and thrust like yesterday's garbage into an aged apple barrel, Merry was being hauled off in an unsprung wagon toward parts unknown.
A nerve path cleared suddenly in her brain, and her hearing focused on a man's voice, startlingly close to the barrel.
"The thing I don't like about it is the bloody thin air out here. It's too thin to get aholt of, like thin soup, and it's hard to get enough of in one breath."
"That's right." It was a different voice, also male. "Ya always did have such a way with words, Jack. It's like the air is unsatisfyin'. One longs fer a thick blast o' that good solid New York air, reekin' o' coal smoke and horse manure dust. Out here how can a fellow tell he's breathin' at all? And that ain't the only thing. Yer citizens out here are stoopid. Like
Similar Books
