Torn-missing 4 (8 page)

“Henry Hudson will not be
rescued
!” Hudson thundered, smacking his hand down on the side of the shallop in his fury. “Henry Hudson will sail home in glory, with a shipload of treasures from the Orient!”

“The Orient”?
Jonah thought. Wasn’t that one of those old-fashioned expressions his grandparents used sometimes?
Would it mean the same thing in 1611 that it means to Grandma and Grandpa?
he wondered.

It couldn’t. Grandma and Grandpa talked as if the Orient was China and Japan and other places in Asia.

We’re somewhere in Canada right now. Does Henry Hudson really think we’re going to sail this shallop all the way to China or Japan? And then back to England?
Jonah didn’t know much about geography, but that had to be a long way. Like, halfway around the world and back again.
Hudson couldn’t go that far even if he still had the ship! Could he?

“You still believe in the Northwest Passage?” one of the sickly, dying sailors murmured. He sounded as if those might be his last words. “Even now?”

There were those words again: “Northwest Passage.” Some old memory stirred at the back of Jonah’s mind. Something from fifth-grade social studies, something Mrs. Rorshas had droned on and on and on about, with her talent for making even the most interesting subjects boring. Explorers … China … treasure … What kind of treasure was everyone looking for?

“You shall refer to it as the Hudson Passage, henceforth,” Hudson said haughtily. “Because I
shall
discover it.”

You’ve got to give this guy credit for having confidence,
Jonah thought.
But how does he think he’s going to discover anything in a rowboat—er, sailboat? In ice? How does he think anyone here is going to survive?

The cloak and mask and wig of Jonah’s disguise
seemed too tight again. It seemed harder and harder to draw enough of the cold air into his lungs.

The Northwest Passage, Henry Hudson being crazy, these people who are going to freeze or starve—I can’t do anything about any of it,
Jonah told himself.
Really, it already happened. It’s
done.
JB just has to get me and Katherine out of here….

Jonah twisted around to the side, pretending he was only trying to block the wind. He hunched over, bringing his face closer to the pocket where he’d tucked the Elucidator.

“JB!” he whispered. “You really could come for us now! I could pretend to fall over into the water or something.”

But would one of the others try to jump in and rescue him? Would Staffe? Would Henry Hudson himself?

“Maybe we
should
go to the winter cabin,” Jonah said aloud, so everyone in the shallop could hear him. If they landed on the shore, he could sneak away without endangering anybody.

A fist slammed into his jaw; a hand pinned his chest back against the side of the shallop. If Katherine hadn’t been beside him, holding him up, he would have fallen over sideways.

“You dare to challenge my authority?” Henry Hudson snarled, looming over Jonah. “I said we will
not
retreat to
the winter cabin. We sail on to glory! Do you not remember who is captain here?”

Jonah stared into Hudson’s eyes. He felt so odd suddenly, feeling the choices before him. He could say,
Don’t you remember you just got kicked out of being a captain? Kicked out of your own ship?
He could say,
Maybe I think it’s time you let someone else take over as captain. Since you’re not doing such a great job.

Or he could back down.

Which choice would protect his face from getting punched again?

Which choice would John Hudson have made?

What was the right thing to do?

Normally Jonah made decisions fast, by the seat of his pants. A split second was a long time for him to mull over anything. But whole minutes seemed to be flowing by, and his brain just felt more paralyzed.

Is it always like this, when people don’t make decisions right away?
Jonah wondered.
Does the decision always get harder and harder, the longer you spend not deciding?

He could feel the entire boatload of sailors watching him, waiting to see what he was going to do. Even Katherine was waiting, her face twisted in confusion.

What? Katherine isn’t going to try to tell me what to do?
Jonah thought.

For perhaps the first time in his life he wished she would.

Something hovered at the edge of Jonah’s vision, off in the distance. At first Jonah thought it was some remnant of his timesickness problems. An illusion. But there really did seem to be a large shadow sliding toward them through the fog. Was it another ice chunk? How could an ice chunk rise so high above the water?

Jonah squinted, turning his head right and left. He forgot he’d been trying to make a decision.

What I’m thinking can’t be right,
he thought.
The direction’s all wrong. Isn’t it?

The shadow broke through the fog, its shape finally distinct: three masts, billowy sails, a weathered hull. Jonah gasped, unable to believe his eyes.

Everyone else turned and stared with him.

“The ship! It’s come back for us!” Hudson cried.

“Huzzah! Huzzah! Hooray!”

Even the sailors who appeared to be nearly dead found the energy to cheer. They raised weak fists in the air and made feeble attempts at pumping their arms up and down. Toothless grins split across wizened faces.

“I planned this,” Hudson said. “I knew it would work out this way. The mutineers were lost without me….”

“Then how could they figure out how to sail back around and come get us?” Jonah muttered.

He looked at Katherine, trying to ask with his eyes:
Does any of this make sense to you? This can’t be right!

She just kept shaking her head, bafflement written all over her face.

The sailor beside Jonah was huddled over a small box, and Jonah realized for the first time what it was: a compass.
Jonah caught a glimpse of the needle jerking around, pointing north.

That’s the direction the ship was going, when it sailed away from us. North … maybe northeast,
Jonah thought.
We went west, trying to get away from the ice floe. So now the ship is sailing back toward us from the southwest? Impossible! How could it have circled around us that quickly?

“I’m … turned around,” the sailor holding the compass muttered. “The directions … all off …”

“Wydowse, the sickness confuses you,” Hudson said, almost kindly. “You’re an excellent navigator—you will be again, once you’re well.”

“The
Discovery
sailed that way,” Wydowse said, pointing north. “And now, to come back around from the south…”

“Thou knowest this bay has devilish winds and currents,” Hudson said, a light tone in his voice, as if he was only humoring the man. “Have faith—we can overcome them!”

“But what if this is a trick?” Wydowse said stubbornly. “Mayhap they return only to torture us further?”

Oh, great—thanks!
Jonah thought.
Just what I need—more awful possibilities to think about!

Now the boatload of men fell silent, watching the
Discovery
approach.

“Captain! My captain!” a voice called out.

“Abacuk Prickett?” Hudson called back. “Is that you?”

“Aye, Captain,” the voice called back. “Everything worked just as we planned.”

Planned?
Jonah thought.

He could have sworn he saw a flicker of confusion cross Hudson’s face too, but the captain covered it quickly, shouting back, “Quite so! Most excellent!”

Hudson began giving commands to angle the shallop toward the ship. Jonah took up his oar quickly, before the man could hit him again.

Most of the men in this boat are too sick and out of it to know what’s going on,
Jonah thought.
But does Staffe think there’s something weird going on? Does John King?

It was hard to tell. Both men were concentrating on lining the shallop up with the ship, attaching the ropes. The lines began to jerk upward.

“Steady,” Hudson called. “Steady does it.”

Moments later everyone who could was stepping back onto the deck of the ship. Jonah helped Staffe lift out the men who were too weak to move.

“My captain,” a man said, bowing low in greeting.

The man had dirty, unkempt hair, and his clothes were every bit as ragged as the other sailors’. His face was just as pockmarked and scarred. But there was something
different about him—an air of strength and confidence that no one else had, not even Hudson himself.

“Was that guy here before?” Jonah whispered to Katherine. “What was
he
doing during the mutiny?”

Katherine shrugged and whispered back, “Never saw him before.”

“Prickett,” John King said, sounding astonished. “I thought you were lamed. I haven’t seen you out of your bunk in days.”

Prickett looked toward Henry Hudson.

“It was a plot the captain and I conjured up,” Prickett said. “When we heard there was talk of mutiny, he knew he’d need a spy on the inside. Someone who seemed harmless. Not even able to walk! When in reality”—he smiled, in a way that seemed like a threat—“I could win a race with any man here, were it necessary.”

“And what did you do with the mutineers?” Hudson asked. “Did you … did you carry out my orders?”

Jonah was certain, suddenly, that Hudson had given Prickett no orders. Hudson was as confused by Prickett as everyone else.

“Of course, sir,” Prickett said, bowing again. “The other men and I—the ones still loyal to you, who were only pretending otherwise—we put the mutineers out on the ice.”

“Juet,” Hudson said, looking around. “Wilson. Greene. Pearce.”

Jonah realized the captain was listing off mutineers, the ones who were missing now.

“On the
ice
?” Staffe asked. “Do you not feel the air? It’s a warming day today. Ice could melt completely by noon.”

“Then the water’ll be warm enough the mutineers can swim to shore,” Prickett said lightly. “They’ve got better odds than being tried for mutiny back in London, no?”

“Mutineers always hang,” Hudson said. He looked around again, this time seeming to make a point of catching each sailor’s eye. “Even if it’s the captain’s word against the entire crew.”

Jonah had to hold back a shiver when Hudson looked his way.

He’s warning everyone,
Jonah thought.
Not to even think about disagreeing with him again.

“Juet, Wilson, Greene—
they
were leaving
us
to starve,” John King said. “Why shouldn’t we leave them to drown? Why would we share any of our precious food with such … such maggots?”

One of the sickly sailors from the shallop attempted a cheer: “Hear! Hear!” But his voice was hoarse and painful to listen to.

Nobody else joined in.

“The mutineers were hoarding food,” Prickett said. “We found it after we put them off the ship. Symmes?”

He gestured, and one of the men behind him—er, no, just a boy—leaned a barrel forward and pried off the lid. Jonah caught a glimpse of rounds of moldy cheese, domes of moldy bread, and greenish-colored … meats? Was that what meat looked like when it was thoroughly rotten?

Beside him Katherine gagged silently. She put her hands over her mouth, holding back the retching.

Jonah would have done the same if he’d been invisible. As it was, he clenched his teeth together and tried to think about something besides mold and rot.

Never mind eating,
he told himself.
That fish we had back in 1600? Had to be packed with nutrients—enough to last decades!

Around him the sailors were gasping and cheering and even drooling, as if they’d just seen a gourmet feast unveiled before their eyes.

“Well,” Hudson said, his harsh voice cutting through the cheers. “Perhaps there shall be room for extra rations at the noonday meal.
If
everyone attends to their morning work. We’ve wasted enough time over this treachery. We’ve business at hand. Wydowse, set a course due west. Everyone—to your stations!”

The men began to scatter.

Oh, no,
Jonah thought.
John Hudson was ship’s boy—he would have had duties too. Responsibilities. What am I supposed to do?

Symmes, the boy who’d pried open the barrel of food, drove a pointy elbow into Jonah’s ribs.

“You’ve got lookout,” he taunted.

“L-lookout?” Jonah repeated, casting a puzzled glance toward Katherine.

Her jaw dropped. Her eyes got big.

“Oh, yeah,” Symmes said. “No trying to get out of it.
I’m
not climbing up there today!”

He pointed one bony finger straight up toward the sky.

Jonah tilted his head back and looked up … and up … and up.

A wooden tub stood near the top of the tallest mast, practically up in the clouds.

It was the crow’s nest.

“I … can’t,” Jonah said. “Not today.”

Symmes smashed his foot down on Jonah’s, and then twisted it to make it hurt worse.

“Aye, and wouldn’t
that
be mutiny?” Symmes asked. “A ship’s boy refusing to go up to the top?” He pressed down harder on Jonah’s foot. Now the pain shot all the way up Jonah’s leg. “Don’t think I wouldn’t tell.”