Anton and Cecil (5 page)

Spluttering and gasping for breath, legs thrashing to stay afloat, Cecil peered up at the towering side of the barque sliding steadily away from him. The girls in the blue dresses surged ahead, their angelic faces turned toward the harbor and the waiting ocean. The water churned and swirled around him in the ship's wake. Cecil weakened and his body went slack, the reality like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. He
hadn't
saved Anton, not even close! Now he found himself sinking, choking on the water filling his nose and eyes. He felt as if a heavy net had closed over him and was dragging him down; he could not move his limbs. Was this what drowning felt like?

Then abruptly he was lifted into the air, flying swiftly over the water and landing in a sodden heap on the dock. He coughed out seawater and opened his eyes to see Ben holding a long wooden pole attached to the small basket of netting in which Cecil was now slumped. Ben dropped the pole and rushed over.

“Blackie my lad! Are ya all right there? What's got into ya, jumpin' in the harbor like that?” He knelt down and smoothed Cecil's fur with his rough hands, looking at him anxiously.

Cecil found his breath at last and stood up shakily. The dockhands watched with amusement, not sure what to make of his strange antics. Cecil gazed at Ben with what he hoped was a look of gratitude, though his head was full of numb fear, then slunk quietly away from the staring sailors. As he stumbled up the wharf in the steady rain, shivering with cold and despair, he could see the tops of the
Mary Anne
's masts in the distance, already sailing through the mouth of the harbor and out to sea, headed for parts unknown. His brother was aboard, and Cecil was left behind, wet and miserable on the dock.

CHAPTER 5

On the Mary Anne

D
own, down into the vast dark hold of the ship Anton fell. He braced his legs for landing, but when it came, his hind paws missed the edge of a barrel and he hung by his claws, seeking purchase on the rough staves of the side. In a moment he'd pulled himself up and sat atop the barrel, cautiously wrapping his tail around his legs. His ears rotated, taking in a hubbub of sounds. His eyes, gradually adjusting to the dark, made out shapes and calculated distances. He looked up at the thin, bright lines of light framing the door of the hold high over his head. The ladder was nearly vertical, the rungs far apart. It wouldn't be easy to climb. Noises came from the deck, men shouting and stamping their many boots, dragging gear and reeling in ropes, hauling up the gangplank, scrambling up the masts. From below there was another sound, soft and insistent, the throb of water rubbing lazily against the wood of the hull, feeling it over for cracks, for a way in.

Anton's brain worked over his predicament. The hold was crammed with barrels, but along one wall wooden crates were stacked, some so high they nearly touched the ceiling. He could still hear the shouting, though the voices seemed farther away now. The churning of the water rushing back from the moving prow grew louder until it drowned out all other sound. Anton's heart thumped with terror; they had cast off—the ship was setting out to sea.

Abruptly the hold shifted. The crates rattled against the wall and the barrels banged together, throwing Anton off balance. He had seen Cecil coming up the dock, and he knew Billy would have told him what had happened. He also knew that with all the noise of sea and men, no one would hear a cat calling out in the darkness at the bottom of the hold, but he couldn't help himself. He dug all his claws into the wooden lid of the barrel, lifted his head, and howled, “Cecil, Cecil! Where are you?”

But the only reply came from the water slapping against the hull as the great ship pulled away from the wharf and the sailors unfurled the sails with joyful shouts.
How fine,
Anton thought,
to watch a ship sail away from the wharf and how different to be trapped inside it
. He closed his eyes and swallowed; his mouth was dry and his stomach felt queasy. Soon, he persuaded himself, they would open the hold and somehow he'd get up that ladder and into the light. He peered up the wall of crates again and a new thought occurred to him. Carefully he began to climb, jumping lightly from one offset edge to the next, testing his weight on each level. Close to the top he could go no farther, but now he was only a couple of yards from the door.

His jaws stretched wide in a yawn. The great defense for all cats in times of stress is sleep, and so sleep crept up on Anton and seized him as he tried to think of what to do next. He slipped into a dream of home. He was a kitten, lounging on the blanket with Cecil and Sonya in the old lighthouse, savoring the smell of salt and herrings, beneath glittering stars.

A crack like a thunderbolt shattered this blissful dream, and Anton opened his eyes to a widening swath of golden light glaring from above. Before the sailors had the door wide enough to look inside, he was up the ladder and out between their legs, bolting across the deck in search of a hiding place. He spotted a coil of rope and dived into the center of it. Then he crouched down, listening for sounds of pursuit, but only the wind passed over his head as the sun warmed the hemp near his face. He sniffed the air, laden with unfamiliar scents. Where there were men, there was food, he thought, and sooner or later the men would go to bed.

Anton looked up at the great sails, a dozen or more of them bloated by the wind, attended by sailors who balanced on spars and hung from ropes, dwarfed by the size and power of the enormous canvases they somehow contrived to control. Anton stuck his head out, looking across the deck at a group of sailors gathered beneath the main mast, and another two standing in the open door of the cabin. They looked cheerful; they laughed and jostled each other and pointed at the ocean.
I'm at sea,
Anton thought.
This is where Cecil wants to be
. The ship forged through the waves, pitching from side to side. A wave splashed over the rail and soaked him from head to tail. Anton wiped his face with his paw, tasting the salty water as he licked his pad to smooth his whiskers.
And I just want to be home,
he thought.

The two men near the cabin moved away, and Anton could see into the open doorway. It would be dry in there; perhaps he would find something to eat. He studied the space in between—a good dash and he'd be inside before any of the sailors could catch him. Gathering his strength, he eased down the side of the coil and then ran full out, his paws scarcely touching the planks of the deck, ignoring the shout from one sailor and the raucous laughter of another, until he was in the cabin. At once he spotted another open door and made for it. Here, to his surprise, was a narrow hall with doors on each side.
Hide, hide,
he thought.
There must be a place
. The last door opened into a small room crammed with canvas bags, the rafters strung with long white planks that smelled like fish.

Anton spied a space between two bags and squeezed into it. On either side, other bags leaned together, making a dome over an oblong bit of floor. It was just big enough for a cat. He curled himself in a ball and rested his head on his paws. There were many strange smells in the place. Some he had not encountered before, but there was an insistent, sour, greasy odor he recognized, and it made him wrinkle his nose with distaste. He had no doubt what it was. He was sharing lodgings with a rat.

Again Anton slept. He woke, hungry and thirsty and uncertain where he was. There was a noise and then another, a sailor's voice and the scrape of something heavy being dragged into the passageway. He sat up and peered through an opening between the bags. Two sailors were talking and laughing. One was pointing out things in the room to the other. Before Anton could make a move, the bigger of the two men shifted a bag and Anton was exposed to their view.

“Well, you're in the right place, lad,” the big sailor said.

“Though he won't find much to his taste in the larder,” observed the other.

Anton looked from one to the other as they spoke, though he had no idea what they were saying.

“He's a bit of a scrawny fellow, idn't he?” said the first.

“There's not much meat upon him,” his companion agreed.

The big sailor leaned forward and crooked his finger at Anton. “Come along, mate, and we'll introduce you to Pritchert. He's the cook. He'll be your benefactor.”

Why were they talking to him in this pointless way? Anton wondered. And what was the meaning of the crooked finger? Now the other sailor joined in, motioning toward the doorway with his palm. “Come along, then,” he said. They backed out into the hall, urging Anton with their gestures. They didn't seem threatening, and if he was to get anything to eat he knew it would have to come from them. He thought of the sailors who stuffed Cecil with fish because they thought he was lucky. Anton stood up, stretched from head to tail, ran a quick paw over his face, and followed the men into a room with a long table, where a third sailor stood over a barrel, dipping a tin can on a string into an opening in the lid.

Water was in that barrel. Anton could smell it, and he was so thirsty he forgot his sense of ordinary caution and leaped onto the lid, thrusting his face close to the opening, which caused the sailors to laugh.

“Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink, eh, mate?” said the sailor pulling up the can. He was a tall, thin, white-haired fellow with a beard that stood out from his face like a cloud passing by. “Hand me that pie pan,” he added to the sailor nearest him, who took down a tin plate from a stack over the stove. The cloudy man had pulled up the can and proceeded to pour the contents into the plate. Anton lapped at the cool water, oblivious to danger. When his tongue had chased out every last drop, he sat up, licking his whiskers. The three men stood looking at him, their eyes bright with amusement.

“What name shall we give our feline friend?” said one.

“Thirsty,” suggested the other.

Sailors,
Anton thought. They all looked alike, but it might be a good idea to tell them apart. The fur was the thing; some had a lot and some had hardly any. He would have to be observant and figure out which was which. He'd call the white-bearded one “Cloudy,” and the thin fellow, who had no fur on his chin but a great mop of black fur falling over his eyes, he would call “Black Top.”

“He's not got a spot of color on him. Let's call him Mr. Gray,” the first sailor said. And so they did.

Two more days passed and Anton tried to make some sort of life below decks, avoiding the chilly spray and endlessly pitching deck at all costs. The noxious smell of the rat irritated him, but he had not spied the creature yet. Anton slept in the galley, because it was quiet there, and crept about, waiting until Cloudy was alone to present himself for a daily pan of water. When the men had their dinner, they were rowdy and Anton stayed outside the door, sniffing the air. The food they ate had no appeal for him. It was some sort of biscuit and potatoes and nasty-smelling soup. The sailors were hungry and cleaned their plates, not thinking to offer Anton a taste. When Cloudy was clearing up, he scraped the pots into a plate and offered it to Anton. It was all he could do to choke down a bite or two.

“You'll get used to it, lad,” Cloudy said, but Anton was thinking,
How am I going to survive?

Then, early one morning, when the sailors were still snoring in their bunks and the night watchman was taking a last turn around the deck, Cloudy went into the larder to fill a big tin box with flour from a bag, and Anton followed. Cat and man heard a rustle and pricked up their ears. Anton knew immediately what it was, but Cloudy evidently did not. In the next moment a large brown rat stepped out from behind a barrel. Cloudy gave a shout and dropped his tin, backing clumsily into the hall, his beard aquiver and his eyes staring wildly.

“Be gone, you devilish creature!” he cried.

The rat turned calmly away and slipped back into its hiding place, its long tail disappearing bit by bit. It paused to wheeze, looking back over its shoulder. “This is my ship, you lousy cat,” it said. “You'd best make yourself scarce.”

Anton shuddered. It was one thing to smell the creature, but to see the ugly snout and beady eyes, the sharp claws and slithering tail, turned his stomach. No cat, not even Cecil, relished the prospect of a battle with a large rat.

Cloudy charged back into the room, taking up his tin, and to Anton's surprise, shook it at him, shouting in outrage, “What are you up to, you lazy, worthless fellow? It's your job to clear the ship of vermin!” Anton had no idea why the man was upset, but clearly he was angry, and clearly he was angry at Anton. He filled the tin with flour and huffed off to the galley, leaving Anton in a miserable state of mind.

Anton slipped into the galley after the sailors finished their morning gruel, thinking he might be able to get a bite of something, but Cloudy spotted him and waved him out of the room, berating him, as he had before. The sailors listened, frowned, muttered, and turned unfriendly faces on Anton.

“Get on with you then,” Black Top hissed, pointing to the storeroom with a gnarled finger. “Do your duty like the rest of us.”

Anton was hungry; he'd been hungry for days. Was Cloudy now going to deny him even the tasteless stuff he'd been living on thus far? He was indeed. At lunch and then at dinner, the sailors treated Anton coldly. When Cloudy scraped the pans at the end of the meal, he stepped out onto the deck and threw the contents of the tin plate over the side. Anton had followed him and his stomach twisted and groaned as he watched the gray mess fly over the rail. What was he going to do?