Survivor: South Pacific

Meade said nothing. He stared at Ogle, who had lost the spearpoint around his neck. His butcher was using it to separate the muscle from Ogle’s stout frame.

“Oh, so sorry. Name’s Cyrus Horsham, formerly of the whale ship Cygnus outta Sydney. I was a harpooner like Mr. Ogle.” Horsham nodded toward Ogle’s harpoon, the pivoting steel point stained with its owner’s blood.

“He lied,” Meade said. “You were here the entire time.”

“Almost fourteen months, truth be known. Me captain marooned me here, some trumped-up theory that I was plottin’ a mutiny. Can you imagine such a thing? Anyway, Mr. Ogle found me straight away—an intrepid sort he was, no hiding from him—and we struck a deal: he got half of Stallings, as well as the next dying man, in return for keeping me a secret. They were good as dead anyway. It worked out well for a while.”

“I’m surprised you betrayed him so soon. Still quite a bit of meat left on Peasbury.”

“He was getting a bit stale, though.” Horsham shrugged. Meade noticed he had a pot belly.





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