The Law of Dreams Page 30

  A wave broke over the side, bursting seawater at their feet. Panicking passengers began pushing for the hatchway, trying to get below.

  The carpenter appeared with a hammer and bucket of nails, and Fergus saw the hatch was to be nailed shut. He stepped back but the bos’n caught sight of him. “Below with the rest, Mike.”

  He seized of a shroud and refused to let go. They began beating him with rope-ends but he kept his grip on the shroud until a blow caught him just behind his ear. Stunned, he let go the shroud and felt the sailors dragging him across the deck. They threw him down the hatch and he heard the oil lamp swaying and squeaking as he fell, then nothing.

  Letters

  CABIN PEOPLE WERE AFRAID of the dark. They lit bonfires to welcome a fresh moon, and hated venturing out alone on a black night. If a man must go out, he carried a torch. If he didn’t have a torch, he lit his pipe and kept it burning. Any fire was some protection.

  He came to, staring at the flame of a candle. Molly held the candle, and Brighid was pressing a cold, wet cloth to his forehead. Confused, he tried to think his way back into himself, but it was difficult.

  The flame entranced him. Insubstantial it seemed. Flickering. So near to going out.

  WITHOUT ANY light, time slurred, days lost distinction. Even when he was fully conscious, he couldn’t guess how long they had been trapped in the hold. The air was rank. He heard rats scrabbling in the ballast, but nothing from above, except the wind. He wondered if the crew had abandoned ship.

  The ’tween deck leaked and dripped. He felt the weight of the sea punching Laramie, the ship staggering from blow to blow.

  When a tier of berths collapsed, the framework cracking and splintering, spilling people out of their cribs, he thought she was finally breaking up — but no; she held.

  There was nothing to do but lie in the darkness and wait for what was going to happen.

  “MRS. COOLE said at Quebec there is nuns, Fergus.”

  They lay in their berth, the blackthorn stick between them.

  Even in the fear and darkness, he could tell she was recovering her strength. Her breath, so close, smelled deep and sweet.

  “Nuns?”

  “Black gowns, ever seen them?”

  “No.”

  “They take girls in, feed them, teach them.”

  “Teach them what?”

  “Letters. I don’t know. What there is.”

  “A workhouse is it?”

  “Oh I don’t know.”

  “Open up! We need air! We need water!” Martin Coole had climbed up the hatchway ladder and was pounding the hatch cover with his fist, but no one responded. They had pooled supplies with the Cooles and the old woman; the stores Maguire had warned him to save for mi an ocrais. Most of the German cheese was rotten but he cut out an edible portion. The apples were soft but sweet. The Cooles had crackers, figs, rotten oranges, two quarts of lime juice. Brighid had oily little herrings bartered from the crew.

  Molly ate a little, lay poised and still, breathing softly.

  Aren’t you hungry for me? he wanted to ask her. Don’t you feel strong when I’m beside you?

  THEY WERE sleeping when the hatch opened and a shaft of white light bounced down into the hold. Molly poked him with her elbow. “Wake up, man, smell the air. Let’s go up, before they close us up again.”

  He swung his legs from the berth and stood up, feeling strange and dizzy. Dozens of white faces peered down from the tiers. Most passengers were too stunned or weak to move.

  “Give me your hand, man, pull me up.”

  He helped her up out of the berth. She stood wavering, clutching his arm. He thought she was going to faint.

  “I’m walking to the sun. Come on.” Heading for the ladder, she seized hold and started climbing into the white air, so bright it stung their eyes.

  Laramie was making way, her sails packed with wind, her bow biting the waves. There were tags of mist lingering on the sea but the sky above was blue and the sun was an engine warming their faces.

  More passengers began crowding up through the hatchway and spilling onto the deck, blinking in the light and moving stiffly after their long confinement, flapping their arms like pigeons, skipping and laughing, begging lights from the sailors to start their pipes.

  When Fergus held out his palm above the hatchway, he felt the pressure of foul air rising from the hold.

  “Sweep up the old straw and throw it overboard!” Mr. Blow called. “New fresh bedding you shall have. I’ll serve out no rations until your quarters are clean and pure.”

  The passengers set to work scouring the hold, raking filthy straw from the berths and piling it into canvas slings that were hauled up through the hatchway and dumped overboard. Soon there were tawny islands of straw and refuse bobbing behind them on the bright blue sea. The mania for cleaning had seized the entire ship — even the sailors were scouring out the fo’c’sle, bringing their hammocks on deck to air, scrubbing their clothes and pinning them to dry on the ratlines and in the rigging.

  In the hold an old man had been found dead in one of the uppermost berths. The widow could not be coaxed down.

  The couple’s two grown sons seemed stunned. When the old man was finally lifted down and laid on the floor, Fergus noticed how small and yellow were his hands and feet.

  “Bring him on deck directly, Mr. Blow says,” Nimrod Blampin instructed. “No bansheeing.”

  Washtubs had been set out on deck and filled with seawater. The sky was cluttered now with clouds but the air tasted soft and rain, if it came, would be easy. Passengers were scrubbing their clothes and their blankets. The collapsed berths were being repaired by the ship’s carpenter, while passengers scrubbed the ’tween deck with brushes and buckets of seawater, then sprinkled clean sand and vigorously swept it up.

  When all the trash had been raked out and the boards were glistening wet from scrubbing, one of the cabooses was lowered into the hold on ropes and lit so the thick, tart smoke might purify the air.

  The corpse lay on a board on the foredeck, wrapped in sailcloth; their first death at sea. He watched the sailmaker place two ballast stones inside the shroud then sew it up with his awl while the dead man’s sons stood by, puffing their pipes.

  Warm silver rain began to fall. Passengers began stripping off their filthy clothes. He watched Molly pull her gown over her head and stand in her shift with arms extended and face tilted to the rain, her hair black with it, her nipples prickling under the wet linen.

  Mr. Blow climbed onto the foredeck with a book tucked inside his jacket, protecting it from the rain. “I shall perform the service now.”

  “You mean to say the prayers, master?” The dead man’s sons were staring at Mr. Blow.

  “Of course.”

  “But we can’t have you say the prayers.”

  “What do you mean? I am master of the ship. I have the proper authority.”

  “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Are you being impudent?” Mr. Blow was getting angry.

  Martin Coole had joined the little group standing by the shrouded corpse. “Only a priest for burying, Mr. Blow. That is their custom.”

  “There isn’t any priest, you fool! I’ll read the service as written, right here in this book!”

  “Without a priest, it is improper,” one son muttered in Irish.

  “What does he say?” the master said, furious. “I won’t stand that goblin talk.”

  Coole translated.

  “You tell me, they mean to bury their own father,” said Mr. Blow, “without a word of Christian prayer?”

  Mr. Coole translated this into Irish. The brothers looked at each other, then nodded.

  Mr. Blow slapped his book shut and stalked off.

  The sons’ wives began keening dutifully. From the foredeck ladder Mr. Blow shouted, “Put him over! Put him over right now!”

  The sailors lifted the board to the rail and tilted it slowly. The corpse began to slide, and then it tumbled. It hard
ly made a splash, spinning for a few moments, then disappearing.

  “Land ho!” — the shout came from Nimrod Blampin in the tops.

  In a moment the passengers were all crowding along the rail, elbowing and shoving. Molly was next to him, her face glowing. She grabbed his hand, gave it a squeeze. Mist parted for a moment, revealing a white line of surf and a rocky shore.

  The passengers began cheering.

  Coole grabbed Fergus’s hand and shook it vigorously. People were shouting with joy, and men were throwing hats in the air.

  America looked green. He could see lines of fences and white specks of cabins. The land divided into fields. So there were farms already.

  Had you expected empty land, free for the taking?

  “That ain’t America, you ninnies!”

  Looking up, he saw Nimrod Blampin twelve feet above the deck, hanging from a ratline.

  “That’s only Ireland! Old Cape Clear!”

  The celebration died immediately. The people accepted the news without question, as if disappointment was their real faith, all they really believed in. Turning away from the sight of land, men picked up their hats and joined the crowd pressing for the hatchway, retreating below.

  “Newfoundland it is, surely,” Martin Coole kept insisting, but people pushed past him, ignoring him. Mrs. Coole and her children joined the others going below.

  Soon Fergus, Molly, and Coole were the only passengers left on deck, staring at Ireland.

  “Don’t look so cut up, Fergus,” she said. “It’s worth a laugh, I suppose.”

  “Perhaps it is, but I can’t.”

  “You with your Newfoundland talk!” She laughed at Coole. “You don’t know so much, mister, do you?”

  “I’m not familiar with the sea, miss, and don’t pretend to be.”

  “You do, though — that’s the point.”

  Coole shook his head sadly. He went into the bow and stood peering ahead, as though he still expected to catch sight of America.

  Molly slipped her arm through Fergus’s.

  Her body so near giving him a kick.

  That warmth of her.

  “Let it go, man. Forget it. What’s coming is still coming.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you carried a child?”

  Staring back at Ireland, she didn’t reply.

  “It was his, wasn’t it, Molly?” He hated the sound of his voice.

  “It’s nothing now.” She sounded tired.

  “It was Muck’s, though, wasn’t it?” He was afraid she’d see his eyes and think he was crying; think he was soft, which he never would be. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve.

  “If it was mine you’d have kept it.”

  “If I told you I’d got rid of Muck’s baby, as I got rid of Muck’s watch, you’d understand? You’d be strong for me, then? You’d say it was still on between us?”

  “I would.”

  Her face was tight. “Do you want the truth, man? I’ll give it to you whether you want it or not. Could have been his. Could have been yours. That time on the cliff. Could have been. May have been. Wouldn’t make no difference.”

  “Mine?”

  “I won’t carry a child. Not now. I don’t trust the world.”

  “You’re the witch. Not her. You’re the witch.”

  “Did you want a lie? Is that what you wanted? You asked. I don’t mind a lie, Fergus, I would have lied easy —”

  “Get away from me, witch.”

  She left him then and he watched her crossing the deck.

  His hand had curled into a fist and was beating on the rail as he watched her going down the ladder step by step. She was still weak, unsteady.

  Nimrod Blampin came up and stood next to him along the rail. “Look see — the damned old place is well behind us now. And there she goes.” The Irish coast was falling away fast, disappearing into mist. “We’re for the western ocean now. What are you doing, Michael? Knocking down the ship?”

  Fergus opened his fist. The edge of his hand was raw and tender where he had been beating it on the wood, and he uncurled the fingers slowly.

  Anger, what is it? It’s nothing pure. It’s yourself you despise.

  Chance

  IT WAS A STRANGE, fast life: day after day of singing wind and empty sea, with America somewhere off the stem.

  Had there been a berth unoccupied he might have taken his share of the blankets and claimed it. It wasn’t anger he felt, but awkwardness. He felt awkward near her body.

  If it was anger, he would refuse to make use of it. If it was anger, he would carry it around like a dull little knife.

  The tiers were packed; there were no empty berths. So he remained with her, sharing their blankets, lying with the blackthorn stick between them. While her body was recovering strength, at night she was often burning with heat.

  They were quiet with each other. Perhaps she, like him, felt too sore to talk.

  The miles chopping past; the seas changing green to blue to green again.

  MARTIN COOLE said, “I must charge a fee for lessons.”

  “How much?” Molly asked.

  They were on deck, scrubbing their clothes and blankets in buckets of seawater.

  “Knowledge, it cost me a lot to get, such as I have,” Coole said. “And like anything else, I must make it pay. I have my children to think of. Do you have schoolbooks?”

  She shook her head.

  “No matter,” said Coole. “I have the primers — the Dublin Universal, and the Goff ’s for doing sums.”

  “If you give me a book, man,” Molly said fervently, “I would eat every word.”

  “Were you ever a scholar?”

  “I can do sums — had fellows at the fairs teach me. What’s your fee for learning us our letters?”

  “You can’t say I’m not qualified. I had charge of the famous school established by Sir William Hamilton to educate the sons of his tenants. Have you heard of Sir William?”

  She shook her head. “I have not.”

  “A great man in north Tipperary. Paid me a handsome salary, and gave us a cottage to live in.”

  “Why have you come away?” Fergus asked.

  Coole grimaced. “At the start of the winter, two landlords in the district were shot down in cold blood. The miserable, shucking little priest went running to Sir William declaring I was responsible for the outrage.”

  A shagairt a rúin, his mother used to call out, when she saw the young priest, on his rare visits to the mountain. O dearest priest!

  “Did you? shoot them?”

  Coole looked at Fergus with horror. “No, no, what makes you even ask such a thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I never knew the gentlemen, except by reputation! I never touched a hair of their heads. That priesteen was always jealous of me; he had a school of his own. He told Sir William that I was educating a nest of ribbonmen.”

  “Were you?”

  Drying his hands on his trouser legs, Coole pulled a thick little book from his pocket. “I was for Repeal, and have shaken the hand of the Liberator himself, Daniel O’Connell. Lately I am — was — am a Young Ireland man. I have the national feeling. That priesteen had Sir William’s ear, and Sir William closed the school. We lost our dear cottage. My wife had a beautiful garden she was very sorry to leave. The spuds were blighted, but we had turnips, strawberries, peas. When our benefactor threw us out, we had nowhere to go, and were put out directly on the roads. It was very hard on Mrs. Coole, to see her children suddenly as little paupers — wild little paupers. We followed the road to Cork, begging for food to put in the children’s mouths.”

  “What will you do in America, will you have a school?”

  “Mrs. Coole says my opinions have put us on the famine road. A man with mouths to feed cannot afford opinions, she says. I have sacrificed her babies for what? For nothing. The patriot game. The national feeling.” He slapped the thick little book upon his knee. “This was given me at a soup kitchen in
Cork. It is a Bible. Do you know it?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Did you ever think that the species of time that is commonly called the old days were, in fact, the new days? These here we’re living are the old days. Today is certainly the oldest day the world has seen. Tomorrow will be even older. At this instant, are we not living the farthest removed any human has ever been from the act of Creation?”

  “It’ll be different in America, you think?” Molly asked.

  “It will, and it won’t.” The schoolmaster smiled. “I’m sorry but that’s the best answer I can think of, and I may be wrong. I usually am. Did you ever feed at a soup kitchen?”

  “In Liverpool — at the Fenwick,” Fergus told him.

  “Did you get a wide-awake with your supper?”

  “Don’t know what that is.”

  “Was there a gentleman shouting, ‘Do you want to go to Hell tonight?’”

  “No.”

  “The soup kitchen that took us in was right there on the Parade in Cork, a very decent house it was, with a chapel attached. Lodging, very clean and warm. Food for the children, milk and honey. The preacher was a North of Ireland man, a very fierce fellow. He preached twice a day, extravagantly vehement. He could describe the last feeble, fainting moments of human life and the process of decay up to the last loathsome stage of decomposition. He was rather good at making you see Hell.

  “After we were there a week, he offered us passage to America and a piece of land in Indiana where I might have a school. Only we must renounce the pope and the saints to be baptized again. And the children were little papist sinners and must be baptized too. He said he wasn’t in the business of sending papists to the New World.” Coole slapped the Bible softly on his knee. “I did as he asked. I sold my children’s souls for passage to America.”

  The sun was bright on deck, the light splashing off the sails. Coole went silent, brooding. Molly looked at Fergus. They had two pounds and twelve shillings, wrapped in a handkerchief at the bottom of the sea chest.