The Law of Dreams Page 31

  “What fee will you charge for lessons?” she asked Coole again.

  Coole looked up. “Sixpence a lesson.”

  “That’s steep.”

  “Sixpence for the two of you.”

  “Can you really teach me to read?” Molly asked.

  “I can teach. Can you learn, is the question.”

  “LETTERS GIVES you the handle, man,” Molly said. “Excepting old McCarty, I never met one fellow on the line who could read.”

  They were lying on their berth, the blackthorn stick between them. She was shuffling a pack of playing cards she had borrowed from the black cook in exchange for a few thumbs of tobacco. They were dogged, dirty old cards, smudged and soft, but the faces were colorful.

  “Speaking of which, did I ever tell you, Fergus, when first I seen a train?”

  He watched her split the deck and shuffle again, the cards flying from hand to hand, realizing how deft she was.

  “It was when I was tramping out of Bristol with Muldoon. We’d just come across. Muck knew how to live by stealing food. Apples, honey — I knew how to steal milk from cattle, but he taught me to steal the milk from sheep. We were scrounging wheat when the train appeared. Have you ever done so? I mean gathering from a standing crop, not gleaning.”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s risky. Any farmer would shoot you dead for stealing a crop standing in the field. Any magistrate would transport you. We didn’t care. We were hungry. We were threshing heads of wheat with our fingers, rubbing out the corns, making a paste.

  “Muldoon saw steam on the sky. I heard her coming, then saw the engine, hauling four green wagons, pretty as paint.

  “I watched her slope down into a cutting — only I didn’t know what a cutting was then. She just ran down into the ground until all I could see was her funnel, then not even that — only the smoke, floating over the field. It give me such a feeling.

  “Why, everything moves! I thought. Everyone flees! Not just you. It’s no one that is fixed.”

  He remembered the glee, the sense of lightness and release he had experienced, seeing his first train storming over the country. But that was before he’d met her.

  “You said we were stone partners, Molly.”

  She briskly cut the deck and shuffled. “Never played cards?” The pack clicked and riffled as she flipped it from hand to hand.

  “No.”

  “Man, they must have been simple in your part of the world. Didn’t you go to fairs?”

  “To sell the pig. Never had money to spare, never tried the booths. There was a tinker fellow I saw once at the fair at Gort, walking barefoot on red coals. Very bold he was.”

  “Pharaoh shall pay for lessons. My old ma and me kept alive on cards and fairs, dealing Pharaoh for the cabin johns. I can make the cards pay — you’ll see.

  “I remember one day at the fair in Louth, a horse dealer from Belfast wished to have me. My old ma said he couldn’t. We had already won all his money, and she always said she’d get a bonny prize for me. But that afternoon she had a bad run and lost all our stake, and the Belfast fellow dug up one gold sovereign from somewhere, which was as much money as we’d ever seen, and she let him take me behind the tents. My first jump it was. My first man. Awful old beseecher he was. Miles worse than Muldoon.”

  Suddenly she spilled the pack of cards, over her legs and stomach, over the berth.

  “Are you my man, Fergus?”

  “I don’t know if I am.”

  “Say you are. Just say it.”

  “I’m your man.”

  She began gathering the spilled cards. “My thoughts? I have such wicked old thoughts, Fergus, if I told them, you’d want to ditch me.”

  He wanted to reach out for her but the black stick was still between them and he’d promised himself he would not remove it, she would have to get it out of the way.

  She finished gathering her cards and resumed her shuffling and the stick stayed exactly where it was.

  THE SCHOLARS met in the lee of the foredeck, warm in the bright sun. Coole’s children, Carlo and Deirdre, were bent over their slates, scribbling with stubs of chalk.

  The schoolmaster held out a box of carved wooden letters to Molly. “Now take one, any one. Help yourself.”

  She selected a figure Fergus recognized as the letter A.

  “Now yourself.” Coole offered Fergus the box. Feeling ignorant and clumsy, he chose a D from the jumble.

  “What is it?” Coole asked him.

  “D!” the little boy, Carlo, shouted before Fergus could answer. The boy had hardly glanced up from his slate.

  “ D for . . . ?”

  “ D for dead,” said the little girl, sounding bored.

  “Well, yes,” said Coole. “Spell it out, Deirdre.”

  “D-E-A-D, dead.”

  “And, miss, what letter is that you’re holding?” Coole asked Molly.

  She smiled, shaking her head. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “ A it is,” Deirdre called.

  “ A for agony,” said her brother.

  “Come, Carlo, if you say it, you must spell it out,” said Coole. “Step up here and choose the letters.”

  The boy stood up and began picking letters from the box. “A-G-O-N-N-Y.”

  “I think not. Deirdre?”

  She stood up. Inspecting the jumble of letters in her brother’s hand, she picked out one and threw it back in the box.

  “A-G-O-N-Y,” she spelled.

  “Excellent. Now,” Coole told Molly, “you may choose another letter.”

  Molly picked one out.

  Carlo glanced at it. “ P for . . . ” He faltered.

  “Come along,” his father coaxed, “we’ve plenty of superior words that like a P. Try it now — any word that starts with a puh! Puh! Puh!” He made the pushing sound with his lips. “Come on, you misers.”

  “ P for potato,” Fergus said.

  “Excellent! Spell it out.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot.”

  “Deirdre?”

  The little girl quickly chose the letters from the box. “P-O-T-A-T-O.”

  “Excellent. Now you, sir.” Coole nodded at Fergus. “Choose another letter. Let’s see if you can pick the ones to compose your name.”

  THE FIRST game of Pharaoh was played in the galley. A hogshead with a blanket smoothed on top served for a table. Passengers and sailors crowded into the little shed, watching Molly shuffle then cut the pack. Fergus stood behind her.

  “Are you going to give us a fair shake, miss?” the bos’n asked.

  “A little pleasure, sir, that’s all.”

  “I warn you it had better be. We don’t like sharpers in the middle of the ocean.”

  Molly smiled demurely. She raised her voice a little, speaking to the crowd. “If I can have your attention, please, gentlemen?”

  She waited until they were quiet.

  “I’ll tell you how I play this game, which is low stakes and four players at a go, so everyone has their chance.” She was speaking so softly they had to strain to listen. “Tobacco is good for stakes, one thumb valued a ha’penny. I shall be banker, and turn up cards one by one. Do you get it? A punter can set any number of stakes — agreeable to the limit, which is sixpence shall we say — upon one or more cards, from ace to king. Stakes are set either previous to dealing, or after any number of coups are made.”

  She took a deep breath and smiled.

  “Or you may mask bets, or change cards when ever you choose, or decline punting — except a deal is unsettled when not above eight cards are dealt. Bank wins when a card equal in points to the stakes card turns up in my right hand — bank loses when it turns up in my left. Punter loses half the stake if his card comes up twice in the same coup. Last card neither wins nor loses. Who shall be first?”

  Four men sat down. She played the cards out quietly. He couldn’t grasp enough of the game to follow the action, but some of the punters beat her on the coups and some of the
m lost. After four deals the punters had to give up their stools to the next in line.

  During the next hour’s play Molly lost almost two pounds, most of their stake. He felt the loss, the shock of it, down to his toes, in his throat and in his belly. She was small, she was light, she did not know these sailor men. They weren’t her dumb cow-boys, leering and losing at the penny fair. They were traveling men accustomed to sharps, ruses, and near dealing, and they were happy to beat her at her game.

  After the last coup turned up against her, and the bos’n swept up his winnings, she sighed, “That’s enough for me. No more deal. I’m over.”

  “No, miss,” Nimrod begged. “Play us some more. I ain’t had a turn yet.”

  “I’m nearly bust. Can’t get my magic in this sea air.”

  “Here is the captain. Make way for the captain.”

  The sailors and emigrants were standing back to let Mr. Blow through. He stopped in front of the table.

  “A ship ain’t a gaming house, miss.”

  Mr. Blow was even younger than he seemed on deck. An overgrown boy, ugly, gawky, and rawboned. A thatch of yellow hair sprouted under a shiny beaver hat so big it seemed about to swallow his head.

  “A little amusement,” Molly said softly.

  “Yes, very amusing. And you’re helping yourself to these poor men, I’m sure.”

  “Come along, Mr. Blow,” said the bos’n. “There’s no harm. We ain’t a Sunday ship after all.”

  “If you let an Irish jade like this cheat you, you’ll be sorry.”

  “But she’s played square.”

  “I’m only after a little sport,” Nimrod whined, “only want a bite. It’s nothing wrong.”

  “Let the girl be,” called one of the sailors.

  “Let her play!”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Nimrod told the master.

  “The girl has lost most of her stake, Mr. Blow,” the bos’n explained. “Hardly what you would call a jade.”

  “Expensive fun. You’ll be sorry.”

  “She’s none of your noisy, belligerent wenches that I know very well. No one’s being clipped, sir,” the bos’n insisted. “We’re having a bit of fun.”

  Molly cut the deck and looked up at Mr. Blow. “Would you care to try a hand, mister?”

  “You’re a sharp little bird, miss.”

  “Sure you don’t mean sharp, mister,” she replied evenly.

  “Go on, sir, take a hand,” the bos’n urged. “No one’s been clipped. She’s only a poor emigrant lass. No harm.”

  “Go on, sir, take a hand!” Nimrod cried.

  “You’re not frightened of me, are you, Mr. Blow?” Molly smiled.

  “Try a hand yourself, Mr. Blow,” said the bos’n. “There’s nothing wrong with her cards.”

  The sailors began to cheer and whistle as Mr. Blow dug into the pocket of his black coat and came out with a few coppers. He placed the coins on the blanket, pulled out the stool, and sat down. Molly smiled and cut the cards again, shuffled through them, and began the deal.

  She won the first deal, lost the second to Mr. Blow, won the third hand, and lost the fourth. They ended dead even.

  “That’s enough for me,” said Mr. Blow after the last coup played in his favor. “Very steady, very cool, miss.” He stood up, taking up his money from the table. “You are a snap. I feel lucky to get away so cheap.”

  “You see, sir?” cried the bos’n. “It’s a fair game, ain’t it?”

  “You had better play fair. If I hear of you sharping on my ship, I’ll drop you on the loneliest rock of Newfoundland, miss, and you can cheat the bears.” Mr. Blow turned and left the cabin.

  Another punter had already sat down, but Molly shook her head and began sweeping up the cards.

  “Come along, miss,” said the bos’n. “Don’t fold now.”

  “There’s money in the house wants to play,” Nimrod said. “Play it out, miss.”

  “No, I’ve had enough. You fellows have ruined me nearly.”

  “Come along, miss,” said the bos’n. “Say there’ll be a few hands tomorrow.”

  “Here.” She offered him the deck of cards.

  “Don’t dip your colors, miss. You’ll win tomorrow.”

  “You may have the use of ’em — they won’t work for me.”

  “No, it’s not the same — we like a girl to deal. If you are hard up, we will play very light, a penny or two. Come miss, say you will deal us another day.”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “Oh, very well.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “If you like.”

  “I let them win a little extra today,” she told him.

  They were lying in their berth with the curtain drawn and the stick between them. “Did you expect me to clean them up in a day? A ship is not a fair, Fergus. I can’t clip them and disappear, can I? These sailor men would cut my throat, yours too, if they thought we were sharping them. No, no — when you start a house game, you feed the fish some line at first. Work ’em slow! It’s good business! Don’t worry, man, I’ll tighten up.”

  “You’re cheating —”

  She put her hand over his mouth. “I ain’t! Don’t even say it. The deck’s not marked; there’s no cod, nothing up my sleeve. I’m just letting the cards work for us, Fergus. I’m house — and the cards is always in favor of house, if you play long enough. That’s the sweet thing about Pharaoh: If you’re house you don’t have to clip ’em, and there’s no way to lose. We’ll do well by Pharaoh, don’t worry.”

  And she was right.

  Over the following days the game became a fad on the ship, with sailors from both watches and most of the male passengers who had a few pennies to spare crowding into the galley each evening to play. After a second day of losses, Molly began winning, slowly, and never by a large margin. Some days she fell behind, but most days she came out ahead.

  He seemed to have left the weight of fear behind, along with so many vicious dreams, killing dreams. He slept clear of terrors, clear of the fights, and when he came on deck in the mornings the emptiness and radiant light of the western ocean struck him as a surprise and a joy.

  Winnings were adding to their stake, which she counted every night, wrapping the coins in a handkerchief, tucking them into the sea chest. By the time they encountered the first ice castles, the stake had grown to nearly eight pounds, and Pharaoh was popular still.

  A Vision

  “Mouse,” she said, looking across at Fergus. They were sitting in the lee of the deckhouse and she was reading from a list of words in Coole’s Dublin Universal Speller. Every morning they took a lesson with Coole, and in the afternoons, basking in sunshine, they practiced. The schoolmaster gave them use of the speller in exchange for a thumb of tobacco.

  Fergus began scratching at his slate with a stub of a chalk, making one letter, erasing with his sleeve, making another, pausing to consider, moving ahead with yet another. At last he held up the slate, frustrated that it had taken so long. “MOU-S-E, it is — ain’t it?”

  “Ach, yes. Brilliant.”

  Fergus rubbed out the word. “Next, Moll. Fire away.” Looking up, he saw she had shut her eyes and turned her face to the light. She seemed to need the coaxing of the sun to feel well again.

  “Sun’s as good as butter,” she said sleepily.

  “Come, Moll. Throw me another word, if you please.”

  She sighed and opened her eyes. Glancing down at the speller she read the next word.

  “ Flour. The eating kind, not the blooming.”

  He began scratching. Spelling was easy enough. He had memorized the alphabet in the first few days and was beginning to grasp the composition of words, which were nothing but little hulks of letters, growling and shifting together. Sentences were another matter. Reading a sentence was the very hard ground.

  Molly had picked up reading especially fast. Scanning a sentence and reading aloud, she would plunge ahead boldly, not afraid to guess at words she didn’t recognize, laug
hing at her mistakes.

  Words that gave up their meanings easily standing alone could conceal themselves very deftly in the blur of a phrase. He had trouble when he couldn’t fix every single word perfectly — he didn’t like to guess.

  Coole’s little children could rattle through paragraphs in the Universal without pause. Molly was catching up to them — he was the only one who had to grapple.

  His chalk broke as he was finishing F-L-O-U-R. Suddenly sick of the business, he threw the bits over the side. “I don’t care for spelling if I can’t read! Something’s bust in my head.”

  “There is nothing so. You’re just rough, that’s all. You are spelling along quite nicely.”

  “I feel poorly with it, feel small. I shall give it up.”

  Molly had closed her eyes, leaning back against the deckhouse with the red book open on her knees, her face tilted to the sun. “No, you’ll pick it up, it’s dogged as does it, Fergus. Work them slow, man, they’ll come out. Your head ain’t bust.”

  She wore the blue gown bought in Liverpool, dye so leached now it was almost silver. Her feet were bare — she disliked to wear her boots aboard ship. She said she preferred the feel of Laramie’s boards under her bare feet, and boots were better saved for walking on the American ground.

  Every night they lay in their berth with Brighid’s blackthorn stick between them. The stick he hated like bad music, like a killing, like the thought of Muck, and the Belfast man, and Kelly whoever Kelly had been. All those men hammering on her, wrecking her, making her tough but strange.

  He wondered how long the fianna had been required to sleep with their swords.

  Looking up, he watched Nimrod Blampin approaching, holding something in his hand, looking for a swap.

  “Three old soldiers for a smoke?” Unwrapping three oily herrings from his handkerchief, Nimrod held them out for inspection.

  With the shortage of cash and, lately, tobacco, the little herrings the sailors received as rations had become a currency on Laramie.

  Molly took out a bundle from her pocket, unwrapped it, and offered Nimrod half a thumb of tobacco.