Blackstrap Hawco (22 page)

While the gossip spread, Missus Cavanagh and her daughter, Elizabeth, were loathed, until the time when the passengers might be certain that no sickness dwelled within them. The accusations and fits of recrimination continued to increase in volume and intensity, as each new passenger was stricken and ambushed, until a fortnight after the boy's death, the crate was retrieved from the contaminated void by Cuz O'Malley, and dragged to the deck where it lay with the crowd around it, convinced that death was not severe enough a punishment and wishing further harm upon the boy.

Within a ragged hole chewed clear through the side of the crate, a slim pale hand was evident, as was the flicker of a moan that could only be prompted by the imaginings of night terrors. A few, who still believed that the boy might be of a saving value, knelt before the crate and pressed hands, cheeks and lips to the crate; one such person was the boy's mother, although her intentions were contrary, as were those of the boy's sister, Elizabeth, who shuddered and sobbed and backed clear of the crowd until striking the railing with the inky blackness below, sweeping by in smooth persistence. And with each palm or face that neared the crate, the impish graceful mutter sounded from within the box so that all became frightened out of their wits and sang for the crate's ejection.

Beneath the moonlight, the passengers kept their distance yet gathered, nearer, then further, compelled to watch while Cuz dragged the crate to the very centre of the deck and arranged the ropes through
the pulleys before being fitted around the crate. Done with the rigging, Cuz hurriedly poured lamp oil over the crate and motioned with a blunt toss of his arm to the winchman. When the crate was eye-level on its ascent under the full strain of the winch, Cuz stepped back and pressed a flaming torch to it. The spreading blue and orange blaze enshrouded the crate and burned into the sky. The eyes of the passengers watched and saw nothing but a searing wash of red and orange wavering through the night and then, as was expected, the terminating plummet, and a sweep of blackness as all went still. The wind died down and there was not a sound, save for the low whimperings of a little boy that never changed in urgency nor pitch.

 

There was a clamorous racket in Patrick Lambly's ears as he came to himself within a hollow darkness throbbing to all sides of him. He found that he was sealed in somewhere, then tipping, so that he clutched on to the sides of where he had been laid out only to find that there were no sides, only what he assumed to be a greasy wooden floor. He rolled a little before pressing against a form that might be another man. In the clutch of panic, he sat upright in an attempt to fix his whereabouts.

His ears, sharpened by the skin-shaving prickle of fear, discerned the creaking of timbers. A soul-wobbling waver spread from his centre and he suspected he might be sick to his stomach by the smothering thought that he was adrift. No turning back. How he made it aboard a ship was unknown to him. The last he recalled was an argument with his wife that rose in volume until it crescendoed with the rattling screech of the baby. He had been pulling to get the holdall, threatening to leave, ‘Yes, yes,' his wife's voice had been insisting, ‘go, that's wha' I've been saying ta ye fer months on end.' And he had been struggling with the holdall, as though he were at war with it.

Despite his wife's insistence that he go, the cursed woman would not release her grip from where it was hugging the holdall. In his struggle, Patrick had felt as though he were both taking the case from her and trying to give it back at the identical time.

Presently, he reached out at his sides and patted the space around him in search of his holdall. Gone, or lost out there in the breathable darkness.

At once, as his senses returned to the throb of his current predicament, there was a thickening of the notion that the direction in which he, or rather the vessel, was travelling was an utter mystery to him. Had he been shanghaied? This agitating uncertainty graduated to unease and, subsequently, prompted the waver to spread and gush into his throat. Unwittingly, he choked and turned to vomit, while hoping he had not struck anyone with the abundance of his spew.

There came a groan of protest and hands clutching and hurling him sideways into the air. Patrick's head rammed against a timber and he collapsed in a pile, his legs buckled beneath him. When his fingers searched the back of his head, he found a warm trickle there. Was there blood on his fingertips? He could glean no view of it in the absence of light, and gave out a cry, which provoked titters from a few of the dark forms. Gripes were passed about concerning the condition of the sorry sort who had managed to so litter the vessel floor. Murderous grumblings that, would there have been even the dimmest of light, might have graduated to action. Patrick barely heard them, for his mind seemed to be evaporating. The top of his head floating off while his senses turned to vapour one at a time.

Faintly, he sniffed at his fingers, then touched them to his lips, smearing the fluid there. Tasting the copper, the sweetness and metallic linger, he was not long evaporating completely and dropping away to the floorboards with a thud that drew speculative mutters from the horde.

Yet no one had bothered to investigate, for Patrick Lambly, in his initial inebriated state of unconsciousness, had already had his pockets rifled through, and like most on the ship carried nothing of worth, not even a knife that might help prevent a man from being robbed of the absolute nothing in his possession.

When the overhead hatch was finally opened, light gave Patrick a revelation of the huddle that he was hunched amongst. There were both men and women crammed into the hollow of the ship, some in bunks, others at rest wherever space might allow. Throughout the night, there had been the noise of snoring and grumbling and hawking and spitting and coupling whether agreed to or otherwise in the blackness that belonged to no one and so possessed not a single limitation in behaviour or intent.

It was enough to catch a breath of fresh air and be relieved of the warm mingling of bodily stenches. Hunched over like the others, for the lowness of the ceiling prevented any other posture, Patrick shifted toward the hatch, and waited his turn to climb the ladder, his head rising into a view of blue that strained his eyes. How far to where they were going? There was nothing but blue in every direction that the people who had been hidden away between decks now looked at with silent wonder, the vastness of the sea utterly confounding.

Patrick was on deck no more than a few moments, staring at the watery expansiveness with a look of loss and regret, when he was told to report to the galley. Puzzled and feeling sickly, he quietly began to explain that he was a passenger.

‘Ye c'n see dat I dun't give a fack,' said the shipman, who possessed a short thick body, hair braided to his shoulders and a scar across both his lips. ‘Get yer fawsty boggy arse below.' The seaman made a stamp of his boot, blinked his eyes fiercely and sliced his arm through the air in a gesture of intended injury.

Patrick went in the direction the seaman had pointed. Stepping down the greasy stairs he was careful to hold the one rail that went only so far before it had been broken off. In fact, the walls encasing the steep stairway were missing planks here and there, showing the inner darkness of the ship.

The heat from the iron stoves met him and worsened as he descended. Before he reached the galley floor, sweat was already glistening on his face, expanding a few smudges of grime toward his temples.

The faces at work barely gave him notice, and he stood wondering what he was meant to do before a fat, hairy arm swept toward him and pointed to an unoccupied space beside a tall, broad man. There were planks on the counter, seemingly the ones torn from the walls of the ship and the men were carving objects from the wood. Where he had expected to be engaged in the preparation of food, he found that he was carving long spokes from the hardwood.

He followed the lead of the tall man with the shaved head beside him, while giving consideration to whether or not a word might be appropriate. He glanced down the line and saw men's hands doing the same as his.

An hour later, he had not spoken, but his thirst had become naggingly evident. The heat had drained him and he worried more and more for a drink, the dearth of alcohol in his body shading every aspect of his existence with a dire pallor.

The man at the head of the line was drinking from a bottle. He was talking in a language Patrick could make no sense of. It was not Irish or English but some other. The man handed the bottle to other men toward the head of the line yet no one would drink from it. Patrick thought he would swallow its entire contents if only he were offered. He looked up at the big man at his side who was looking down at him and then turned his head to regard the man at the head of the line.

The big man went back to his business. After finishing off the spoke he was carving, the man said: ‘Portugee.'

Patrick nodded when the big man turned his eyes on him.

‘What're ye?' asked the man.

‘
Éireannach mé
.'

‘Hailing frum where?'

‘Limerick.'

The big man considered this, ‘Alright den.'

They continued work until there came a break and the big man tilted his head toward Patrick, indicating that he follow in mute secrecy.

The man took the ladder in three strides, holding on to nothing and seemingly shooting through the hatch hole. Patrick followed after him. On deck, he trailed after the big man who strode with steadfast purpose until he reached the Portugee who had been below at the head of the table. Without slowing his stride he grabbed hold of the Portugee and hurled him overboard. Patrick glanced around to see that there was no man in sight. He checked toward the crow's nest. No one at watch.

The big man now had the Portugee's bottle in his hand. He wiped the top of it with his open palm, as large as both of Patrick's.

‘Swig?' asked the man, thrusting the bottle toward Patrick, who felt instant relief as tears flooded mercifully into his eyes. He took hold of the bottle and drank. It was like red wine only sweeter, thicker. ‘I wun't be cutting up nar more facking widgets.'

Patrick continued drinking, sucking the sweet bliss into his guts in a
manner that made the big man smile, showing his perfect teeth. Teeth so white Patrick could not believe it.

With a laugh, the big man snatched the bottle from Patrick and finished off its contents. He then pulled back his top lip and smacked the lip of the bottle off his front teeth. The glass broke and fell. He took a bite from the bottle, chewing it up. ‘Nut'n but sand is all.' The big man grinned. ‘Nar'tn like da likes a ye 'n me. Made 'a da cut 'a rock.' He flung the remnants of the broken bottle overboard and held out both arms, showing off the blots of tattoos and the scars. ‘Nar a bone ev'r injured, unbreakable I were tol' by t'ree physicians I've fell up against in me life. Unfacking breakable.'

Patrick raised a newly steady finger to point at his own forehead. ‘Same's up here, wha's tucked away in me t'ick skull.'

A moment passed before the big man, finally catching the intent of the joke, laughed in sudden complicity: ‘Yays, dat's da facking spirit,' said he. ‘T'is only da t'ought 'a harm dat brings it upon yer sarry soul.'

 

Tommy Cavanagh stood upon the Harbour Grace dock and, with scarcely known pleasure, feasted his eyes upon his wife, Rose, and daughter, Elizabeth, making their presence evident on the gangplank. No greater treasure might have been laid before him. In the three years that he had been under servitude in Newfoundland, shipped there for pickpocketing, and sentenced to two years or transport (he had chosen the latter, which included the branding of his right hand) to Talamh an Éisc, he had managed to store away a sum large enough to build his own two-room tilt and thus get clear of the windowless fishermen's cabin where the men were stacked in bunks occupied for sleep alone. Of the four pounds required for Rose, Ronan and Elizabeth's transport, he had managed to pay an initial fee of one pound. The remaining monies due for their transport would set him in the debt of Master Lawton, who would deduct the amount, if any remained after supplies had been accounted for, from Tommy's catch in the fall. Humble as was Tommy's nature, he was not the sort to utter the slightest protest against his extended indenture. The arrival of his family was a blessing from the Lord. The punt Tommy worked on with three other men remained profitable to Master Lawton, if not
entirely to the fishermen, yet, as such, there was no need to fear for the future.

As Tommy's anxious eyes continued with their search – curious as to know why Ronan might be lagging behind, and soon puzzled by the cumbersome walk of his beloved wife – he found only the sad defeat in Rose's face as validation of the vanishing. It came over him as a wave of confusion that tattered toward ravishing misunderstanding, and broke clear on the barren earth of bewildering dread. This intuition concerning the death of Ronan, and the growing conspicuousness of his wife's extended girth, punched a hole through his head. His features slackened and his joyfully expectant posture deflated to a stoop.

‘Dere's nut'n left o' 'im,' Rose said, her teary eyes searching back toward the ship, as though, only now in reaching the steadfast reality of land, the absoluteness of the truth became substantial.

With cap in hand, and heart overcome by the greater weakness of pain over anger, Tommy remained apart from Rose and Elizabeth, for his expectations, sweetly built from years of toil, had been blackly soured. There he stood on the dock, clinging to hope, his head tilting to see beyond those disembarking for a view of a smaller person who might have strayed, until all passengers and crew had departed and the servants, sent by their masters, had settled accounts with the ship's master for the fees owing upon delivery of the labourers or passengers.