Tales of Terror from the Black Ship (3 page)

One of the passengers in particular soon caught the eye of a young sailor called Richard Stiles as he went about his duties: a girl – a red-haired girl – who seemed to glow like an ember, lighting up all those around her. He fell in love in a fluttering heartbeat, though he was too shy to do anything more than smile at her.

There was something childlike about these emigrants. It was as if they were smothering their fears and doubts about the new life under a blanket of merriment and high spirits, as if their songs and laughter were charms against misfortune.

But things changed as they headed out into the Atlantic. A storm crashed into the ship and drove the passengers below deck. Songs were replaced by prayers, laughter by groans and tears. Wives clung to husbands, children to their mothers.

By the time the wind finally dropped a few days later, the emigrants seemed beaten, as if the storm had broken their spirits. The singing stopped, no one danced any more, and even the play of the children seemed half-hearted and muted.

Richard Stiles looked down at the grim gathering below him as he made a repair to the mainsail rigging. He could see the emigrants were mostly from poor stock: farmers and artisans – the kind of people Richard himself originally hailed from. He was reminded of why he had run away to sea in the first place, four years ago at the tender age of eleven; he was reminded of the grey, tedious drudgery of the northern market town in which he’d been born. He understood the passengers’ desire to seek out a better life, but they reminded him of his own escape from a life that had almost sucked him dry.

To Richard these people looked as though half their lives had already been spent in the effort of getting this far; they seemed worn away and utterly lacking in any zest for life. It was as if the enthusiasm they had shown at the start of the voyage was like a memory of joy, not joy itself; that it was an act, a sham. Perhaps this was their true form.

‘What a cargo,’ said a sailor nearby. ‘You’d think they were going to their funerals rather than starting new lives. They give me the shivers.’

Richard knew what he meant. There
was
something unsettling about this new dour mood. He heard the captain voice concerns to the ship’s surgeon that there might be some kind of sickness among the passengers and told the crew that they were to keep their distance.

But unfortunately this strange dullness and sloth had already seeped into the very fabric of the vessel and infected the crew, for they seemed to have adjusted their normal lusty rhythm of life to the mournful tune of their passengers.

Where usually the crew would sing as they worked and share a joke or two, or play some harmless prank to while away the hours, they now went about their duties with the relentless monotony of factory workers. For the first time since he went to sea, life was grim and mechanical, and Richard could not wait to unload these dreary people.

And dreariness of action and temperament was exactly mirrored in their outward appearance. The emigrants evidently did not possess a single item that was not grey or brown or black in colour, and any colour that the ship possessed seemed to drain away in the general gloom of the weather, which had been overcast and dark as a winter’s dusk for days.

A fine mizzle fell and the horizon was hidden by low cloud and mist. The sea joined in the general sluggishness, as did the wind, which blew only gently, like an old man’s shallow breathing at the end of his days.

But amid this dreary twilit monotone there was one note of joy, like birdsong in a cemetery: the red-headed girl Richard had fallen for. She, at least, had not lost her excitement or joyful vigour. He saw her moving gaily among the lumpen mass of passengers: a deer skipping through a winter forest.

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She was slight of figure, and yet brimming with life, her face round and rosy-cheeked, creased by dimples. Her hair was as red as the maple trees of Massachusetts on a bright October morning. Her smile shone like a sun in that gloom and it lifted Richard’s heart just to see it.

Of course it was true that the crew had been thoroughly warned against fraternising with the passengers, and though they were ordered to be courteous, Richard knew that he was risking a reprimand even speaking to the girl. Yet speak to her he must.

Disregarding his fears of contracting some sort of sickness, he found an excuse to work on deck among the passengers, and as he coiled a rope he looked surreptitiously about him for a glimpse of her. Then, all of a sudden, she was standing next to him.

‘Hello, miss,’ he said.

When she did not reply immediately he thought that perhaps she did not understand, but then she cocked her head to one side and smiled.

‘Hello,’ she said with a strong accent.

Richard had not prepared a speech and, having found the girl, he did not really know what to say to her. They were surrounded by her fellow emigrants, who, though apparently oblivious to them, nonetheless made him feel self-conscious. She saw his discomfort and giggled.

‘You might ask me my name,’ she said with a teasing smile.

‘Do you mock me, miss?’ said Richard, the colour rising to his face.

‘No,’ she said sweetly, touching his arm. ‘I promise I do not.’

‘Well then.’ He looked round nervously to see if any of the crew was nearby. ‘What is your name, miss?’

‘Piroska,’ she said.

‘That’s a beautiful name,’ said Richard.

‘You think so?’ And she giggled again.

‘Yes, I do,’ he said, embarrassed that she might think he was trying to flatter her when it was simply his honest opinion. It
was
a beautiful name.

‘Are you looking forward to living in America, miss?’

‘Piroska, please. Yes,’ she said. ‘I am dreaming of America every day.’

‘Your family is with you?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Many family are with me now.’

Richard found that he was no longer listening to the words, only watching the movement of the cherry red lips that spoke them. Piroska saw it too, and laughed a warm laugh that Richard could not help but join in with. He felt as though he had walked into a pool of warm sunshine in a dark forest.

‘I must get back to work,’ he said, ‘else I will be in trouble.’ He tugged at his cap and began to move away, bumping clumsily into one of the other passengers.

‘But you have not told me
your
name,’ called Piroska.

He turned round.

‘Richard. My name’s Richard.’

‘Then we will talk again, Richard?’

‘Yes, miss – Pir-os-ka. We will.’

And so they did; at first in stolen moments, with Richard forever looking over his shoulder for any sign of the captain or first mate, but gradually, as the days went by, becoming bolder. The strict regulations of the ship seemed to have fallen prey to the same air of lethargy as the passengers and, for this at least, the young sailor was grateful.

Richard was a diligent lad and always made sure that none could reproach him in terms of the work he did, but when he had any free time he spent it with Piroska, and they sat like two lighted candles, aflame with a youthful passion for life.

They would talk for hours and Richard marvelled at how at ease he felt in her company. He had always been awkward around girls, not knowing what to say or how to act. But it was different with Piroska. Despite the fact that they came from such different cultures, he already felt more comfortable with her than he did with his crewmates.

Any shyness he had suffered from, Piroska had cured. No one had ever seemed so interested in him. He talked about things he had never spoken of with anyone, and voiced hopes and ambitions he had not even realised he had until she coaxed them out of him. But time and again he came away from a conversation realising that he still knew almost nothing about his red-haired angel.

‘Your family do not mind that I speak to you alone like this, without a chaperone?’ asked Richard one day. He had been meaning to ask this for a long time but had held back for fear of hearing or even suggesting some problem.

Piroska smiled and shook her head.

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘My family like you. They are happy that I know you. They would like you to come to America with us.’

At first Richard thought he must have misheard. He had a tendency to gloss over any mention of America, as to talk of their destination and their parting was too painful. He was amazed. He was not even aware which of the passengers
were
Piroska’s family and began to feel a little guilty about his lack of curiosity now that he knew of their approval of him.

‘Really?’ he said. ‘I am flattered, but, Piroska, I am a sailor. That is my life . . .’

Piroska smiled.

‘You will come to America with us,’ she said. It was a statement, not a question. He felt suddenly intimidated by her unequivocal tone.

‘I must get back to work,’ he said.

She smiled and ran her fingers through her long red hair, making it flicker like a flame. Richard watched the light run down its length and stream over her shoulders, and he felt as though he were flowing down with it, as if he were falling helplessly over a waterfall. It took an effort of will to wrench himself away.

Richard spent the rest of the day in torment. The sea was his home and he had always loved the life of a mariner. Could he really give that up for the unknown trials of a settler? What did he know about farming or shop-keeping? What did he know about anything except rope and sailcloth, knots and rigging?

And yet, much as he loved sailing, he loved Piroska with a different kind of heat and energy. He may once have had a passion for his work, but that was fading now and he wondered if it had ever been as fervent as the passion he now had for this girl.

All through the hours of that day, he found it almost impossible to think of anything else. He nearly fell down an open hatch, he was so preoccupied, and as his heart skipped a beat at the thought of the broken bones he would have suffered, he noted that no one around him even seemed to have noticed and would certainly not have had the presence of mind to prevent him. It was as though the whole ship were sleepwalking.

And in a way that helped to make up his mind. The sea and the life of a sailor had been a source of excitement to him, but he could not make any such claim now. He did not fear change any more; he wanted to embrace it.

The fact was he might never again meet a girl like Piroska. She was the most important thing in his life now, by far. He would never have believed that anyone could compete with the ocean for his attentions and emerge the victor, but Piroska had. She was a full moon, eclipsing everything.

It was as if all doubt evaporated in an instant. Everything seemed crystal clear to him now. Whatever new challenges lay ahead in the wild expanses of America, whatever hardships or dangers, he was equal to them so long as he had Piroska by his side.

The sun had set and eight bells rang to signal the end of the last dogwatch. It had been raining steadily all day and the sails hung limply, like giant sheets on a washing line. Every rope and chain and piece of wood or canvas was slick with water and dripped on to the sodden deck.

Richard was soaked through himself, but that did not dampen his spirits as he moved through the lantern-lit huddles of passengers, looking for Piroska. Then, suddenly, there she was, more beautiful, more alive than ever. Richard felt as though they were the only beings truly alive in their small part of the universe.

‘Piroska,’ he said, ‘I want to come to America with you, if you still want that.’

‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘I am very happy.’

Richard had so much he wanted to say that the words seem to trip over themselves in their eagerness to escape, and he floundered, tongue-tied. He reached out and took her hand in his and was amazed at how warm it felt in the chill of the night and the cold rain’s incessant patter.

‘There’s more,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t just want to leave this ship and go to America with your people. I want to go with you. There’s something special between us. You do feel that, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, her green eyes sparkling with a diamond brightness and clarity. Rain trickled down Piroska’s face but she did not seem to care and smiled on regardless. A drop of water ran from her forehead, down the edge of her nose and across her lips. As it left her mouth and dribbled down her chin, it turned red. Richard had seen consumption before and his heart sank as if it had been turned to lead. He remembered the surgeon’s talk of sickness.