The Irish Bride (14 page)

In Skibbereen, they’d heard fragmented
and alarming tales of “coffin ships,” the vessels that had carried
starving, evicted Irishmen from their famine-stricken home to
America during the height of the plague. Disease and starvation had
run rampant aboard many of them. Some ships were lost in storms,
others landed with most of their passengers gone, having been
buried at sea. Might that happen to them? After all, they’d lost
three people so far. Would they be picked off, one by one? The fear
and uncertainty nearly drove her to her knees right there on deck
to pray for God’s protection.

“
Ye ought to get out of the
rain. There’s a fair spot against the galley wall.”

She heard Aidan’s voice beside her,
low, rich, familiar. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the rolling
swells. She gripped the railing, cold and salt-sticky beneath her
hands. “We’ve come on a fool’s errand, Aidan. God Himself couldn’t
find someone out here.” Her words sounded bitter, even to her own
ears.

“
What are ye going on
about?”

She turned and lifted her gaze to his
familiar face. “At least when someone dies on land, there’s a
priest to pray over the poor thing, a grave to visit, a place to
put wild flowers. But here . . . there’s no
one. Deirdre was dropped into the ocean and no one can come to
mourn over her. Ever. D’ye know what I mean?”

He paused before answering. His own
dark hair hung in damp tendrils and his thin, ill-fitting coat
clung to his shoulders from the wet. “Aye, I know.” She saw
understanding in his eyes, as if he’d thought of it as well. “I
think the girl would have died anywhere. She was sickly and as thin
as whey. But I’ll tell ye, we’re not on a fool’s errand. This is a
trial, to be sure, one that we’ll survive. America will be grand
and we won’t live in poverty anymore. We’ll have plenty to eat and
a place to live that doesn’t flood in the winter or bake like a cow
flop in the summer.”

This tenderness and understanding was
not something she expected from the Aidan O’Rourke she knew in
Ireland. Without thinking, she reached up to push a wet lock of
hair from his forehead, then snatched her shaking hand away,
startled by how easily the gesture had come to her.

“
Do you really think it can
be so, Aidan?”

“
I’ll see to it, and make no
mistake.” He took her elbow. “Come along, little red one. It’s a
tea day.” Twice per week they were allowed tea, sugar and molasses.
“Go to the galley and make yourself a cup.”

“
Mrs. O’Rourke!” Mr. Morton
was bellowing at her over the sound of the rain and wind from his
place on the quarterdeck. “There’s a storm brewin.’ If you’re going
to do any cooking, you’d best see to it. The fire will have to be
put out shortly.”

She nodded at him, then looked at the
group gathering outside the galley. They reminded her of so many
baby birds, waiting for their mother’s return with food. “Aye. As
soon as I cook the morning meal.”

* * *

Aidan shook the rain from his hair and
coat, and remained at the railing, standing beside the spot so
recently occupied by Deirdre Connagher and her child. Farrell had
not been the only one affected by the woman’s death. Although he
had not known her, Aidan felt it just as keenly, but for very
different reasons. Yes it was tragic that she’d been put over the
side, buried at sea with no marker for her grave. But people died
every day, often long before their time. If the famine hadn’t
proved that, nothing else would. He was still plagued by nightmares
about some of the gruesome scenes that had taken place in
Skibbereen on a regular basis, and not so many years
past.

No, Deirdre’s death had brought home
to him another realization: the vulnerability of a pregnant
woman.

Aidan had railed and cursed at his
missed opportunity to bed his wife last night. He burned for her
with a desire that he’d never felt for any other woman, and he’d
had her right there in his arms, warm, responsive, firm and
yielding to his touch. For the moment, her anger with him had been
put aside, and she’d lost that high-nosed look she sometimes gave
him. Then Morton had come knocking.

After they’d gone below, the second
mate had reclaimed his cabin, only too happy to escape the gamey
quarters of the forecastle. Chances were slim that he’d be willing
to bet it again in a card game.

But if they had not been interrupted,
and Aidan had consummated their marriage, suppose a child had
resulted? he wondered, staring at the vast emptiness of water. He
had plans, grand plans, for their future. They would travel from
New Orleans to New York and begin a new life. But he didn’t know
the exact distance between the two cities, how they would get
there, or how long it would take. He wanted to give Farrell a safe,
secure place to bear his children. He glanced at the empty deck
next to his feet again, remembering the burlap-wrapped bodies. If
he lost her because of his own selfishness, his own impatience,
well, it would be the worst sin on his soul. Worse than causing
Michael Kirwan’s death. Worse than anything.

He looked up at Farrell, standing in
the galley doorway and handing out this morning’s breakfast to the
ragged, silent passengers. Despite her own sorrow and the gloom of
the day pressing down upon them, she was as fair as a June dawn in
County Cork. He knew this promise he made to himself would chafe in
the days and nights to come.

But for Farrell, it was a promise he
swore he would keep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“
Have ye ever seen the like
of it?” Aidan asked as he stripped off his thin coat. He stood
wedged beside Farrell at the railing, jockeying for a place among
all the other passengers who’d crowded up to have a look. His eyes
were full of an almost childlike wonder.

“
No. Not even in my dreams,”
she answered, but she was a bit apprehensive.

Coming up the wide
Mississippi River, the
Mary Fiona
passed grand homes sheltered by trees that bore
gently waving gray curtains of some vegetation. The weather was
unlike any Farrell had ever experienced. Simply breathing seemed to
require effort—the air was as moist and heavy as a wool blanket
just pulled from a hot kettle, and perfumed with the cloying scents
of various plants and exotic flowers in full bloom. Some plants
were giants, boasting leaves the size of umbrellas, and grew in
great, intertwined snarls that stretched languidly
skyward.

This wasn’t simply another country.
This place was so strange and bizarre, if Farrell had been told
that she’d journeyed over the Atlantic to the land of Tir na nOg,
she would have believed it. That mythical place held a treasure of
gold and silver and jewels, of wine and honey. The trees bore
fruit, blossoms, and green leaves, all at the same time, year
round.

Though the sun was not overly hot,
perspiration dampened her body, making her clothes cling in sticky
patches. The coolness of the Mississippi and the wind that pushed
them upriver were little help in this steamy climate. The other
passengers on deck began shedding caps and tugging at their
collars.

After more than three months at sea,
Farrell had had a desperate craving to reach America. Although they
had lost no other crewmen or passengers, the chore of cooking, of
being confined to a ship that seemed to grow smaller with each
passing day, and the monotony of the voyage had her nearly
screaming for journey’s end.

Water rations had been cut two weeks
earlier, seawater had to serve for bathing, which was almost worse
than no bathing at all, and though everyone had eventually pooled
their rations, they were nearly out of food. Landfall was not only
anticipated, it had become necessary to survival.

Now, here was America, and
it was not what she had imagined. Well, she didn’t know
exactly
what
she’d
expected, but this wasn’t it.

Toward late afternoon, New
Orleans came into view in the distance, and Mr. Quisenberry gave
orders to the crew to make ready for docking. The buildings grew
bigger along the wharf and Farrell saw other ships and swarming
activity. People, cargo, mules, horses, wagons—they all hustled to
and fro. As the lines were cast and tied, she heard a babble of
languages and strange accents. Some of the words
sounded
like English but
she couldn’t be certain. But whether in English or some other
tongue, the cursing was unmistakable.

And what odors. There were the smells
of wood smoke, tar, and old fish, of cooking, sweat, and
overflowing chamber pots. The river gave off its own scent, and
Farrell supposed that neither she nor Aidan were very clean,
either. God, for a bath with fresh water and even the crudest soap,
she thought.

As they docked in New Orleans, the
gangway was opened and they disembarked. Some knelt and kissed the
grimy dock planks and crossed themselves in thanksgiving. Others
wept openly, grateful to have lived through the voyage and reached
their destination. At least the journey was over. They were here at
last, even if the weather was suffocating. Carrying her own bundle,
Farrell tottered drunkenly against Aidan, surprised to find her
legs as unsteady as a new foal’s. Around her, others were having
the same difficulty.

“
Let’s get out of the
crush,” Aidan said, taking her arm. Almost as unsteady, he led her
to the wall of a warehouse to stand amid big, stacked bales of
tightly packed white tufts.

“
All those weeks on that
bloody ship have taken my balance! People will think we’re as drunk
as pigs that’ve been at the mash.”

He laughed at her outburst and leaned
against the wall next to her. “Aye, we’ve got to get our land legs
back. But it’s good to have our feet on firm ground
again.”

“
It is.” She looked at the
bales. “What would this be, then?” she asked, touching a hand to
the soft fleece.

He bent his dark head to study it a
moment, then reached out to feel it. “I think it’s
cotton.”

“
Cotton!” She’d never known
what it looked like in its natural state. “It puts me in mind of
clean lamb’s wool.”

“
It’s probably bound for the
mills in England. Mr. Morton told me a lot of cotton comes from
this part of America.” He gave her a quick head-to-hem glance.
“Have ye got your pins back under you?”

“
I think so.”

“
Good. Morton also told me
about an inn where we can get a room.”

Farrell picked up her bundle
again when a shocking sight caught her eye. Two groups of very
dark-skinned people, men in one and women in the other, were
chained to each other and being prodded along by men with riding
crops and sticks. The prisoners had obviously just disembarked from
a ship anchored at the dock, a far more miserable-looking specimen
than the
Mary Fiona
.

They wore barely enough to cover their
most private aspects, and nothing that even approached
decency.

“
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
will ye look at that?” she exclaimed in a low voice. “What class of
crimes have they committed, I wonder? Theft? Murder?” She shrank
back, intimidated by the large group of what must be very dangerous
people.

Aidan stared at the scene, his brow
lowering. “They’re not outlaws. They’re slaves.”

“
Slaves?”

“
Or they will be soon.
Morton likewise told me there’s a big slave market here. He said
they snatch these people from their homeland—Africa and such—and
sell them into slavery. A wee bit more straightforward than what
the English do to us, but much worse.”

She gaped at the shuffling,
unhappy-looking group. “What becomes of them?” She spoke in hushed
tones, as if discussing a vile secret.

He shook his head. “Some rich
landowner buys them to work in his fields to grow this.” Gesturing
at the cotton, he added, “And other crops like tobacco and sugar
cane.”

“
But for how long?” She was
familiar with the stories of James Oglethorpe’s debtors, and bond
servants who came to America to work for masters for a fixed number
of years. “When are they freed?”

He watched them, a troubled, faraway
look in his eyes. “When death releases them.”

She followed his gaze and listened to
the clanking chains. They made her think of souls at the gates of
heaven, judged, rejected, and condemned for eternity, dragging
their shackles with them. “How horrible, God help us,” she
whispered.

“
God help
them
.” He turned and took
her elbow. “Come on, Farrell, let’s find that inn.”

* * *

The inn they found, L'Hôtel Grand De Vue, was not nearly so
fancy as its name implied, but after weeks at sea with no privacy,
no proper beds, and a floor that moved constantly under their feet,
it was a small paradise. The desk clerk, a haughty Frenchman with
oiled hair and a shiny coat that was thin at the elbows, lifted a
disdainful brow as he turned the register for Aidan to
sign.

Aidan stared at the man until blood
rose to the tips of his ears and he looked away. It was petty, he
realized, but it gave him satisfaction. He knew that he and Farrell
looked like scarecrows—he was particularly aware that her face was
not as gently rounded as it had been before they left. For his
part, the clothes that had been too small when he bought them now
fit.