No Country: A Novel

by Kalyan Ray

  On the days when the sea was comparatively calm, a large cauldron was set on deck for gruel to be made. On this particular day, we all crowded around as the odd vegetable, sundry morsels, various grains were tossed in and stirred. Such was the hunger that Mr. Behan plunged his bowl in, impatient of the slow boil, to devour the half-cooked slop. When three or four others did so, complete pandemonium broke out, all semblance of order and fairness jettisoned.

  The captain and the crew began to berate us at first, then stood apart, enjoying the mayhem among the wretched. With the greatest contempt for myself, I too plunged into the melee and snatched some victuals. I had two other mouths to provide for who would otherwise remain unfed. I could barely pour the unspeakable fluid down my throat. But I learned a great lesson. I had grimaced as I forced the slop into my mouth, but then I saw Maeve’s eyes on me. She flashed me a conspiratorial smile and ate without any fuss or show of disgust. I knew what an effort it cost the child to keep her countenance from betraying the least distaste. Within this child, there was growing a young woman with a brave heart. And all it took was twenty-three days of this dreadful voyage.

  Sailing with us was the captain’s prize pig, which I was told he intended to sell in Canada for a stud animal—a huge beast, gargantuan and pink. I had noticed it when I had first got on board. Also, there were a couple of goats, for the captain fancied a little milk, like a new baby. Pigs and goats were the only creatures, sailors told me, to eat any muck given them, and no matter what battering the high seas dealt, the goats could be counted on giving milk. During the period of the rough seas, the sailors had forgotten to feed them for several days. We heard the occasional squeal or snort but had sunk into such a state of the primitive that these seemed no different from our guttural oaths of discomfort. Today a hue and cry rose when one of the sailors had gone to the captain’s deck outside his cabin, perhaps to milk the goats, and set off a hullabaloo. The enormous hog in its desperate hunger had turned on the goats and savaged them for a grisly meal.

  It was unthinkable for any of us to climb to the upper deck on pain of flogging. But Mr. Behan, phlegmatic though his nature appeared to be, led a crowd up the stairs. Before the amazed captain could utter a word, he reached in the filthy straw and withdrew dismembered parts not devoured entirely by the pig. Amid a great huzzah of joy, he flung the meat, hooves and all, barely skinned, into our pot and started such a wild dance around it—and so savage, joyous, and threatening it looked—that the captain was scared silent, although he followed Behan with baleful eyes, as if Mr. Behan himself had slaughtered his goats. We waited eagerly on deck for this windfall repast.

  As we ate the soup, some started hopeful talk about new homes in America. Place-names were spoken of—and I mentioned to Mr. O’Flaherty how many were called New This or Nova That. “Brendan, beware the names called New,” my old schoolmaster quipped, “the newer they be, the farther they are and more unlike what they mean to recall.” Aye, I thought, for Adam finished naming all he needed to name. He did not say New Eden when he arrived down here with a flaming sword pointing at his arse. He just named it Earth, for thus he found it.

  From that night Captain Hibbard posted a guard over his prize pig. A stiff gale had begun to blow, and snow turning to bitter sleet. Forthwith we were ordered belowdecks, and we did obey, all except Behan, whom the captain commanded to stay on deck to help the sailors make fast the boxes on deck. Behan, strong in spite of the starving time, was glad to comply, for he preferred the heavy work on deck to being huddled in the filthy hold.

  The weather calmed by the following noon, though it had grown chilly. In the hold that night, Jamie and Ruairi Egan sang for their mother, Betty.

  The priests are on the ocean green

  They march along the Deep.

  There’s wine from the royal Pope

  Upon the ocean green . . .

  I remembered having heard them sing this very ditty after Bill Twomey’s wedding in Collooney. Young Bill himself now sat next to me, holding his pretty wife Pia’s hand, enjoying that memory.

  “Some of our neighbours are still with us,” I mused, “and they are all that is left me of County Sligo.” I also remembered Mr. Lewis’s fine baritone.

  When we came up to the deck, we saw masses of ice were floating upon the slate-grey waters, but no sign of Behan. The sailors were evasive when Mrs. Behan kept screeching her question. Finally one sailor replied simply that the man had been swept overboard. We noticed now that the captain and the sailors had their blades and matlocks out. Mrs. Behan and her children kept screaming that our stomachs were responsible for her good man’s death, that God would curse us surely. Everyone looked away as if her words were incomprehensible. How could she blame us and not the murderous captain?

  I wondered that no one thought to place the blame where it belonged, but it was easier to blame ourselves: Is that what we do with God? This question coiled and swam in my thoughts. My long quarrel with Him had only begun. The full blast of winter and a joyless Christmas were coming—if we lived so long.

  • • •

  THE SUN WAS a pewter orb floating in mists that hung like curtains of shadows, and the ship made little headway. The captain had shut himself away in his cabin where he had his maps. Once in a long while he stamped outside, glancing this way and that in a twitch of indecision. Though the very prow of the ship was almost invisible, we felt unseen presences. Then, we heard in the very far distance, something fall from some great height into the ocean. Chunks of ice came floating to the hull with a dull tock tock, then floated away.

  The sailors muttered that it was impossible to guide the ship, in the fog, despite the compass though we were only a few days away from shore. But we had little food left, and virtually no water. From the ends of the long canvas of the lower sails, I was able to gather some moisture in a bottle. Maeve drank from it, and Mr. O’Flaherty took a small sip.

  The captain stormed out again on his deck. Turning around, he stumbled on the pig and fell hard, to the general cheering of his passengers. Cursing and shaking his fist—with the pig grunting its displeasure, equally aloud—the captain withdrew into his cabin and slammed the door. Our Maeve clapped her hands with the rest of us, as if she had seen the first vaudeville show of her wee life and was powerfully pleased.

  As the ship drifted ahead on the blind sea, there was a startling sound, a wrench of splintering timber. I heard cries in the hold, screams of pain. The ship had ridden up a sharp rise of land. Was it rock? A shiver of fright shook through me as sailors began sliding down the rigging.

  “Ship aground!” rang the cry.

  The bow was pointed up, and when I leant over the side, I saw the ship depending on a ledge of ice. The strongest clawed their way up from the hold. The ship’s tilt made their climb perilous.

  On deck, the large soup vat broke loose, clattering headlong, and smashed against the foremast. That was fortunate, for some steps behind it stood Mr. O’Flaherty, unable to move on the incline of the deck. I grabbed him with one arm and held Maeve with the other. With extraordinary presence of mind, the child clung to her blanket.

  Although we had reached some unknown icebound shore, this was no beach rising gradually, but an abrupt wedge where the ship was breaking up and beginning to go under. The ground looked icy, with just a thin layer of snow, a bleak promontory that stretched from the slope of a looming icy palisade—a flat jut, like a thick tongue out into the ocean on which the ship had foundered—at least two men’s height below the steeply angled deck.

  “Let the ropes down, let them down,” I shouted.

  That was the only way we could safely reach the icy ledge and the headland. The ship was fast listing larboard when Mr. Sweeney and Bill Twomey had the presence of mind to slash off ropes from the rigging and hang them from the deck as it loomed above the ice. I looked around for the captain, wondering how he would direct us; then I saw that he and his crew were on board the lone lifeboat off the aft, ready to cast off. The only th
ing holding them back was the loading of two large sea-chests, and the dragging of the pig onto the boat. One of the chests had been hoisted on the rowboat. As the men lifted the second heavy sea-chest, the ship groaned audibly and twisted, as if in mortal pain. The awkward torque snapped a jagged tear through the entire length of the deck.

  The remaining sea-chest slithered down the now steeper slope, gathered speed, and smashed against the front of the railings, but remained intact. Will Hayward writhed, his chest bleeding, then slid into the water. White Danny and his friends darted up and found purchase on the rowboat’s side, trying to haul themselves on board, when Captain Hibbard raised an oar and brought it down on Danny’s head. A red gash appeared instantly, and his grasp loosened. Another blow—and with a hoarse cry that ceased abruptly he plunged into the freezing waters. Captain Hibbard and his crew were abandoning us. He could easily have taken a dozen women and children in his long rowboat—perhaps for a more protracted suffering—but as captain, no matter how ineffectual, his betrayal left me breathless.

  There was another wrenching sound. The pig lost its foothold and rolled against the railings, and as if on a rebound, fell overboard and landed on its back on the icy ledge, where it let out a long squeal. If there be a language in Pig, ’twas a rich phrase he uttered.

  I could hear the rhythmic sound of rowing as the captain’s boat pulled farther and farther off. A single torch lit their grimaced effort to get away.

  Many of the people from the hold had now managed to get on deck beside us. Throwing down all the canvas and blankets we could lay our hands on, we prepared to slide down the ropes. I tied one of these around Mr. O’Flaherty and lowered him, while Bill Twomey, who had already helped his wife descend, helped steady him below. Then, clutching Maeve, and she wrapping her arms about my neck, I used all haste to descend, my palms rubbed raw by the rope. Standing on the hard ice, we watched as Mr. Sweeney climbed to the captain’s cabin, and oddly enough, brought out the captain’s chair and small rosewood desk. He also had two bottles of rum in each pocket of his greatcoat.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” I kept shouting from the ridge. And it was good that Mr. Sweeney did so, for as he cleared the ship, pulling the captain’s small desk and chair after him—gasping and grunting—the mast smashed down on the ledge and broke into pieces. A small part of the icy ledge floated away after that impact. Some people leapt down in their desperate bid to reach safety. I watched that with as much horror as I did the ship which was now sliding sideways, weighed down by its wet sails, and began to disappear from sight into the unspeakable depth of the sea.

  Mr. Sweeney, having regained his breath, courteously offered Mr. O’Flaherty the chair, and straddled his broad legs on both sides of the captain’s desk as if it were a horse. The pig was snuffling and rooting about, trying to get inside the chest. Mr. Sweeney shooed it away, prised open the heavy box with his knife, and found it stuffed full of a variety of cheeses. This was greeted with great and momentary glee.

  “What part of Canada are we on, Schoolmaster? What is your guess?” asked Mr. Sweeney. Sitting on the captain’s chair, Mr. O’Flaherty replied mildly, “I do not think it is Canada just yet, Mr. Sweeney. This is an iceberg, a curious phenomenon.”

  He gaped at Mr. O’Flaherty. So did the rest of us.

  The curdling of light which I had seen to the east indicating midmorning was now gone, hidden behind the vast mass that loomed behind us, from whose shadow a chill exuded that reached our very hearts.

  • • •

  SOME HAD FALLEN on the hard ice, while many had nothing worse than hurt ankles and knees. Misses Mary and Theodora Snow had scrambled to get on the captain’s rowboat with the crew, but were beaten back with oars. Miss Mary fell into the icy water and sank from sight, but Miss Theodora hung on to the icy ledge, a large bruise across her face, moaning that her right bosom was severely hurt. She had lost her two front teeth and bled from her split lower lip. In jumping from the tilted rail of the ship to the ice-ledge, Mrs. Betty Egan’s skirt had got tangled, and she had fallen headfirst on the hard ice. Her sons, Jamie and Ruairi, had pulled her to safety, but she remained in a dead faint, her face much swollen, breathing shallow and irregular, wrapped in torn canvas. They tried to keep her warm, chafing her hands, but she died soon after. Bill Twomey and his sweet-faced wife, Pia, herself swollen with her first child, comforted them as best they could.

  In spite of our initial optimism that most had escaped to the perilous ice-ledge, we began to comprehend that more than twenty people were not accounted for. We feared that in the dense fog, some of the unfortunates had lost their footing, there being nothing to hold. Sliding off the steep edge, they had sunk to their death, their cries stifled, for the merest touch of the black water was numbing. Some may not have made their way out of the tilted hold and drowned, struggling to get beyond the hatches.

  What cheer had risen within us disappeared. Among us sat the mourning brothers and children and sisters, themselves facing certain death on a ledge of ice, weeping bitterly for those who had perchance preceded them by a few hours.

  Behind us rose the crystalline floating mountain. Who could say what portion could crack off and come crashing down on our hapless refuge, perhaps breaking it off? What would happen if this frozen bulk floated southerly for days, where encountering warmer currents, it would dwindle and melt beneath our starved corpses?

  • • •

  MR. SWEENEY DISCOVERED to his glee when he managed to break off a small piece of ice and suck upon it, that the melting water was not bitter with the sea-salt, but sweet as Sligo spring water.

  What a strange creature you have created, Lord, I whispered to myself, who will abandon his fellow man to save his own sorry hide, even when there is ample space in the rowboat—and that rowboat impossibly far away from any land or rescue. And what creature falls on its knees and praises its merciful Maker when it finds that the ice is made of sweet water when it melts in his thirsty mouth, standing all the while on an inconstant island made of that water itself, but hardened in the palm of that Maker who keeps it afloat, for the nonce, on His ocean’s deadly stretch.

  In the dense night, the wind whispered around the bulk of ice. The fog began to clear, and I saw the budding of small celestial lights. We huddled under the clearing sky, and before long we could look up and see the firmament, barbaric now with stars. A phosphorescence emanated from our floating ice island. The sun would rise in a few hours, but now the cold stars reigned.

  No one could say what cheer or succor the sun might bring. It might speed the melting of the iceberg. But we are creatures of the sun. The very prospect of sunrise seemed to touch something hopeful embedded within us, perhaps at birth itself. Mr. Sweeney declared that when the sun came up, he would catch the captain’s pig and slaughter it for one last great feast. The pig seemed to comprehend what was said, and grunted angrily. We could see the beady glitter of its eyes and hear the gnash and jitter of its teeth. Some around us laughed, and Mr. O’Flaherty, still on his chair, said, “Ajax and his rival will meet tomorrow on this windy plain.”

  I do not know if I slept or no. It is darkest always before the sun comes up.

  • • •

  THE HORIZON WAS the faintest colour of purple, like a ray that falls aslant upon a fuchsia petal. It spread in a single streak through the eastern sky. I watched spellbound, aware that this might well be my last day on earth.

  We had finished the cheese. There was to be no food today, unless Mr. Sweeney won his great combat on this windy plain. I meant to absorb all the beauty I could see and feel. I was a young man. I had lived only on one island and set foot in no other, unless I counted this most temporary of isles.

  The rest of the sky was still black, but no longer the many-layered darkness cradling the moonless stars. It had grown pale, and the morning star stood bright. With astonishing rapidity the sun rose, a red yolk that spilt its colours on the far horizon, and then, seemingly in a rush, urged itself above the waters i
n a golden spread. I witnessed, far above the sleeping forms all around me, the top of the ice-mountain become glittering gold. It reflected some of that radiance onto an area of the sea which glistened in reflected glory. One large bird appeared from near the horizon, and upon its vast wings, floated into closer view and, passing us, flew behind the icy peak.

  I was startled from my contemplation by a frantic shaking, and saw that it was Maeve, her face contorted with pain. Picking her up, I felt about her, wrapped as she was in the large and unwieldy blanket. I thought she had somehow been hurt. I had heard nothing, seen nothing that could have possibly harmed her. She was trying to speak, but unable to say anything at all, except for a terrible gasping. I thought she might be choking.

  At the same time I became aware of all the people around me shouting, shrilly, hoarsely, in a variety of ways. From the corner of my eye I saw someone trying frantically to set fire to a pile of broken timbers from the mast. I was jostled about, but kept my hold on the frail and tormented child. I felt her thin bones beneath my searching palms and could see her sharp cheekbones, blue skin stretched over eyes tight shut.

  I knelt on the hard ice, trying to gauge if anything was stuck in her throat. She opened her eyes, which were bloodshot, a terrible thing to see in a child.

  “Where does it hurt, child, where is your pain?” I screamed in panic.

  She shook her head. I was now sure she had had a bad dream. How can you avoid that, when being awake itself had become a nightmare? I still could not understand the uproar among all the people. Was the ice breaking up?

  Maeve seemed to have calmed somewhat, her eyes not so flush with redness as a moment ago. As I struggled to find words to soothe the child, she reached out her small palm to stroke my cheek, trying to comfort me.