It didn’t seem possible for their luck to worsen. But no one was willing to take the risk. At noon the following day, they all trooped onto the main deck. Bridie found a place at the base of the quarterdeck stairs. Annie stood alongside with Lucy balanced on her hip. Billy huddled in a heap at their feet. All around them, the sea lay utterly still, a mirror to the piercing skies. Taking a deep breath, Bridie blew air up onto her cheeks.
‘It’s hot, luck or not. I wished they’d hurry up.’
‘They shouldn’t be long,’ Annie said, pulling Lucy’s bonnet down over her face.
Bridie stood on tiptoes and peered over the heads of the crowd. Captain Thomson stood amidships, his coat freshly brushed, his stance determined. Beside him, Doctor Roberts smiled widely, like an actor in a pantomime.
‘My head hurts,’ Billy whined.
Bridie shot Annie a worried glance and squatted down beside him. ‘Neptune’ll be here soon.’
‘Don’t care. My legs are tired.’
Bridie wriggled her bottom onto the step and pulled Billy onto her lap. He felt strangely puppy soft and compliant.
‘Is he all right?’ Annie asked.
‘No. He’s burning up.’
Above her, the crowd shifted and stirred. Pam? Where was she? Bridie dragged Billy to his feet. So many faces, so many bonnets and cloth caps. Even if she could find Pam, it would be impossible to worm their way across the deck.
‘Look, Billy. Here’s Neptune. Please, Billy? Stand up!’
A wigged figure with a blackened face and flowing green robes strode along the deck. It was old Joe, the bosun’s mate. Bridie must have seen the wizened sailor a thousand times. But with Billy’s hot little body slumped at her side, his grim visage ran a finger up her spine.
‘Silence!’ Neptune rapped his trident on the deck.
The sailors raised a ragged cheer as Captain Thompson clicked his heels together. ‘Hail, Neptune, King of the Sea.’
‘Who dares enter my dominions?’
‘The good ship, Lady Sophia. We seek permission to cross the line.’
Neptune inclined his head, casting an eye over the assembled crew. ‘First, I must claim my children.’
It was a signal. Paul, the new ship’s boy, dashed along the deck. The crowd roared as Neptune’s retainers sprinted after him.
‘Run,’ Bridie yelled. ‘Run!’ Though all she wanted was to get the whole thing over with. Another part of her wanted Paul to escape, to run forever free, because she was frightened and Billy felt leaden at her side and, as long as Paul remained unfettered, she wouldn’t have to look down at his flushed little face, or think about the possibility of him dying.
Up the shrouds Paul scrambled, along the yard arm and down again, his shrieks eerie, as he wove in and out of the closely packed bodies.
At the base of the main mast, Neptune’s retainers brought him down.
‘Billy.’ Bridie shook his dead weight. ‘Look, Paul’s been caught. They’re going to shave him now, and dip him in the sea, then our luck will turn.’ Except she didn’t believe that anymore, for herself or Billy.
Within days, Billy developed a rash. Pam wept as she carried him up the ladder to the dispensary. She wasn’t the only one crying. Five new patients lay on the main deck, their families a hover of grey weary faces. Alf moved among them, offering words of comfort. But today, Bridie couldn’t help noticing, even his movements held a slur of fatigue.
Please God, don’t let him die! The thought broke from her throat with a gasp. Her shock, not so much that she’d had the thought, but how deeply she’d meant the words. Meant them? Surely not! She didn’t want Alf in her life. They’d managed fine before he came along. No, this wasn’t about the past, it was about the future, and, no matter how she resented Alf’s presence, or how slyly he’d gone about stealing Ma’s affection, she didn’t want him to die at the height of a typhus epidemic.
Doctor Roberts looked weary too, though not from overwork. He’d probably stayed up all night, recalculating his gratuity. His face glistened with sweat. The sharp downward pull of his mouth suggested the dispensary was the last place he wanted to be. He turned his hard smile on the Griggs family.
‘On the deck with him, please. That’s right, unbutton his shirt.’
Doctor Roberts squatted down, holding a hanky to his nose. ‘Typhus,’ he said, running a gloved finger over the mottled skin on the Billy’s chest. ‘The rash confirms it.’
This wasn’t news to anyone. By now the symptoms were so familiar, Bridie could have made the diagnosis herself. Seven emigrants had left them already—seven in less than a fortnight. Now, they had five more with headaches and fever chills, along with three single men who’d taken leave of their wits.
‘I ain’t daft. I don’t need a fancy, Mr-Top-Hat-and-Tails surgeon to tell me what’s wrong. The question is, what are you gonna do about it?’
‘There’s not much we can do, I’m afraid. You’ve seen the others and, as you have correctly pointed out, you are familiar with the course of the illness. But … in this case, although it may look hopeless, your son does have youth on his side.’
‘Youth! Is that it? Ain’t there a pill or a powder you can give him?’
‘A powder—of course, Dover’s Powder. I have it in my supplies.’
‘Dover’s Powder!’ Tom’s red-rimmed eyes bulged. ‘Call yerself a bleedin’ surgeon. You gave us that last night.’
Doctor Roberts’ lips thinned. He raised the hanky and squatted down, pushing a hank of hair back from Billy’s forehead.
‘He’s hot. And his colour’s high. But he’s not showing signs of delirium. That’s a good sign.’
‘Oh, good. Let’s all dance and clap our hands.’
‘Look here. Blaming me isn’t going to help, Mr Griggs. What you need is to get your boy out of the sun. It’ll be cooler between decks.’
‘It’s like a bleedin’ inferno down there, Doctor Roberts. Not that you’d know what it’s like.’
The surgeon’s nostrils pinched. A clenched fist suggested what he might like to do with Tom’s face. ‘I understand you’re upset, Mr Griggs, but I really must advise—’
‘Advise! What! What do you advise? That I give him a dose of powder and everything will magically be all right?’
‘No, not at all. I can’t guarantee any such thing. But we mustn’t let emotion cloud our judgment. In many cases, as long as there are no complications, the fever will run its course. Meanwhile, you must—’
‘Make him want to get better,’ Pam interrupted. ‘Make him want to stay alive.’
‘Precisely.’ Doctor Roberts nodded. ‘Keep him warm and comfortable. Let him know you’re there.’
‘Well, that’s marvellous. They promise us medical attention and all we get is a feller in a frock telling us to keep the boy alive.’
‘I know it sounds like nonsense, Mr Griggs. But it’s true, nonetheless. One of the first things typhus does is break down the will to survive. If you can get your lad past that, give him a something to hang onto, he may yet recover.’
Doctor Roberts measured out a dose of powder and handed it to Pam.
She looked worn out, her face soot-grey with fatigue, as if any minute she might join Thaddy’s ma at the bottom of the sea. Looking down the long, thin line of his nose, Doctor Roberts seemed to reach the same conclusion.
‘Mrs Griggs, I know it’s hard. But do get some rest. There’s no point running yourself into the ground.’
‘It’s all right for some,’ Tom muttered, scowling. ‘If you’d wanted us to rest, you’d have set up a proper hospital and looked after us yerself.’
The afternoon was a ball of string unravelling slowly; steerage, a dustbin rotting and souring in the heat. The smell clung to Bridie, swirling in her nostrils and making her stomach heave. Slumped at the table, she found herself straining for the sound of the ship’s half hourly bells, their doleful chimes marking every half hour of continuing life.
Annie washed Lucy’s face and settled her dow
n for an afternoon nap. Alf kept steerage clean and quiet. Even Rhys and Siân stayed between decks. Though there was nothing anyone could do. It was simply a matter of being there, sharing their concern, as all along the deck, groups cared for the afflicted, or lived through the horror of watching someone die.
‘Here, Pam,’ Alf coaxed. ‘Plum duff, left over from dinner. Have some, for my sake.’
Pam shook her head, unwilling to break her tuneless song. Tom simply couldn’t keep still. He cursed and paced, his red-rimmed eyes putting Bridie in mind of a creature from the underworld.
‘Here, Tom, have some tea.’
Tom paused, seeming to consider Alf’s offer, then resumed his restless tread.
Alf stepped in front, blocking his path. ‘Drink it standing, if you must. But have something, before you collapse.’
Tom came to a reluctant halt. Sagging onto the bench, he ran a hand through his grizzled hair. He looked a fright. The internal horror, the possibility of Billy dying was etched into the lines of his face. He couldn’t eat. He wouldn’t rest, and all the while Billy lay in a stupefied sweat while Pam sang to him endlessly, tunelessly.
‘Give the poor little bugger a rest,’ Tom called out from the bench.
‘I’m all right.’
‘Stop your singing, then, Pam. It’s giving ’im a fright.’
‘It’s you that’s taken fright, with all your cursing and pacing. I’ve been nursing him day and night.’
‘Give it a break then, old girl. He ain’t going anywhere.’
This wasn’t true. Billy might go to a place forever beyond their reach. Pam knew this, even if Tom wouldn’t admit to the possibility. She was hanging onto him with all her might—by her voice, her touch, her presence, engaging in a desperate tug-of-war with God.
Bridie knew what that was like. She’d waged her own tug-of-war with God—chafing her dad’s hands, stroking his stubbled cheek, whispering stories, songs and rhymes, anything to bring a flicker of life back into his face. Would it have helped if Ma had spoken softly? Told him she loved him? Or did her dad already know Alf had stolen her affection? What came first: the sadness, or the betrayal? Did it even matter? Her dad died, though she’d begged him to stay alive. So maybe Ma was right, maybe he didn’t love them enough to stay alive, and, if he didn’t love them, then maybe he had meant to die that icy December night.
Bridie shivered, hugging her notebook to her chest. Billy wasn’t sad. He was sick, like Hilary and Eunice and all the others who had died. He hadn’t given up on life. Despite what Doctor Roberts said, it took more than love to keep a person with typhus alive. Bridie didn’t know what—some strange, misty element that allowed one person to slip away and gave another the will to survive. Her dad never found it. But she hoped Billy would, before it was too late. Lest she see Ma’s bitterness mirrored in Pam’s plain, honest face.
Siân rose and pushed her mug to the centre of the table. ‘Give you a rest, shall I, Pam?’
Pam’s song halted. She peered out from the shelter of Billy’s bunk. ‘I can’t ask that of you, Siân.’
‘Only a short while, not wearing myself out.’
Pam glanced at Rhys. He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. It didn’t take much imagination to guess his thoughts. If Siân caught typhus it would kill her and the child.
‘Sing to him, shall I?’
‘Well … if you don’t mind. I am a bit tired.’
Siân clambered into the bunk and drew Billy on to her lap. Pam sank onto the bench, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
‘I wouldn’t mind so much if we were on land. If he were to die, he’d have a grave and … I could visit him.’
‘Gawd! Do we have to talk about this?’
Pam sniffed, ignoring Tom’s interruption. ‘Only here, they run a needle through their nose, you know … to make sure they’re dead, and you’ve seen how they weigh them down with lead—’
‘Enough!’ Tom roared. ‘Our Billy ain’t going to die.’
‘A fat lot of help you’ve been, if he does.’
‘What good does your singing do, woman? Apart from driving me mad.’
‘Doctor Roberts said it, Tom. We have to make him want to stay alive.’
‘It’s miserable. All the boy needs is peace and quiet.’
‘No, he doesn’t. Death is quiet.’
Tom looked set to explode. Bridie didn’t blame him. She didn’t want to think of Billy’s body growing stiff and cold, his freckled face setting into a bland last smile.
‘I’m not saying he will die. But if he was to, you know … slip over the side, well, at least he’d know I was with him, right to the end.’
‘Look at him, Pam. He don’t know what the bloody hell’s going on.’
‘That’s not true,’ Rhys interrupted softly. ‘Siân’s great aunt, Rhonwen, said nothing’s a waste while a body’s alive.’
Tom’s lips curled. ‘Ah, that’s right, the witch.’
‘Not a witch, a healer. She knew things.’
Tom froze. ‘Say that again, lad?’
‘She knew things.’
‘No, before that.’
Rhys paused, perhaps sensing a shift in the other man’s mood. It wasn’t surprising. From where she sat, Bridie fancied she saw the cogs turning in Tom’s head.
‘Not a witch, a healer.’
‘She’d have known all about typhus, I’m guessing?’
Rhys shrugged, his face a wary blank. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Siân.’
‘I will.’ Tom shot Pam a withering glance. ‘Ain’t no one going to blame me if Billy dies.’
Tom leaned towards the bunk. Bridie saw him swallow, once, twice, uncertain in the face of Billy’s dwindling life.
‘So, what did your old aunt know about typhus, then, Siân?’
Siân stopped mid-song. ‘No typhus up on the mountains, no filth or overcrowding, not where I lived. Only in the bigger towns like Merthyr and Penderyn.’
‘She must have heard of it, though?’
‘I don’t know, Tom. It’s unknown to me, see.’
‘Well, that’s bleedin’ marvellous.’ Tom’s anger beat the air like a stick.
‘Fair play,’ Rhys snapped back. ‘Siân’s not the wise woman, only her aunt.’
‘Besides,’ Pam added, her lips a bitter twist, ‘you said we lived in the age of steam. “Not the bleedin’ dark ages.”’
Tom swallowed, his lined face, haggard. ‘Well, of course we do. It’s just … well, I’m a bit desperate now, aren’t I?’
‘We all are.’ Rhys placed a hand on his forearm. ‘But there’s nothing we can do. Only watch and wait, as Pam said. Let him know we’re here.’
‘There’s one thing.’ Siân peered out from the bunk. ‘One small thing I could try.’
‘Blimey! Why didn’t you say so before?’ Tom’s face took on signs of life.
‘I’ve not done it before, mind.’
‘Don’t matter. At least we’ve got something to try.’
There was a surge of action, a wave of relief. Pam climbed back into Billy’s bunk. Siân rummaged in her bag and produced a small wooden box. She prised open the lid and pulled out a red velvet pouch. Loosing the drawstring, she drew out a smooth rounded stone and held it up for their inspection.
‘Ble gest ti hi!’
Rhys gave a startled cry. Bridie swung round, saw the flail of his hands, his too-wide eyes.
‘It was Rhonwen’s. I found it after she died.’
‘She didn’t give it to you?’
‘No.’
Rhys lunged, grabbing for the stone. ‘It won’t work then, Siân. Not if she didn’t give it to you. It’s not yours by right.’
‘We’ll let the stone decide.’
It took forever—a contest of dark eyes, granite faces, and absent smiles. In the end, Rhys shoulders slumped. His hands fell slack at his sides.
Siân turned to Bridie. ‘I’ll need a pan of water, bach, and a small cup for pouring.’
Bridie’s heart divided, like oil and water inside. Rhys was her friend and he was frightened. She saw it in the hard knob of his throat. The way his hands clenched white at his sides. But … Billy was dying and Siân might be able to help him. With an apologetic glance in Rhys’s direction, Bridie scurried along the deck and returned in no time with a pan of water as directed.
Siân set the pan upon the table and placed the shiny, egg-shaped stone in its centre. It didn’t roll. It was mounted on a tiny silver pedestal. But it seemed to glow, if that were possible, in the murky light of the lamp and, although only small, in its presence they fell silent.
‘It’s crystal,’ Siân said. ‘Been in my mam’s family for generations.’ She smiled round at them. ‘Its use is rare, mind. Only the gifted can invoke its powers.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Pam whispered.
It was. Antiquated and elegant, it sat in the centre of the pan, and not one of them could take their eyes from it. As they gathered in the warm, hushed half-light, Siân began to chant.
‘O garreg braint a chadarn
Oh thou stone of might and right
Gad i fi dy drochi di mewn dŵr
Let me dip thee in water
Yn nŵr ffynnon pur neu thon
In the water of pure spring or wave.’
Siân held the stone aloft like Reverend Cummings held the host, except she was a woman and her chin didn’t wobble, and what she did seemed right somehow, her movements so fluid and graceful.
‘Yn yr enw Dewi Sant
In the name of Saint David
Yn yr enw‘r Apostlion
In the name of the twelve Apostles.’
Siân placed the stone back in the middle of the dish and, in the flickering light of the lamp, she looked like a goddess from another time and another place—a solitary taper kindling a blaze.
‘Yn yr enw’r Drindod Sanctaid
In the name of the Holy Trinity
A Mihangel a’r angylion
Of Michael and all the angels
Yn yr enw Crist a Mair ei fam!
In the name of Christ and Mary his mother!’
No one moved as Siân reached for the water and began to pour in a thin clear stream above the stone.
‘Bendith ar y garreg glir disglair!
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