Wild Geese

by Caroline Pignat

  “Thanks,” Brian says. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  Murph leads the way back down the other side of the tables, ducking under the web of lines folk tied to the masts. High above deck, those massive poles hold sails that snap in wind and shine in the sun. Yet down below, they bear ragged scraps of shirts and breeches that hang forever wet in the dark, damp hold.

  “So tell me, now,” he calls over his shoulder. “Where’d you learn about remedies?”

  “Back home I often worked for Old Lizzie, gathering roots and whatnot for her tonics. She was the wise woman in our village.” I duck under a shawl draped over the drying line. “I wish she was here now. She’d know what to do.”

  “Well, I daresay you gathered up a bit of her wisdom as you gathered her roots.”

  “Murph.” I stop him and he turns to face me as we stand hidden among the laundry lines. I lower my voice. “’Tis the fever Widow Delaney has.”

  He stares at the floorboards. “I feared as much. Will she live?”

  “Maybe if we were back home, if I had fresh roots and hot broth. Maybe then I could do something, but I don’t know how to fight the fever here.” The truth of it settles across my shoulders like a cold, wet shawl.

  “Is there nothing we can do, then?” Murph asks, both of us knowing he is no longer talking about Widow Delaney.

  “I don’t know ...”

  What would Lizzie say? What would she do?

  “Separate the sick. Wash the clothes. Keep the hatch open for fresh air. ’Tisn’t much,” I say.

  “But something, at least.” Murph nods. “We’ll do what we can and leave the rest in God’s hands.”

  Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The queue is barely moving as we wait, cups in hands, in the rations line on deck. We get a cupful of oats and water rations each day, if the weather is fine. With the storm on the horizon, we are anxious to get served before the captain sends us below. The old Scot they call Fergal is doling out the rations, carefully measuring each cup down to the very last drop and oat. Six pints of water per person; ’tis up to each person whether they use it to drink, cook, or wash. Needless to say, most of us are going dirty. I don’t mind waiting in the line, though; I’m just glad to be out in the fresh air.

  “Is your brother afraid of heights?” Joe asks, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks up at the sails. I follow his gaze, only to find Mick away up at the second sail, clinging to the mainmast for dear life. What in God’s name is he doing now?

  “O’Toole!” First Mate Smythe yells from the deck far below. “Get a move on!”

  The other three sailors have already shuffled across the footropes and stand waving and yelling at Mick. They can’t hoist the sail without a fourth person, but the way Mick has his arms and legs lashed around that mast, the way his shirt flutters wildly in the wind, the way the mast teeters side to side with the rocking of the ship, makes me think he’s never letting go.

  “Mick!” I yell. “Get down!” He has no business being up there. That fool of a boy will kill himself, he will.

  He opens his eyes and turns to the sound of my voice, but a glimpse of Joe and me seems only to spur him onward. Steeling himself, he lets go of the mainmast and lunges for the yard, but his foot slips off the footrope and he drops. His arms catch the yard before he falls to his death, leaving him dangling from the yard as his long legs flail beneath him like two cut ropes. The crowd below gasps and points. I try not to think of the sight of him plummeting into the sea or the sound of him hitting the deck.

  His feet flounder for something solid as his arms begin to lose their grip. He can’t hang like that for long.

  “Good God, O’Toole, if you’re trying to kill yourself, save us all the trouble and just walk the plank!” Smythe shouts. “Coyle, help him out!”

  “Aye, sir!” the young sailor next to Mick answers and edges over to Mick, whose kicking feet catch Coyle in the shins. Grabbing the back of Mick’s trousers, Coyle gives a yank and lifts Mick until his feet find the swaying rope. By the look of Coyle, he’s not too happy. He motions to Mick how to hoist the sail by pulling it hand over hand. Mick nods like he knows what Coyle is talking about.

  I’d already seen Smythe tear a strip off of Mick for spilling the Cunninghams’ chamber pot across the deck last week. Even I knew Mick hadn’t his sea legs. He walked like Ned Nowlan coming home from the pub, lurching and listing, stopping every few steps to be sick. Smythe made Mick scrub those planks for hours. If only we’d had the money for two tickets, Mick could have been in the berth with us instead of trying to be someone he’s not. Of course, who am I to judge? ’Tis thanks to my warrant that we’re both imposters.

  “Today, O’Toole!” Smythe yells, as Mick leans over the yard and grips the canvas like the other sailors. Only, on the count of three when they heave the sail, Mick heaves his breakfast. Vomit spills over the yard and down the sail to hit Smythe like a bucket of slops.

  “Jaysus, your brother is in for it now,” Joe whispers. And don’t I know it. For there is Smythe, his face as red as his uniform, both slathered in Mick’s hot sick.

  “If the climb down doesn’t kill him,” Joe adds, “Smythe surely will.”

  “O’Toole!” Smythe’s voice slices the air like a bloody cutlass. “Get your sorry Irish arse down here … NOW!” He turns to the crowd, eyes blazing. “The rest of you back in line or it’s back in the hold!”

  We lower our gaze and wait our turn. By the time we’ve gotten our cups of oats and water and settled by the fire, Coyle is lowering Mick to the deck by a rope around his waist. I don’t want to see Mick’s shame, but there’s no missing it.

  “O’Toole, I have given you every possible chance,” Smythe rants, slapping away the rags a sailor hands him. His pristine uniform is darkened in wet, sticky patches. Porridgey bits and chunks of God knows what stick to his hair and on his shoulders. He points his finger at Mick, who sits where he landed on the vomit-covered deck as though he hasn’t the strength to rise. “Every chance! But you can’t be learned. I said so to the captain. Just look at you! Are you some kind of idiot? A simpleton, perhaps? Or are you just that pathetic?”

  Mick, eyes down, doesn’t answer. Years of Lynch’s wrath back home had taught him the best reply was none. He’d learned that from his father. And his father before that.

  “You’re no sailor. Not even a man,” Smythe sneers. “You’ll never amount to anything. Do you hear me?” He pauses. “Do you, you good-for-nothing Irish?”

  “Yessir,” Mick mumbles.

  “Look at me when I’m talking. Stand up when you’re being addressed. I’m your commanding officer, damn you!”

  Shaking, Mick stands. He’s so pale, I worry he might get sick again, but Smythe backhands him across the face and Mick falls back.

  “Fetch me the flayed rope,” Smythe orders. “This boy needs a lesson.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As I jump to my feet, my eyes meet Mick’s across the deck. I can’t watch this anymore. Back home, I’d run, run up the hill to my special stone and watch the sea until the tide receded, taking all my anger with it. But where can I run now? I’m surrounded by the sea. I’ve no stones, no tides, no place to go. But I can’t stay here.

  My feet pound the boards as I bolt to the forbidden aft deck, up the steps, past Lord and Lady Cunningham’s quarters, past the ship’s wheel ’til I hit the railing and can run no further. My heart pounds in my chest. I want to keep running, to jump over this rail, to go back, back to the way things were before the famine.

  But I can’t.

  “Are you lost?” a voice says from behind. I turn to see Captain MacDonald coming toward me.

  “I’m sorry sir, Captain, sir,” I mumble. Steerage passengers are not allowed anywhere but the hold and the main deck when called. I wonder if I’ll be whipped for trespassing. “I’m Kenny O’Toole and my brother, Mick, well, he vomited on First Mate Smythe and now he’s going to
be whipped.” The words rush out, but before I’m done, Captain MacDonald is heading for the main deck with me in tow.

  “What’s all this, Smythe?” the captain asks as the sailors part for him.

  “It’s O’Toole, Captain. The sailor I told you about.”

  “Yes, well his brother here was just telling me about you.”

  Smythe glares at me but I meet his eyes. I won’t look away. I won’t give him that.

  “I’ve sailed for twenty years,” the captain continues, taking the rope from Smythe’s hands. “Since when is whipping prescribed for seasickness? And look at your uniform and the state of these decks.”

  “It wasn’t me, Captain,” Smythe says. A pleading tone seeps into his voice. “It’s him. He—”

  Captain MacDonald holds up his hand. “Whose uniform is it?”

  “But he—”

  “Whose uniform?”

  “Mine, sir,” Smythe admits.

  “And whose responsibility is it to run a tight ship, keep the decks clean, and the sailors up to par?” the captain asks, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “Mine, sir,” Smythe answers.

  Lord and Lady Cunningham peer down from the aft deck. Lady Cunningham raises a lace hankie to her nose in disgust. Most ships have rooms for the middle class, though they rarely mixed with the steerage passengers.

  “Everything all right, Captain MacDonald?” Lord Cunningham asks.

  “Yes, Lord Cunningham. Mr. Smythe is just taking care of it, aren’t you, Mr. Smythe?”

  “Yes, sir, right away, sir.” Smythe turns but the captain leans over.

  “For God’s sake, man. Go and change your uniform, will you? You stink to high heaven.”

  Smythe’s eyes bore into mine. He scowls at Mick and heads for his quarters. But this isn’t over. Not by any means.

  Within minutes, the captain has the sailors back at work. Another sailor joins Coyle to hoist the sail.

  “You two,” the captain says as they climb down to the deck.

  “Aye, sir?” Coyle puffs up like a proud cockerel to be noticed by the captain.

  “Get these decks in order.”

  “Aye, sir.” Coyle’s lips tighten. He glances at Mick and clenches his jaw before heading for the buckets and brushes. This is going to cost Mick something fierce.

  “Ever do any carpentry, Mick?” Captain MacDonald asks.

  “No, sir,” Mick mumbles. I can tell he’s terrified he might be asked to. “I can whittle a stick, but that’s all.”

  The captain strokes the wooden rail. “Every piece of this ship is built to serve a specific purpose. A square peg will never fit in a round hole. Men like Smythe will try to force it, but what good is that? It weakens the structure and damages the peg.”

  “But that square peg belongs somewhere, doesn’t it, Captain?”

  I blurt. His words stoke something deep inside me. “It’s needed somewhere.”

  He smiles and nods.

  Mick frowns. “So I’ve to find the hole for a p-peg, Captain, sir … is that right?”

  The captain pats Mick’s shoulder. “Just keep searching for your place, lad. And stay close to your brother. He’s a sharp one, that Kenny. In the meantime, perhaps you could be of help to our ship’s cook. Fergal,” he calls to the old Scot sealing the water barrel. “Mick here is going to be your new assistant.”

  Fergal nods and, reaching into his pocket, tosses Mick a bit of root. “Get that into you, now. I’ll no have you wasting my food by pitching it into the sea, nor onto Smythe.”

  “Ginger,” I say, smelling the peppery-sweetness burst from Mick’s mouth as he takes a small bite. I remember it from Lizzie’s stores. “Calms the stomach.”

  “Aye, ginger-r-r-r.” The “r-r-r” makes Fergal’s tongue purr. He grins at me. “I may be in need of two assistants, Captain. Might I call the young lad up from the hold from time to time?”

  “Yes, of course,” he raises his eyebrow and glances at the dark clouds on the horizon. “Lash those barrels tight, Fergal. We’re in for a good one.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The ship heaves violently, knocking Joe off balance. His head thunks the post like a pitched apple but his cursing is lost in a clap of thunder. Rain hammers the decks above our heads and the constant creak of timbers kicks up to a screech as the ship heaves and groans. Brigid and her little friend Alice play under the open hatch, catching the raindrops on their tongues.

  “Brigid, pet, come away from there before you catch a chill,” Mrs. Ryan calls.

  “We’ll get her,” Joe offers, and I follow him over the berth boards and up a third of the hold to the stairs. The Erin dips and lurches to the left, forcing me to grab the table to keep my balance. Light from the swinging lantern above it tumbles the shadows, making my head dizzy.

  The ship has never rocked so much. The way she whines in protest as her timbers bend and twist makes me think the next creak will surely end with a snap. A crack in her hull would be the end of her, would be the end of us all.

  She tips violently to the right, sending seawater through the hatch into the hold, as though the sailors were tossing it down by the bucket. Brigid and Alice scream, caught in the sudden downpour. “Douse them lanterns!” a sailor calls down the hatch.

  Reaching Brigid, I pick her up. She’s soaked to the skin and shivering. Joe gets Alice as passengers reluctantly snuff the lanterns’ light.

  “I’m afraid of the dark,” Brigid cries, tightening her arms about my neck as the hold’s black swallows us. A dim shaft of light comes down the hatch, the last glimmer in the hold, and I head for it. With Brigid in my arms, I grab the rope handrail for balance and yell up at the shadow of the sailor. “You can’t leave us like this, in darkness!”

  His face shows in a flash of lightning.

  “Mick? Mick is that you?” I call. Brigid’s arms clench in the thunder’s boom. “Can’t we keep a small candle burning? You don’t have to tell.”

  “No, Kit. A fire in the hold would kill us all. ’Tis the captain’s orders. I’m sorry.” He lifts the hatch door.

  “You’re not closing that on us, too?” Joe yells from beside me. “You’re not leaving us in total darkness!”

  Mick hesitates. “Captain’s orders,” he answers. “I’m sorry.”

  Joe scurries up the steps to stop him.

  “Mick, you can’t!” I yell. “No, don’t! We—”

  The hatch door slams, cutting off all light and words.

  In the blackness, I hear Joe pound the hatch. “It’s locked! He’s locked us in!”

  Curse you, Mick, you thunderin’ eejit. I’ll kill you, I will. How could you do this to us?

  To me?

  I stand frozen, blinded by darkness and fear as the ship groans and heaves hard to the left.

  “The ship is sinking,” a man screams, “and we’re trapped in it!”

  “Christ Almighty,” a woman wails. “We’re going to die in here!”

  Panic spreads through the black hold like a thatch on fire. In the total darkness, people scream and shove, desperate with blind terror as our world tilts.

  Brigid’s arms cinch in another notch around my neck, making it even harder for me to breathe. Her heart flutters like a bird trapped in her bony chest. Or maybe ’tis my own heart racing. “I’ve got you, Brigid,” I say, squeezing her back. “Joe? Where are you? Joe!” I call in the direction of the hatch, my voice drowned in the mob. The ship pitches forward and drops, rolling hard to the left side, slamming me back against the hull. Trunks, kettles, cudgels, chamber pots, anything and everything not tied down flies about the hold.

  “My leg!” someone cries near me. “Jaysus, I think it’s broken! God help me!”

  Women wail. Children scream. All two hundred feet of the hold is utter chaos in the terrifying dark.

  “What do we do, Kenny? What do we do?” Brigid asks. Everything in my body tells me to run, run away, get out. A half-crazed voice wants me to scratch at the hull, to dig free from
this watery coffin. I take a deep breath.

  “Grab hold of this post!” I finally say, hugging it and getting Brigid to do the same on the other side. We clutch each other’s arms around the beam. “It’ll save us from getting thrashed about.”

  “And what if the boat sinks?” Brigid asks. “What if—”

  A clang sounds on the other side of the pole and Brigid’s grip loosens.

  “Brigid?” I shake her slack arms. “Brigid! Answer me!”

  But my cries go unanswered, like hundreds more in the darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I don’t know how long the storm lasts. It feels like I’ve been huddled under the hatch steps forever. But I dare not emerge from their cover as the rocking ship pitches pots, buckets, and bodies about the black hold. Brigid lies limp in my arms. Though she’s breathing, she doesn’t stir. Everything’s wet and, in the darkness, I can’t tell if she’s bleeding or if bones are broken. All I know for sure is that she’s alive. We’re alive. For now.

  The rocking and heaving eventually subside as the storm passes, but the panic in the hold continues as people try to find their bearings, to find their loved ones. When the sailor opens the hatch and tells the injured to come on deck, everyone rushes the stairs for a chance to escape this black hole. Injured or not, we all need convincing that we are indeed still in the land of the living. Brigid and I are the first up. I squint against the dim light of the gray sky. I honestly thought I’d never see it again.

  Fergal takes her from me as I reach the top step. “She hit her head, I think,” I say as he lays her on the deck by the rail. “I’m not sure if anything else is broken.”

  As the crowd of people spills out behind us, I keep an eye out for my berth-mates, pray they’re safe. Finally, I see Murph coming towards us. He’s leaning on Mrs. Ryan and Joe. By the way Murph moves, I can tell his right leg is giving a lot of pain, but he’s walking on it. At least it isn’t broken.

  “She’s all right,” Fergal says, checking Brigid’s eyes. There’s no doctor on board, but Fergal takes charge. “Got a good clatter in the head, though.”