Murph says nothing. He knows I’m right. The truth of it chokes me, makes my eyes water. I roughly rub at them and clear my throat. I could well imagine what Joe would say if he were here to see me so emotional.
If Murph knows I’m crying, he doesn’t let on. “Anam Mór. Great Soul. It lives on in every seed.” He pauses, lets me chew on that, just like Mam feeding Annie as a babe, one sup at a time. “Uprooted, cut down, stripped—those in power do what they like. But know this, Kenny,” he continues, “hear me, now. Anam Mór, great soul—that can never be taken from us. ’Tis in here.” He taps his finger over his heart. “We carry the seed of every story ever told and all the ones we’ve yet to tell.”
“Sure, what stories have I to tell?” I ask. For, if anyone knows any story worth knowing, ’tis Murph.
“Why, the ones you have yet to live,” he chuckles. “And knowing you, lad, I bet ’twill be grand, rip-roaring adventures.”
He pats my back as we continue up the hold. I notice he isn’t limping all that much, and I wonder who is helping who.
“Do you smell that?” Murph whispers, as we approach the Delaneys’ berth where Brian watches over his children.
“I’d rather not,” I mumble, for I well know the stink of fear, of unwashed bodies, of tumbled sick buckets. But a quick sniff makes my stomach sink.
I’d know that reek anywhere, for I’d smelled it enough times those long months back home. It wafted from the workhouses and funeral carts, it lingered on Lizzie’s clothes after her long days of house calls.
Pat and Danny Delaney lie side by each in their berth a few feet away where their father watches over them. I don’t have to see the boys’ rashes and swellings, don’t have to touch their burning foreheads to know. The very air drapes around them, heavy with sick and rot.
“Yes,” I say, though every ounce of me wishes I didn’t. “I smell it, too.”
The smell of the fever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fergal and Mick sweep the storeroom. Thanks to the storm, the mess of wood and rice has been flung to all four corners of the room. But Fergal doesn’t scold me for being late. He can tell by my face I’ve bad news.
“The Delaney boys have the fever,” I say. “Murph and I have just been to see them. By the look of them, they’re not long in this world.”
“You pair finish up here.” Fergal passes me the broom and runs his hand over the back of his head. “Rats we can catch. Food we can stretch. Sails we can stitch. But if fever be on board, I fear there isn’t much we can do. I’ll go tell the captain.”
After he leaves, Mick and I sweep the mess into a pile and scoop it into a bucket.
“Seems a waste to throw it out.” I say. “’Tis a whole bag of rice there.”
Mick looks at me from under his brow. “Um … Fergal said you’re to pick out the rice ...”
“... grain by grain,” I finish for him. I throw down the broom.
“Don’t worry, Kit. I’ll help you,” he offers.
In silence, we sift through the mess, picking out the grains of rice and dropping them in a bowl. I wonder about the Delaneys, about the rest of us in the hold. I wonder about Coyle and what he remembers. I glance around the stacked barrels and wonder where Billy is now. I wonder if any of us are going to make it.
Mick winces and yanks his hand from the bucket. A tiny splinter of wood is rammed into his little finger.
“Coyle is awake,” Mick says, fumbling with his finger. Try as he might, he can’t grasp the sliver’s end. “He’s groggy, but Fergal figures he’ll be good as new soon enough, though his hand is still broken.”
I think about how angry Coyle will be. One-handed or not, he’s still a danger. “Captain says we’ve two weeks or so to go before we see land,” I say, “maybe less if the other ship has the materials for the mast repair. Can you keep out of Coyle’s way? Do you think you can do that?”
He considers the question and answers without looking up. “I’ll avoid Coyle if you avoid Joe Murphy.”
The cheek of him! “What’s that supposed to mean? He’s my friend. Are you telling me who I can and can’t have as a friend now?”
Mick shrugs, ears blazing red, as he consumes himself with his damn sliver. I know he’s avoiding the question.
“Oh, for God’s sake, give it to me,” I take his hand in mine but the sliver is in deep. Even I can’t snag the start. I seem to be driving it in further. “Quit your fidgeting,” I scold, but he keeps tugging every time I think I’ve got a piece of it. “Mick! Stop being such a baby. For once, take it like a man.”
He yanks his hand away hard and I know my words have cut him deeply. I didn’t mean anything by it. Not really.
“Do you want it infected? Is that it?” I rant, as though a sliver is the worst thing that has happened on this Godforsaken ship. “You want to land in Canada after surviving this whole bloody journey, Coyle, the fever, the storms, the whole blessed lot of it—and fall over dead from an infected finger?” I’m exaggerating now. But I can’t stop myself. I stand. “Well, go right ahead, Mick O’Toole. Be my bloody guest. ’Twill only prove to the world how bloody thick-headed you bloody well are. This sliver, the fever, Coyle, Smythe—sure, what does it matter? Jump over the railing for all I care! Go ahead and get yourself killed! Either way you end up dead and I—” My voice catches. “I am left alone.”
My heart is pounding. Where did all that come from? And why was I dumping it on Mick?
Because he can take it. Because he’s strong. Solid. Because in all the years I’ve known him, indeed our whole lives together, Mick has always been there. As familiar to me as my old hearthstone. Mick is my rock, no matter how my temper flares and my words burn.
He stands then. Holds his splintered hand out to me.
Without a word, I bring his finger to my lips, grasp the sliver with my teeth and draw it out. “There,” I mumble. “Now, was that so hard?” I let go of his hand. But he holds on to mine.
“I won’t leave you, Kit. Ever.” He stares at the floor. “I … I love you.”
He looks at me then, waits for my words, but they won’t come out. They’re jammed inside me. I feel them there, stinging just beneath the surface. A man might know to grasp them with his lips and draw them out of me, but Mick doesn’t.
“Is it so hard to love me?” he asks, but it isn’t a question. He lets go of my hand.
Oh, Mick.
My silence hurts him. He nods once and heads up the stairs. I should call after him. Should run to him and try to explain. But can’t he see?
I can’t love anyone else. Mam, Jack, Annie, Lizzie, Da—everyone I have loved I have lost.
And I can’t lose him. Not Mick. For, as much as he drives me crazy, I realize ’tis Mick I need the most now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I stand in the storeroom and watch Mick leave, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.
“Boy, Kenny,” Billy says, and I jump at the sound of his voice. In all the commotion, I’d forgotten he was in the storeroom with us as well. “You and your brother sure are close.”
I see him in the shadows of the far corner, slipping a loose floorboard back in place before he comes to join me. I wondered where he hid when he wasn’t in the barrel.
“He’s not my brother,” I say, still raw from the exchange with Mick. I hadn’t meant to tell anyone the truth. Least of all, someone I barely know. Still, Billy trusted me with his secret. Surely, I could trust him with mine.
“And my name is not Kenny, either.” It feels good to speak the truth after weeks of living this lie. I lived it to protect myself. But so many times I wanted to tell everyone who I really was, to whisper it to Joe, to jump on the table and cry it out from my gut.
“I’m Kathleen Byrne,” I finally say. It feels like I’ve let out a breath I’d been holding far too long. “Kit.”
“A girl?” Billy’s eyes widen in shock and then smile in awe. “Wait till the lads hear that Coyle got his bell rung by a girl!�
�
“No!” I blurt. “They can’t know. No one can, Billy.” I tell him my story then. Of how I tried to kill Lynch. Of the price on my head. Of Mick’s idea to disguise me as his brother Kenny O’Toole. I feel like I am confessing to Father Doolen, except for the fact that my sins seem to impress Billy.
“Did he die, then?” Billy asks, eyes shining. “Is Lynch good and dead?”
“Either way, I’m a criminal. I tried to murder him, Billy. If I’m caught, I’m as good as dead.” I shiver at the thought.
“A criminal,” he whispers in awe, and rests his chin on his hands. “Tell me the part about the Lynch brothers again.”
I don’t really want to talk about it, don’t want to relive it. I have spent weeks trying not to think about it. I even envy Coyle’s memory loss. It would be so simple to forget everything; to wipe the slate clean. But it doesn’t work that way. Besides, Billy has been all alone for weeks in a storeroom full of food; he’s starving for a good yarn and I’ve nothing else to be doing while I pick rice from wreckage. So I tell him my story. I sift through my memories as I say them, the good and the bad, sorting the ones I want to keep close.
Hours later, the ship’s bell sounds for all hands on deck.
“That’s odd,” Billy says. “There’s no storm. The sea is calm. What’s he calling for?”
“Ahoy, Wandsworth!”
“Ahoy there!” a voice calls from over the water.
“The other ship!” I jump to my feet, careful not to spill the bowl of rescued grains. “They must be sending over something to fix our yard.” My heart lifts at the thought. “We’ll be in Canada in no time, once it’s repaired!”
“Go and see,” Billy says. “And I want to hear every detail when you come back!”
I take the steps two at a time, eager to see what’s what. Smythe stands at the railing, ordering two sailors to pull the gangway door open, while two others lower a rope ladder toward the sea. Not a hundred yards away rests the Wandsworth, a huge ship, much like the Erin. Their sailors must be rowing over in a lifeboat.
I stand by Fergal and crane my neck for a better look as our sailors mill about the entrance and lean over the rail.
“Looks like we’re getting our yard fixed,” Fergal says. The sailors pull up ropes tied to a long pole. They pass it hand over hand and lay it along the deck. It’s hard to credit a simple pole can make all the difference. Thank God the other ship had one to spare.
“We’ll be in Canada in a week’s time, Kenny,” Fergal adds. “And not a moment too soon. Dr. Douglas works at Grosse Isle, where we land in Quebec. He might even be able to help the Delaney lads if they can hold on.”
After five long weeks at sea, another week seems like forever. But Fergal’s prediction stokes hope in places I thought were only ash. I look to the west over the ship’s prow, anticipation burning within me.
Mam, Annie, Jack, I’m coming. I’m coming!
“Welcome aboard, men,” Captain MacDonald says as three sailors climb up through the gangway entrance. They salute him and shake hands with our sailors. One of them turns back to offer a hand to the last two men coming up the rope ladder. The crowd parts and time slows like cooling sap, distorting, magnifying, trapping every detail.
A dark, curled head appears at the ladder’s top.
His hand reaches out.
The sailors help him on board.
It can’t be, it just can’t.
I rub my eyes in disbelief.
Wake up, Kit! Wake up! For this must be a nightmare. But try as I might, I can neither wake nor run. I am trapped. As helpless as a fly in sap. Stuck where I stand, watching Tom Lynch come aboard the Erin.
“Can I have a word, Captain MacDonald?” his older brother Henry asks, as he climbs up next. “We know the criminal we seek is somewhere on board.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I can’t move. I stand there not twelve feet away from the Lynch brothers, my mouth hanging open like a cod’s, as helpless as a fish on deck. I’m dead if I stay here. I know that. Tom hasn’t seen me yet, but he will.
Did they come all this way for me?
The sacrifice hardly seems worth it. Would they do that for justice? No. But revenge, that’s a different story. People would sacrifice everything for a moment’s revenge. Wasn’t that what got me in this mess in the first place?
Someone yanks my arm. It’s Mick, pulling me away. “Hide!” he whispers, shoving me toward the steps.
I stop halfway down when the captain speaks. “O’Toole? Do you mean Mick?”
“That’s him!” Henry yells. Footsteps thump across the deck to where Mick stands at the top of the stairs. I crouch back against the wall. “Where is she? Kathleen Byrne. I know she’s here.”
“We went over this at port, sir,” Captain MacDonald interrupts. “There is no Kathleen Byrne aboard. You saw for yourself.”
“You’re from Killanamore, aren’t you?” Henry continues, ignoring the captain. “Who’s traveling with you?”
Mick doesn’t answer.
“Who’s traveling with him?” Henry repeats.
My heart thumps in my chest.
Mick doesn’t answer.
“His younger brother,” Coyle says for him. “Kenny.”
“That’s got to be her,” Henry says. “You said she was wearing breeches, didn’t you, Tom?”
“I might have,” Tom says. “But I’ve told you a thousand times since, Henry. I’m not sure. Not really.”
The sailors murmur amongst themselves. A few chuckle.
“Beat by a girl, eh, Coyle?” a voice calls.
“Glad to see she went easy on you,” another chides.
Captain MacDonald orders the sailors to fetch Kenny O’Toole from the hold to settle all this business. I hear them walk to the far hatch and call for me. Legs trembling, I retreat inch by inch, praying the steps won’t creak. Praying I can make it back to the storeroom.
“She’s here! I’ve found her!” Coyle’s voice yells from the top of the stairs. I try to escape down the last few steps but he lunges, knocking the wind out of me. We tumble forward and I bang my head against the steps and wall as we clatter to the bottom. I land face first, but before I can catch my breath, Coyle wrenches my arms to my back where he grips them in one hand. His other hand grips the scruff of my neck like I’m some mewling kitten. “You’ll curse the day you ever set foot on this ship,” he growls for my ears alone.
My secret’s out. Not only am I a girl, I’m a wanted criminal!
The men argue amongst themselves about what to do with me as I stand before them on deck. They’ve tied my hands behind my back, shackled my feet, as though I’ve anywhere to run.
“She should be keelhauled,” Smythe suggests. Coyle smiles and agrees.
“She’s paid for passage.” Captain MacDonald corrects him.
“Give her to us,” Henry Lynch demands. “We have a warrant. She is our quarry.” His eyes glitter with an intensity that makes me shudder.
“She is neither stowaway,” the Captain looks at Smythe and then Henry, “nor prey.” As he turns his eyes to me, I cannot read his expression. All I know is that this is his ship, his jurisdiction. My fate rests in his hands alone. For now.
He takes a deep breath. “But she is a wanted criminal.”
My shoulders sink with the weight of it.
Henry steps forward, eager to take me, but the captain holds up a hand. “She has paid for her passage to Canada. I’ll not deny her that.” He nods at Coyle. “Lock her up in the storeroom. When we reach Quebec, I’ll give her over to the authorities. They can decide her fate.”
The men clamor around the Captain, trying to persuade him otherwise, while Coyle leads me down to the storeroom. Already my ankles are rubbed raw by the rusty cuffs. Coyle shoves me against the thick post in the far corner of the room while he attaches my shackles to it. He yanks the chain to be sure there’s no chance of escape.
“Don’t worry about being handed over to Lynch in Quebec,�
�� he says, raising himself to his full height in front of me. He smiles, savoring the moment, before his meaty backhand strikes my face, knocking me to the ground. “You have to make it there, first.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The chains tether me to the post like some wild animal. Though I suppose that is what I am. Or, at least, how they’re treating me. The captain did me no favors putting Coyle as my warden. At least Fergal comes with him to open the storeroom. At least I’m not alone with Coyle, for he’d surely beat me like an old rug.
With only a strand of light hemming the door to measure the passing of time, my eyes are used to the darkness. I’m worse than a rat now, preferring the shadows. The sound of Fergal’s key jangling in the lock makes me squint, readying myself for the daylight that presses upon my eyes until they ache. Coyle follows behind, carrying my cup and bowl. Fortunately, the captain insisted that each paid passenger got their rations. Unfortunately, mine are delivered by Coyle. My throat is bone dry, itching for a taste of that water. Looking over his shoulder at Fergal who is rummaging among the barrels, Coyle sets everything just out of reach.
“Looks like you’re going to make it to Quebec after all,” Coyle sneers. “We’ll make port within the week.”
Fergal hefts a half empty bag of rice onto his shoulder. “And none too soon, by the look of it.” He walks over to hand Coyle the bag. Noticing my cup and bowl are out of reach, Fergal squats and pushes them beside me. Turning to pick up another bag of rice, he misses seeing Coyle’s yellowed spit drop like seagull poop, splashing in the center of my cup.
“Enjoy your supper,” Coyle’s face slides into his malicious grin.
He can do what he likes to my food. I’ll not be eating or drinking anything served by his hand. Moments after the door shuts behind them and my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see him pop up from the shadows like a jack-in-the-box. Billy. God knows where I’d be without him.
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