by Ann Moore
“Ah!” Grace nodded. “So the trick is to catch them right at the moment before they begin to die.”
Draper frowned. “There’s no trick, as you call it—the doctor watches his patient carefully, then administers the Blue Pill at exactly the right moment. Whereupon the patient recovers nicely.”
“Have you enough, I wonder.”
He glanced at the bottle, obviously full. “I suppose so.”
“And how many have you given out?” she asked. “Today, I mean.”
He hesitated. “None.”
Grace glanced at the thirty or so people lying in the ward. “So what you’re saying to me, then, is that those folk there are either well or as good as dead?”
He narrowed his eyes, nodding once.
She sighed as if it were all beyond her comprehension. “Well, you’re a fine doctor, true enough, and isn’t it a blessing to have you on board? Sure and you’ll be tired staying up to watch for the right moment in each of those poor souls.” She paused. “So I’ll go now and leave you to it. And thanks for your time.”
He nodded curtly, unwilling to say another word, not sure what had just taken place. As he watched her make her way across the dimly lit hold, he had the feeling he’d been toyed with, but it was always difficult to tell with women—such flighty creatures. Weak-minded, abstract. And of course, this one was Irish in the bargain and therefore completely incapable of carrying on any kind of meaningful discourse, let alone one that involved logical thinking. He disdained the Irish—they talked and talked and talked, and in the end little was said but the words themselves.
And now it came to him—who she was, where he’d seen her before. She was the woman who’d spoken so rudely to him that night at dinner in her effort to secure more potatoes for herself and her pale, watchful brat. That kind of greed turned his stomach, and he’d been pleased when she’d appeared no more, sensibly banned from decent society. He had assumed others had taken up the complaint of her ill manners and complete unsuitability for the first-class community and that the captain had acted with immediate good judgment. Further remembrance, however, reminded him that he’d seen the captain and that woman in close conversation on more than one occasion. A puzzle. He struck the pose he was most fond of, hand to chin, and recalled the stories of ship captains who occasionally kept a woman on board disguised as a passenger. Could be. He shrugged. It was certainly no concern of his if Reinders chose to dally with a pathetic common woman. Though perhaps this could work somehow to his benefit—exacting revenge, say, for this posting to Hell.
He sat down on the edge of the bunk and began packing away his jars and bottles, warmed by the thought of ruining Reinders once they landed in New York. But how to do it, how to do it? He picked up the laudanum, pausing for a moment before easing out the cork and taking a swallow. Thinking hard, he replaced the stopper and packed the bottle carefully away in a piece of cloth, savoring the first sweep of the drug as it began to take effect. It would come to him with a little help, and he lay back, drifting off into a most satisfying fantasy that spun out a web of disgrace for the captain and praise for the honorable doctor, who might even, in the course of this plot, enjoy some private time of his own with that young woman who needed only a firm hand to set her on the right moral course. He closed his eyes and licked his lips, the sticky residue now tingling on the tip of his tongue as he indulged himself in glorious visions of redemption.
Grace picked her way carefully around boxes and trunks on her way back to bed, the sounds of restless sleep following her as closely as did the eyes of those still awake. She passed them, unaware, her mind on her plans. The doctor would sleep eventually, she knew, and his slumber would be accompanied by great deep snores. She would lie awake all night if need be so that at the right moment she could slip over to that bag, undo the clasp and shake out a fistful of those Blue Pills. And if Blue Pills weren’t enough to keep Alice alive, well then, she’d have the laudanum, as well; Siobahn had died in terrible pain, and Liam was not going to watch his mother go the same way. If there was nothing for it and all was lost, she’d give Alice enough laudanum to cross over in peace. She did not allow herself to think that these things might be needed for herself, or for Mary Kathleen, though she paused long beside the bunk to measure the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest, lay the back of a hand upon her cheek, smooth the tangled hair.
She settled the blanket around Liam’s thin shoulders, felt his face, too, and fought off the wave of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm her. She sat down then, on the cold, hard stairs, pulled her shawl tightly around, and kept a watch on the far corner of the hold until the light dimmed and the doctor’s snores told her it was time at last.
Fourteen
“DECEMBER 23, 1847,” Reinders wrote in his log. Becalmed. And then, because there was nothing more to say, he closed the book.
It was freezing. The heavy fog into which they had sailed muffled even the sound of the sailors’ voices as they called to one another from bow to stern, lookout to deck. Mist clung to the sails and masts, forming thick, sluggish drops that froze suspended, becoming icy, then pieces of ice, icicles. The deck was treacherous despite buckets of seawater thrown across it. Sailors wrapped rags around their palms, fingers free to handle ropes and rigging, warmed them by hot breath when they stiffened with cold. The Eliza J rolled gently in the placid sea, ropes and pulleys knocking against the swaying masts, her lone sail flapping listlessly as she turned this way and that, seeking any small gust that might pull her from this mire.
There was food enough, though they were now five days behind schedule with no wind in sight. He could not yet in good conscience issue a ration order on the water—not with so many still sick—though this would have to happen in another twenty-four hours as they’d lost barrels in the storm. Not everyone was claiming their food rations, even after he’d sent Mackley down to insist that every able body do so in order to keep up their strength. It was quiet below, Mackley had reported. No singing or music making. Those who ventured above deck were also quiet—eyes downturned, faces grim.
Reinders took a deep breath and exhaled loudly; he’d had a nightmare last night, and it plagued him still. He was in Georgia, at the market, and there were Lily’s children in chains. The auctioneer set a starting bid and Reinders opened his mouth, but nothing came out; he tried to raise his arm, but realized he was wound tightly in rope. He struggled helplessly as the bidding went on around him, and then the children were gone and he himself was on the block, staring out at a sea of white faces, desperate for someone to realize that a mistake had been made. No one did and he was sold, and when the owner’s cart started out of town, Reinders looked out and saw his mother standing at the edge of the crowd, weeping and calling his name while the hands of strangers held her back. He had awakened in a terrible state of panic, and with a piercing need to see her one last time.
“Mackley,” he called, standing and pulling on his coat.
“Here, sir.” Mackley appeared in the doorway, dark circles under eyes that were merry despite the lack of sleep.
“Any wind?”
“None but what comes out of the backsides of your crew, Captain.”
Reinders laughed despite himself. “Assemble them, would you? I’m coming up.”
Mackley handed him his cap. “Aye, aye, Captain. Everyone?”
“Morning watch only. Let the others sleep while they can.”
“Weather might change, sir.”
“Let’s hope so,” Reinders said, and closed the door behind him.
It was a morning that brought no relief from the bone-chilling air permeating the hold. Grace stood by Alice, covered now in two blankets but shivering despite the heat that radiated from her face. At dawn, Grace had forced one of the Blue Pills between her chattering teeth and made her swallow it, but it had not helped and Grace cursed herself for not asking the doctor how many pills to give in a day and how long before the patient began to get better. She decided not to wai
t, but to give Alice another one now.
Liam and Mary Kate sat huddled together under a blanket and a shawl at the top of the steps, right in the path of the icy air, but free from the rankness below. Grace checked on them, then returned to Alice’s side to sit and watch. She was weary—there had been no rest last night—and troubled, lest the lightheadedness she felt was the onset of fever instead of fatigue. She had tried, in the early morning hours, to weigh her duty to Alice against the duty of staying alive, but found she could not make the necessary decision—not with Liam’s frightened, worried eyes searching hers whenever he came to see if his mother was better.
“Grace.” Alice’s voice was hoarse and ragged, her eyes bloodshot; she struggled to sit, but had not the strength and fell back.
“Here I am, Alice. Here I am.” Grace pulled the blanket back up. “Rest now. You’ll feel better if you sleep. We’ll talk later.”
Alice watched Grace’s lips move and then smiled what Grace had come to know as the spirit’s smile.
“Now,” Alice whispered.
Grace nodded, letting the He of soon-to-be-well fall away.
Alice coughed, then took a labored breath. “Siobahn,” she wheezed, “is still so little. Liam”—she took a breath—“can stay … with you.”
Grace listened, steeling her heart.
“His da.” Alice grimaced. “I … don’t know.…”
Grace reached under the blanket and found Alice’s hand. “He’ll not leave my side unless I know all’s well,” she vowed. “I’ll keep him safe. I promise you that.”
Tears of relief flooded Alice’s exhausted eyes; her mouth trembled. “Thank you,” she breathed. “Don’t let him … see.”
“I’ll help,” Grace whispered close to her ear. “’Twill be like sleeping.”
Alice understood and nodded gratefully. “Where is he?”
Grace left her and went to the stairs, climbing up to the children, telling Liam he was wanted and she would sit with Mary Kate. His eyes went wide but he said not a word, just nodded and went down like the good boy he was.
Grace pulled her daughter close, kissing the small head, resting her lips against the child’s hair. They sat that way for nearly an hour until Liam returned, eyes swollen from crying, but dry from the fierce rubbing of his fists. In the time he was gone—Grace could see it in the way he now held himself apart from them—he had come to understand that he would no longer be his mother’s beloved son, but the son of a world that did not value him. She saw that he was afraid of what lay ahead, but determined to deny that fear, and her heart ached for him.
They kept watch over Alice through the night and into the next day as the pain grew steadily worse and she slipped away from them into delirium. Grace was able to ease her discomfort with sips of laudanum from the flask into which she’d poured half the doctor’s bottle, filling it back up with water. After, Alice slept more peacefully, and Grace took the children up for the air and to escape the gloom. Many others were sick as well, and as each one began to die, then died at last, the heaviness of mourning and grief threatened to crush even the heartiest spirit among them. Far better, went the whispering, to have died back home—to have been buried in Irish soil, the place marked and cherished—than to die aboard this ship and be swallowed whole by the sea; fear and regret were bitter pallbearers.
Finally, in the evening of a long and heavy day, and for the first time in weeks, someone brought out a fiddle. Grace stepped to the end of her row and saw an old man sitting on the edge of his bunk, tuning strings gone sour with dampness. Softly—so softly that at first Grace could barely hear—he began to play, just a few random notes; then the notes ran together as his fingers warmed up and the music came upon him. First he played a song from her childhood, and then another her mother had sung. Then there was a pause. And when he began to play again, it was “Silent Night, Holy Night,” for this was Christmas Eve.
He played tenderly now, gallantly, and then another fiddler joined him, and a piper, and then a voice and then another, and finally all in the hold were singing loud enough to be heard despite their faltering voices, despite the tears that choked them, despite the misery in their souls. They sang because they believed with all their hearts that in Christ’s birth was their Father’s unwavering love for them and His compassion for their plight; they sang because their beloved dead were safely in His arms even now, and even now looked down upon them and heard their worship. And so they sang.
Grace sang and Liam sang and Mary Kate watched them both, touching her mother’s tears with small fingers, then touching Liam’s, too. They all sang—every man, woman, and child who still had breath—even the doctor who was stirred by the beauty of their voices, and the sound carried up to the captain, who stood at the top of the stairs, astounded by the power of their love for God even in the midst of death.
“Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright …”
With those words, he looked up and saw that the fog had lifted and the sky was hard and clear, full of stars by which to navigate, full of wind by which to sail, a full moon to guide the way. He looked up and was unable to find the words, could not move, could not speak, his reverie complete and unbroken, until he felt a brotherly hand on his shoulder.
“We’re under sail, Captain,” Mackley said. “Merry Christmas, sir.”
There were burials on Christmas Day, including Alice Kelley. When it was over, and the few who had ventured up into the cold had gone down again, Captain Reinders made his way over to Grace and Mary Kate.
“I’m sorry about the boy’s mother, Missus Donnelly.” He stood there awkwardly, cap in hand. “Will you tell him for me?”
“You can tell him yourself, Captain.” She stepped aside, and there was Liam behind her.
Reinders looked down at the boy, who seemed so familiar, yet could not possibly be. He took in the brave set of bony shoulders, the defiant chin, the mouth set tight against any sign of weakness, eyes that blamed and questioned and were so terribly hurt, yet would never admit it.
“Master Kelley,” he said, gently, “I thought now would be a good time to show you the ship.”
Liam said nothing, his eyes searching the captain’s face. Behind him, Grace nodded imperceptibly.
“Come, then.” Reinders adjusted his cap, then put an arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him forward. “We’ll start with the helm.” He glanced over his shoulder at Grace. “He’ll take his supper in my cabin, and then I’ll return him, if that’s all right.”
“Aye,” Grace said. “Thank you, Captain.”
The two walked off, Liam silently and Reinders talking enough for both of them. Grace was relieved; if the captain cared in some small way about the boy, then her request might be granted.
“And you, my sweet.” She scooped Mary Kate up into her arms. “Merry Christmas to you, sad day though it is.”
Mary Kate nodded soberly.
“I’ve a present for you,” Grace announced, setting her on a water barrel. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.”
The little girl did as she was told, and Grace pulled a small, dark square out of her pocket, took off the paper and popped it into Mary Kate’s mouth.
The child’s eyes opened wide in astonishment, wider still as she worked her tongue around the marvelous thing in her mouth.
“It’s chocolate.” Grace smiled, pleased with the delight on Mary Kate’s face. “Our friend the cook gave it to me with our breakfast this morning, and didn’t I save it just for you? Is it good, then?”
Mary Kate nodded enthusiastically, then wrapped her arms around Grace’s neck. “’Tis,” she said, leaving a sticky kiss on Grace’s cheek. “Love, Mammie.”
Grace covered the little face with kisses, fighting back tears she had not known were left. She was suddenly so very thankful that they were still here, she and her daughter, that they were surviving this and that they might actually make it all the way to America.
“Will Liam
be ours now?” Mary Kate asked, returning to her sober self. “His mam told him so.”
Grace bit her lip. “Does he want to be ours, do you think?”
Mary Kate considered that. “He says I’m his sister now and he’ll take care of me, and then he cried a long time and fell asleep.”
Grace nodded, as much in amazement at the length of her daughter’s speech as at what she’d revealed.
“We’ll have to look for his da,” Grace told her. “But until then, you’ll be brother and sister.”
“And the baby, as well,” Mary Kate said confidently.
Grace’s heart made a great lurch at the thought of her wee baby and her old father, sitting in the convent this Christmas day, wondering where she was.
“Aye.” She pushed away that pain. “And there’ll be Uncle Sean and your grandda—all of us together in America.”
“I hope there’s room,” Mary Kate said anxiously.
“There’s always room for family.” Grace kissed her again. “Blessed Christmas, my sweet girl.”
“Blessed Christmas, Mam.”
Fifteen
“YOU’RE late,” Mister Martin announced when the front door banged open. “Missus Geelan has left us a roast of some sort, and I’m hungry!”
“Oh, Lord, you don’t suppose it’s the cat, do you, Father?” Julia swept into the room, unbuttoning her coat and tossing it aside. “She hated that cat. You hated that cat!” She slipped into her seat at the table and eyed the roast suspiciously.
“I most certainly did not,” he declared. “I’m the one who brought the cat home—for you, my dear. To cheer you.”
“And it did cheer me,” she admitted. “Until it grew up. Really, Father, you must confess you never did get it from any conventional litter—you must have claimed it from a passing circus, or the gypsies!” Her eyes lit up. “They always have exotic beasts, lions and the like.”
“It was not a lion.”
“It was not a cat!” She picked up her fork and tentatively poked at the still-warm roast. “They say cat has a nice taste, actually.”