As the ship drifted beyond the vision of their loved ones and the island they called home began to diminish against the horizon, somberness came over the passengers. A remnant of elation remained about the idea of seeking out a place unknown, a better life, and world of opportunity. But also sinking in was the permanence of a decision to surrender to the arms of the ocean and the fates before them, and that their lives would never be the same.
A man with a fiddle began to play tunes of Ireland, tunes of joy and the unshakable resolution of its people. They sang and some danced, lifting their skirts, locking arms, and spinning as the crew trimmed the sails and looked down from above.
A small girl dragged her grandmother by the hand and began to dance with the others. The girl spun and hopped with a face so full of bliss, she charmed all of those around her, who smiled and clapped as much for the gray-haired woman who labored to keep up with her grandchild’s mirth.
Not comprehending why, Clare felt a sense of relief in the expression of joyful anticipation of the journey ahead. There was power in the idea there would be no turning back, and it helped erase the pain she faced in getting here today.
But before long, the only music being requested were the sad songs of a broken people with a history of shattered dreams in a world of cruelty and disappointment, and the melancholy returned.
In earshot of the music but out of sight of the others, Clare leaned up against the rails and peered into the infinite sea before her, as the wind lapped against her face, drying the tears of remorse from her eyes.
She mourned the fleeting Emerald Isle that was now but a thin, black strip barely above the water’s edge. Clare blinked, and the ocean swallowed up what remained of the land and life behind her.
They were off to America.
Chapter 12
The Whale’s Belly
Merely two weeks into the transatlantic voyage aboard the Sea Mist, Clare discovered the iniquities of the life she hoped she left behind had followed her aboard the ship.
There were those who lived above and those who dwelled below.
When they weren’t sequestered in their tiny cabins, the few privileged passengers hovered in the restricted forecastle area at the front of the ship, clinging to the modicum of pretension and entitlement available. In a ship originally designed for open sea battles, there were few luxuries retrofitted in the vessel, with perhaps the most treasured being the boundary between the general citizenry and the impoverished ones in the bowels of the steerage section.
Down below in the stench-filled cargo hull, a rumor was spreading there was sunshine above, something distributed as scarcely during this winter journey as food and water.
As fleeting as this chance for fresh air and needed chores could be, a scramble was afoot. In the dim light of rationed candles, the cramped passengers pushed their way to the ladder leading above, with curses and raised fists. They gathered soiled clothing, overflowing chamber pots, and food to cook on the few stoves available above deck.
They funneled through the narrow aisle, with three rows of wooden shelves protruding from the walls on either side, serving as crude bed frames. Filthy straw mattresses lay on them, as well as scattered clothing and moth-eaten blankets. In the knotting of scurrying legs, Clare tripped and bumped into the back of an older gentleman. “Beg your pardon.”
“Mind your step!” There was anger in his gray-browed eyes, but down below, in such tight and miserable quarters, they were all ill-tempered, rats in a cage baring their teeth.
“Watch your tone with the lady.” Clare turned to see Pierce pressing behind her.
Seamus was farther back in the crowd. He held up a few potatoes and shouted to them. “Get us in line for a boil.”
“You’ll wait for hours,” grumbled a woman next to Clare. She held up a bag. “Might as well eat these oats raw. We could chew on the biscuits they give us, if we had no intentions for keeping our teeth.”
Up front there was a shout and a clearing in the crowd.
As the line stopped, Pierce was now being shoved into Clare. “What happened?”
The woman turned and pinched her nose. “Oh, dear me. Someone spilled a stench pot. Ah, curse the life in the belly of the whale. That mad captain of ours deserves to be hung for this.”
Pierce shouted up to those crawling up the ladder through the hatch to daylight. “Get up with you. Let us out.”
A voice hollered back, “That’s good on you, boy. I’ll have one of these boots greet you when you come up.”
Clare rubbed her temples, her head now aching from the anxiety and foulness in the air. Her only hope for comfort was for the days to pass quickly.
Several mornings later, well before dawn, Clare suffered such discomfort from the hardness of her cot, her back throbbed with pain. After turning dozens of times through the hours of the night and unable to find relief, she decided to go above deck.
She crept past the snores of the masses below and guided herself only by memory and the feel of her feet along the creaking floorboards. Clare finally reached out to the ladder and climbed up through the hatch, which moaned as it lifted. Above, in a moonless night, with a scattering of brilliant stars, she felt invigorated by this rare moment of aloneness.
The creaks of the masts, the flaps of the sails and the bending of the rigging in the wind, and the lapping of the waves added to an ambience that sent chills through her body. The cold of the night caused her to wrap her arms tightly around her chest. So silly. She should have brought a blanket.
In the background, as figures moving in the shadows, a small crew labored above and around her in silence, spiders moving among the web. At times, she would catch a face or see arms trimming a sail, and they would pass each other and converse. Clare reveled in the fact she had eluded their notice.
Looking over the port side, her thoughts meandered with the rise and fall of the ship in the massive emptiness of the dark waters. When had she ever felt so alive with freedom?
The smell of the ocean transported Clare back to a time in her youth. In happier days, she enjoyed a rare family excursion to the sea cliffs of Galway. Although she was only four at the time, the memory remained rich. Cool and crisp salted air, the craggy, moss-covered boulders, and endless views beyond a deep tapestry of churning blue.
Down on the shoreline, Clare and her older sister, Margaret, pranced in the waves among the swooping ballet of gulls, herons, and swans, as moist sand pressed between their bare toes.
Maggie, who was eight at the time, shone her familiar grin of mischief. “C’mon, will ya, Clare? Let’s see how far the ocean goes.”
“Ma says no.” At age four, the waves raged tall and mighty and Clare would brave only as high as her ankles.
“Fine then, I’ll go without you.”
Maggie waved and then danced and yelped in the frigid chest-high waves and she pressed farther and farther. Above the chattering birds and the ocean’s thunderous percussion, her rebellious laughter soared.
“Maggie!” With baby Seamus cradled in her arms, Ma screamed from the shoreline, waving her free arm, begging her oldest to shallower waters.
But Maggie merely leapt and spun in the deeper waters. She must have known her mother wouldn’t brave the chilly waters to retrieve her. And Da was far down the shoreline, untangling his fishing line and presumably cursing at ocean spirits.
Years later, Maggie recaptured this adventure through one her many ink drawings, a particular favorite of Clare’s, a sketch so precious she stored it in the pages of the Bible Grandma Ella gave her.
And now, peering into the emptiness, Clare reflected with some horror at the thought of Maggie’s last moments as her ship sank to the bottom of the sea, her brilliant torch of life extinguished by the salt water amidst screams of anguish. The tragedy compounded in Clare’s mind as she imagined her Uncle Tom
as’s desperate efforts to rescue Maggie, prior to succumbing himself to the ocean’s cruel, cold arms.
Clare was angry with herself for drifting toward these forbidden thoughts as she had been enjoying the euphoria of solitude as master of the ship. In an effort to recapture the moment, she slipped toward the forbidden area of the forecastle, and the giddiness returned as she climbed the steps in purloined pleasure.
As her feet touched the floorboards, she felt elevated to the level of her elite shipmates. Imagining herself cloaked in a dress fashioned in Paris, she was about to mock a curtsy when she caught something askance. She froze.
Someone else was at the bow of the ship, gaping toward the distant lands ahead. The darkness obscured her view to where she could vaguely make out a shadow.
She saw a movement and realized it was someone drawing a cup of tea to his lips. As her eyes adjusted, she was horrified to realize she was looking at the backside of the captain, who other than a pair of boots was as naked as the day he was born.
He appeared to be unaware of her presence, enraptured by the endless horizon.
Clare stepped backward, ever so gingerly, crept down the stairs, and slid down the hatch.
Chapter 13
The Tempest
It took Clare three weeks before she mustered the courage to peer into a looking glass.
The silver-handled mirror was among the few supplies Pierce and Seamus had scavenged on her behalf from the other passengers. These included another dress, which nearly fit and only sported two patches, a brush with stubby bristles, and a yellowed handkerchief, which she used for all of her cleaning.
She was delighted the boys had taken her books out of her pack on the pig farmer’s wagon—they were spared the thievery. They were a delight to have on the ship to whittle away the dreary hours below, even though it strained her eyes to read in the scarcity of light in the hull.
Most cherished was the journal and pen Seamus had bought off another passenger for her. She wrote of her experiences aboard the ship, described in lengthy detail passengers she found interesting, and crafted love letters to an imaginary man she hoped someday to meet.
But the possession she focused on now was the mirror gripped in her hand. Clare chastised herself for being as worried as she was about her appearance. It’s just hair.
At the other end of the hull, the steerage congregants prattled about the impending storm. Hours ago, the tawdry decks had been cleared of all but crew, and the weary passengers were told to prepare for an extended period below hatch. Several were retching from the growing lurches of the Sea Mist and sprawled themselves in their straw mattresses, trying to take refuge in sleep.
A few, including Seamus and Pierce and some of their newfound kindred spirits, distracted themselves by playing cards or casting lots.
Some of the children challenged each other to remain standing on one leg as the great hull heaved in the waters, their resulting merriment grating against the overriding gloom.
Closing her eyes, Clare removed Seamus’s wool cap, which had rarely left her head even as she slept. She positioned the mirror before her face and, after a moment, was resolved to brave what she would see. There in the flickering of candlelight, crystalline blue eyes, timid and weary, peered out of her soiled face. Extending the mirror farther away, she rubbed her hand over her short black hair, soft like that of a baby chick, covering her scalp.
Clare shifted to view her profile. “Not bad for a boy,” she whispered.
When Clare pulled down the mirror, she was startled to see a small girl, no more than four years of age, gazing at her with fascination. This was the tiny dancer who along with her grandmother danced so merrily on the day the ship left dock. Since then, observing her from a distance, Clare had grown concerned as the trip was wearing on the little one. Her joy seemed to be fading, and in some ways Clare saw this as a troubling harbinger.
Reflexively, Clare hid the mirror and hastily put on Seamus’s hat. “What’s your name, little flower?”
The girl only clung tighter to a small, worn doll. Her scraggly, blonde hair reminded her of Caitlin at this age.
The Sea Mist jarred forward and Clare reached for the girl to keep her from falling. The ship steadied and Clare released the uneasy child.
“If you won’t tell me your name, what about your mate’s?”
The girl looked to the cloth doll in counsel and after some consideration spoke in a barely audible, breathy voice. “Mae.”
“Mae. Why that’s a lovely name. Which is befitting such a beautiful friend. I’m Clare. What do they call you, sweet one?”
She ran her tiny, dirty fingers through the yarn of Mae’s head. “Lala.”
“How pretty that is. Is Mae enjoying her voyage?”
Lala sized up Clare, as if to determine whether she was trustworthy. “She’s sad.”
“Mae is sad? That makes me want to cry. Why so sad?”
The girl gazed down at her doll with compassion. “She’s hungry, and I don’t have food for her.”
“Oh my.” Clare set a hand on her chest. “Well, it just so happens I have some to spare. And I’d be happy to share it with my new friend.”
Lala’s eyes lit up and Clare had to restrain herself from embracing her. She reached up for Seamus’s bag, pulled out a cloth package, and unwrapped the thread that bound it. Pulling back the ends of the fabric, Clare was pleased to see the crackers were mostly intact. She held it out to Lala.
“I think it prudent if you were to taste some yourself, Lala. Just to make sure it will please Mae.”
The girl nodded and smiled, and she received one with her slender, scabbed fingers. Lala put it to her mouth, eating it while eyeing Clare all the while.
“And you know what else I think? You should take all of these crackers because little Mae looks famished.”
“Yes. She’s very hungry,” the girl whispered.
“Where’s your ma?”
“Grandmama? She just sleeps.”
“Oh. I see. Well. I hope you visit me again. I get lonely and could use a friend.”
Lala nodded and turned, glancing back a couple of times as she navigated the lunges before folding into the gathering.
Clare couldn’t help but think of her sister and brothers, and she felt deep longing. The thought of the Sea Mist taking her farther away from Ireland was too much to fathom. What wisdom was there in taking her so far from her family? Maybe her father just wanted her to leave.
Through the walls of the ship came a great clamor, raising gasps from the passengers until they realized it was the clatter of thunder. Within a few moments, a heavy pounding of rain against the deck ensued, and Clare lay on her cot, curling, as she tried to paint the faces of Davin, Ronan, and Caitlin in her mind.
But it was Lala’s sad eyes Clare last imagined as she drifted to sleep.
It was another clap of thunder that awoke her sometime later and she sat up just as someone near her was igniting a lantern. Many still slept, but the sound had stirred enough of them so there was anxious movement emanating throughout the hull. The ship bucked as an angry horse, and another clatter arose causing a baby to cry. And then another.
Clare heard many praying and she did as well. These sounds of petitions coalesced into more of a desperate chant as souls clung to one another as the dreary vessel surged through wave and wind, arms raised hopelessly in fending itself from the violent rage of the skies.
Above the heavenly angst came a malevolent noise that could only be the splintering of wood itself. Phwacck!
Several screamed and children cried and through the splashes of dim light below Clare could see nothing but faces of horror.
Something was terribly wrong. The ship was now tilting, and the frenzied shouting of men echoed from above deck.
In a fit of panic,
a woman climbed up the ladder and pressed up against the door of the hatch screaming, “Let us out!” She pounded her fists with fury until a couple of men pulled her down with her arms flailing.
One man did climb to the hatch to test it, but he descended in defeat.
They were locked down.
Chapter 14
Sea Coffins
The news was unkind. Part of the foremast had shattered and although the ship was not crippled, it would travel at a slower pace. The vessel was too far across waters to turn around, they were told, which meant rations would be halved in order to last the remainder of the journey.
But there was a greater tragedy. Ship fever had struck and nearly a third of the steerage passengers had already perished.
“Come now. Give her to me, will you?” Seamus looked at Clare with a somberness rarely seen on his face. He drew the tiny, limp body from Clare’s arms and handed it to Pierce, whose eyes were crimson and moist.
Seamus put his arms around her trembling body and rested his head on her shoulder. “There was nothing you could do, Clare.”
His words barely saturated her consciousness as her mind blurred over the past two weeks. The time Clare first noticed the gurgle in the girl’s lungs was as she consoled her shortly after her grandmother’s coffin plummeted into the sea. The two had become quickly bonded, as Lala represented those Clare had left behind.
Since then, the ship had long exhausted its supply of coffins, and instead bodies were merely wrapped in blankets. The long-winded ceremonies were shorter, blunted, and fewer had the strength to come above deck to even honor the deceased.
Death had become just another passenger.
The spread of typhus caused a further quarantine of the steerage passengers. Yet it also sapped the mind and spirit from foments of rebellion. They had grown dependent entirely upon the miserly mercies of their caretakers.
Flight of the Earls Page 10