The Irish Bride

by Alexis Harrington

  “Might ye spare a wee bit of flavoring for those spuds, dearie?” a ruddy-faced woman asked, intruding upon her indignant thoughts.

  Farrell pushed a steam-damp curl from her forehead and reached for a bag of salt on the shelf above her head. Then, her arm extended, she halted. Her exile from Ireland was not really Aidan’s fault. Events had piled up, one upon the other, to lead her to this place and time. She was as much responsible for her situation as Aidan. Honesty forced her to admit it. Michael had damned himself with his wrongdoings, and she had turned a blind eye to those deeds. She would have been in a vast amount of trouble without Aidan’s help.

  But she didn’t have to dance a jig about it.

  Closing her hand around the salt, she took it and sprinkled a bit over the potatoes. If she had to be out here, it was good to have an occupation and a purpose, and both Mary and Jesus knew they could use the extra money.

  And here in the galley, she could keep her distance from her man.

  * * *

  Just before sunset, Aidan sat at the little table in Charles Morton’s cabin, facing him over a fan of cards. He held a pair of sevens and three other useless cards. Morton stared at him, and he bore the scrutiny with an expression as blank as a blind man’s. At least he was fairly certain that he did.

  What an interesting game, this poker that the second mate had taught him. Morton said he’d learned it in America in dockside pubs. Saloons they were called there. The game was played in many places, but enjoyed great popularity in southern port cities where wealthy men had both the time and means to wager. Aidan was no stranger to gambling, but this was new to him.

  Charles Morton was a young man, probably younger than Aidan. He wore his light hair cropped short and sported the same full beard Aidan had noted on the other seamen. He bore his position with more dignity than did his captain, but without the seasoned self-possession of Quisenberry. As with Quisenberry, his general appearance was much better than that of his captain’s, and as far as Aidan could tell he worked harder than any other officer onboard. He’d seen the man do large jobs and small, go aloft, dispense tools and spare sails, and tend to all manner of tasks. He even doled out provisions to Farrell for her cooking.

  Earlier she’d asked him to talk to McCorry about increasing her stores, but he knew that Morton was the one to see.

  At last Morton threw his cards on the table, apparently unable to tell whether his opponent was bluffing, and unwilling to take the chance that he wasn’t. “Well, I’m out. You’ve picked up the game very well.”

  “Will ye play again?” Aidan asked, pulling the coins and cards toward himself. Some were British currency, others were American.

  Morton leaned back in his chair and smiled at his student. “You’ve gotten all the money from my pockets, Mr. O’Rourke—that’s my limit. And I won’t see pay again until we reach New Orleans. I’ve nothing left to bet, save my grandfather’s gold watch.” He fingered the chain attached to the timepiece.

  “Nay, man, I won’t be takin’ that. I hope you’re not offering it, and shame to you if you are. ’Twould be wrong to risk something so dear on the turn of a card.” Remembering the silent, ragged skeletons queued up outside the soup kitchens in Skibbereen during the famine, he added, “Unless you’re starving.”

  Outside, three bells sounded which, Aidan had learned, meant that it was five-thirty. Night would be upon them soon and he knew that Morton was due back on duty. He had yet to put forth Farrell’s request.

  He gathered the cards together, idly tamping their edges on the tabletop. “My wife asks if it might be possible to give her a little more food for the frainies, the puny children and weak souls onboard, the ones who could not bring their own rations.”

  Morton sighed. “McCorry would hang my hide from the yardarm.”

  “Ye’re a workin’ man. I’ve seen you laboring on all kinds of jobs. You know what it’s like to be hungry, I’d warrant.”

  “The problem is that if I give you extra now, we’ll run short of provisions before we make port.” He met Aidan’s gaze briefly. “We usually do anyway. There’s barely enough—barely, mind—for a voyage that he thinks will last a certain number of weeks. But he’s not very good at planning—the trips always outlast the food.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a mistake to my ears. We were promised there’d be meals for every day we’re aboard.”

  Morton shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Could you persuade those with more to contribute a bit?”

  Aidan lowered his brows for a moment, then shrugged. “Aye, I’ll ask. It’s as we’ve always done—protected our own from those who would starve us.”

  Color rose in the younger man’s face and Aidan knew he’d unintentionally struck a nerve. Morton might have seen the world, though perhaps not into the dark hearts of evil men. But it wasn’t his fault he worked for a knave. Aidan released him from a riveting stare.

  “Would ye win some of this back before you stand watch again?” he asked, gesturing at the money before him.

  The second mate chuckled, obviously relieved for the change of subject, and shook his head. “I tell you, I’ve got nothing left to wager.”

  Aidan glanced around the tiny cabin, with its neat bunk, round window, wall mirror and lamp. It might not be grand to some, he supposed, but compared to the hold, it seemed most luxurious. To be able to sleep with his wife, out of the weather and away from the living hell that steerage had become, was a great incentive indeed.

  Aidan smiled too. “Ah, but I think you do.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Farrell was busy plucking two chickens for the officers’ dinner when she heard her name. She didn’t need eyes to know who was at the galley door. But when she looked up, her heart lightened to see Aidan standing there, grinning as if he knew the answer to one of the brain-wrenching riddles his father used to pose beside the peat fire. He’d charm the birds straight from the trees with his handsomeness, she thought with some irony. That he affected her the same way worried her.

  “And what would you be looking so pleased about?” she asked, dragging her forearm across her brow. The cookstove put out a lot of heat and the close confines of the galley were stuffy. Chicken feathers swirled like snow and stuck to her hair and apron-front. Then she perked up a bit. If he was that happy— “Were you able to get more whack for the sickly folk below?”

  “No,” he said, and his smile faded. He ducked through the doorway and stepped into the little space. His head cleared the overhead by only two or three inches. He brought with him the scent of fresh salt air, and traces of porter and someone’s pipe tobacco. Looking at the half-plucked chicken in her blood-smeared hands, he nodded at it. “They aren’t doing without, are they?” he asked, meaning the officers. “I wasn’t able to convince Morton to give you more rations.” He related the second mate’s explanation. “It’s sorry I am, céadsearc. He wouldn’t budge. So I told him we’d take care of our own, just as we always have.”

  Her hands fell still. “But how? There is so little to go round.”

  “Aye, well, we can give a bit, and I’ll convince those with more to provide.”

  She looked at the chickens again. “Maybe when I cut these up for stew, the men might not notice if a leg or wing is missing.”

  He shoveled a hand through his dark hair. “Aye, and how will you decide who’ll get the leg or wing, while the rest watch? Nay, lass, that won’t do.”

  “I could make broth,” she proposed. Then she sighed at the futility of it. Someone would be sure to notice an extra kettle on the stove, and even then, there probably wouldn’t be enough to around. “I suppose you’re right.” Turning a sharp eye on him, she asked, “So that was why you were grinning like Mary’s donkey at the doorway? To deliver this news?”

  The smile reappeared. “What if I told you that we won’t be sleeping on deck tonight?”

  Her shoulders drooped with disappointment. “Oh, no! Is it raining again?” She craned her neck, trying to see aro
und him through the open door. What could a body expect in the North Atlantic in late winter besides rain?

  “Yes it’s raining, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  But all she heard was the state of the weather. The prospect of spending the night in steerage filled her mind. “Dear God, I can’t sleep in that hold, it’s so brutal down there. I know the poor souls don’t mean to be sick, but—”

  Aidan took her shoulders and turned her toward him, mindful of the mess in her hands. “Whisht now, little red one. Will ye be throttling that chicken all over again?”

  She looked down and realized she was squeezing the limp fowl’s neck. She loosened her grip and looked up into Aidan’s gaze.

  He released one of her shoulders and reached into his coat pocket to produce a tarnished brass key on a short, braided leather thong. He looked quite pleased with himself.

  “What’s that?”

  “This, Mrs. O’Rourke, is the key to our room for tonight.”

  Her brows rose. “Our what? Are ye having me on, Aidan?”

  “No. While I was visiting with Mr. Morton, we played a few hands of cards. Ye know, just to be friendly-like. When I won all of his pocket money, I suggested that he might wager his cabin.” He shrugged. “He lost.”

  “No!” Farrell was impressed despite her mild disapproval of his gambling.

  “Aye, and look at this.” He reached into his pocket again and brought out a handful of money. Her eyes widened at the sight. “There’s nearly a pound here.” He put a coin in her apron pocket. “I owe ye a shilling and six. Here’s thruppence on account.”

  “Ye shouldn’t be gambling and I don’t know that I want money gained that way.”

  He waved her off. “The man wanted to play cards. Who was I to say no?”

  “But what about Mr. Morton? Where will he sleep?”

  He waved a hand. “He said he’ll bunk with the lads in the forecastle.” He told her about the hand of cards that had won them this bounty. He’d wagered her sixpence, somehow turning it into extra money and a cabin for them. On top of that, he had left the second mate in fine spirits and feeling as if he’d done Aidan a good turn.

  So Farrell would be sharing that room with her husband tonight, a prospect she viewed with disquiet. Sleeping on deck, or even in the hell that was steerage, had prevented any intimacy between them. He’d not so much as kissed her cheek since they’d set sail, and that had been fine with her. Tonight that would change. Those sturdy, capable hands that had smashed faces in fights and soothed the neighborhood children’s scraped knees, his lips, that big body—he’d be right next to her with more privacy than they’d had since that dreadful night at The Rose and Anchor when he’d tried to claim his husbandly rights. A tingling shiver raced over her scalp and down her back.

  She looked at the key he held and felt as if it were as dangerous as a serpent. God in heaven, she thought, how did Aidan do it? How did he manage to convince others to do his bidding? He had the gift of blarney, that was sure, with a wee bit of diplomacy thrown in for good measure. Where he’d learned the latter, she couldn’t imagine because she’d never seen much evidence of it back home. He also had a gift for card-playing and gambling in general.

  “Well, I have to finish this business”—she gestured at the chicken—“and then tend to Deirdre Connagher and Mrs. Dougherty below.” Although a ship’s captain often acted as physician at sea, all McCorry knew of doctoring, when he could be bothered, was amputation and purging. At least that was what she’d overheard from Mr. Quisenberry. Trying to follow in the footsteps of St. Brigit, Farrell had assumed the job of seeing after the passengers, and they were happy to have one of their own dosing them. She couldn’t do much for them, but she did her best with the medicine chest at her disposal.

  “Must ye see to them tonight?” Aidan asked.

  “St. Brigit would have me do no less.”

  Of all the saints on the calendar, Brigit was Farrell’s favorite. True, Father Joseph taught them that Brigit had become a nun after St. Patrick baptized her. But Farrell’s elderly Aunt Kathleen had told her that Brigit had been a loving and powerful Celtic goddess long before that, and the early people had worshiped her as the mother of the earth, goddess of healing, the crafts, fire, poetry, and farming. In Kildare, a sacred, eternal fire had been kept burning in her honor, attended only by women. Later, when the Church realized that the Irish would not abandon Brigit, they canonized her and built a convent on the site of her shrine. At least that was what Kathleen had told her.

  When Farrell had asked Father Joseph about her aunt’s story, he’d sternly dismissed it as “pagan blather,” and ordered her to say a Hail Mary for her impious questions about one of God’s chosen handmaidens. He’d also instructed her to pray an entire rosary for her aunt’s soul. But secretly Farrell liked Kathleen’s story best, one about the strong, loving mother of earth and poetry and fire. It fit so well with her own sense of connection to the land and healing. In her pocket she always carried the little carved figure of the goddess-nun as her talisman.

  There was at least one pregnant woman aboard, Deirdre, who would most likely give birth before they reached America, and although she had no real knowledge of midwifery, Farrell checked on her daily because she was so gaunt and pale. Her sense of helplessness was eased a bit by the attention she was able to give the woman, and in knowing that other women below were watching after her as well.

  “I suppose ye’ll do what you see fit,” Aidan replied.

  “I’ll bring your meal after that.” She swallowed and clutched the lifeless chicken in her hands. “T-to Morton’s cabin?”

  He gave her a knowing smile. “Aye. I’ll leave a handkerchief tied to the door so you’ll know which it is. I’ll be waiting for ye.”

  * * *

  Once she’d served the chicken stew, Farrell hurried over the damp deck and down to the hold to see Deirdre Connagher and Mrs. Dougherty. Expecting to be stopped by other passengers, though, she also carried with her things from the medicine chest that she thought she might need—brewed chamomile, quinine, turpentine, laudanum, lemon syrup for cough (the lemons she’d snatched from the crew’s supply), a special treat for Deirdre, and two bottles of patent medicine. These she’d put in a handle basket covered with a cloth.

  Coming down the ladder, she heard the buzz of murmured conversation, crying children, and a few voices raised in angry tones. After the sun went down, widely-spaced lamps swaying from the overhead timbers provided the only light. With its yellow-white gleam, the lamplight gave every face a slightly bilious appearance. The stench wasn’t so strong this evening, but bad enough.

  People sat in their little bunks, which were not much more than shelves built against the hull of the ship—six feet long but only two feet wide. Others perched on overturned kegs, boxes, or creepies, three-legged stools brought from faraway firesides. Here and there, lines had been strung on which to dry clothes and babies’ nappies, adding to the stifling humidity.

  She made her way to the space assigned to Mrs. Dougherty. She was sitting up with her feet dangling from the second-row bunk. Her hair hung in limp, gray plaits on her shoulders, its color nearly matching her face. Her clothes were as drab and travel-worn as the others’. Farrell’s own clothing had been so big for her it barely stayed on her body until she’d taken a needle and thread to it. The stitching wasn’t fancy, only functional.

  “How are you, then, Mrs. Dougherty?” she asked, putting her basket on the floor next to her.

  “Sure I’m in a terrible state. I swear Mrs. O’Rourke, this must be purgatory we’ve all come to.”

  “Did you eat the bread I sent with your husband?”

  “Aye, and I thank you for it. But now my head aches something fierce, so it does.” She squinted as though even the low yellow light made her headache worse.

  Farrell nodded. “I might have something for that.” She reached into the basket and produced the bottle of lavender water. “Do ye have a handkerc
hief or a strip of cloth?”

  The woman passed her a piece of what looked like an old petticoat. It had probably been beautiful once, but now it would serve as a compress. She dribbled some of the fragrant water onto the cloth. “Put this on your forehead and try to rest for a while.”

  Mrs. Dougherty lay down on her thin bedding, and heaved a long sigh. “God bless you, lass. I pray God will make this journey short—I’m just about worn to a nubbin.”

  “And I’ll send a prayer to St. Brigit to speed you back to health.” Farrell patted her hand and began to pack up her lavender water.

  Ryan Dougherty, who had been in a conversation with some other men, came to see what remedy Farrell had provided his wife. Satisfied, he asked, “Do ye know if Aidan has put in a word with the captain for us, Missus?”

  “I know he talked to Mr. Morton, the second mate. He’s the keeper of the stores. It was no good. He couldn’t shift him.” She lowered her voice. “But Aidan said he has another plan, so let’s not give up hope yet.” She didn’t want to reveal just what he had in mind. Persuasion seemed to be one of Aidan’s specialties and she decided to leave it to him to convince others to share their food with families like the Doughertys.

  Intent on seeing Deirdre Connagher, Farrell was stopped along the way to bind a toddler’s cut knee, dispense lemon syrup for a man’s deep-chest cough, and prepare a turpentine chest flannel for his wife’s stubborn cold.

  At last she reached Deirdre’s bunk and what she found was not encouraging. She lay on her side, her eyes closed. With a sense of panic, Farrell put her hand under the woman’s nose to feel for her breath. At the touch, Deirdre opened tired, dark-circled eyes. Her paleness was accentuated by dull, raven-black hair that she wore in a single, long braid.

  “Oh, Farrell . . . ye’ve come.”

  Farrell reached for her hand and was frightened by its chill. She didn’t know why, but she felt special empathy for this poor soul who was seventeen years old, pregnant, a new widow, and alone. Her husband had died just before they were to board the Mary Fiona in Queenstown. With nowhere else to go and determined to leave Ireland, she got on the ship to join her brother and his wife in America.