Flight of the Earls (12 page)

“I'm just here to collect what's due,” the boy said with surprising calm.

Mr. O'Donnell spat out a hacking laugh at Pence's gravitas. “Due to you? We owe you something, laddie?”

“No sir.” Pence edged his neck away from the blade. “It's the farmie. The man named Seamus. He owes five pence, he does.”

“Is that so?” Mr. O'Donnell grinned as he put his knife in his pocket. “What's in the pack?”

“It belongs to the farmie. Pence is keeping it 'til he pays.”

Mr. O'Donnell snickered and with a wave the scarred man grabbed the pack. “We'll help you keep him honest, laddie.”

Clare sighed deeply. Her entire life was in that bag. But it was the least of her worries.

“Would you mind tellin' me where Pence can find him then?”

The scarred man knocked Pence's hat off. “We'll ask the questions.”

“Ah. We'll give you that, orphan,” Mr. O'Donnell said. “For a few pence, 'tis all.”

“That's what he owes me.” Pence seemed conflicted but relented, pulling out a leather pouch and beginning to count out some coins before it was yanked from his grasp.

“The fee went up a wee bit, if you don't mind.” The bald man nodded to his companion, who flung Clare's pack over his shoulder. They departed, passing the nook where Clare and Pierce cowered breathlessly.

After a few steps Mr. O'Connell shouted back to Pence, his voice echoing through the alleyway. “My brothers took your boy for a swim. Good luck getting paid.”

The two of them cackled and returned to their bantering, which trailed as they faded from sight.

Clare leapt from the shadows and went over and smothered Pence with her arms and tears.

“I'm so sorry, Miss Clare. That was foolish for me to lose your pack.”

“You're sorry?” Clare realized her body was quivering.

“I should have given them a good comeuppance,” Pierce said.

“What did they mean about Seamus?” Clare asked.

“It's not good,” the boy said. “Follow Pence.” He grabbed Seamus's pack from Clare and flung it on his shoulders. “Don't worry, Miss Clare. Won't lose this one. Promise you. But if your brother is where I think, we must hurry.”

They were on the run again, and without a pack, Clare had less difficulty keeping pace. She soon discovered they were only a few streets removed from the water's edge, and they gulped the viscous sea air as their labored breathing and heavy steps accompanied the screeching of gulls and the creaking of the great, shadowy skeletons of ships moored in the harbor.

Pence came to the entranceway of a long, wooden pier, and after shedding the pack on the ground, he hurtled down the rattling timbers with the tail of his coat flapping in the wind. Pierce dropped his pack as well, with Clare scampering right behind them.

When Pence arrived at the cap of the pier, he collapsed to his knees. And after peering over the edge, he turned toward them and waved frantically.

In a moment, all three were there to see a body hanging upside down, tethered to the pier by a frayed cord.

“Seamus!” Clare screamed.

The rope had been measured in such a way that his head was under the water. His only means of survival would have been to pull up with his legs to keep from drowning, but it appeared the fight was gone.

Her anger at Seamus for his foolishness vanished with the thought of his suffering. “Please, dear God. Let him be alive.”

Pence and Pierce grunted under the strain of pulling up Seamus's lifeless body and Clare tried to as well, but there was no room for her until the hem of his pant legs were in reach. And with her assistance, they had his cold form on the splintered planks of the dock.

Clare wrapped her arms around him, desiring to give him every last breath of her warmth as they untied the rope from his ankles. “God. I beg You. Don't forsake me.”

She stroked Seamus's cheeks and kissed him on the forehead. Even with her uncontrollable sobbing, she could smell the reek of whiskey, which gave her hope he was breathing.

A noise came from his chest and then Seamus gurgled before water and then vomit spewed from his mouth. It was a joyous sight to Clare, and she tilted his head to the side. His pale flesh was frigid to the touch.

“Get me a blanket,” she shouted.

“There's a bonfire over there.” Pence pointed behind them.

Clare followed the trace of his finger and saw the lapping tongue of a distant fire lighting the darkness. With a clumsy start, and having to readjust their grip several times, they lumbered down the pier and onto the shoreline in the direction of the flames, nearly dropping Seamus several times.

As they approached, she saw a rudimentary camp had been erected on a grassy hill just above the woodworks of the harbor. Peppered around were several dozen slumbering on the ground, but a few remained awake and huddled around a diminishing fire. The startled faces, their eyes glistening as gems in the light of flames, soon arose to assist them, and in a few moments, Seamus was close to the heat and wrapped in wool, with many caretakers looking down at him with concern.

Several attended to stoking the flames with pieces of flotsam gathered from the waters. Clare leaned over Seamus and caressed his face with her hand and fallen tears. He was groggy but color appeared to be returning, and he struggled to open his eyes.

“Here is some hot tea,” said a woman with broad shoulders and a bent to her hip. Clare received the mug, which was warm to the touch.

“Help me sit him up,” Clare said without pause for manners.

The woman chided her companions. “Shame on all of us. We should have aided the boy.”

“Muriel, dear. Your words are true.” A man with ever-smiling puffy cheeks had eyes of remorse. “We thought it proper to keep out of it.”

“And because of our cowardice?” Muriel said. “The poor boy's nearly gone.”

“It was far away,” the man said, this time for Clare's ears. “We heard shouts, but it was hard to see. Still, we knew someone was in trouble. If we were in our own town, I suppose.”

“It's a grievous excuse.” Muriel shook her head. “You're welcome here now.”

A young man came with a stack of blankets and laid them beside Clare.

“I understand.” Clare looked at Muriel. “We would have behaved the same.” She put the mug to Seamus's lips. “Drink,” she urged him and he did.

Muriel pulled some cheese curds from her pocket and handed them to Clare. “I'll stay up with our visitors,” Muriel said to the others. “Off to bed, you all. Long day tomorrow and maybe the Lord will forgive us.”

They were tired enough to acquiesce, and with Pence and Pierce returning to the pier to retrieve their packs, Clare and Muriel were alone to tend to Seamus.

“Clare.”

“Seamus!”

“Clare. I lost it all, didn't I?”

“Rest now. It doesn't matter.”

“Clare. Why didn't you let me drown?”

“Shhh.” She ached for her brother. “Not another word.”

“It's what I deserved, isn't it?” He spoke with hollowness in his voice. “Perfect that way, don't you think? You should have left me.”

Seamus closed his eyes and soon he was sobbing, and Clare cried with him. Muriel wrapped an arm around her.

Oh, why did she ever leave home?

Chapter 11

The Shores of Cork

Clare felt a tug. As her eyes opened, she saw the full light of the sun haloed around Pierce's face peering down at her. She blinked a few times to adjust to the brightness and then lifted her head to catch her bearings.

Seeing Seamus beside her revived the horror of the prior evening, and she leaned over to see how he was faring. He was sleeping deeply with his usual snore. But despite a swollen eye and a cut on his nose, there was little evidence of last night's tragedy. Although plagued with misfortune, often wrought from his own hands, Seamus was always resilient.

Clare peered around her and discovered the entire camp had vacated without much of a trace.

“You two slept through it all,” Pierce replied to her unspoken question. “Dozens of them, whole families all but trudging on your head.”

“Is that so?” She sat up and stretched her arms.

“Yes. And I think we should go with them.”

“Go with them where?”

“They're taking passage on a ship leaving this morning and they told me there was room left, but not much to spare.”

“Pierce. We have nothing left. No money. It's lost.”

“I told you already.” Pierce helped Clare to her feet. “My father gave me plenty for provisions. We're down a good bit, it's true, but I have enough to get us on that ship, I believe. We've already got supplies.”

“I have no bag. Nothing left. We're too much of a burden, my brother and me. But you go. For all of us.”

“No,” Pierce said sternly. “I want to do this for you, Clare. For you and your family. More than anything I've ever wanted. You can't refuse me. Not this time.”

Clare felt itching in the back of her scalp. She scratched deeply as her mind spun through her options. What good would it be to limp back to Liam without a penny? The Hanleys would be ruined. She was the family's hope, as bleak and onerous as that sounded.

“Are you certain?”

“I've never been more sure.” Joy filled Pierce's face and he picked up both his and Seamus's bags. “We gotta go. We can't miss that ship.”

“What about him?” She pointed to her brother.

“He'll have two months to sleep. We just need to get him aboard. That's all.”

“I don't think he's fit.”

“Listen, Clare. You know your brother well enough. As soon as he gathers himself, he's going to go back to those men to try to get his money back. And he'll be dead for his efforts.”

There was no denying this logic. Pierce was right. They needed to get Seamus out of Cork and right away wasn't soon enough.

Pierce bent down and shook Seamus gently. “Hey, old boy. Up with you. There's a ship full of young ladies calling your name.”

Clare reached down and together they lifted Seamus to his feet, and as he rose, he pushed them away.

“I can carry meself just fine.” He rubbed his temples.

“With haste,” Clare said, surprising herself how quickly she had been persuaded to Pierce's reasoning.

“Where to?” Seamus yawned.

“We've got passage for a ship that may have left,” Pierce said.

“But it's all gone . . .”

“We'll explain it all later but we must go.”

Seamus reached to get his bag from Pierce, but Clare interceded. “Let me haul it just until your strength finds you.”

“Where's your pack?” he asked gruffly, but she chose not to answer.

They trotted and soon turned around a bend of the shore into a burst of activity along the harbor lined with massive piers and hulking timbered vessels. The sun had only newly risen, but the roads spilling up to the docks were already overflowing with droves of people emptying from horse-drawn carriages and pushing hand wagons. They meshed with the longshoremen and sailors unloading and lifting in bulging cargo of barrels and wooden crates and vegetables. Pigs and children engaged in a tapestry of dance on land as did sailors on the rigging and the seagulls, terns, and herons in the sky.

The three stopped and stood in awe of the majestic ships that stood before them. Beautifully crafted wood giants, with masts reaching heavenward and sails prepared to unfurl with full glory. Ropes as thick as a man's thigh threaded with a seamstress's touch. Crews pranced from crow's nest to boom with urgent artistry.

“Come on,” Pierce said, pulling them out of their trance.

“Which one is it?” Clare just stepped out of the way of a woman shoving a cart so full of strange objects it appeared she stacked the full contents of her home.

“The woman from last night . . .” Pierce began.

“Muriel.”

“Yes. Muriel said to go to where the dock ends, and there we'd find them.”

The energy of the shores and the sudden fear they would be left behind hastened their step, and they proceeded through the congestion in full pursuit. Finally, just as Clare thought they had run out of dock, they rounded a corner and a sight sprung up that caused her to slow in dread.

Before them was a creaking, retched mass of ancient wood, held together by moss, barnacles, and frazzled ropes. The hull of the vessel was weathered, waterlogged, and blackened by the battering of salt water, and there were scars where cannonballs had once breached. The sails were yellowed and quilted with patches, and the masts had a bow to them that made them almost smile with sadness. It was a once-proud warrior, tyrannized in its submission to commerce.

On the side of the ship were faded painted letters that read
Sea Mist
, and Clare quickly spotted Captain James Starkey himself overseeing the clamoring of crew and passengers, in full uniform with his arms folded tightly behind his back.