Flight of the Earls (16 page)

Beyond Mack's twisted body, off a fair distance to himself, Brennan sat with aloofness to their circumstances as one sitting beside a creek on a summer day.

Soft flakes fluttered in the wind and Seamus was struck by the irony of his current situation. It brought him back to a day he so often tried to purge from his memory.

From that day when he was a child of seven, he still experienced the searing pain of his father dragging him to the shed by his ear, while his arms flapped to keep his balance.

“You say you milked her, did you? Well, let's just see for ourselves.”

There was nothing Seamus could say at this moment. His mind spun through every imaginable way to escape his predicament, but none found its mark.

Inside the shed, his father flung Seamus down to the hoofs of the cow, and shortly thereafter a metal bucket bounced to him. “Go ahead, boy. Give her a pull. Show me she's dry as you say, and you'll be back warm inside cuddling with your sisters.”

Seamus looked up at his father with a pitiful expression blending guilt and a desperate call for mercy. But there was none coming. “I suppose I didn't milk her too much.”

His father smacked the side of Seamus's head and the blow provoked sobs, which would only make things worse. He was snapped up by the collar and dragged across straw and excrement to the water trough.

His da's face flashed anger. “We'll learn you about telling the truth.”

The back of Seamus's neck was thrust downward, and then he was underwater for what seemed a long time, gagging and gasping before being pulled back up by his hair.

“There, drink up, boy. Lap it like the lying dog you are. Do it before I drown you.”

His throat swelled and he cringed. Seamus believed his da good to his threat. There was no use adding to the flames of his father's fury. Seamus licked at the water and fought back the tears.

His father bent down close to his ear. “Now, boy. What happens to a heifer when she misses her milking and gets the swell? Keep drinking! Remember what I told you? You can break her, you know. 'Cause of your idleness? Starve us all? Your ma. Your brothers. Your sisters. Why we feed you, I wouldn't know.”

His father now held a tin cup to Seamus's mouth and poured the muggy water down his gullet until he gagged.

“Drink!”

“I'm trying, Da.”

“Drink!”

After the third cup of water, the contents of Seamus's stomach rose to his throat. Gripping the back of Seamus's neck, his father stood him up, guided him out the door, and took him through the flurry of whiteness to the side of the barn where he was pushed down into a sitting position in a bank of snow.

“Now, let's give you some time on your own so you can see how it feels.” His father started to stomp away and then turned. “And don't move an inch, or I'll come back and give you the rod. You hear me, boy?”

Seamus was terrified of his father's eyes so he stared down and listened as the steps crunching in the snow faded and the front door slammed.

He drew in a jagged breath. Now he could cry.

Why would he do such a thing when his mother was out of town? Must he be so lazy? Why didn't he just milk the cow?

The cold bristled his face and moved from his hands to his arms, feet to legs, and then to the core of his quivering body. Even worse, as minutes seemed to be hours and an hour to be a day, the water traveled through his body, and the agony swelling in his bladder brought unbearable pain.

The fear of his father returned when the door of the house opened again, but Clare approached with a red plaid blanket in her hand.

Clare covered him with the blanket, and he felt wrapped in her kindness. “Da's down for a nap before he goes to the pub,” she said. Clare tried to console him with a smile, clouded with sadness for him.

But his sister arrived too late. For even in the dimming of dusk, Seamus couldn't hide from his shame as the yellow circle he sat in gave testimony to his surrender.

“Shhh . . . shhh . . . you,” she said. “Come. Let's get you warm and out of these clothes.”

He rose with stiffness. “What about Da?”

Clare tucked her long black hair behind her ear, her crystal blue eyes soft and reassuring. “Grandma Ella says God watches over us when we're scared. Here, take my hand.”

She took the lead while he shrank behind in terror and embarrassment. They managed to get in the house, and he changed his clothes and climbed safely into bed before their father rose that evening. But Seamus never forgot her strength and fearlessness in the storm.

And now here he was today. Bound. Helpless. Failing her and once again proving his father right. He would never forgive himself if she died.

He looked over again to Pierce and gave him a push with his foot. “Pierce. Pierce.”

It took another nudge, but then his friend lifted his head and looked at Seamus with a stranger's eyes. “Is the Tailor dead?”

“It's Mack to be worried about.” He turned to the man beside him. “Mack. Wake up.”

Pierce chattered as he whispered, “Did you know what the Tailor did?”

“No. Not a bit. They put me down early.”

“He stuck one of the crew with that tool of his. Right through the neck.”

“It's no wonder we're in these.” Seamus wormed his way over and prodded Mack with his boot. “Mack.”

Just then he heard voices approaching, and in a few moments they were surrounded by several of the crew bearing pistols and clubs, headed up by the first mate and quartermaster.

“Tend to him.” The first mate pointed toward Mack.

“Tending? Is that what this is here?” The quartermaster's reddened and scarred face twisted in disbelief. “We ought to be running 'em through.”

“Step back, Sam,” the first mate said. “You all. To the plank. Step lively, the captain is on his way.”

The crew members snapped in response and unfastened the bindings, lifted the captives to their feet, and retied their hands behind their backs with rope. Then in a line they were led to an area of the ship where caskets were sent overboard. Mack had some injury to his elbow, but the commotion and reality of their situation brought a growing alertness to his grogginess.

What concerned Seamus most at this point was there were no passengers above deck. They must have put the ship on some type of lockdown, and there would be no jury or witnesses to their punishment. In all of his wildest childhood dreams, Seamus never imagined this would be how it all ended.

“Captain on deck!”

Seamus lifted his head to see Captain James Starkey approaching with anger in his step. To him, the captain had always seemed a caricature, a target of mockery, but in their present situation, his blue uniform with red sash, his polished medals, and the officer's hat spoke with the authority he had over their lives and deaths on the sea.

“Shall we walk 'em out, Captain?”

The quartermaster received a glare from the first mate, who then spoke with poise. “Captain, sir. Should we let them state their case?”

“As you wish.” The captain fumbled with the hilt of his sheathed sword. “Speak.”

The four prisoners were mute, and after a few moments, Seamus decided someone needed to respond. “Sir. We meant no harm. Our people are hungry, Captain. They're starving down below. My sister is dying.”

The captain was unmoved. “Hungry? Aren't we all hungry?”

“Some less than others,” the Tailor interjected.

The captain's eyes widened. He turned toward the quartermaster and nodded.

“With pleasure.” The quartermaster grabbed a tight hold on the Tailor's wrists while a couple of the young sailors opened a gate to the side and pushed out and locked in the wooden plank.

The first mate stepped up to the captain. “Perhaps there is another way?”

Mack, who was alert with fear now, wept openly.

The Tailor was shoved onto the plank, and he stumbled briefly before regaining his balance. With his arms bound behind him and the stiff breezes whistling about, he seemed precariously aloft, but he turned to face his accusers with aplomb.

This caused even more of a surge in the captain's fragile composure and his complexion reddened. He pulled a long sword out from his scabbard and raised it.

For the first time, Seamus saw a breach in the Tailor's confidence and thought he might crack. But the arrogance returned, and a toothy smile formed, an expression of laughter in the face of his misery.

The man just didn't care anymore. He was embracing his fate as a prize.

The captain stepped up on the plank and pressed forward, sword at length and a maddening glint in his eyes. His cheek twitched.

The quartermaster and several of the crew barked cheers and whoops, but the first mate climbed behind the old man. “Captain. Please. I implore you.”

The old sailor pressed the point of his sword on the Tailor's cheek and drew a thin stream of red. Brennan eased backward and glanced at the mere foot left on the plank.

“What say you now, you filthy Irish rogue, hah?” Spittle flew from the captain's mouth. “What say you now, you coward?”

The accused and the crew, they all gazed intently in silence except for the music of the sea winds, the dull lapping of waves against the hull, and the creaking of the ship.

The Tailor looked down to the cruel sea, now with his feet barely gripping the edge of the plank, and then he glared back at the captain. “I'd like to have some more of your whiskey, you miserable fraud.”

The captain lunged forward and the Tailor arched his back to avoid the point of the weapon. And with two desperate efforts to regain his balance, Brennan fell backward and began to descend. As he did, the captain dropped his sword and it bounced off the platform, joining the flight of the Tailor as he plummeted into the outreaching dark arms of the sea.

Seamus peered over the edge of the ship, yearning to see the Tailor rise to the surface, but the whitecaps were furling and the ship was moving at a fair clip.

Stunned, the crew exchanged confused glances. The first mate pulled the captain in from the plank and to the deck.

“I only,” the captain mumbled. “I only meant to frighten him.”

The first mate assumed control. “Cook. Take the captain to his cabin and prepare some tea.”

“I only meant to frighten him.” The old sailor ambled away.

When he was out of earshot, the first mate motioned for his crew to gather the three remaining captives. Mack began to sob again, and fear pulsed through Seamus's veins.

“Whose man was that?” Greene said to the three of them, who now gave their rapt attention.

“He . . . has no family.” Mack's voice wavered. “Just him alone.”

“Will he be missed?”

It was an odd question, but Seamus felt encouraged by the direction this was heading.

Mack looked to his fellow prisoners. “No, sir. He kept to himself.”

“Very well.” The first mate looked to the sky for answers. “This leaves me with two choices. You can share that man's fate, or we can consider this matter settled.”

“Fairly settled,” Seamus said. He felt guilty for so easily abandoning the Tailor's protests, but the thought of seeing Clare again was the only thing driving him now.

“Indeed,” echoed Pierce.

“You, sir?” The first mate looked to Mack.

“Oh yes.” Mack nodded. “Quite so.”

The quartermaster leaned in. “Shouldn't we at least give 'em a few stripes before letting 'em be?”

“Sam. The next in line for discipline is you, friend. Go back below.”

He pursed his lips, then spat to the ground. But the quartermaster nodded and retreated.

“Gentlemen. The price for thievery is death on board this ship. Your friend drew blood. If your foolishness is not repeated, I see no reason to consider this incident further. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” they replied in words or with a nod.

“Unbind them. Let them go. And give them rations to take with them.”

“Sir?” One of the sailors seemed puzzled.

“There was courage in their deed. Bravery should be rewarded,” the first mate said.

In a matter of minutes, the three wounded heroes descended the hatch to cheers and warm greetings, with food, water, and one less in their party.

There were few questions about the Tailor, and those that were asked received only vague, unsatisfying explanations.

No further thoughts of rebellion surfaced. The only fight left in the tattered army was waged against the ever-encroaching enemy of death.

Chapter 17

The East River

Clare opened her eyes to bedlam.

She hadn't seen much light for weeks, and now every lantern below was shining brightly with fresh oil. Her shipmates were scurrying about in a frenzy, pulling their straw mattresses off the shelving and dragging them down the aisle to the ladder and up through the hatch. Others carried the chamber pots, some carrying two, one in each hand.