Authors: Julie Doherty
Chapter 18
Bangs heralded the opening of barrels and distribution of new clothes. Langley, the brig’s hatchet-faced steward, made his way up the aisle with Hobbes and a pox-scarred boy of about thirteen. They dragged crates of garments that had not been aired since loading, and as passengers received their allotment, they pressed their noses into the fabric, closed their eyes, and inhaled the heartbreaking scent of home.
Edward knew he was unentitled to the clothes, but he watched their dispersal with interest. How many garments would each passenger receive? Were they of good quality?
His heart kicked into a gallop as Langley reached Mary’s berth.
Langley eyed Mary over his sharp nose and said something Edward could not hear, something that made the muscle over Henry’s jaw hinge twitch.
Trouble.
He slid out of the berth and made his way down the aisle.
“. . . tell me for herself?” Langley was asking Henry.
“She has nae been herself since her father died,” Henry replied.
“She looks sick to me.”
Indeed, Mary did not look well. Because of their proximity to Port James, and the brig’s unreadiness for port, the captain ordered the sails reefed. The rocking motion of the stalled brig sickened some of the weaker passengers, including Mary. Her ensuing nausea meant she no longer kept down the sustenance her body needed.
Henry said, “She is merely seasick, as are many. Look around ye.”
Langley looked, and noticed Edward. “What do you want?”
“I came to see what the trouble is, that is all.”
“What business is it of your’n?”
Edward gestured toward Henry. “My son is always my business, and I promised this lassie’s father I would look oot for her.”
Langley said, “Make no mistake, McAdams, we are all in your debt for your willingness to help ready the brig for port. I myself left a young wife in Philadelphia, one whose company I am anxious to relish. However, this lassie is visibly unwell. That in itself is not my concern. The heart of my difficulty . . . the matter that pains me . . . There’s just no other way to say it. I believe the clothes will be wasted on her.” He stiffened his back. “There you have it.”
Henry braced himself on the berth rail. “Upon my oath, she was recovering until the captain hove to. Once we are under sail again, her troubles will ease. She will be right as rain by the time we’re boarded in Port James.”
Langley faced Edward. “You do your son a great disservice in allowing him hope. I have been to sea many times, and I have witnessed customs officials judging every type and degree of illness. Believe me when I tell you they will mark her denied for debarkation and removal to the pesthouse on Province Island. She will not see a brick of Philadelphia.”
“Ye’re mistaken. The smoothness of the river will ease her suffering,” Edward said. “Once she is done throwing up her guts and sipping water again, she will recover.”
Langley shook his head. “When we lose the sea, we lose its cooling breeze. An August haul up the Delaware River means the heat of a bread oven, mosquitos to drive you mad, and thunderstorms that swamp a deck in minutes. I vow you have never seen rain like you will see in the coming days. The lassie will not bear up to it.”
Mary stirred, and her eyes flickered open. She licked her lips, focused on Henry, and smiled.
Edward pounded his fist against a post, rattling the housewares in the berth it supported. “Devil take your eyes, Langley, ye can see she has her wits. Have ye no mercy, man? Ye know yoursel’ that the shrewdest buyers crowd the wharves at Port James in hopes of scooping the cream off the milk before it reaches Philadelphia. Would ye present the lassie in rags and leave her no other way but to suffer the journey upriver to meet her death, or worse, purchase by a soul driver?”
“Please,” Henry said, “gi’ her the claithes . . . and a chance.”
Langley sighed and rubbed his unruly eyebrows. “What does she need?”
“E’erything,” Henry said.
Langley tossed a shift onto Mary’s legs. “Should be her size.” He heaped a too-long petticoat on top of that. “She can use the excess for pockets or patches, if she lives.” He crouched to look under Mary’s berth. “She has good shoes already. Here’s a pair of stockings.
“Gi’ me a gown,” he said to Hobbes, who looked exhausted. “A gown, I say!” Langley clouted the back of the boy’s neck.
Hobbes jerked a heap of undyed fabric from one of the crates.
“Osnaburg,” Edward muttered.
“What did you expect, a brocade?”
Edward glared at the coarse textile, one favored by masters intending to work their servants hard. He turned away, gritting his teeth.
A curse upon ye, Sorley! Mary should be rummaging through a dressmaker’s silks, not lying ill in a brig wi’ an Osnaburg gown for a cover.
“Will that do?” Langley asked.
“Aye. Ye’ve our gratitude,” Henry replied.
Edward stepped aside to let Langley’s boys pass.
“A moment, sir.” Donald’s pale face appeared at the foot of his berth. He rose to his knees. “This girl will serve her dead father’s indenture on top of her own.”
“What of it?” Langley asked.
“If she is expected to serve her father’s indenture, then she should have his clothes, too.”
Langley huffed. “Surely—”
“Surely indeed.” Donald stepped into the aisle. “On the day we weighed anchor, the first mate promised a new suit of clothes to all. That qualifies as a verbal agreement. Mary Patterson is expected to adhere to her part in it by serving her father’s indenture on top of her own. Should the agent not honor his own terms?”
Edward was disappointed he hadn’t thought of it.
“What is a girl going to do with a man’s clothes?” Langley asked.
“That is for her to decide. She may keep them for a ready supply of patches to repair what will certainly be an inadequate wardrobe, or she may barter them for food. Who is to say? But they were intended for her father, a man dead by your crew’s negligence, and she should have them.”
Langley’s tone turned challenging. “I do not believe the agent would agree with you.”
Donald picked at his fingernails. “Well, then, we shall see what a magistrate has to say about the matter. I should think Mister Conyngham’s Philadelphian agent would gladly give a suit of clothes to avoid the embarrassment and expense of attending court.”
Langley stiffened, and his eyes turned flinty. Without removing his cold stare from Donald, he thrust an arm to his right. “Hobbes. Shirt, breeches, stockings.”
“And a pair of shoes, if you please,” Donald said.
“Now just you hold on there, you swindling son of a—”
“A pair of cobbler’s shoes, Langley,” Donald said, “not those Indian shoepacks you’re handing out to everyone else.”
“Do you have any idea how much a cobbler’s shoes cost?” Langley looked as though his trembling face would explode.
Donald narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the steward. “Do you know how much Mister Conyngham has cost this girl? Upon my honor, I relish the chance to bring a detailed grievance before the court. Look at me, Langley. Though I make this journey in rags, do not assume that I am a man of no small means.” He pulled his expensive-looking shoes from a sack. “You can see by my own shoes that I do not lie. I have connections in London, connections who would happily print the memoirs of an educated man’s journey to the New World. The learned masses are hungry for such an account.” He cocked his head and rubbed his chin. “The only thing I have yet to settle in my mind is whether, when I name your master in my tale, I shall describe him as hero or foe. I suppose my decision rests with you . . . does it not?”
Langley fumed and yanked a pair of hard-heeled shoes from one of the crates. He threw them into Donald’s berth, where they clattered against the brig’s wall. “May I move on now, or would you like me to pull a silk court dress from the deepest recess of my arse?”
Donald smiled, victorious. “My request was not borne out of greed, Langley, but justice alone.”
Langley murmured an oath and shoved the pox-scarred boy ahead of him. “Move on!”
Edward threw an arm around Donald’s shoulder and shook him. “By God, lad, when your father thinks on ye, he must strut about like a banty cock in a yard full of hens.”
Donald’s grin faded. “Indeed.” He glanced at Henry. “I am the pride of the Pembertons.”
Chapter 19
It was hot. Too hot.
Had she gone to hell?
Someone called her name. “Mary? Mary?”
She licked her cracked lips and opened her eyes. A face swirled above her, but it was not Father’s. Where was he? He would be displeased if she lay too long and fell behind with her spinning. Or was it the Sabbath?
The Sabbath.
Henry. Henry would soon pass by.
She must get up or she would miss him.
Her head felt heavy. She needed a drink. “Fa—”
Someone scrambled closer and made her even hotter. She wished they would go away; she could barely breathe as it was.
“She’s talking. Praise God, Donald, she’s trying to say something.” Someone lifted her head, and she winced at the pain in her neck.
“What is it, Mary?” the voice asked. “Can ye hear me? Mary, look at me.”
Go away.
“She’s still too weak.”
“Drink,” someone said, shaking her shoulder. “Mary, drink.”
Cool liquid poured past her lips, and she drank what she could, but most of it escaped her mouth and flowed down her cheeks. She coughed, and the pain in her head worsened. Colored stars flashed and disappeared, leaving her nothing but blackness . . . and silence.
“Ye’ve done well, lad,” a woman said, “but they’ll be looking at more than her hair. Tack up a blanket. What must be done is no man’s concern.”
Tap-tap-tap.
Was Father fixing the rung on the rocking chair again? Mary wished he’d stop loading the fire. It was so hot!
Someone pushed her arms inside her shift and tugged the sweaty garment over her head. She objected to her nakedness and tried to cover herself, but the blanket was torn from her grasp.
“Be still, lass. There’s no one here but Molly and thee.”
“Fa—” A fresh shift brushed against her nose and cut off her hail. When did she hang out the wash? How strange that she couldn’t recall. She felt her hands being shoved into the clean shift’s sleeves and delighted in its fragrance.
“Ye can look now,” the woman said. “Take doon the blanket. Lift up her legs so I can shimmy on the petticoat.”
“N-No.” She tried to kick off the petticoat. “Too hot.”
“They’re coming,” the woman said. “Try to sit her up.”
“She will be too weak to stand in the market,” a man declared.
Mary opened her eyes to a world covered in crimson wool and decorated with gold embroidery.
“See? She is awake.”
“Her eyes have no focus. . . yellow jack . . . quarantine.”
“Look again, sir . . . no jaundice about her.”
The last voice was familiar. Was Edward McConnell visiting? A flash of panic ignited in her belly. Was Henry there too? She must rise and make herself presentable.
Strong arms caught her before she fell. A face reeled above her.
“Henry?” she muttered. “Henry . . . Mc—McConnell?”
An argument ensued.
Had he not heard her?
“Nay, sir, his name
is
Robert McAdams. See here, have a look at our passes. She misspoke in her delirium. Mind, the child lost her father at sea. She is nae herself. She is nae sick wi’ the yellow fever, but she is nae herself. Ye canny fault her for her grief.”
“Davis, mark her for a lunatic. She’ll go to the pesthouse.”
Chapter 20
The night breeze had only enough power to stir the hem of Edward’s shirt, tickling his knees. Every square inch of canvas above and around him hung flaccid. Five days now. Five days since some unseen entity turned a jar upside down over the Delaware River and everything upon it.
Heavy air saturated the sails and made it hard to breathe. Men stripped to their shirts and women to their shifts. The sailors wore their slops alone, and judging by the bronze patina on their bare chests and arms, they did so often.
How fortunate for them to have skin like leather
, Edward thought as he slapped his forearm. The mosquito he swatted left a bloodstain.
An Ulsterman’s blood.
He pinched the insect between his thumb and finger and ground it to an unrecognizable smear.
“Suck on that, ye wee bastard.”
Except for the men of the middle watch and a cloud of mosquitos hovering near the lantern, he had the deck to himself. The brig was less crowded now, thanks to a healthy crop of buyers at Port James. Molly and Phoebe left, as well as the Pennock woman, who lost both husband and son during the third and fourth weeks at sea. A wealthy merchant bargained hard for her, a stroke of good luck, the other passengers assured her. She went ashore obediently, silently, resolutely, but with her first step on the flags of the wharf, her legs that forgot how to carry her across land collapsed under her.
Edward would never forget the sight of her lying there, staring at the sky, unable to rise, or perhaps no longer possessing the will to try.
He’d thought of little else since. How would he bear it if something happened to Henry? The Pennock woman lost more than her child when Thompson ripped her bairn from her arms. He would be the same if anything happened to Henry. And yet, Sorley refused to claim the child now Edward’s responsibility, a child marked a lunatic and destined for quarantine.
“
Told ye,”
Langley made sure to say in Port James.
Edward reached into the overlap of his shirt and counted his coins by feel.
Ten guineas.
Their start-up money. It would have been more than sufficient. No longer.
The agent in Philadelphia owed them two guineas each. They could expect a guinea for Sarah’s wig and greatcoat, and James Patterson’s clothes might bring about the same. Henry claimed Donald gave him eight pounds toward Mary’s fare. If all went well—and it never all went well—they would have twenty-six pounds, twenty-six pounds to pay off two fares and purchase everything they needed to survive the coming winter. It could hardly be considered adequate.
He wiped sweat and dew from his forehead.
The deck was damp under his bare feet as he paced fore and aft, trying to outrun the madness stalking him on the boat floating to County Nowhere. On the brigantine astern of them, a shadow near a lantern caught his attention. A tendril of fog slithered across the vessel’s deck and stole his view, but not before he saw the shadow belonged to a man. Was another father doubting the wisdom in emigrating? Or was the man seeking the riverbank through the fog?
It was the land they needed. The land would save them. How maddening to have it on both sides of them, a mere cable’s length away, and not be able set foot upon it!
Ding-ding! Ding-ding! Ding-ding! Ding-ding!
Eight bells. In another half hour, the morning watch would replace the middle one. Dawn would break after that.
A bright light flashed in the southern sky.
“Storm comin’,” a sailor muttered. “From the souf.”
Just what they needed. Another thunderstorm to hammer hot rain against the deck and into the berths below. By forenoon, the brig would be a steaming barrel.
Such changeable weather, violent one moment and balmy the next. Winter would be as harsh, maybe worse, and it was coming—swiftly, judging by the fatigued vegetation framing the river. Summer lay in its death throes. He knew it by the flocks of birds migrating overhead, the yellowing buttonwood leaves, and the fiery hues of the low shrubs. Nature was exhausted and preparing to rest. She would soon don her brightest cloak and lie down for a nap. The creatures of the night knew it, too, those crickets and katydids whose feverish chorus vibrated the brig’s idle yards.
For the first time since leaving Ireland, Edward suffered fright. What if an overestimation of his abilities only led Henry into worse danger? The winter could bury them before they were prepared for it. He might yet share the Pennock woman’s fate, his worst nightmare.
Nay
, he thought, squaring his shoulders,
I canny allow it.
They would earn enough to pay Mary’s remaining fare and waste no time in finding William’s cabin. They had firewood to stack, and meat to kill and smoke. They must buy seed, and procure an ox, if they could find one. They would lay up food somehow, and fodder for the beast. Mary would help. If they could just get the seed in the ground and hunker down before the first snowfall, spring would set them to rights.
Something splashed near the fog-shrouded riverbank, and Edward wondered if it was a turtle. He thought of Sarah and smiled in spite of his worries.
“Ye will nae be using your dangly bits in the backcountry anyway.”
What a woman. He intended to pay her fare to join him, and her brother’s as well, if Thomas wished it. He’d said as much to Thomas before they weighed anchor in Derry. That was before James Patterson died and left him with the cost of Mary’s indenture. By the time he gathered enough for Sarah’s passage, she would barely remember his name.
By God, I hope ye rot in hell, Sorley.
Men shouted in the channel astern of them, where the brigantine’s sails broadened their shadows. Men scurried, and he wondered at the source of their agitation. The answer hit him then, squarely in the face and chest: wind.
He looked up at
Hannah’s
sails, which were beginning to ripple and lift.
“There’s our wind,” Reed shouted from the helm.
“About bloody time,” a pan-faced sailor replied.