“The authorities say witnesses saw a group of young Irish children near the shipyard the evening the boat disappeared. The two night watchmen confirmed their descriptions and said the ringleader was a tall Irish lad with brown hair and a leather satchel over one shoulder.”
Chamberlain slammed his fist on a desk. “I bet it has something to do with that lad I met at the pub. He was towing along two Irish brats. I told him I had sold his old Celtic book at the bookseller on St. James. This must be revenge for his brother! I can guarantee that when you find my boat, he will be the one behind it! I want him arrested and the keys to his cell thrown away!”
Seeing his customer distracted, the ticket man cleared his throat. “The Europa has a first-class berth available, and she is leaving Montreal for London in three days’ time. Can I interest you in purchasing a ticket?”
“Perhaps in a moment,” said Wilkes, excusing himself from the line.
Captain Chamberlain, the mention of Irish children, and the theft of a boat was simply too much of a coincidence. Jamie Galway survived? Surely the girl had died from the fall, but perhaps the boy had survived the fire with the priceless text still intact! Wilkes made his way to the side of the ticket booth, found the door into the office, and stepped through the doorway. He approached the heated argument continuing between the captain and the company man.
“The authorities are already alerting all of the ports and shipping lines along the St. Lawrence. It’s not like a ship the size of the Carpathia II can hide anywhere. We will find it, and when we do, we will arrest the perpetrators, and she will once again be all yours.”
“You’ll find her half-sunk on a shoal, that’s what you’ll find when you catch up with her,” yelled Chamberlain. “My ship captained by children! This is outrageous!”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” interrupted Wilkes.
“And who in blazes are you?” stormed Chamberlain.
“My name is Jonathon Wilkes. I’m a private investigator.”
Wilkes pulled out his wallet, shuffled through the various fake business cards and pulled out the one he was looking for. Jonathon Wilkes. Private Detective for Hire. London. Paris. New York. He passed it to the director.
The company man glanced down at the card. “My name is Walter Reeves, director of operations for Western Star Shipping Lines”.
“I just finished a case here in Montreal,” lied Wilkes, “and I happened to overhear your conversation regarding a missing ship. I feel that I can be of assistance in tracking down and retrieving the Carpathia II.”
“As if anyone needs help tracking down a stolen three-hundred-passenger steamship!” scoffed Chamberlain.
“I’m sorry,” said Reeves, “but I feel it’s a situation that is best left to the authorities.”
“Have you not been following the newspapers, sir?” Wilkes countered. “The authorities are completely overwhelmed at the moment. If they’re not dealing with the spread of sickness throughout the country, they are having to control angry mobs, such as the one that burned down your own parliament building two nights ago. I’m afraid that a search for a stolen ship might simply overtax their already strained capabilities.”
Reeves considered the argument while Chamberlain simply huffed in irritation. “And what’s your fee, Wilkes?” asked Reeves.
“Our agreement will be simple. I will not accept any form of an upfront fee. Payment for services will only take place upon the reacquisition of the Carpathia II. However, I will require access to all of the information you receive regarding tips as to the location of the Carpathia II, plus coverage of any transportation costs that I might incur as I track down the ship’s location. My finder’s fee will be a flat fifty pounds plus a royal suite ticket to London, England, on a Western Star ship. Are these terms acceptable?”
“Are you saying I will not have to pay anything until you find my ship?” repeated Reeves, surprised.
“That’s correct.”
“I can certainly live with those terms. Welcome aboard, Mr. Wilkes.”
The men shook hands.
“Now then,” said Wilkes, leading Reeves and Chamberlain back into the office, “let’s see what information you already have that will help me track down your naughty little Irish children. I’m very good at my job, Mr. Wilkes, and tracking down missing items is my speciality.”
Big John Rice spun the wheel to the right and pointed the nose of the Kentson toward the busy harbour of Kingston. Tall masts and steamer smokestacks rose from the shore-side docks like the posts of an enormous fence protecting the skyline of the bustling waterfront town. Only the impressive dome of an elegant stone building rose above the collection of moored ships. Grey smoke from a departing steamboat fogged the calm morning air. The Chippewa churned its single paddle east toward the mouth of the St. Lawrence River. Big John knew the captain well and waved to him as the two ships passed.
Looking over his other shoulder, Big John could see the Flying Irishman veering off on a southwest heading down the channel between the town of Kingston and Wolfe Island. Beyond Wolfe Island lay the open waters of Lake Ontario. Big John knew only too well the summer storms that could blow up at a moment’s notice on the wild open waters of Lake Ontario. Did Jamie have a clue as to the dangers that could be awaiting him as he attempted to cross the great lake?
Still, Big John couldn’t help but grin as Jamie stepped out of the wheelhouse one more time and waved thanks, finishing off the gesture with a big salute. Big John saluted back. That kid had managed to successfully steer his ship through the narrow channels of the Thousand Islands, and on a cloudy night to boot. Perhaps the young lad would be all right after all. The Flying Irishman belched thick grey smoke as it accelerated toward the open water. Lord knows what that crazy boy and his crew in diapers were planning to do with a brand new steamship. He then remembered Jamie’s words. Perhaps it was better not to know.
“Good luck to you, boy!” he shouted, and gave his brass bell two mighty rings.
Chapter 18
Brimming with excitement, Chamberlain pushed the stranger through the office door. Together, they strode up to the men sitting at the table. The stranger sported a shock of white hair and a face so craggy it would have made the cliffs of Dover proud. Jonathon Wilkes and Walter Reeves gazed up from a large map of the St. Lawrence River.
“This is Captain Sanderson of the Chippewa,” said Chamberlain. “I was down at the pub asking all of the newly arriving crews and captains whether they might have seen our missing ship, perhaps abandoned or wrecked somewhere along the St. Lawrence. I think the captain here has a story that you both might find interesting.”
“Thank you for coming,” Reeves stated. “Any help in retrieving our missing ship will be greatly appreciated. Tell us, what did you see?”
“Well, sir,” Sanderson answered in a thick Scottish accent, “I was pulling out of Kingston harbour with a full load of timber when I spied my friend Big John Rice and his ship the Kentson. As she turned in toward the harbour, a second ship suddenly appeared off its portside. Lower and sleeker than the Kentson, it was a brand new double-stacked wheeler. The only ship I’ve ever seen like her was that new ship of yours, the Carpathia II, while she was tied to the dock up in Prescott. I thought she wasn’t due out of the shipyard yet, but I just assumed that I was wrong and she must be out on her first run into Lake Ontario. Deciding to check her out with my looking glass, I was thrown by the strange name I saw on the bow. It was blurry, probably hand-painted, but I thought it said something like the Flying Irishman.”
“The Flying Irishman?” questioned Reeves. “What in blazes is my ship doing with that name?”
“A little humour from the children would be my guess,” chuckled Wilkes. “I think we may have found our pint-sized Irish thieves.”
Fuming, Reeves slammed a fist on the table. “I don’t care if they’re the funniest comedy team on the face of the Earth. They have stolen company property and I want it back! The president of the company himse
lf is breathing down my neck and said he is holding me personally responsible for the safe return of his ship. If that ship is damaged in any way, I’ll be fired!”
“It’s not your fault the ship was commandeered,” countered Wilkes.
“He blames me for not having more watchmen on the dock that night,” Reeves mumbled.
“At least we know where it is,” said Wilkes, pulling out a new map. “The east end of Lake Ontario.”
“I can’t believe those little Irish brats managed to sail it all the way through the Thousand Islands,” commented Chamberlain. “That’s a tough piece of navigation.”
“Are you complimenting them?” shouted Reeves.
“Look at it this way,” said Wilkes to both men. “At least your boat is still in one piece. That means you both still have your jobs.”
“You’re right,” agreed Reeves, sighing. “We need to catch them before they destroy that ship and my future.”
“And what about the chase ship?” Wilkes asked Chamberlain.
“The Maid of the Rideau is approaching the Port of Montreal as we speak,” said Chamberlain. “We’ll load her up with fuel and fresh food as quickly as we can. With no cargo to haul, she’ll almost be as fast as the Carpathia II. We won’t be too far behind her. Perhaps three days, no more.”
“I’m coming with you,” stated Reeves. “I’ll offer the both of you an extra thirty-pound bonus if you can also bring me back the children responsible for this outrage. I want to charge them with so many acts of piracy that they’ll be locked away for the rest of their lives!”
Wilkes felt the weight of his hidden pistol holstered under his jacket. “You need not worry, Mr. Reeves. We’ll make sure those children get what they deserve.”
Huddling with his family under a rain-drenched tarp, Shane Beckett had never felt such utter hopelessness and despair. It had been over a week since he had woken up on his wife Chloë’s lap and found that they and their two children had been forcibly confined to a guarded pier, trapped like condemned dogs, with dozens of other Irish families. With his forehead sporting a huge goose egg and his mind foggy, he had to be reminded by Chloë of what had happened. She told him how they had been attacked on Yonge Street by an angry mob. The weapon-wielding gangs were determined to stop sickness from spreading through Toronto. The gang leaders decided to round up all the Irish they could find and hold them inside a fenced waterside quay like cattle destined for slaughter. It didn’t matter that he was an established watchmaker who owned his own small store on Yonge Street. It didn’t matter that his family had been living in Toronto for over five years.
He still remembered his desperate pleading with the armed guards at the gate to their pen that first day.
“Excuse me, sir! There’s been some kind of mistake! My family and I were attacked as we were walking home on Yonge Street. We’ve been living in Toronto for five years. Look at us! We’re not sick! Keeping us penned up here won’t do anyone any good, and my wife and children are scared. Can you please let us out?”
The man with the loaded rifle ignored him.
Shane felt a touch of panic. “Can’t you hear what I’m saying? My family shouldn’t be in here!”
The guard wheeled around in anger. “I can tell by your accent that you’re bloody Irish. My mother died from cholera last week. We don’t want your kind here no more, and I don’t care whether you’re sick or not. We’re going to keep you locked up until the government sends us a boat to ship you all back to Ireland, back to where you belong! So stop your snivelling. You and your family are not going anywhere!”
Stunned, Shane stepped back from the gate and slowly returned to his family. He broke the horrible news to his wife.
“This is complete madness!” Chloë whispered, as Shane sat down heavily next to her. “They’re trying to ship us all back to Ireland? Doesn’t he realize we’re more Canadian than half the population of Toronto?”
As the days passed by, church groups and other concerned strangers brought the detainees tarps, tents, and food, but the Irish remained locked in their makeshift jail, guarded by the unforgiving pack of vigilantes. A Toronto police force, sympathetic to those who had lost loved ones, simply looked the other way. Everyone waited for the Canadian government to make a decision on the prisoners. With the government still reeling from the burning of their parliament building, a decision regarding the illegal detention centre in Toronto was not about to come anytime soon.
As the days passed, the Beckett family continued to huddle in quiet despair at the far end of the pier, in the corner farthest away from the sick and dying. Already eight people on the pier had died from a combination of exposure and disease. The guards at first had refused to take the first body away. With no choice, Shane had enlisted the help of three other men, who then wrapped the body of the deceased man in an old canvas tarp and lifted it over the fencing. A large splash echoed along the quay as the body hit the water of Toronto Harbour.
The enraged guards screamed at them to stop, claiming the drinking water would get contaminated from the disease, but nevertheless, they refused to open the gates for fear of starting a prisoner stampede. Instead, the guards had to remove the discarded body from the water using a fishing net and a collection of small dinghies. Since then, the guards had reluctantly agreed to have the dead passed over the gate for proper burial.
Shane fought back the tears as he looked at his tired children huddled at his feet. He took Chloë’s hand. She leaned against him, and he listened to the rhythm of her beating heart. What was to become of them? Left exposed on the dock, it was only a matter of time before they too would get sick and die.
“Please Lord, help us find a way out of this hellish purgatory,” he whispered, looking up into the endless blue sky.
In what seemed like an answer to his prayers, a loud bell rang in the waters behind him. Puzzled, he turned around to see a sleek white steamship rounding the western tip of the Toronto Islands. With its double stacks belching out black smoke and the bow aimed directly at their quay, the ship closed the distance between them in short order. Shane raised himself to his feet. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Through the haze of the afternoon sun, it appeared that the entire ship was being run by children! A teenager was at the helm while two young girls manned the bow lines. A boy no older than six stood on the stairs leading up to the wheelhouse, waving to everyone on the pier. Not knowing what else to do, Shane waved back. He could make out the name of the ship, the Flying Irishman, painted in childish lettering on the bow. The young “captain” stuck his head out of the wheelhouse window as the ship began to slow.
“Is this the quay where I heard Irish families are being held against their will?”
Shane raised his arms. “Yes, it is! We’re all Irish and they won’t let us leave the dock!”
“I don’t suppose that you would fancy a ride away from your dilemma?”
Shane looked at the crowd gathering behind him. All that still had strength to stand were staring at the bow of the huge ship in disbelief.
“And who are you?” asked Shane.
“A friend. My name is Jamie Galway.”
“That’s a wonderful offer, Mr. Galway, but we have a slight problem — this fence that has us trapped in here like caged animals.”
“Ah, the fence!” shouted Jamie. “It shouldn’t be a problem for very long. And your name, sir?”
“I’m Shane Beckett.”
“Beth, Laura, pass Mr. Beckett those bow lines. Mr. Beckett, if you would be so kind, could you tie those bow lines to the fence?”
Shane’s face lit up with understanding. “It would be my pleasure, captain!”
The boat approached the dock nose first.
Shane started to wave his arms. “You better slow down! You’re going to hit—”
The portside bow crunched into the end of the pier. Metal and wood screeched and groaned as the ship ground itself along the wooden quay. Everyone on board the ship stumbled forward from the imp
act. Jamie left the wheelhouse to look over the railing at the bow of his ship.
“Oh dear, did I scrape the paint? And I promised father I would bring it home without a scratch.”
Shane shook his head in disbelief as he took the thick ropes from the girls. With the help of three other men, they quickly knotted the thick ropes to the fence. “Is your whole crew children, Mr. Galway?”
“Indeed they are! I like to call them the Lost Boys, although some are indeed girls. Please back away from the fence. I’ve never tried this before. Actually, I’ve never tried sailing a ship before! Here we go!”
Jamie signalled the engine room to give the ship full reverse. Dark steam and smoke poured from the smokestacks as the paddlewheels dug into the waters of Toronto harbour. The fence pulled away from the quay as easily as paper torn from a wrapped Christmas present. The Irish prisoners gave a whoop of joy! The guards, taking in the improbable scene from the far end of the fenced quay, were furious. Some shouted to the prisoners to back away from the boat. Others ran off to get reinforcements.
A larger boy appeared at the bow of the ship wielding a fire axe. A large chunk of fence was now dragging through the water in front of the ship. He swung the axe sharply down on the taut bow lines. The axe sliced through them cleanly, which allowed the submerged metal fence to sink to the bottom of the harbour. The paddlewheels changed direction and began to push the ship forwards, back towards the quay.
“I might need a bit of help landing this ship,” Jamie shouted out. “First time docking as well!”
“Patrick, Ethan, Brian, Kyle!” shouted Shane. “You heard the lad! Get over here and help him land his ship!”
Shane turned back to the ship and cupped his hands. “You’re coming in too quickly! Turn hard to port, reverse the engines and slow yourself down!”
Jamie nodded, ducked back in the wheelhouse and took the wheel back from a girl no older than twelve. He pulled back on the telegraph. Within moments, the big paddle wheels started slapping the water in reverse, bringing the turning ship up against the end of the wharf. The ship slowly sideswiped the dock, and the impact eventually brought it to a screeching stop. Chips of white paint snowed down on the Irish onlookers like flakes of Christmas snow. Shane and the men grabbed the tossed mooring lines and together they wrestled the giant ship up against the dock. The paddlewheels ground to a halt. The young captain clambered down a ladder to the ship’s deck and, with the help of the child crew, threw the gangplank across to the quay. He then stepped across the gangplank and strode up to Shane.
The Emerald Key Page 17
