“Henry!” A woman collapsed to her knees near his head. As though she didn’t know what to do with her hands, she shook them before cradling his head in her lap. Sobs tore from her throat. “Why didn’t you just let him go? You foolish, foolish man! Why couldn’t you have stayed with me, Henry? Why? Why?” She shot her panicked gaze to Maeve’s. “Why aren’t you doing something for him?”
“I’m trying to stop the flow of blood, ma’am. I don’t know what else to do. I’m not a doctor.”
Henry’s eyes fluttered shut and back open. He couldn’t seem to focus on the woman.
“Don’t you die on me, Henry! We’re startin’ a new life in Illinois. Don’t you dare die. We’ve got five children to raise!”
Maeve’s stomach clenched.
Henry’s eyes closed and he emitted a deep ragged breath, then didn’t draw another.
“Henry! Don’t you die, Henry!”
Behind her, Maeve heard Bridget’s sob and then Nora urging her away.
Finally, Flynn arrived and knelt beside Maeve. “What’s happened?”
Relieved to see him, Maeve lifted her blood-soaked shawl to show him the stab wound in Henry’s belly.
“Do something!” the woman shrieked. “Don’t let him die!”
“Ma’am,” Flynn said softly. “He didn’t have a chance. This wound perforated too many of his organs. Even if I’d been here and immediately attempted surgery, I couldn’t have saved him. He lost blood too fast.”
She threw herself upon the dead man’s chest and sobbed.
Maeve wanted to comfort her, but her hands were soaked with blood. She released the shawl, sat back on her knees and looked at the other faces in the gathered crowd, just now seeing how many people had watched that scenario unfold.
From behind her, Nora stepped around Flynn and knelt beside the woman. She draped an arm over her shoulder and spoke softly. “Come away now, ma milis. I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can lie down. Where are your children?”
The woman raised her head. Her expression registered shock, confusion. “Oh, dear God. The children.” She looked at Nora then. “They’re back near our fire.”
Nora checked the crowd. “Does anyone know who this woman’s children are?”
A woman stepped forward. “I do. Their fire is beside ours.”
“Will you look after them, please? I’m going to take her to lie down.”
“Take her to our rooms,” Mrs. Kennedy offered. “It’s quiet there. Private.”
Once Nora had led away the grieving widow, Flynn ordered the nearby men to help him carry Henry’s body to the prow, where a coffin would be made.
Maeve got up and stared at her hands, then her skirt, which was hopelessly stained. She was angry. Angry that something like this could happen in the middle of a day filled with sunshine and salt spray. On the Sabbath, no less. A hideous crime leaving a woman with five fatherless children to raise.
The crowd had dispersed. A couple of the apprentices carried buckets to the scene and poured water on the deck. The water diluted the thickening blood, which ran into the cracks between the planks.
“Blood is depressin’ tough to remove from the deck,” one of them said.
Maeve’s skirt was ruined. Angrily, she reached for the button and ties in the back and stepped out of it. Not caring who saw, she wiped her hands on the wool, then used it to pick up her shawl before she stomped to the rail in her pantaloons. There, she flung the bloody clothing into the ocean.
Without a backward glance or a sideways look, she marched to the ladder and ran to her cabin to wash and change.
Most of their mates had gone to the cabin, too. A few of them spoke to her, telling her she’d done all she could, most lamenting the fact that a man with a family had been struck down in the prime of life.
“They said that other fella stole their sack of provisions, he did, and Henry was simply goin’ after what rightly belonged to ’im.”
“’Tis a pity, it is.”
“Poor woman. Five hungry mouths to feed and her man dead and gone. Can’t help but wonder what will become of them now.”
Maeve couldn’t bear the talk. She picked up her Bible and made her way to the dispensary, where she could be alone. She poured more water into a basin and used Flynn’s soap and brush to scrub her hands again, taking extra care to get under her nails.
The look in Henry’s eyes as he lay dying was yet another picture of despair and hopelessness she would never erase from her memory. Her hands were clean, but she continued to scrub until her skin was red and irritated.
She poured more water and washed her arms and her face, as well. Finally, she dried her skin, and her motions slowed. The horror of what had happened caught up to her. The enormity of this voyage and their uncertain fates overwhelmed her.
She backed up to the wall for support. Her chest was tight and her lungs near to bursting. She tried to hold in the emotion, but her face crumpled and scalding tears ran down her cheeks. Sliding to the floor, she sat in a huddle with her knees drawn up, her face buried in her clean skirt, and cried great heaving sobs.
She’d never cried this hard or this much. She’d been strong for her sisters and Da when Mother had died. She’d been strong yet again when Da had passed on. She’d been so resilient that sometimes she felt as though she must not have a tear in her.
But here they were, buckets of them, enough to soak her sleeve and the fabric over her knees. Blindly, she reached up to a drawer for a bandage rag on which to blow her nose and let herself simply breathe for several minutes.
Slow, even breaths.
If she felt this badly, how did Henry’s poor widow feel? And his children? How young were they?
The door opened.
Please not a patient, Lord, she prayed. She’d thoughtlessly left the portal unlocked.
A clean, pressed white shirt in her peripheral vision assured her differently, however.
Flynn.
“Maeve?” he said, spotting her huddled on the floor and walking toward her. “What are you doing down there? Are you all right?” He drew up short at the sight of her. “Ah, Maeve.”
“I’m fine,” she said, but her stuffy voice and nose belied that proclamation. She could only imagine what her face and eyes looked like. And her nose.
He went to the basin of water she’d used, wetted a cloth and wrung out the excess water. “Place this over your face for a few minutes.”
She obeyed and breathed through the damp cotton.
The cool cloth felt good on her skin, especially over her burning eyes.
He took one of her hands and splayed it open to examine it. “What have you done to yourself?”
After releasing her, he was gone for a moment and returned. With strong, warm fingers he rubbed glycerin into her raw skin. The massage felt better than she’d thought anything could. Her entire arm relaxed under his attention.
He let her shift that hand to hold the rag to her face and ministered to her other in the same way, applying the cool glycerin, massaging it into her flesh. Her other arm relaxed and tension gradually left her body.
Slowly peeling away the cloth, he dabbed glycerin with the pad of one finger under each eye.
He had another plan, because he went for more supplies and returned with peppermint oil. After he massaged a dab onto each of her temples, the oil spread coolness to her aching head, and the scent roused her flagging spirits.
Or perhaps it had been his tender care that had lifted her from despondency. She didn’t feel as hopeless as she had only a short while ago.
He urged her to her feet and guided her to one of the chairs, then pulled another near and sat before her. “There was nothing you could have done differently. What I told his wife was the truth. His wound was fatal. You comforted him in his dying moments.”
“I prayed for him. He asked me to.”
“You did more than most people would have.”
She nodded. “Perhaps. But knowing that doesn’t change wh
at happened or take away the futility I feel over one human being taking another’s life. It’s senseless.”
“We’re only people,” he said. “We do everything we can, but we’re not miracle workers.”
She agreed.
“What would your da say if he was here?”
Puzzled, she looked at him. “My da?”
He nodded. “Was he a wise man?”
She didn’t have to think too hard. The corner of her mouth quirked up. “He’d say, ‘Maeve, me fine daughter, aimin’ to cure the ails of this world is like hopin’ to mind mice at a crossroads.’”
Flynn chuckled. “You must take after him, because it sounds just like something you would say. So he was a wise man.”
“That he was.”
She ran her fingers through hair that had fallen loose and tugged it away from her face. “It all rose up strong today, all the pain I’ve been pushing back and keeping inside and thinking I was over it.”
“Maybe that’s good.”
“Maybe it is.”
“You’re the bravest woman I know.”
She looked into his dark eyes. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes. You jump right in and take a situation in hand. In fact, I’m a little bit concerned for you, since that seems to be your habit. I don’t know what you’ll get yourself mixed up in next.”
“Well, I’m thinkin’ about those fatherless children and Henry’s widow. The Bible tells us to take care of widows and orphans.”
He shook his head. “Here you are, not concerned about your own future, because you trust God has that in hand, but instead thinking how you can do something to improve their future?”
“Well…” She thought a minute. “Yes.”
He laughed, and those dimples winked at her.
Without thought for consequences or propriety, she placed her palm against his warm cheek. The texture of his beard was pleasantly rough. “Thank you, Flynn.”
“My pleasure.” Quite spontaneously, he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, a kiss that seemed as natural and pure as rain on a spring day.
Chapter Seventeen
It was a kiss of comfort, a bond of mutual understanding. This kiss showed care and compassion. Nothing more.
But if that was true, why did she feel as though she’d been swept overboard and caught up in a turbulent current? He threaded his fingers into her hair, and she longed to stand and have him wrap his arms around her.
Now she kissed him in return. Earnestly, without thought for anything as simple as comfort. She wanted to drown in his kiss.
The thrill of it was as amazing as last time…yet terrifying on the other hand. She feared she might burst into tears again, and that would never do. The beauty of it buoyed her and kept her on the chair when she might otherwise have toppled to the floor. Only one thing kept her from losing herself in his embrace.
Last time he’d apologized.
She inched away, and he released her.
“Will you be telling me you’re sorry again?” She searched his dark mahogany-colored eyes. “I don’t enjoy being someone’s regret.”
“I can’t regret kissing you, Maeve.”
“Are you not promised to your Miss Boyd?”
Something moved behind his eyes. Was that regret or surprise? “No, I’m not. Kathleen and I are friends.”
“She and her mother speak differently. You and she seem so comfortable in each other’s company. She doesn’t see herself as your friend.”
He frowned in confusion. “I’ve never let her think I’m interested in more. We have mutual friends, memories of our home. We talk and that’s all.”
“You feel nothing for her.” It wasn’t a question.
“Friendship, Maeve. Only friendship.”
“You have never kissed her?”
“Not once,” he assured her.
“Then these kisses of ours…perhaps they do mean something?”
The look in his eyes was definitely confusion. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
She stood on trembling legs and picked up her Bible from a counter. “You can’t avoid your heart forever. Maybe if you faced your feelings you’d recognize what is it you want.”
“Just because you run directly at a problem without forethought doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the only way.”
This time she did think before she spoke. And she held what she really wanted to say in check. “I came seeking privacy. I’ll be leaving now.”
“You might want to stay away awhile longer. The council is deciding the fate of the man who stabbed Henry to death.”
“The council?”
“Yes. Remember the group of men who were selected by their fellow passengers to mete out justice during the journey?”
“What about the captain?”
“He is like a judge. The council is comparable to a jury.”
“What do you suppose they’ll decide?”
“Murder is met with swift punishment in any country as well as on the sea.”
She headed for the door.
He didn’t try to stop her, but he followed.
On deck, passengers were gathered around the prow, much as they had the day Bridget Collins had been buried at sea. A man in a gray suit stood to pronounce the council’s decision.
“We didn’t deliberate long,” he said. “And we’ve come to a unanimous decision. This man who refuses to give his name will be thrown overboard immediately.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Maeve felt sick to her stomach. She’d lived in a peaceful little farming community her entire life. The most momentous events had been births and deaths by natural causes. She’d never before witnessed a murder or an execution. “Can’t we take the man to Boston and give him a trial?” she called out.
“Massachusetts law wouldn’t recognize a crime committed aboard ship,” the speaker replied. “We’re the judge and jury here.”
“What of imprisonment?” she asked.
There were more murmurs from the gathering.
“Again there’s the issue of who’s responsible for his imprisonment.”
Another member of the council spoke up. “And meanwhile would you have us feed the vile man from our own provisions? Why, he tried to steal Henry Begg’s food right from his children’s mouths. And when Henry called ’im out, he killed him. He showed Henry Begg no mercy, and he deserves none.”
The man was hauled out into the open. Had an evil look about him he did, and a contemptuous glare. Sweat soaked his hair and ruddy face. His hands had been restrained behind his back, a rope tied about his shoulders and another at his feet.
“You have one last chance to state your name for the ship’s record and to notify any family you may have,” Captain Conley said.
The prisoner spat at him, but the captain was far enough away to avoid being hit.
Captain Conley opened his Bible and read a passage. The words didn’t register with Maeve. He finished, closed his Bible and nodded at the mates who held the prisoner in place.
They hauled him up to the stern and balanced him there for a moment as wind whipped their hair.
Maeve’s heart beat hard and painfully. She didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t tear away her gaze. Lord, take his soul.
A sailor lashed out with a mighty shove, and the nameless man plunged headfirst into the waters below.
Her surroundings wavered in her vision. Maeve closed her eyes. Flynn grasped her by the shoulders and held her in place from behind. She hadn’t realized she’d been swaying where she stood. At the sound of soft weeping, she opened her eyes and spotted Henry’s wife surrounded by children of various heights and ages. The youngest was a chubby baby on her hip; the head of the eldest came to her shoulder. One small boy clung to her skirts, looking confused.
A moment later, the sound of bagpipes floated on the salt-laden air, adding another dimension to the event and stirring memories of home.
A plain pine box drilled with large holes was ca
rried through the crowd and placed reverently upon the deck.
Now a funeral.
“‘So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written,’” Captain Conley read. “‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law.’” He turned. “Come now, Mrs. Begg, and say your last goodbyes to your husband.”
She walked forward, still holding the toddler, and reached toward the pine box with a trembling hand, but then drew it back. The youngsters who were old enough to understand what was happening, cried openly. She ushered them away from the coffin and stood trembling.
Sailors in their best clothing worked two lengths of rope around the box and hoisted it up and out over the water. The bagpipes played a haunting melody, a familiar hymn, with which those standing in watch sang along.
Maeve couldn’t sing. Her throat had constricted. She’d cried out every last tear earlier, so though her eyes still burned and her nose stung, she had nothing left.
Once the sailors lowered the ropes, the pine box pitched into the ocean.
Maeve couldn’t allow herself to think of Henry’s body, just as she’d been unable to think of her father’s. At least Da’s remains were on a lush hillside in his beloved homeland and not buried under tons of water and— She caught herself.
Henry Begg wasn’t there in that fleshly vessel, she reminded herself. He’d gone onto heaven to await his family. Neither could she dwell on the poor Begg woman’s shock and grief.
She went for a cup from their cooking area and placed a few coins inside, then made the rounds of the cook fires, asking her fellow passengers to share with the unfortunate widow. The cup was brimming when she delivered it to Mrs. Begg. “I know it’s not much. And it won’t go far, but I shall pray for it to be multiplied.”
The woman thanked her, and Maeve joined her sisters in Aideen and Mrs. Kennedy’s stateroom.
Their previously lighthearted mood had vanished, and the ladies worked together with somber determination.
“It’s easier on my eyes to do this in the sunlight,” Aideen commented. She had picked up a basted bodice and begun stitching darts.
The Wedding Journey Page 15
