by Avi
“Maura?” Patrick said finally.
“What’s that?”
“What will happen to Mother?”
Maura looked at him sadly. “I don’t know.”
“And what will we be telling Da?”
“Just as she asked us to.”
“Maura?” Patrick repeated.
She looked around to see tears coursing down his cheeks. “I’m wondering if we’ll ever see her again.”
“Faith then, I can’t read the future,” she replied.
Patrick pressed his face into Maura’s lap. For a while he remained motionless. Only when the boat began to pitch and yaw did he sit up. He gazed out over the boat’s side. “We’re coming out upon the sea,” he said in awe.
Maura looked for herself. Patrick was right. The sea was before them. As one, both turned to gaze at the retreating land. Trees and houses could still be distinguished, but soon they melded into a low mass of green. Then the green itself disappeared. Nothing remained but the sea, with whitecaps rising and rolling for as far as they could see. Ireland was gone.
Patrick turned and surveyed the crowded deck. People were so packed together there was hardly any room to sit. There seemed to be as many old people as young ones, more men than women. Their clothing was as tattered as his own. Many clung to boxes and bundles, as they did. Everybody looked scared. Patrick recalled the placard in Cork, listing the Queen of the West as carrying three hundred and fifty passengers. Surely, there were more.
He turned to his sister. “How long before Liverpool?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Father Mahoney said it depended on the weather.”
Patrick scanned the sky. It was the same gray color as the sea, broken only by the black smoke that trailed from the funnels. “If it gets bad, will we be able to find a place below?” he asked.
“I suppose,” Maura replied without much thought.
“Maura?”
She looked around at him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Instead of answering, she reached out and pulled him close. “Oh, Patrick,” she said, her voice trembling, “I’ll be needing your help as much as you’ll be needing mine.”
“I’ll try,” Patrick told her, flattered that his sister would acknowledge her need of him.
The moment passed. Maura recovered her composure. She eased her brother away.
“Do you think they’ll be giving us food soon?” he asked.
“Sure, I couldn’t say. Why don’t you go and find out? I’ll stay right here.”
Patrick braced himself against the roll of the ship and then moved off.
Maura watched him go. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she whispered. “Thee are three. We are two. Protect us.”
As Patrick made his way through the crowded deck, the constant shifting movement of the Queen of the West made him feel queasy. He tried to keep his eyes on people. One or two of them he recognized from the road. These he greeted like old friends.
He found a boy about his own age, sitting forlornly on top of a large bundle. The two eyed each other with suspicion.
“Good evening to you,” Patrick said.
“Good evening to you,” the boy responded.
“Are you going to America?” Patrick asked.
“Canada.”
“And where would that be?” Patrick asked.
The boy shrugged. “Across the ocean. I’ve an uncle who’s there. He wrote and said a man can have as much land as he wants. No end to it, and all of it free.”
Patrick nodded. “My father’s been for less than a year, but he’s already rich. He sent us money to come.”
The boy considered Patrick solemnly. “Aye, they say it’s not so hard.”
Patrick looked out over the water for a moment at one huge side wheel lifting and flinging down buckets of white foam. Then he asked, “Do you know when they’ll be offering the food?”
The boy shook his head. “There won’t be any.”
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked, alarmed.
“The only thing you get for your ten shillings is passage to Liverpool. No food. It’s what my da told me. It’s the boat to America that feeds you.”
Patrick felt his stomach growl. “Are you sure?”
“It’s true,” the boy insisted.
Refusing to believe such a thing, Patrick worked his way forward again. He saw a sailor coiling and securing some rope. Near him on the deck lay a piece of bread and cheese that, from time to time, he picked up and bit into. Hungrily, Patrick approached him.
After standing unnoticed for some minutes, he said, “Please, Your Honor, will there be any food for us?”
The sailor neither stopped his work nor looked up. “Food!” he spit out with indignation. “Do you think you’ve boarded an inn, Paddy? We’re just a channel crosser. Get off with you!”
Patrick stood his ground. “What about water?”
“Help yerself,” the sailor said. “It’s all around.” Laughing, he turned his back. The moment he did, Patrick leaned forward, snatched up the bread and cheese, and flung both into the sea. Then he ran off before the sailor noticed.
“There’ll be no food,” Patrick informed Maura when he returned. “They don’t give any at all.”
Maura blanched. “Are you sure?”
“Two people told me so, and one of them a sailor. There’s not even water.”
“Then we’ll have to make do with what remains of the cornmeal we brought.” She made a motion toward their bundles.
Patrick restrained her. “I’ll wait,” he said with a shake of his head, “for Liverpool.”
“You’ll be waiting hours.”
“I’m willing.” He dropped down beside her. Gradually, his eyes dimmed and he fell asleep, his head rolling with the motion of the ship. Maura turned him gently to rest in her lap.
After some hours, the ship’s pitching movement grew violent. Over and again, it rose high on a wave only to drop down sickeningly as though into a pit. Seawater spray showered everyone. The first time it happened, there was a startled shriek from many. The second time, the cries ceased, replaced by moans. People became ill. The boat began to stink of it.
The air grew colder, the sky darker. Maura drew her shawl tighter. And then it began to rain, slowly at first, a mist indistinguishable from ocean spray. When the storm strengthened, people began to stir, struggling toward the steps that they presumed would lead them to protected areas below decks. The sailors refused to let them pass.
The crowd objected angrily. The sailors, in turn, grew hostile. “You’re to stay on the top deck,” they insisted, and hefted belaying pins to show they meant it. “There’s no room below. No room below!”
The passengers retreated, huddling together like sheep for protection.
As the wind rose, sailors appeared with tarpaulins, sheets of old canvas sail coated with tar to make them waterproof. “Get under these,” they barked as they flung the tarpaulins out.
People spread them quickly and, though already wet, crept beneath them. Heavy, ill-smelling, the sails were too small to cover everyone. Even those who managed to find shelter, like Patrick and Maura, were barely protected. It was difficult to breathe. The stench was loathsome.
Cold rain and seawater lashed the deck, soaking even those under the tarpaulins. Maura and Patrick clung to each other, engulfed by groans and the murmurs of piteous prayer.
When Patrick began to shiver violently, Maura twisted onto her knees and grabbed his hand. “Come with me,” she cried above the wind.
Groping their way in the darkness, they crawled over others to get out from under the tarpaulin. The moment they emerged, Maura regretted her decision. Bad as it had been beneath the tarpaulin, the open deck was worse. Windswept rain beat fiercely upon the open deck, making it slippery under their bare feet. The only light came from a few lanterns swinging wildly as the boat heaved and tossed. Many people had found no protection from the wet. The first mate, steering the ship from atop one
paddle wheel, was as drenched as any of them.
Maura retreated to the tarpaulin, plucking at the edge to lift it. Stronger hands pulled the same edge down, refusing to let them crawl back under.
“This way then,” she called in desperation. Finding Patrick’s hand again, she worked her way across the deck in search of stairs leading below. She found them only to discover they were covered over by a grilled hatch, and the hatch was lashed down. No matter how she pulled at it, it would not open. Desperate, she lay flat and peered through the hatch holes in hopes of seeing someone whom she might call for help. What she saw, and smelled, was cattle. They were being protected. Not the people.
Furious, Maura scrambled up and, with Patrick in tow, made her way to the ship’s bulwark. She pushed her brother against it, then huddled down in front of him, to protect him as best she could. His teeth were chattering. The sound beat relentlessly upon her heart.
The storm lasted three hours. All through it Maura and Patrick endured the open deck. When the harsh weather passed, the sky cleared and they saw the moon. But soon it vanished, and only the cold, damp dark remained. Still the great side wheels churned, throbbing monotonously as the ship plowed over the sea.
Patrick slept poorly. Maura, blue with cold, her feet numb, merely dozed. “Liverpool,” she chanted to herself, as if it were a prayer. “May Liverpool come soon.”
But, sir,” the boy pleaded, “you have no reason to whip me!”
Dressed in a black cutaway dinner jacket, bleached white cravat, and polished leather shoes, Sir Laurence Kirkle looked like a miniature adult. It was his voice—piping, almost babyish—that revealed him to be but eleven. With sandy-colored hair, rosy cheeks, and bright eyes, he seemed to be in bloom. At that moment, however, he was swallowing chest-heaving sobs, his eyes were filling with tears, and his fingers were twitching with agitation. For he was standing before his father, the Right Honorable Lord Kirkle of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria’s Treasury Bench. And in his lordship’s hands was the long, thin wooden cane he used to thrash his sons.
A florid fat man of some sixty years, Lord Kirkle had carefully trimmed gray whiskers and pronounced lines of age that splayed, fanlike, from the corners of red, watery eyes. The clothing he wore was similar in cut to his son’s, though he had a silken waistcoat over which a golden watch and chain glistened.
“Laurence,” his lordship said, his deep voice trembling with emotion, “the choice is entirely yours. You either do what you have been told or you’ll receive punishment.” He held up the cane to prove he was in earnest.
“But it’s not fair!” Laurence cried. “He’s only trying to make you angry at me.” He glanced at the third Kirkle in the room, his brother, Albert.
Albert was fifteen years old, and on his way to duplicating his father’s stocky figure. He too was in formal clothes, though he seemed to strain against them with thick shoulders, dangling wrists, and constantly fidgeting hands. He was slouched against the marble mantel, now and again nervously cracking the knuckles of one hand with the other. On his lips was an ill-concealed smirk.
“Laurence,” Lord Kirkle continued, “it is the custom of our nation, as it is the custom of the Kirkle family, that the first son”—he nodded toward Albert—“stands second only to the father. Albert shall carry our name forward as the future Lord Kirkle. Why must I remind you of that yet again?” There was weariness in his voice.
“You needn’t, sir,” Laurence replied sullenly. “I understand.”
“Since he is my elder son,” Lord Kirkle continued, “and you are the younger, he may make demands of you. It is your duty to oblige him. It will be so for the rest of your life.”
“I’ll never take orders from him,” Laurence cried, noting his brother’s mocking look.
“And I say you shall,” Lord Kirkle insisted.
“I’d run away first,” Laurence threw back in rage.
“Oh, stop this nonsense!” his lordship roared.
Laurence, unable to withstand his father’s fierce gaze, cast his eyes about the study. It was a large ornate room, bursting with bulky furniture and, at the moment, very warm. Beneath an elaborately framed mirror, the coal in the marble fireplace glowed. Wall sconces blazed with wax candles, for the afternoon was dark. Heavy green velvet curtains graced the tall windows. On two walls, bookcases were filled with leather-bound, gilt-edged tomes. Thick rugs lay upon the floor. A huge table, which his father used as a desk, stood at one end of the room, from which could easily be read the Kirkle family motto chiseled below the mantel. Glumly, Laurence read it now:
FOR COUNTRY, GLORY—FOR FAMILY, HONOR
On the wall hung portraits of the former Lord Kirkles from 1605 to the present day, 1851. Each was ruffed, wigged, or bearded in the fashion of the day. To Laurence, they all seemed to be glaring at him wrathfully.
With a sigh of exasperation, Lord Kirkle hooked thick thumbs into vest pockets, setting the gold chain to jangling. Turning to his elder son, he said, “Do you have anything to say?”
“My lord,” Albert began, trying to force his voice into a lower register even as he rubbed his red blotched face, “all I asked him to do was blacken my boots.”
“That’s what the Irish servants do!” Laurence interrupted fiercely. “He only wants to mock me. To hold me down. It’s not fair!”
“Fairness is not the issue here!” his father thundered. “We are considering privilege. It is not your privilege to determine what is right or wrong. Your elder brother, Albert, has the right to demand of you whatsoever pleases him.”
“Sir,” Albert interjected, “may I say something?”
Lord Kirkle scowled. “You may,” he said.
“My lord, I didn’t want to go into the details of this business with you. I was hoping, sir, it would stay a matter between my brother and me. I know you hate bickering.”
“I do, sir.”
“But since Laurence had the cheek to appeal to you, I think I should tell you the particulars of his crimes.”
Laurence looked at his elder brother with astonishment.
“Continue,” Lord Kirkle told Albert.
The young man stepped away from the mantel, turned to glare at his brother, then shifted around to look at his father. “Sir, I know the task I set for Laurence was low. I only did it to give him a taste of punishment. You see, my lord, though I told him not to enter my room, I discovered him there, snooping. The thing is, sir, I caught him taking a pen from my desk. Without permission. He was stealing, sir.”
Stunned, Laurence reacted with fury. “Liar!” he cried.
“Let your brother speak,” his father barked.
“But I never—”
“Silence!”
“I was thinking, sir,” Albert continued—he kept glancing toward Laurence and smirking—“that if he begins by stealing my pen, my dear mother’s gift, he might go on and do a lot worse if I didn’t punish him. I was just trying to bring him to an understanding of right from wrong.
“I’m telling you this because Laurence is not merely a liar, sir. He’s a scoundrel. And a thief. He should be punished.”
Lord Kirkle glowered reproachfully at Laurence.
“None of it is true,” Laurence insisted in a squeaky whisper. “None of it. You know how he hates me.”
“Are you implying,” Lord Kirkle rumbled, “that your elder brother has been untruthful?”
“He’s making it all up, sir,” Laurence cried hotly. “He is! You know he is! He’s jealous of me.”
“Jealous!” Albert roared. “What’s there for me to be jealous of?”
“Because,” Laurence shouted, “our father cares more for me than he does you!”
Red-faced, Albert stepped forward. “You’re not just a thieving liar,” he snarled, “you’re a disgrace to the family! You ought to be kicked out of this house!”
In a rage Laurence flung himself at his brother and began to beat on him with his fists. Under the assault, Albert fell back.
“L
aurence!” Lord Kirkle cried. Striding forward, he snatched at Laurence’s collar, yanking the boy back with such force that he staggered, twisted around, became entangled in his own feet, and crashed to the ground.
The next moment Lord Kirkle was standing over him. “Face me!” he bellowed.
A terrified Laurence looked up.
“I will not have you attacking your brother!” their father said.
“But, sir, I—”
“You shall thank your brother on your knees for informing me of your wickedness.”
Laurence, weeping copiously, sputtered, “I won’t! He’s the liar. He is!”
Lord Kirkle stiffened with anger. “Albert!” he thundered, thrusting the cane into the young man’s hand. “You may strike your ungrateful brother four times.”
I’m not ungrateful!” Laurence sobbed hysterically. “I’m not!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Albert lashed down with all his strength. The cane struck Laurence on the cheek, causing an instant bloody red welt.
With a shriek of pain, the boy covered his face and attempted to run for the door. Albert was too quick. Blocking his way, he struck again and again, forcing Laurence up against his father’s massive table. With every cut, Laurence clutched his head, his arms, his chest with convulsive jerks and twists. “Please!” he cried. “Stop!”
“Enough!” Lord Kirkle shouted, finally restraining his elder son. “Enough, I say!”
Panting with exertion, Albert let himself be pulled away. In his hand, the cane twitched like an angry cat’s tail.
Crying bitterly, Laurence lay in a crumpled heap. A red welt, from his right ear to his chin, oozing blood, disfigured the side of his face. His jacket was cut in many places. A sleeve had been ripped.
Lord Kirkle and Albert looked down at the miserable boy. Neither spoke. At last their father said, “Albert, you may leave the room.”
“If I—”
“Albert! Go!”
“Yes, sir. But with your permission, sir, I’d like to keep the cane.”
“You will leave it, sir!”
Albert started to protest but stopped when he saw how upset his father was. Instead of speaking, he flipped the cane at Laurence. It hit the boy and fell to the rug. With that, Albert bowed to his father and walked casually from the room, a smile fixed upon his face. Behind him, the massive door shut.
