Silence the Dead

by David Crossman

  If they reached the other side.

  Still . . .

  It was early evening when, amidst the briganteens and cutters, sloops, fishing smacks, ships of the coastal patrol, barques, schooners, sidewheel steamers, and dories, they found the brig, Crimea.

  “Now I know where they got the name,” said Thomas, as they looked at the brig tied up to a particularly ramshackle dock at an aggressively ramshackle end of the pier. “It was in the Crimean War.”

  Even Katy, who had never seen a ship of that size before, was not impressed. “Did it sink?”

  The ship was grappled to shore by more than the customary network of ropes, and Thomas wondered if that was what was keeping her afloat. He estimated her length at a hundred and thirty feet, give or take a yard. Originally built of pine, she had undergone numerous repairs with wood of varying types, with varying degrees of craftsmanship, until the repaired parts obscured most of the original structure, and smeared with pitch and grime, seemed all that held her together.

  The furled sails – even a farmer could tell – had held more than their share of wind, and if they had ever been white, bore no evidence. In fact, the whole ship – from bowsprit to poop – was little more than a rough sketch of a poorly formed idea.

  Tiffin, likewise, had never clapped eyes on such a vessel – except those that passed by well out to sea, but some instinct told him the Crimea had arrived at a point in its career where it was transitioning from a ship to . . . something else. “Are we sailing on that?”

  An ant-like procession of passengers were trodding up the gangplanks and disappeared into the holds without once looking up. This was where their road led. It made no difference what it looked like; heaven or hell, this ship either was or led to their destiny. There was nowhere else to go. So, clutching whatever belongings had been left them by an ancestral line leading all the way back to the Garden, they shuffled toward the New World, or their own personal apocalypse.

  As they watched, Thomas battled bravely to conceal his dismay. Bravely, but not effectively.

  “Thomas?”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad.” His heart was turning to lead in his chest, pressing down on his stomach, and leaving a gaping hollow filled with the silent scream of his soul. Every atom of his being recoiled from this sea-going death sentence. How could he possibly protect the children once they were at the mercy of the ocean? Where would he find the courage to climb that gangway, to watch as it was withdrawn, and the lines securing them to Ireland untied? “Probably cozy down below.”

  Only Sarah wasn’t dismayed. “Tish! I seen worse’n ‘er! She’s a right palace, is ‘er. Mind you get some good ‘ardtack, and some lime juice and water, you’ll be right as rain. Six weeks will fly!”

  “Six!” said Thomas and Tiffin in unison. “It’s only three weeks.”

  Sarah laughed. “Aye, that’s so . . . fer a steamer. The Adriatic done it in only six days to Newfoundland . . . I seen ‘er go. But,” she said, looking at the vessel that would carry the Conlans to their fate, “the only thing steamin’ on ‘er is the shit in the ‘old.”

  “Six weeks,” said Tiffin, for whom time had never had much significance. That was about to change, and he knew it.

  At that instant, a clamor arose aboard the ship. An older man, a mane of wild gray hair gripping the fringes of his bald head, was pursuing a boy up the gangplank, dispersing passengers right and left – several of whom fell in amongst the refuse floating in the narrow strip of harbor between ship and shore. Lines were immediately thrown in to fish them out.

  The boy, outpacing the old man with ease, stopped running, climbed a nearby winch boom not ten feet from the Conlans, and utilizing his hands, tongue, facial features, and various sound effects, registered eloquent contempt without once uttering a word.

  “I’ll have y’er hide, you black-hearted . . . ” The old man was too winded to finish the sentence without first catching his breath. He leaned on a wine cask, drew in a lungful of air with which to propel whatever verbal gust was to be forthcoming, and let fly. “Jackanapes! Thievin’ blackguard!” He bent and coughed and spit on the dock. “Blast his hide.”

  Suddenly raising his head, his dark gray eyes flashing with anger, he seized at once on Thomas. “You, boy!” he said, crooking his finger. “Come here!”

  Thomas turned his head, thinking how grateful he was not to be whoever it was who was about to bear the brunt of the gentleman’s wrath. But no one was there.

  “He’s talking to you,” said Tiffin.

  “You, boy!” said the man. “Come here, I say!”

  Thomas stumbled forward. “Me, sir?”

  “Yes, sir. You, sir. What’s your name?”

  “Thomas?”

  “Is that a question or an answer?”

  “That’s my name, sir.”

  “Then say it like one.”

  “Thomas, sir.”

  “Thomas what?”

  “Conlan, sir.”

  “How old are ye, Conlan?”

  “Sixteen, sir,” said Thomas, feeling he was being inspected. “Almost seventeen.”

  “Almost seventeen,” said the man, more to himself than Thomas. “Bound for America?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “‘ey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man skewered Sarah and the younger Conlans with a look. “Them your family?”

  “Yes, sir. That is, the little ones are my brother and sister. That’s Katy, and . . . ”

  “What about t’other’n?”

  “That’s Sarah.”

  “Let me see your passage.”

  Thomas immediately imagined the old man was attempting to steal his tickets. His hand went to his pocket. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, sir. That’s for the captain.”

  “What do you think I am?” the old man snarled, “a fairy princess?”

  Someone less like a fairy princess Katy could not imagine. She laughed aloud.

  “You . . . you’re the captain?” Thomas ventured.

  “At your service.”

  “Of this ship?”

  “The very same.”

  “The Crimea?”

  “The pride of the seas.” The Captain held out his hand. “Now, let me see your papers.”

  Chapter Six

  Tentatively, Thomas withdrew the precious bundle from his inside pocket. The Captain snatched it away, untied the string, and flipped through the papers roughly. “There’s only passage here for three.”

  “That’s right,” said Thomas. “The two little ones and me.”

  The Captain shook the papers at Sarah. “What about ‘er?”

  “She’s . . . she’s a friend. Come to see us off.”

  “Come to see you off, ‘as she?” said the Captain, eyeing her closely. At that moment, a tall, thin man who had bustled up breathlessly a minute or so earlier and hovered around in the background since then, leaned forward and whispered something into the Captain’s ear.

  “Is that so?” the Captain replied, a knowing gleam filtering into his eyes. “Your name Sarah, girl?”

  “ ‘Oo wants to know?”

  The Captain laughed. “ ‘Oo wants to know, she says.” He bowed toward her. “Captain Josiah Quigley, at your service, your ladyship. That’s ‘oo would like to know, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” He laughed again, sweeping up the gathering audience in a quick, disdainful glance. “What’re you lot goppin’ at!” He swung an arm at his public, who retreated beyond reach. Turning back to Sarah, he resumed his interrogation.

  For no apparent reason, she said. “Me name’s Sadie.”

  Thomas and Tiffin exchanged querying glances, but said nothing.

  “Thought I heard ‘Sarah’” said Quiggly.

  “Orta clean your ears,” said the self-christened ‘Sadie’ with a mischievous tilt of the head.

  “East-ender, ‘ey?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Long way from ‘ome, in’t ya?”

 
“I like travel.”

  “You got family, girl?”

  “Wot’s it to ya?”

  “It’s a simple enough question, ain’t it? No ‘arm meant by it. You got family . . . or you been travelin’ alone?”

  Her expression told the Captain all he needed to know. He looked her up and down, then did the same to Thomas. “How’d you like to take your friend ‘ere to America?”

  Things were moving too quickly for Thomas. He tossed a glance at Sarah, then back at the Captain. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothin’ hidden in my meanin’. You want ‘er to come to America with you?”

  “I don’t . . . we don’t have enough money.”

  “We have . . . ” Tiffin began. Thomas kicked him in the shin. The action wasn’t wasted on the Captain, but he had other things on his mind.

  “That’s not what I asked, is it, Master Tom?” The Captain, folding his arms behind his back, began a brief circumnavigation of Thomas. “I’ve got a proposition for ye.”

  Thomas, to whom the words sounded like something the Devil might say, cringed and waited.

  “You work your way across as my cabin boy, to replace that bit of flotsam wot just debarked with a fistful of my silver in his pocket, an’ she kin ‘ave your ticket.” He flicked the papers meaningfully.

  Thomas turned a flustered, bewildered face to Sarah, who adopted the expression and returned it. “Me? Go to America?”

  “That’s what I said. Well, do we have a bargain?”

  “Do you want to go?” Thomas asked weakly.

  “Please!” said Katy, at which the Captain smiled slyly.

  “There, now. Listen to the little one.” He scraped his bony hand through Katy’s hair.

  “Please,” Tiffin said.

  Quiggly simply raised his eyebrows.

  With a quick look around, Sarah surveyed her past and her prospects. Her deliberations were brief. “Right, then.” She looked at Thomas. “If you’ll ‘ave me,” she said, as if he’d asked her to marry him. “I’ll come along, as I’ve nothin’ pressin’ at present.”

  Quiggly laughed. “There!” he said, slapping Thomas on the shoulder. “You’re not going to leave ‘er ‘ere now, are ye!”

  “I guess not,” Thomas stuttered, his tongue betraying him.

  “It’s a bargain, then?” said the Captain, holding out his hand.

  Hesitating pointlessly, he took Quiggly’s hand and squeezed it half-heartedly.

  “One thing,” said Quiggly, leaning close. “She’s your lookout, you understand?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “What I says is what I mean. You best know that about me right off, Mr. Conlan. Know that right off and we’ll get along a treat. What I mean about the girl is, she’s yours as much as them other two. If she misbehaves, or gets out of line . . . or steals anything . . . ” The look he turned on Sarah dripped with meaning, “it’ll be taken out on your back. Can’t be fairer than that, can I?”

  Thomas’s head hurt. He appealed to Sarah with pathetic eyes.

  “No fear,” she croaked. She’d never felt the kind of excited anticipation that was suddenly swarming through her brain, and she didn’t know what to do with it. She was going to America!

  “Done!” said Quiggly, slapping his knees. He performed a sweeping, theatrical gesture. “You may all join the other passengers at your leisure. We sail with the tide, so be aboard within the hour.”

  He was about to turn away, then hesitated. “An’ them boots, Mr. Conlan. They won’t serve in the job you’ve got to do. Won’t serve at all. Get yourself somethin’ more practical for runnin’ about the ship.”

  “Yes, sir.” Thomas wondered if he should salute.

  “Good.” Quiggly seemed to be considering something. “Good. Now, if you like, I’ll keep them’n’s in my cabin.”

  “No,” Thomas said quickly. “I’ll . . . we’ll take care of ‘em.”

  Quiggly shrugged. “As you wish. But keep a look out.” He smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth, “you’ll find there’s them amongst y’er fellow passengers’ll rob you blind.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Sleep wi’ one eye open aboard the Crimea, ol’ son. One eye open an’ the other not closed too tight.”

  Katy experimented, closing one eye then the other. “How do you sleep with one eye open?”

  Thomas watched as the Captain returned to his ship, rudely pushing a number of passengers aside as he climbed the gangway. “It’s a figure of speech. Don’t you worry about it, Captain Quiggly,” he said to Quiggly’s back. “We’ll keep an eye out.”

  “I’m goin’ to America.” Sarah whispered the words, rolling them around on her tongue as the reality dawned. “Me great bleedin’ Aunt Bess, I’m goin’ to America!”

  “In my care,” Thomas reminded. “You’ve got to behave . . . or he’ll take it out on me. You heard that part, didn’t you? If anything happens to me, these two . . . ”

  For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Sarah became serious. “I ‘eard ‘im, Tommy.” She crossed her heart. “I swear I’ll be good as a lamb, I will. Any ‘idin’ as you get, you’ll ‘ave earned on y’er own account.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I mean to pay you back fer this one day, Tommy . . . I mean, you workin’ my way over. I’ll pay you back fer that . . . one day. You’ll see.”

  “No need. You help me get these two across safe,” said Thomas, briefly embracing his brother and sister, “an’ we’ll be square.”

  To make up their fare, many would-be travelers sold off whatever of their possessions they felt they could do without. Harbor-side vendors bid for these, then re-sold them to other passengers who couldn’t do without. Among these - given his need for shoes - was Thomas.

  “Why Sadie?” asked Tiffin as they shuffled through the crowds at dockside.

  Sarah didn’t know. “It’s gonna be a new life, Tiffy old son,” she said. “Why not start it with a new name?”

  “What about a last name?”

  This hadn’t occurred to her. “I’ll hafta give that some consideration.”

  “Well, Sadie,” said Tiffin, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Los Pinos Creek, Colorado

  March 5, 1957

  “I can’t imagine what it must have been like to cross the ocean under those conditions.”

  Regan half-laughed. “What about crossing the Colorado mountains in early spring . . . and getting caught in an aval-anche?”

  Maryellen, tracing an abstract figure on the frost-covered window, smiled at the irony. “Good point. I guess it’s relative to what you know.”

  “You’re right, though. It was a hard time . . . rough crossing.” He rummaged through his knapsack. “Tiffin kept a journal . . . ”

  “You have it?!”

  “Some of it,” said Regan, carefully extracting a sheaf of yellowed pages. “Most of it was destroyed at some point during their travels . . . water damage. But here and there are chunks of text, like this one about the voyage, that tell a whole story. At least most of the story. There are still lacunae . . . ”

  “Lacunae?”

  “Blank spaces,” Ryan explained.

  She was captivated as much by Ryan’s enthusiasm for his subject as by the subject itself. In fact, she was beginning to find him quite captivating. “Read it to me.”

  “You’re sure? I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Oh, you won’t. Besides, it’s not as if we don’t have time.”

  “Are you warm enough? I’m sorry we had to let the fire go out, but . . . ”

  “I know. I’m sorry I was so . . . I understand now. The smoke would suffocate us.”

  “Might . . . ”

  “Might. Better safe.” She smiled and leaned against him. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not getting cold. I think it would help if we stayed close together.”

  At the moment, Regan wasn’t feeling cold in the least. Quite the opposite. Nevertheless, he was happy to sha
re the surplus of heat that his heart seemed to be cranking out.

  “Read on.”

  Regan carefully turned the pages. “The first half of the voyage was pretty uneventful, actually. Tiffin writes mostly about the things that were new to him, sea birds and dolphins that followed the ship. Seems he spent a lot of time with the crew, picking their brains like kids do. Though I’d say he was even more curious than most. And he not only retained so much of what he was told, he had this uncanny ability of expressing himself.”

  “He’d never been to school?”

  “Not as far as I’ve been able to find out. His mother taught him, apparently.”

  “Then she’d have taught Thomas as well, wouldn’t she?”

  Regan nodded. “I guess Tiffin just took to it.”

  “I guess.”

  “Anyway, he sketched a lot of things in the margins of the book. Especially all the parts of the ship, the sails and ropes and masts. He knew what they were all called, and what they were for. Twelve years old, remember! I can’t even remember what I was doing at that age. Trying to survive the Depression, I guess. Like everybody.”

  “If you remember the Depression, you’re older than you look!”

  Regan laughed. “Maybe I was just especially depressed. No, of course I was too little, but my folks told me. You can be fighting to survive without necessarily knowing it.” He skimmed the early pages of the journal. “Anyway, from Tiffin’s point of view, the Captain was about as tight-lipped an old salt as you could imagine. Drank a bit more than he should, but was able to keep his wits about him. His wife, however . . . ”

  “His wife? She was on the ship?”

  “Not uncommon, in those days. Makes sense when you figure that wives who didn’t go to sea with their husbands might not see them for years on end. Sailing was slow business.”

  “That’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Maryellen. “That was the age of steam, wasn’t it? Why didn’t they travel on steamers. It would’ve been a lot faster.”

  “That’s true. It was also prohibitively expensive. The transition from sail to steam took over a century. Meantime, cheap cargoes . . . coal, fish oil, lumber, things that wouldn’t go bad too quickly . . . usually went by sailing vessels because it was cheap transportation.”