“And people?”
“And people.” He flipped back several pages. “Here’s how Tiffin describes his fellow passengers:
‘A more motley crowd I never beheld, of all ages, from the infant to the feeble grandsire and withered crone. Many of them appeared to me to be quite unfit for so long a voyage, but they were inspected and passed by a doctor, although Quiggly protested against taking some of them. One old man was so infirm that he seemed to me to be in the last stage of consumption.’
“According to Tiffin, they were given just enough food to keep them alive. Here,” he shifted another page or two. “I’ll start on ‘4th September, 1879:
‘The next matter to be accomplished was to regulate the allowance of provisions to which each family was entitled, one pound of meal or of bread being allowed for each adult, half a pound for each individual under fourteen years of age, and one-third of a pound for each child under seven years. Thus, although there were 110 souls, great and small, they counted as 84 adults. That was, therefore, the number of pounds to be issued daily. On coming on board, provisions for a week were distributed to each family. But they squandered them, as if believing the ship’s stores held an endless supply. Finally, the mate thought it wisest to give out the day's rations every morning.’
‘I would have thought this arrangement would have been worked out as a matter of course, based upon the experience of previous journeys. Why this was not the case, I could not discover.’
“You’re right,” said Maryellen. “I hope I don’t have any twelve-year-olds that precocious in my class. I’d be very intimidated.” She snuggled a little closer. “Read on, McGuffey.”
‘There was a lot of seasickness for the first week or so, but that passed and life settled down into a reasonable routine. During times of smooth sailing, the emigrants were allowed on deck twice a day, for two hours at a stretch, and usually spent their time fishing, walking the deck, or gathering in groups to socialize.’
‘Tiffin says he didn’t see much of Thomas as Quiggly worked him pretty hard, but apparently no harder than he worked all his crew. Thomas didn’t seem to mind. Besides, he liked Mrs. Quiggly and she sort of took him under her wing. He also seems to have struck up a relationship with the first mate. A fellow named Meservey.”
“Go on.”
Ryan turned a page.
Aboard the Crimea,
Sunday, September 25th, 1879.
‘The day was cold and cheerless and I occupied myself reading a book on celestial navigation that the mate, Mr. Meservey, loaned me. I don’t understand much of it.’
‘Meservey is a very little man not more than five feet high, but in excellent condition, as seamen generally are. He is lame in one leg which deformity he takes pains to hide, causing a queer-looking gate. He is well-looking and sports a huge pair of black whiskers, the outline of which he frequently alters. I have heard from others in the crew that he had been a captain once, but loving the bottle, had lost his cast.’
“He goes on for a while just talking about birds and fish and life aboard ship and things seemed to go fairly smoothly until the water went bad. I think we pick it up again on the ninth? No, here it is:
‘Sunday, October 10th. The reports from the hold became very alarming, and the mistress was occupied all day attending the numerous calls upon her. She already regretted having come on the voyage, but her kind heart did not allow her to consult her discomfort. When she appeared upon deck she was beset by a crowd of poor creatures, each having some request to make, most of which were beyond her power to comply with.’
‘The head of committee (a man named Trinity O’Brien, who the men among us elected to represent the passengers) brought a can of water to show the captain; it was quite foul, cloudy, and bitter from having been in a wine cask. When allowed to settle, it became clear, leaving considerable sediment in the bottom of the vessel, but it still tasted bad. The mate tried to improve it by adding charcoal and a measure of alum, but some of the casks were beyond remedy and the contents, when pumped out, resembled nauseous ditch water. There were now eight cases of serious illness – six of them being fever and two dysentery. Thomas says the Captain is worried.’
“‘Tuesday, 12th. The reports this morning were very . . . ’ I can’t make out what it says there, can you?”
Maryellen huddled over the page. “Tragic, maybe? I’m not sure.”
“Tragic. That fits,” said Regan. He continued.
‘ . . . reports were very tragic. Captain Quiggly desired the mistress to give the passengers everything out of his own stores that might be of service. I think he is afraid the fever will sweep the ship. Once having shown itself in the unventilated hold of the brig, which is very small and cramped, containing one hundred and ten souls, how can the fever possibly be stayed without medicines, or a doctor, or even pure water? Most of those below deck are not praying people, but lately they have become so.’
‘Wednesday, 13th. The fire boxes are scenes of strife. Our suffering seems to make everyone angry. The quarrels only end when the fires are lit at 7 p.m., at which time they are surrounded by squabbling groups preparing their miser-able evening meal. They do not leave until Thomas – as ordered by the mate – mounts the shrouds of the foremast at 7:30 and, to conserve our scant resource of coal (which, if the passengers had their way, would be exhausted in one great conflagration), throws a bucketful of water on each fire. Then everyone curses him and snatches up their pots and pans, and half-blinded by the steam, goes into the hold with their half-cooked suppers. It’s the same every evening. Very strange.’
‘It’s not Thomas’s fault. But the people grumble against him. I’ve heard the term ‘scape-goat’ and I think that is what they’ve made him. They take no notice how he labors and puts himself out on their behalf.’
‘Thursday, 14th. A shark followed us all the day, and the mate said it was a bad omen. The hold reeks of death and the mistress is a perfect slave to the needs of the sick and dying. Thomas never seems to sleep, but when not attending his duties as cabin boy, is always trying what he can to comfort the Crimea’s wretched human cargo.
‘Friday, 15th; Katy has the fever. Sadie is tending her, but she is weak, as we all are, from lack of fresh water. I’ve heard that some people have begun to drink urine. Only two have survived the fever. Poor Kate.’
‘Saturday, 16th. Last night was too rough to even write. Great waves smashed against the hull sending powerful thundering shudders through the ship. Today it is so calm, the sails are limp, and you can hear the trickle of water through the leaks below and the rats scurrying back and forth.’
‘I prefer the storm. At least it seems you’re going somewhere. Katy continues in fever. Sadie does what she can, but with neither clean water, nor healthy food (it is all infested with maggots, which the mate calls ‘beggar’s meat’), nor medicine, there’s not much she can do but talk to her and massage her brow. I have said nothing, but I am coming down with the fever myself. I expect we will die and be thrown overboard like the rest.’
‘Seventeen have died so far. None have survived the fever. But I am not afraid.’
Maryellen huddled closer. Regan could feel her shivering through their coats. “Would you rather I not go on,” he said. “I’m afraid it gets worse.”
She shook her head. “Go on. It’s important to know what they went through, isn’t it? Go on.”
‘Sunday, 17th. Thomas hinted to the captain about having divine service read but he said it could not be done. Indeed, the sailors seldom had a spare moment and as to the mate, I often wonder how he gets through so much work. So this day was like all the rest. Everyone is unhappy. No one sings any more. The poor mistress complained that she could not get an opportunity of reading her Bible.’
‘Sunday, 17th, evening. Sadie tells me Katy will die soon. I have made a study of the illness by watching the victims. The first symptom is a reeling in the head – like a dizziness – followed by swelling pain, as if the head were going to b
urst. Next come very bad pains in the bones, then swelling of the limbs starting with the feet, and going up to the throat. This happened to Katy yesterday. The period of each stage varies in different victims – some are covered with yellow, watery pimples and others with red and purple spots that turned into putrid sores – and ends in delirium and death. Some survive. Katy is delirious now and doesn’t know Sadie. I am not allowed to see her anymore.’
‘I must have mistook my fever, for it is gone. Poor Thomas is at his wits’ end over Katy. I have seen her suffering close at hand, and think she will welcome death, to be with Mum and Dad and not in pain any more.’
‘Monday, 18th. Katy is still delirious, but has proved stronger than expected. Many others have died by this stage. Sadie may be coming down with the fever, as well. Or she may be exhausted from tending on Katy. I can’t tell. I realized last night that I have begun to think of Katy as already dead. She leaves a big sadness for such a little person.’
‘Tuesday, 19th. Today Sadie stole laudanum from the mistress’s hod. I saw her do it. It’s for Katy, I know, but if she gets caught, Thomas will get the Captain’s Daughter – which is what the sailors call the cat-o’-nine-tails. I don’t know why.’
‘I’m glad she did it. Katy’s screams, when she wakes, can be heard over all the others because of the shrillness of her voice. She’s in such pain and too young to understand. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘Wednesday, 20th. Thirty-three are now stricken with the fever. Their moaning and raving kept the rest of us awake nearly all the night. I could hear the mistress stirring about until a late hour. It made my heart bleed to listen to the cries for 'Water, for God's sake, some water'. O! it was horrifying. Sadie says Katy spoke to her this morning. Sadie herself escaped to the bows last night and got some sleep, so is much improved this morning. I’m afraid to hope the fever won’t take Katy.’
Chapter Seven
‘Thursday, 21st. Katy is recovered! The mistress is at once joyful at her healing and beside herself to discover how it was accomplished. As for Katy, though almost too weak to raise her head, she smiles and remembers nothing of the horror she has been through except that, whenever she woke, Sadie was there beside her. This morning, the three of us and Sadie and the mistress gathered on the foredeck to offer a prayer of thanks, careful not to be overheard by those whose dear ones were dying all ‘round them. Today, seven were added to the ocean, including an infant and her mother, all in the same little bundle. God rest their souls.’
‘I wonder why we have been saved so far.’
‘Saturday, 22nd. A terrible storm that the mate called a ‘hurricane’ arose yesterday forenoon, spiraling about us southwest to northeast with a fury that would lift a house from its foundation. I’ve never seen the like. It blows still, though nothing like as furiously as at first. Still, I can write only with difficulty and will put it aside when I note my amazement that this ship – which seemed fit to sink at the quayside – is somehow, miraculously afloat, and though much rearranged, seems to have taken the beating in stride. Like Mr. Finn two farms over did from his wife, who was twice his size.’
‘Sunday, 24th. The number of patients upon the list now amounts to thirty-eight and the stench of the hold is shocking. We suffer much for want of pure water, though got some relief from the rain we caught. Most of it was lost to that frantic wind! I wonder to have been both terrified and amazed all at once!’
‘Monday, 25th. The sailors say a place called Newfound-land is not far off. I spent the day watching for it, but saw nothing. I think they make up stories like this to pacify us. The wind keeps us to the south, but though occasionally becalmed, we are slowly gaining longitude. As I watched for land, I saw the rolling of the dolphin, the aerial darts of the flying fish, with the gambols of numbers of porpoises that danced in the waters around the prow. It being the mate's watch, I stayed on deck until midnight, listening to his yarns. Some of them were rather incredible, and upon expressing such as my opinion, he was inclined to take offence. Though a well informed and intelligent man, he is very superstitious. I find this is generally so among sailors.’
‘Tuesday, 26th. Passing the main hatch, I got a glimpse of one of the most awful sights I ever beheld. A poor female patient was lying in one of the upper berths – dying. Her head and face were swollen to almost unnatural size, the latter being hideously deformed. She was a picture of good humour and health when we sailed – the merriest singer – how sadly altered! Her cheeks retained their ruddy hue, but the rest of her face is as white as a leper. She has been nearly three weeks ill and suffered exceedingly, then the swelling set in, commencing in her feet and creeping up her body to her head. Her afflicted husband stood by her, holding a 'blessed candle' in his hand and awaiting the departure of her spirit. She died shortly after I saw her. And as the sun was setting, the bereaved husband muttered a prayer over her enshrouded corpse which, as he said Amen, was dropped into the ocean.’
‘Wednesday, 27th. Katy is much improved. The yellow pustules on her face are clearing, and the black hollows under her eyes are fading. She is still very weak, but Thomas, who will not allow any of us to drink from the common casks, somehow smuggles fresh water from somewhere and we sip it in secret.’
‘Thursday, 28th. Last night the fever struck. There is no mistaking it this time. If I die, I wish Katy to have my journal as Thomas has no need of such things. It is all I have.’”
Los Pinos Creek, Colorado
March 5, 1957
“That’s where the account of the crossing ends,” said Regan, gently closing the journal. “The next entry is almost four weeks later.”
“But he did write, so we know he survived. Did they all?”
Regan’s reply was cryptic. “I studied the shipping records and found that the Crimea landed in Boston twice in 1879. The first time in March and the second in October. That’s the one the Conlans would have been on.”
Aboard the Crimea,
Sunday, September 25th, 1879.
“You have betrayed my trust, Mr. Conlan. You have stolen from me.”
Mrs. Quiggly, the embodiment of feminine agitation, could not contain herself. “He needed the water for his sister, Josiah. She was dyin’ . . . ”
Quiggly held up a peremptory hand and his wife at once fell into a silent contemplation of her fingers.
“The crew knows what you’ve done. The passengers know,” said Quiggly. “There’s nothin’ I can do but deal the punishment.” He glared at Thomas. “There can be no exceptions aboard ship, Mr. Conlan. Every man jack in the ‘old has someone dyin’. Wife, son, daughter, or friend. If I let one get off wi’ stealin’ from the ship’s stores to bring ‘em some relief . . . ”
“I understand, Captain,” said Thomas, the firmness of his words belying the stark fear rattling his ribs.
“There’d be mutiny!”
Thomas nodded. “I know.” He felt as if he should say he was sorry, but that would be a lie. If his sister lived because he’d given her fresh water from the crew’s store, then he was content to pay the price.
Quiggly nodded at the mate and turned to the window. Mrs. Quiggly sniffed back a tear as the mate took Thomas by the elbow and led him outside. “You mustn’t let the men see you cry,” said Quiggly, staring blindly at the islands of slushy ice floes through which they were sailing and that congealed silently, ominously in the ship’s wake.
“But he’s a good boy!” Mrs. Quiggly blurted in protest.
Quiggly turned on her sharply. “Shush, woman! Lower y’er voice. Better yet, don’t speak at all.”
The miserable woman, worn to a shadow of herself by the rigors of the voyage and her constant ministrations to the sick, fell quiet. There were times when the wife might arise in protest, but at sea – where the lives of passengers and crew, to say nothing of the success of the voyage, were in his hands – her husband was not merely captain, but God, and his word, however cruel, was law.
A gallery of witnesses – three men
of the Committee (the fourth was too sick to attend), and those few members of the crew who could be spared from their labors for a few minutes – had been assembled on deck. None of them took pleasure, in this instance, in what justice required. Thomas, through his ceaseless efforts on their behalf, had won the passengers’ admiration. The crew for their part had seen him evolve from a scrawny lad – all knees and elbows throwing himself about the ship with a good will, usually doing more harm than good – into an able seaman. When at last he’d forsaken the Lubber’s hole and pulled himself into the top by the futtock shrouds like a real rigging monkey, he’d sealed their respect.
They all understood why he had stolen the water and most would have done the same in his place. They also knew there was no more serious crime aboard ship than stealing from the stores, and there could be no stinting in his punishment.
Enveloped by an oppressive shroud of silence, ornamented only with the creaking of the ship and the dull, deep flapping of the sails, Thomas’s wrists were bound with a length of sodden rope, and he was pulled tight against the capstan and tied there.
The mate – whose job it was to administer the forty lashes – drew the little whip called the Captain’s Daughter from his belt, and as the drummer took up a marshal rhythm, tied three knots in each strand making it a thief’s cat, which would inflict greater pain. When he was done, he tipped his head at the sailors flanking Thomas, and they tore his only shirt up the back, then stepped aside.
“No!” Sadie cried, bursting out of the hold. “Leave off! He was only . . . ”
One of the sailors grabbed her about the waist and held her fast, while another quickly tied his filthy kerchief around her mouth.
The mate untangled the thin leather strips, gritted his teeth, and performed his duty. Meservey put the wooden handle of his knife between Thomas’s teeth.
Silence the Dead Page 8
