Wild Geese

by Caroline Pignat

  “Brigid, love.” Murph winces as he lowers himself by his granddaughter. “Wake up now, pet. Open your eyes.”

  “I don’t know what hit her.” I stroke the welt on the side of her temple. “Whatever it was, it hit her hard.”

  Fergal takes a vial out of a medical bag and, uncorking it, waves it under Brigid’s nose.

  She coughs. “Mammy?” she moans and starts crying.

  “She’ll be all right, soon,” Fergal says. “I’ll get you something for her head. Try and keep her talking.”

  “Kit!” Mick yells, running over to me through the crowd of broken and bloodied passengers spilling onto the deck.

  Did he just call me Kit? Posing as his brother was his bright idea, yet, here he is, this eejit, yelling, “Kit!” at the top of his lungs in front of the whole bloody ship.

  “You’re bleeding!” He grips my arms and looks me over. “Jaysus! Are you hurt? Are you all right?”

  “What do you care?” I snap, thrashing free of him.

  “I was so worried about you,” he says. “I’d never forgive myself if anything ever happened to you.”

  “You closed the damned hatch on me. On us,” I add as Joe joins me.

  “I had to,” Mick says, avoiding Joe’s glare. “If the hold filled with water, the ship would surely sink. I was just following orders.”

  “Following orders? Why is it that the first time you do your bloody job right, ’tis to lock me in the hold?” I can’t even look at him. I want to throttle him. “Just stay away from me.”

  “Kit,” he grabs my arm again as I turn to leave, but Joe shoves him hard, knocking him back.

  “Forget about him, Kenny,” Joe says, turning his back on Mick. “Your brow is a right mess. It needs looking after.”

  I don’t need my cut checked. It may be bleeding a lot, for face wounds do, but I know ’tisn’t deep. Still, I let Joe lead me. It irritates Mick to the point that he storms off, and that is fine by me.

  “What did he call you? Kit?” Joe asks as we cross the deck.

  “Family nickname,” I mutter, hoping he’ll buy it. Confusion furrows his forehead. It’s hard enough to keep secrets from my friends without Mick’s big gob interfering.

  “Why does he—”

  I swoon, forcing a subject change.

  “Easy now.” He guides me to sit by Murph as we wait for Fergal’s examination.

  “Go easy on Mick,” Murph’s voice rumbles beside me. I know his old eyes have been watching the whole thing. “It seems to me that you’re all he’s got.”

  “I didn’t ask to be.” I say. But ’tis true. I am all he has. And God help me, that lad is going to be the death of me if this trip doesn’t kill me first.

  Brian Delaney slumps beside us and puts his head in his hands. “She’s gone, Mam’s gone,” he says, wiping his eyes. “She passed away during the storm.”

  “God rest her soul,” Murph answers.

  “I suppose the storm was too much for her to handle in her weakened state,” Brian adds, and we nod, Murph and I. For we dare not speak the truth of it.

  Murph tries to stand. “I’ll let the captain know, shall I? We should bury her as soon as possible.” But he groans with the pain in his leg and I offer to go instead.

  “Bury her? Sure, where would we find a cemetery out here?” Brian asks as his eyes scan the dark horizon, and then he knows. “You don’t mean to throw her overboard? Not my mother, and that not even holy ground.”

  “We’ll bury her at sea, son,” Murph says. “’Tis all God’s creation and that makes it holy enough.”

  Brian clenches his jaw and nods. For what choice has he?

  Avoiding Smythe, who barks orders in the front of the ship, and Coyle, who scowls at me as I walk by, I find the captain by the mainmast where he’s giving orders to two sailors armed with carpentry tools. It looks like the Erin suffered some injuries from the storm as well. The tip of the yard, tangled in its ropes, swings like a dead convict. A jagged sail drapes down the mast. I wonder how serious the wound is in seaman’s terms. By the captain’s worried look, it seems bad enough, but his eyes soften when he sees me.

  “Young O’Toole, isn’t it?”

  I nod. “Captain, sir, Mr. Murphy asked me to tell you that Widow Delaney, God rest her soul, passed during the storm.”

  He turns his attention back to the torn sail and motions for the sailors to start climbing. A corpse can wait. “We’ll just finish up our repairs and I’ll have the crew see to the burial.”

  “Well, sir, it’s just that,” I say, “Mr. Murphy believes she died of the fever.”

  Even though I lower my voice on it, the last word jolts him to a stop. He calls for Fergal and talks to him in hushed tones as they glance at the rows of injured passengers lining the decks. The captain orders the sailors to leave the sails. Half he sends to fetch the body, the rest are to sluice and scrub the hold while everyone is on deck.

  “Do any others have it?” the Captain asks Fergal. I notice he avoids the word as though it carries the disease itself.

  Fergal shakes his head. “I could check them now as I examine their storm injuries. They’d be none the wiser.”

  Captain MacDonald nods. “Good. No sense in alarming them any further.” He turns to me, rests his hand on my shoulder. “Will you give Fergal a hand, lad? He’ll tell you what to look for.”

  But I know well enough.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Kenny, I could use a hand here,” Fergal calls. I turn to join him, only to find Coyle’s massive frame blocking me. Two buckets full of water hang heavy from his hands and a scowl weighs down his face.

  “The lads tell me that washing below decks was your bright idea.” I can tell he doesn’t think it all that bright. He steps in closer. “Now, tell me, will you, why I always get stuck cleaning up? It seems to me that these O’Fool brothers are causing me a lot of grief. I’m going to have to do something about that.”

  I’m glad his hands are busy gripping the buckets and not my neck.

  “Come on then, Kenny,” Fergal calls. I step to the side, but Coyle rams me with his thick shoulder as he passes, knocking me to the ground.

  “Mind yourself, O’Fool,” he says, walking past and spilling water from his bucket on me. “You wouldn’t want to get hurt in an accident now, would you?”

  I try not to think about all the accidents that could happen out here in the middle of nowhere: the long drop from the yard arm, the weight of ten barrels crushing the life out of me, being tossed overboard. Coyle grins as though reading my very thoughts. I used to think this ship huge, as long as seven cottages end to end, but now it seems tiny. I’d best be keeping out of Coyle’s way, but that’s as good as telling fish in a bucket to mind the cat’s claws.

  Still shaking, I join Fergal at Murph’s side. Poor oul’ Murph. His knee is badly bruised. Sprained, I’d say. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem out of joint or broken. Still, the rum Fergal gives him doesn’t ease Murph’s pain. He’s as pale as his bandages by the time Fergal and I finish splinting the leg.

  “Your Lizzie would be proud,” Murph says, forcing a smile.

  “Stay off it and it’ll heal straight and true,” I add, using Lizzie’s words. “A few weeks, at least.”

  “That means stay put,” Joe says. “You’re not to be gallivanting from one end of the ship to another. Let your friends come see you for a change.” I can tell he’s worried about the old man. We both are.

  “Yes, mammy,” Murph says, coaxing our smiles.

  Brigid rests in Mrs. Ryan’s arms with a cold rag on her head. I check both of them for signs of rash or fever, relieved to find neither.

  For the next two hours, Fergal and I make our way from one bruised face to another. Considering the battering we all took in the hold, the injuries aren’t too bad. Cuts, gashes, bruises, and a few broken limbs. But even they seem mild when you think of what could have happened. And thanks be to God, no sign of the fever.

  “There you go, pe
t,” I say, putting a little girl’s arm in a sling around her neck. I tuck her rag doll in with it. “Look at that. A wee hammock of her own.” The girl’s smile reminds me of Annie’s. I wonder how they fared during the storm.

  Dear God, I hope they’re safe.

  Standing, I wipe the back of my hand against my forehead, careful not to open my cut. My eyes sting and my head aches, probably from whatever left that gash across it. The girl sings her doll a lullaby. She even sounds like Annie. I can’t stop staring at her.

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Mick says quietly. I hadn’t noticed him come up behind me. “Your family is strong, Kit. Like you.” He puts a cup in my hand and a piece of oatcake in the other. Before I can get any words past the lump in my throat, he’s gone.

  I sip the cool water, amazed at my thirst, even more amazed that Mick knew it before I did myself.

  “Anything?” Fergal asks, as he joins me.

  “No. You?”

  He shakes his head and glances up at the splintered yard arm and the torn sail.

  “Can we sail without it?” I ask.

  “Aye,” he says, “but it will take us longer. Maybe a week, depending on the winds.” Seeing my worry, he tries to reassure me. “With smaller rations of water and food, we’ll be fine.”

  But I wasn’t thinking about food. More days meant I’d more chance of being found by Coyle and less chance of finding my family. They didn’t even know I was coming. If they went on into Canada without me, how would I ever find them?

  Captain MacDonald doesn’t waste any time. That evening, he gathers us for Widow Delaney’s burial. Two sailors carry what looks like a long scrap of rolled sail sewn up the middle.

  “What’s that, Grandad?” Brigid asks.

  “Mrs. Delaney’s remains, God rest her,” he whispers.

  “Why is she so heavy?” Brigid says. I wonder about that myself, for she was a small woman. The sailors lay the shroud on a long plank leading up to the door in the railing.

  “They put stones inside the shroud before they sew it,” he whispers, “... to make it sink,” he adds before she can ask.

  The very thought makes me shudder.

  A sailor opens the gate.

  “Stones?” Brigid continues. “Now where would they find stones here?”

  Murph silently rests his hand on her shoulder as she frowns, caught up in the mystery. She doesn’t realize the crew must have packed stones and shrouds for burials at sea. Doesn’t know there’s fever on board. And, thankfully, doesn’t comprehend that any one of us could be next.

  With the storm over and the clouds gone, the night sky seems as deep and dark as the sea. And we, but a speck in the midst of them. The moon is near full tonight and Captain MacDonald needs no lantern to read from his prayer book. After a few psalms, he invites Brian Delaney to speak.

  “She had a heart of gold, she did,” Brian says, his chin trembling. “Even in the darkest days, she’d never see another soul going without.” He pauses. His young son takes his hand and Brian squeezes it. “God rest you, Mother.”

  Someone plays a lament on the tin whistle. I can’t help thinking a burial at sea isn’t right. ’Tis disrespectful, no matter how many prayers Captain MacDonald reads, nor how fondly Brian speaks. ’Tisn’t because we haven’t a priest, though that be bad enough. Nor is it because each one of us worries it might be us lying there. It just feels wrong. Even at the worst of the famine, many folk were buried back home with neither priest nor coffin. But buried they were. Laid to rest. And most importantly, laid to rest back home. How can you go to your eternal rest in the sea, a thing forever in motion? Poor Widow Delaney. In all her days, I’ll bet she never would have imagined this sort of grave. She must have assumed she’d be laid next to Mr. Delaney in the village cemetery. I shiver at the thought, realizing that I’d not be buried in Wicklow, either. Who knows where my bones will rest now, if they rest at all?

  Captain MacDonald nods. A sailor lifts one end of the plank and Widow Delaney’s body slowly slides toward the hole in the ship’s rail. And then, just like that, she is gone. Dropped overboard like a sack of dirt.

  I run to the side, barely able to see the white shroud sink into the black waters as the ship continues on without her. Leaving her behind, with nothing to mark her passing but a splash and the mournful toll of the ship’s bell. White-streaked wake disappears in the dark sea behind as though none of us were ever there at all.

  The sailors close the doorway. The same one we entered when we boarded all those weeks ago. I hope to God when it comes time for me to go through that door again, ’tis on my own two feet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “We’re slow going these days, aren’t we?” Joe asks.

  Murph nods, leaning his weight on the rail as we stare out at the glittering sea. On the mast above the broken yard arm waves a white flag with a red x, a signal for help. Our sail is patched, but the yard needs fixing. Maybe the ship behind has what we need.

  It amazes me how quickly that ship gains on us. She’s only been a crumb on the horizon since we left Ireland a few weeks ago, but I can clearly see her sails now.

  Joe’s stomach rumbles. “Is it just me, or is Fergal right cheap with the rations these days?”

  ’Tis true. Fergal had to cut back on the food to make it last. Who knows how long we might be at sea now? Joe isn’t the only one complaining. Just yesterday, I’d heard folk asking Murph to have a word with the captain. He said he would. But Murph knows as well as I do that you can’t get blood from a stone, nor food from an empty barrel. He didn’t mention that we might be at sea even longer than expected or, worse yet, run out of food. As much as we complain, Fergal’s rationing might very well save us.

  “There’s no satisfying a growing lad,” Murph chides. “You’ve a hollow leg, Joe. Sure, I’m stuffed.” He pats his stomach, which we all know is empty.

  “Me, too.” I grin. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  Joe scowls at us. “All I know is that I’m so hungry I could eat the arse off a low-flying gull.”

  “Ah, then you must have two hollow legs,” Murph teases.

  “And a hollow head, to be sure,” I add, ducking to avoid his half-hearted punch. He tries to catch me as I run around the mast and taunt him from one side and then the other. “Come on then, Joe. Is that the best you’ve got? You slug!”

  He laughs and lunges after me.

  “Kenny!” Mick calls from where he stands, as rigid as a rowan trunk. He glances at Joe, his eyes like two poison berries in the shadows of his face. He looks at me, then, “Fergal needs us.”

  I’ve done nothing wrong, yet I feel as though I’ve been scolded.

  “I don’t think your brother likes me,” Joe mutters as Mick turns and walks away.

  “Well, I like you well enough, Joe,” I say loudly. “No matter what my brother thinks. I choose my own friends.”

  Mick’s shoulders hunch with the weight of it. And rightly so. Who does he think he is, telling me who I can and can’t befriend? Mick isn’t even my real brother.

  “Fergal wants us to move this barrel back into the storage,” Mick says when I catch up. He won’t look at me. “You take this end; it’s lighter.”

  Up close I see his face isn’t shadowed but bruised, like a rotten apple. “Mick! What in God’s name happened to your face?”

  He shrugs. “I had an accident.”

  Mick always has some new cut or scrape, for he’s forever tripping over his own two feet, but that fresh black eye was no accident. Or rather, it was a Coyle kind of accident.

  I’d done my best avoiding Coyle these past few days. But obviously Mick wasn’t as lucky. Or as smart.

  “What in the hell are you thinking, Mick?” I scold him. But someone had to tell him to smarten up before he got himself killed. “You don’t stand a chance against Coyle. He’ll tear you to bits.”

  He doesn’t say anything as he lifts his end of the barrel. We grunt and stagger with the weight of it as we car
ry it along the aft deck.

  “Hide from him. Run away,” I continue.

  “Like a bilge rat? Am I to cower in the corners?” His intensity surprises me. Mick’s never been one to fight back. What has gotten into him?

  “Yes,” I say. “If that’s what it takes. Be a rat. They’re good at hiding. You’re no good to anybody if you’re dead.”

  He clenches his jaw and says no more about it. He knows I’m right.

  We reach a set of the stairs at the far end of the ship. Mick turns and bears the weight of the barrel’s bottom as I guide him down from the top. A few doors line the narrow hallway. The last one is open and we enter into a small storage room packed with supplies. The tiny room is stocked with barrels and crates. Long ropes sit neatly coiled on a few lids, and bundles of dried goods swing from the rafters. Had I known we had this much food, I wouldn’t have worried. Still, the way Fergal frowns as he tallies his list makes me think all this may not be enough.

  “Set that down over there.” Fergal nods at the far corner. By my guess, my berth is just on the other side of the wall.

  Something furry bumps my foot, scraping its nails on my skin as it scurries past. I scream and drop the barrel.

  “Curse ye, ye hairy bastard!” Fergal yells, grabbing a nearby broom and smacking the floor as he runs around the barrels. I’ve never seen him move so fast. He slams the boards with each word. “Wee! Sleekit! Cowrin’! Beastie!”

  ’Tisn’t English, but I get the gist just the same.

  “Mick,” Fergal says, winded from the attack, “fetch the traps from the galley, would you?” Mick leaves as Fergal raves on. “No rat is getting any of my stores. Do you hear that, you wee beastie?” He shakes his fist in the air. “A battle to the death!”

  ’Twould have been funny if it weren’t so true. I’d seen enough people starve to death to know the difference a handful of oats can make.

  My foot stings and I move into the lantern’s light to inspect it. Three red slashes slice the top where the rat had scrabbled across. Blood puddles between my toes leaving red footprints on the worn boards.