Flight of the Earls

by Michael K. Reynolds

  “It’s Mack to be worried about.” He turned to the man beside him. “Mack. Wake up.”

  Pierce chattered as he whispered, “Did you know what the Tailor did?”

  “No. Not a bit. They put me down early.”

  “He stuck one of the crew with that tool of his. Right through the neck.”

  “It’s no wonder we’re in these.” Seamus wormed his way over and prodded Mack with his boot. “Mack.”

  Just then he heard voices approaching, and in a few moments they were surrounded by several of the crew bearing pistols and clubs, headed up by the first mate and quartermaster.

  “Tend to him.” The first mate pointed toward Mack.

  “Tending? Is that what this is here?” The quartermaster’s reddened and scarred face twisted in disbelief. “We ought to be running ’em through.”

  “Step back, Sam,” the first mate said. “You all. To the plank. Step lively, the captain is on his way.”

  The crew members snapped in response and unfastened the bindings, lifted the captives to their feet, and retied their hands behind their backs with rope. Then in a line they were led to an area of the ship where caskets were sent overboard. Mack had some injury to his elbow, but the commotion and reality of their situation brought a growing alertness to his grogginess.

  What concerned Seamus most at this point was there were no passengers above deck. They must have put the ship on some type of lockdown, and there would be no jury or witnesses to their punishment. In all of his wildest childhood dreams, Seamus never imagined this would be how it all ended.

  “Captain on deck!”

  Seamus lifted his head to see Captain James Starkey approaching with anger in his step. To him, the captain had always seemed a caricature, a target of mockery, but in their present situation, his blue uniform with red sash, his polished medals, and the officer’s hat spoke with the authority he had over their lives and deaths on the sea.

  “Shall we walk ’em out, Captain?”

  The quartermaster received a glare from the first mate, who then spoke with poise. “Captain, sir. Should we let them state their case?”

  “As you wish.” The captain fumbled with the hilt of his sheathed sword. “Speak.”

  The four prisoners were mute, and after a few moments, Seamus decided someone needed to respond. “Sir. We meant no harm. Our people are hungry, Captain. They’re starving down below. My sister is dying.”

  The captain was unmoved. “Hungry? Aren’t we all hungry?”

  “Some less than others,” the Tailor interjected.

  The captain’s eyes widened. He turned toward the quartermaster and nodded.

  “With pleasure.” The quartermaster grabbed a tight hold on the Tailor’s wrists while a couple of the young sailors opened a gate to the side and pushed out and locked in the wooden plank.

  The first mate stepped up to the captain. “Perhaps there is another way?”

  Mack, who was alert with fear now, wept openly.

  The Tailor was shoved onto the plank, and he stumbled briefly before regaining his balance. With his arms bound behind him and the stiff breezes whistling about, he seemed precariously aloft, but he turned to face his accusers with aplomb.

  This caused even more of a surge in the captain’s fragile composure and his complexion reddened. He pulled a long sword out from his scabbard and raised it.

  For the first time, Seamus saw a breach in the Tailor’s confidence and thought he might crack. But the arrogance returned, and a toothy smile formed, an expression of laughter in the face of his misery.

  The man just didn’t care anymore. He was embracing his fate as a prize.

  The captain stepped up on the plank and pressed forward, sword at length and a maddening glint in his eyes. His cheek twitched.

  The quartermaster and several of the crew barked cheers and whoops, but the first mate climbed behind the old man. “Captain. Please. I implore you.”

  The old sailor pressed the point of his sword on the Tailor’s cheek and drew a thin stream of red. Brennan eased backward and glanced at the mere foot left on the plank.

  “What say you now, you filthy Irish rogue, hah?” Spittle flew from the captain’s mouth. “What say you now, you coward?”

  The accused and the crew, they all gazed intently in silence except for the music of the sea winds, the dull lapping of waves against the hull, and the creaking of the ship.

  The Tailor looked down to the cruel sea, now with his feet barely gripping the edge of the plank, and then he glared back at the captain. “I’d like to have some more of your whiskey, you miserable fraud.”

  The captain lunged forward and the Tailor arched his back to avoid the point of the weapon. And with two desperate efforts to regain his balance, Brennan fell backward and began to descend. As he did, the captain dropped his sword and it bounced off the platform, joining the flight of the Tailor as he plummeted into the outreaching dark arms of the sea.

  Seamus peered over the edge of the ship, yearning to see the Tailor rise to the surface, but the whitecaps were furling and the ship was moving at a fair clip.

  Stunned, the crew exchanged confused glances. The first mate pulled the captain in from the plank and to the deck.

  “I only,” the captain mumbled. “I only meant to frighten him.”

  The first mate assumed control. “Cook. Take the captain to his cabin and prepare some tea.”

  “I only meant to frighten him.” The old sailor ambled away.

  When he was out of earshot, the first mate motioned for his crew to gather the three remaining captives. Mack began to sob again, and fear pulsed through Seamus’s veins.

  “Whose man was that?” Greene said to the three of them, who now gave their rapt attention.

  “He . . . has no family.” Mack’s voice wavered. “Just him alone.”

  “Will he be missed?”

  It was an odd question, but Seamus felt encouraged by the direction this was heading.

  Mack looked to his fellow prisoners. “No, sir. He kept to himself.”

  “Very well.” The first mate looked to the sky for answers. “This leaves me with two choices. You can share that man’s fate, or we can consider this matter settled.”

  “Fairly settled,” Seamus said. He felt guilty for so easily abandoning the Tailor’s protests, but the thought of seeing Clare again was the only thing driving him now.

  “Indeed,” echoed Pierce.

  “You, sir?” The first mate looked to Mack.

  “Oh yes.” Mack nodded. “Quite so.”

  The quartermaster leaned in. “Shouldn’t we at least give ’em a few stripes before letting ’em be?”

  “Sam. The next in line for discipline is you, friend. Go back below.”

  He pursed his lips, then spat to the ground. But the quartermaster nodded and retreated.

  “Gentlemen. The price for thievery is death on board this ship. Your friend drew blood. If your foolishness is not repeated, I see no reason to consider this incident further. Agreed?”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in words or with a nod.

  “Unbind them. Let them go. And give them rations to take with them.”

  “Sir?” One of the sailors seemed puzzled.

  “There was courage in their deed. Bravery should be rewarded,” the first mate said.

  In a matter of minutes, the three wounded heroes descended the hatch to cheers and warm greetings, with food, water, and one less in their party.

  There were few questions about the Tailor, and those that were asked received only vague, unsatisfying explanations.

  No further thoughts of rebellion surfaced. The only fight left in the tattered army was waged against the ever-encroaching enemy of death.

  Chapter 17

&nb
sp; The East River

  Clare opened her eyes to bedlam.

  She hadn’t seen much light for weeks, and now every lantern below was shining brightly with fresh oil. Her shipmates were scurrying about in a frenzy, pulling their straw mattresses off the shelving and dragging them down the aisle to the ladder and up through the hatch. Others carried the chamber pots, some carrying two, one in each hand.

  Sitting up, Clare’s head revolted and she paused to regain her balance.

  Some women were on their knees around her with buckets of water, scrubbing the floors. Clare hadn’t witnessed such a flurry of activity and excitement since their first day when the ship peeled away from the piers of Cork, drunk on hope and trepidation.

  “Well, I’ll be.” One of the ladies rose from her labor, a dripping cloth held in her hand. Muriel, now a slender woman, was gazing in shock. “Sweet Jesus! She rose from the grave. Goodness, child.”

  “Get the boys,” Muriel shouted out as some of the other women gathered around Clare in a flutter of awe and rejoicing.

  Overwhelming her with sips of water and nibbles of food, they patted her down with cool cloths and forced her to lie down again.

  In a few moments, Seamus and Pierce bullied their way through to Clare, and she was struck by the bliss expressed in their countenances.

  “You’re back,” Seamus said. His face was splotched with patches of red and his skin was taut on his cheeks. He seemed to have aged several years.

  He beamed through his gaunt apparition. “God of miracles. Would you believe I prayed? Your brother Seamus?”

  “He did. I saw ’em meself,” Pierce said. “Stranger sight ne’er seen. Hands clasped and knees bent. The whole picture.”

  “Here. Take some more of this.” Muriel reached in with a spoon.

  “You’ll drown her with that.” Seamus nudged the woman’s arm away.

  “What’s happening?” Clare asked.

  Seamus laughed. “Well. Mostly. You’re alive.”

  “No,” she said. “All of the scurrying?”

  “We’re just a ways out from New York,” Pierce said.

  “Can you believe it, Clare?” Seamus asked. “We made it. You made it. A few meals shy. But we’re all here.”

  “What about all of this?” Clare pointed around her.

  “By orders of the first mate,” Muriel said sardonically. “There’s some inspection coming in the harbor, and he says if we fail to pass, we don’t dock. That was inspiring enough.”

  “I should be lending a hand.” Clare started to rise.

  “You do nothing of the sort,” Pierce said as Seamus pressed her back down.

  “Some fresh air would do her well.” Muriel placed her hand to Clare’s forehead. “The fever’s all gone.”

  “You’re the only one,” Seamus said wistfully. “Dozens. Gone.”

  “Which is the only way the rations lasted.” Pierce shrugged. “Fewer mouths, I’m afraid.”

  “Would you take me up?” Clare said. “I want to see the sky.”

  Seamus looked to Muriel for counsel.

  “I do think it would do her well,” the woman said. “Besides. If she appears ill, they may not let her pass.”

  That was enough for Clare to lift herself to her elbows again.

  “Why don’t you boys give her some privacy?” Muriel said. “We ladies will primp her and give her a fresh dress.”

  Clare put on Seamus’s hat, was lifted to her feet and escorted ever so patiently by Muriel and another woman, who commented their surprise at how well she was able to stand on her legs.

  Though dizzy, Clare was driven by the desire to reach fresh air, terrified by the thought she would be quarantined or delayed when they arrived to shore. After being imprisoned for so long, she was determined to will her way to freedom on land.

  Tenacity wasn’t sufficient, and despite her best efforts, she could only wobble and needed to rest every few steps to keep from fainting. Yet as she crawled plank by plank up the ladder, the idea of feeling the sun’s rays, hearing the ocean’s songs, and breathing in the cool air yielded more strength with each step.

  At last, in victory, she surfaced from the womb of death, her eyes searing in the glorious sunlight, and she raised her slender arm as a shield.

  “Clare!” Pierce ran over and lifted her up from the stewardship of the ladies and carried her on his hip, and then Seamus was on her other side. They guided her to the ship’s edge.

  “You’re just in time,” her brother said.

  She watched in amazement as the passengers were tossing mattresses, buckets, clothing, rags, and assorted belongings over the railing into the sea. The flotsam plunged into the ocean’s billows and drifted rapidly out of view.

  “Over there.” Pierce pointed in the direction the lumbering vessel was headed.

  Clare’s eyes were still adjusting to the light, so it took a while, but finally a brown mass was rising from the horizon. “Is it?” she gasped.

  “It ’tis,” he said, his face gleaming. “We’ve made it, Clare. We’ve made it to America.”

  “Look, Pierce,” Seamus said. “It’s Lazarus herself, back from the dead.” He lifted his hat from her head and rubbed her hair playfully. It was already a few inches in length.

  “Lazarus is a man, you idiot.” Pierce snorted. “Isn’t that right, Clare?”

  She wrestled the hat from Seamus and put it back on her head. “Are you asking whether Lazarus is a man or if my brother is an idiot?”

  Their laughter was doused in relief and anticipation, and as the great city grew larger before them, conversation gave way to contemplation as their thoughts wandered to what might lay before them.

  As they drew closer, they also saw a dark line thickening along the breadth of the sky.

  Storm clouds roiling ahead.

  Chapter 18

  The Landing

  The snow sputtered erratically down from dark skies in the final retreat of day, while the surviving passengers lined the deck with their bags. They were a battered army, forever refined through the smelting of tragedy, peering out with what hope remained at their hard-earned prize.

  They were all family now, nudging each other politely to procure a view. The exhilaration was palpable and growing, restrained only out of respect for those orphaned and widowed by the cruel hands of their bitter voyage. Witnessing a sight few imagined possible, they were awestruck as the Sea Mist drifted by Governors Island and headed into Hudson Bay.

  The crippled ship was humbled to be in the same waters as the hordes of majestic vessels traversing in all directions, a rag-worn peasant among royalty, wealth, and enterprise. Decorated with colorful, boasting banners, ships of all sizes, some under the power of steam, weaved dangerously past each other, oftentimes resulting in exchanges of angry threats and insults from competing crews.

  Clare’s hands gripped the wooden rails as Seamus and Pierce stood on either side of her, protecting her space and holding her steady. One of the fever’s victims had left behind a small handcart, and the other passengers granted it to Clare to use for transport once they came to shore. And several times, during the ship’s slow approach to port, she had nested in it, covering herself in blankets.

  But now, Clare’s spirits soared as she marveled at the grandeur of Manhattan rising before her. As they neared the great snow-covered docks, the tiny moving dots on the shoreline became people alive with the bursting commerce of an upstart nation.

  The inspections they all dreaded came and went without incident. Sharply clad bureaucrats arrived by an oared boat. After a few officious glances and cursory questions, papers were signed and then they left as quietly as they came.

  Clare couldn’t have been more relieved.

  A steam tug edged the Sea Mist until it settled in alo
ngside the wooden pier and into the awaiting arms and ropes of the dockworkers. The gangway was lowered, connecting the weary travelers to their new world.

  The first-class passengers unloaded first, most seeming to be in good health and well fed, and a long stream of luggage trailed behind them. Finally, ropes lowered and steerage passengers broke ranks, no longer yielding to captain or crew, pouring onto the shoreline with an ardency tempered by their exhaustion and grief.

  Clare was embarrassed to be wheeled in the cart as they angled down the plank as part of the motley caravan of immigrants, but she relented because she didn’t want to slow the boys and hadn’t the strength besides.

  “The wind’s picking up and snow’s coming heavier,” Pierce said.

  Seamus pulled out another blanket and wrapped it around Clare. Her illness not only made her weaker but more susceptible to the cold.

  The boys shouldered the two bags, which now were considerably lighter than when they boarded the Sea Mist more than two and half months ago.

  A man with a snow-crusted plug hat stepped in their path. He had a fistful of currency. “Have you your dollars yet?”

  “Our what?” Seamus said.

  “Your dollars.” The man gave a patronizing smirk. “Irish money is no good here.”

  “Of course we know that.” Seamus motioned to Pierce, who extracted what was left from his leather purse and gave it to the stranger.

  The man counted what was handed to him and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Then he glanced up as if calculating, before fanning through his dollars and giving several to Pierce as well as a few coins.

  “Will you look at this?” Pierce said, proudly. “Yankee cash.”

  After a few steps in that direction, they were stopped by another man, this one a wiry fellow with black teeth. “You friends need lodging?”

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Seamus said. “Friendly folk here, are they not?”

  They were joined by Mack and Muriel, who had said some farewells.