A Walk Through a Window (14 page)

D
arby put her eye to the crack of the open door. Peeking out, she discovered the room was at the foot of a short flight of stairs leading up to an open deck of the ship. No one was in sight, so she crept up the stairs and peered over the top.

It seemed a large ship. The biggest boat she had ever been on was the Wolfe Island ferry in Lake Ontario, and this one was bigger than that by far. However, it was not in very good shape. The decks were made out of rough timber, and like the little room below, no one had taken the trouble to sand off the splinters and rough spots. There was a huge, rusty pile of chain attached to an old anchor nearby and several heaps of wood scraps were strewn all over.

The place was a mess and it stank.

It was a strange combination of smells: dead fish, woodchips, and something else that reminded her of hydro poles. Creosote, maybe—or tar? A little fresh air would be nice.

Darby took a chance and climbed another step to get away from the smell and to gain a better view. From her new vantage point, it looked like she was at the back of the ship. Most of the action appeared to be happening up at the front, for the moment, so it was pretty quiet where she stood. She took a moment just to breathe in a big gulp of the air—so fresh after the stale stench of the little room below. The sky was blue and the sun was shining almost right above.

A gull flew over her head with a raucous cry. His shadow blocked the sun from Darby’s face for a moment—and gave her another thought. She raised her hand over the brightest part of the deck.

No shadow.

This convinced Darby more than anything had so far. Even more than the polar bear. Because, after all, no one ever gets eaten by a polar bear while asleep. At the time, she had considered the possibility of being deep in a dream. But this was just too clear. She couldn’t walk through walls. But she also didn’t leave footprints in the snow or cast a shadow in the brightest of sunlight.

Something clicked into place in Darby’s brain so surely she could almost hear it. The answer was so simple; she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before.

She was a ghost from another time.

Strangely enough, the first thing this reminded Darby of was an old book on the Inuit she had found
at the library. Inside the front page was a photograph. At the time, she’d figured the book publishers wanted to protect the picture, because they had inserted a really fine piece of paper over it. The librarian had called it onionskin. She felt like that onionskin. Thinner than paper, she fit between the centuries like she wasn’t even there.

But of course she was there. And since she wasn’t really ready to examine the whole onionskin/ghost thing too much, maybe it was time to quit thinking and start looking around. Why not? It’s what Gabe had suggested, after all. The captain and his big goon hadn’t seen her. She cast no shadow. That should mean she was free to roam around where she liked. Only one way to test out the theory, of course.

She decided to try it.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but when Darby stood on deck she could see where the surface of the water was all stirred up. To one side of the ship lay a dark line on the horizon. She wondered if it could be land.

But in order to find out which land in particular, she needed to do some investigating. Darby started by turning slowly in a circle, checking out everything within her range of vision. The ship was huge, with two big masts and square sails. There appeared to be some other small sail rigged to the front, though she couldn’t see it clearly from where she stood. The deck was very broad, and there seemed to be at least two or three levels open to the air.

For a sunny day on such a big boat there was hardly anyone around. What she really needed was to find a quiet place to plant herself beside a group of chatty sailors. She snuck around to one side of the ship, but the only sailor she could see nearby was a man who was slowly climbing up the rigging near one of the big white sails, puffed full of wind and straining against the ropes holding it in place. Unlike Gabe, the sailor didn’t seem to be talking to himself, and Darby wasn’t about to risk her neck by climbing up there after him, anyway. She carried on with her careful tour.

Following a little further around one side of the deck, the wind dropped away, protected by the middle part of the ship. Darby almost tripped over a young couple, taking shelter in a corner between a pair of old barrels jammed up against the side rails. She pushed herself back against the wall, chiding herself for making such an unobservant ghost.

The couple had been hard to see because they had wrapped themselves in an old wool blanket, threadbare to the point of having huge holes all over it. The blanket was grey with grime and it looked like it might even be damp. Not the greatest protection from the elements.

When she crept up beside their little shelter, Darby could see they had the blanket rigged to stop the breeze from ruffling some paper the man was balancing on his knees. He held the paper with one hand, and the woman’s head was pressed very close to his own as they sat on the deck. She had her hand on his arm.

“Pádraig, you know how important this is. It is too late for us now, but they must know the truth.”

At the sound of her words, Darby knew at once why Gabe’s voice had sounded so different. With everything else that was going on, she hadn’t been able to pinpoint it, but it all came clear with the sound of this woman’s voice. Gabe’s accent had changed. All the French intonations were gone and now he sounded like this lady, and this man.

The man sighed and pulled a tiny black bottle out of his pocket. “I know you to be right, Alice-girl, but what will we say? Things are so bad at home in Sligo, to tell them all of how they are here will only take away the last shred of hope they may have.”

She clenched his arm more tightly and Darby could see her pale face flush a little. “Mam’s gone now, Pádraig, and if Da thinks that sending them away on the ships will mean a better life for the small ones, he will do what he can to get them aboard.” She shook his arm a little. “They must not come, brother. Not until the transport is safer.”

“I’ve heard tell the American ships are better,” he said. He tried to say something else, but was overcome by a fit of coughing. A look of alarm crossed the woman’s face and she helped him smother the coughs in the blanket.

Darby edged away a little. Could ghosts catch cold? She didn’t want to learn the hard way.

By that time he had stopped coughing, but his eyes were streaming. Darby could see a little blood
on the blanket where he had wiped his mouth. Just what kind of a cough was it, anyway?

“The American ships would not take us to Sligo,” she said. “The price of the passage was far too dear and our landlord only had enough coin for our fares on the
Elizabeth
.”

“Or so he claimed,” said Pádraig, and his mouth twisted bitterly.

She picked up the small bottle from where he had dropped it, pulled the lid off and held it out to him. From an inside pocket he pulled out a slim wooden stick with a bit of a metal point stuck on one end and dipped it into the bottle.

“If they would not have us, they will not take the others. Now, say the words as you put them down, brother,” the woman said urgently. “I want to be sure we make everything clear.”

Things were starting to make sense for Darby, at last. Not a married couple, then, but a brother and sister, writing a letter home. And from their accents, home must be Ireland—or maybe Scotland. Darby had trouble telling the difference sometimes. She leaned in a bit closer to listen.

The woman closed her eyes. “You know, odd it may be, but I swear that as I think of home right now I can smell the apple trees in bloom.” She opened her eyes and looked at her brother. “Do you think we’ll ever see them, again, Pádraig? Or smell the scent of the laurel in the spring?”

“It feels to me that I’ll never get the stink of this
ship out of my nose,” he said bitterly. “I don’t know what you are talking about, with all your nonsense about the scent of apples, Alice. Let’s just get this letter written and be quit of it.”

She dropped her head a little and nodded. “You are always so sensible, brother. I know in my heart we will never make the passage back to Ireland again, but perhaps there will be apples in the British colonies?”

Darby nodded to herself. Ireland, after all.

He smiled at her then, and squeezed her in a bit of a hug. “All right, Alice, I will pray there are apples, if only to still your talking of them for a while. Now, how shall we begin?”

He dipped his pen and wrote across the top of the page. Darby leaned forward and puzzled out the words upside down:
Aboard the
Elizabeth,
August 1847
.

He looked at Alice expectantly.

“Dearest Da,”
Alice said immediately.
“Alice and myself are well and happy.”

“You want to say we are happy? I don’t feel very happy, Alice. I thought we were going to tell him the truth about the passage on this dreadful ship.”

“We are, we are, but if he thinks
we
are safe, he will at least rest easy in his heart for us. Just write it down.”

Pádraig obediently scratched a few words onto the page. “I do not even know if we can trust the captain to put this in with the post,” he muttered, dipping his pen again.

“I will give it to that cabin boy. He will ensure it travels well to make it home to Da,” Alice said.

Pádraig shook his head. “Do not put your hopes in the boy,” he said softly. “I saw him sent below decks just after dawn this morning and have not seen him again since.”

“Perhaps he has not sickened. It may be only the rough waves as we neared land that made him ill.” Her voice was hopeful, but she stopped speaking when she looked into his face.

“Ay, durn’t be a fool, Alice. His skin was dark. He has the black typhus just like the rest. He will be tossed overboard before two days have passed.”

“But the
Elizabeth
will surely be in dock by then. The captain must value his crew, even if he treats his passengers so poorly. He will find a doctor to treat the boy when we are ashore.”

The man lifted a hand to shade his eyes and looked out over the ocean. “I am not so sure we will reach land as soon as that. I believe there is a fair long sail up the St. Lawrence River before landing in Montreal.”

Suddenly, a small child scampered along the deck, dragging a bit of broken wood as she ran. Alice leaned forward and called to her.

“Young Ellen—here! Come here, girlie.”

The little girl changed direction and ran over, a grin splitting her face from ear to ear. She was missing at least four teeth and was wearing not much more than a bit of old sack. Still, she beamed happily
at Alice and jumped onto her lap. Alice wrapped the corner of the blanket around the little girl.

“Hello, Mr. Pádraig,” Ellen said shyly. Her lisp made it sound like “Mith-ter.”

“Hello yourself, Miss Ellen,” he said, smiling back at her.

Darby was smiling at her, too. She couldn’t help it. The little girl was like a ray of sunshine. A dirty little ray, but all the same …

“What have ye been doing with yerself this morning, darlin’ girl?” asked Alice.

“I’ve been staying out from under Mama’s skirts,” Ellen said as if she was reciting the words. “The new baby is all over spots, but Mama says I mustn’t tell the crew.” She looked thoughtful. “You won’t tell the crew, will you, Miss Alice?”

Alice gave an alarmed glance at Pádraig. “What kind of spots, dear one?” she asked, her voice filled with worry.

But the little girl had caught sight of Pádraig’s pen and ink. “Ohh—are you writing a letter? Mama says that in the colonies, when I am a big girl I will go to school and learn my letters.”

“Yes, we are writing a letter home, but never mind about that now, Ellen. Tell me about the baby’s spots. Is it a rash from his clout?”

Ellen shook her head. “No, no, no,” she sang. “Not a rash on his bottie.” She roared with laughter at the word.

Darby shook her head. This kid was as hard to
get information out of as Gabe. She watched as Alice took Ellen’s dirty little face in her hands.

“Darling girl,” she said. “Tell me about the baby’s spots.”

Ellen’s eyes grew crafty. “Will you give me a sweetie if I do?” she asked Pádraig. “Mama says that the shops in Montreal are filled with sweeties.”

“Yes, yes, I promise to give you a sweet in Montreal,” said Pádraig. He was obviously less patient than Alice. “Just tell us about the damned spots.”

Ellen smiled, her objective attained. “Did you see that man who got thrown in the ocean yesterday? Baby Sara has spots like those ones,” she said in a matter-of-fact kind of way. “All bloody.”

She jumped back to her feet and, still dragging her bit of wood, ran off again.

Pádraig folded his letter in two and slipped it into his pocket. “It’s true, then,” he said in a flat voice.

Alice struggled to her feet, and Darby slid down the wall a little to get out of her way. “It cannot be true,” she cried. “The captain said it was contained. He said he kept that woman in strict quarantine. He locked her up, Pádraig. There is no way it could have gotten out.” Her eyes filled with tears.

He shrugged. “And yet it has.” He squinted his eyes, staring out at the strip of land coming ever nearer on the horizon. “Look how close we have come to our dream, Alice. Or perhaps it was only Da’s dream—but he wanted it for us.”

He stood up and put a hand on her arm. “There
will be no letter, unless it is a letter of goodbye, my dearest sister. We can keep our bodies washed with seawater and stay away from the holds where the lice that carry the typhus hide, but we cannot survive both typhus and the pox as well. From this day on, this ship carries none but the dead and those who wait to die.”

He jammed his hands into the pockets of his threadbare trousers and left his sister leaning against the rail, weeping. Darby didn’t know what to do. She trailed after Pádraig for a minute, but he turned and went down a set of rickety stairs. After what he had said about lice in the holds below, she didn’t have any interest in following him.