Scattered Seeds (5 page)

Chapter 7

A squeaking floorboard woke Henry before dawn on Thursday. He smiled when his father froze in the dim light.

“There’s no need to sneak. It is no secret that I slept alone
. . . and that ye did nae.”

Sarah and Father had talked into the wee hours of Thursday morning. The low murmur of their conversation took Henry back to his childhood, when he listened from his bed while his parents talked as friends. He’d forgotten the comfort of those evenings, and the sense of security nourished by their mutual affection.

“Henry, I . . .” Father sat on the bed beside him, his eyes apologetic. “Sometimes a man and a woman . . .”

“There’s no need to explain. I already know what a man and a woman do. Let me see your hands.”

Father’s eyebrows knitted together. “What?”

“Your hands. Let me see your hands.”

“Why, by John Calvin’s pulpit-pounding fist, do ye want to see my hands?”

Henry grinned. “I want to see if Sarah talked ye into cutting one off yet.”

Father punched him on the shoulder. “She did nae get that one anyway. And just how do ye know what a man and woman do?”

“John McFarlane told me.”

“I see. And here’s me thinking my son is an innocent. Come on, get ye up. Sarah’s brother will be here soon.”

“Did ye get any sleep?”

“Not a wink.”

Henry sat up and stretched. “I suppose there’ll be time for that on the ship.”

“About seven or eight weeks’ worth, if it stops at that.”

Sarah had porridge waiting for them. They ate, then carried their empty bowls to her at the bar.

“Thomas will be here soon,” she said. “Ye will nae fit in a cask, Edward, so put this on.” She lifted a greatcoat from behind the bar and handed it to him.

Henry stared at the fine garment made of gray wool beaver cloth. It was double-breasted with two perfect columns of welted buttonholes and covered buttons.

“It belonged to my Randall.”

“I . . . I canny, Sarah,” Father said. “It must be worth a fortune.”

“Ye’ll take it and not say another word.” She slipped his threadbare cloak from his arm.

Father swung Randall’s greatcoat around his shoulders and shoved his arms into the flared sleeves. “I can ne’er repay ye, woman.”

Henry touched the high, velvet-lined collar and found it uncommonly soft.

She smiled, but her eyes watered as she fussed with the coat; she probably recalled the times she buttoned it for her late husband. “Once ye get settled, send me something nice. E’en a letter would be good, so I know ye made it.” She wiggled her fingers. “Gi’ me your wig.”

“My wig?”

“Aye, come on. Gi’ me your wig.”

Father looked embarrassed as he slid his wig off his skull and gave it to her.

She reached over the bar to retrieve a black wig.

Father slipped it on. “It’s a bit loose, but it’ll do.”

“Aye, my Randall had a noggin like a boulder. Sorley will be looking for a brown wig and a threadbare cloak.” She inspected his legs. “We need to do something about your holey stockings and those red heels. Stockings and garters I have, but those shoes . . .” She tapped a finger against her lower lip as she studied his shoes.

Henry had an idea. “Pitch.” Some of the sticky stuff clung to his hands from waterproofing the buckets yesterday. “Should still be loose. Would nae take much.”

She rumpled his hair. “Och, ye’re no dumb pup. Pitch! Ye can scrub it off again when ye get to Philadelphia so ye’re a proper gentleman for the serpents and turtles.”

As they brushed the last of the pitch on the heels, hooves and wheels sounded outside on the cobblestones. A fist hammered against the door.

“Sarah, it’s me.”

“That’s our Thomas.” She opened the door.

A lean man entered, rain spraying from his hat as he took it off and bowed. “Ye picked a shitty day for sailing.” He shook more rain from his coat, then held out his hand.

Father rushed to take it. “Edward McConnell. Pleased to meet ye.”

“Thomas Grant.” He shook Father’s hand, then turned toward Henry. “Ye must be Henry.” He extended his hand a second time.

Henry shook it, pleased at being greeted as an adult. “Pleased to meet ye.”

“Ye will nae be so pleased when I stuff ye in yon barrel, lad. Gonny be a dizzying ride to
The Charming Hannah
for ye, I fear.”

“I’ll try not to boke up my guts.”

Thomas laughed. “Been worse in there. If ye do, just be quiet about it. Hopefully, it will nae come to that. I’ll go easy, if I can.” He looked at Father, now wearing his pine-scented shoes. “Best be underway, if ye’re ready. Some of the passengers are already boarding.”

Father handed him a coin. “Our thanks, sir.” He turned and took Sarah’s hands. “I will write.”

Her lower lip quivered. “How silly a woman am I to cry o’er a man I met only two days ago?”

Father gathered her in his arms and held her.

Henry looked at Thomas, who rolled his eyes.

“Really, Sarah,” Thomas said, “if these men are sailing th’ day, they need to be away.”

“I’ll write.” Father placed a hand on each of her shoulders and stepped back. “I mean it. I will.” He looked handsome in the black wig and fine greatcoat. Passersby would mistake him for a rich merchant.

Sarah wiped her eyes, looking like she didn’t believe him. She turned to Henry and gave him a quick hug. “Now, ye take good care of yoursel’, Henry McConnell. Ye’re too smart to waste.”

Henry hugged her back, his chest hurting, because he liked Sarah and because she smelled like Maw.

“Help me roll the barrel in,” Thomas said. “We’ll roll the lad oot in it. Sorley McConnell has been standing at the quay since daybreak.”

The barrel was too wide to pass through the tavern’s doorframe. They tipped it over long enough for Henry to back into it, then stood it upright again.

Henry crouched inside the barrel that smelled of brine with his nose tucked between his knees.

“Ye ready?” Father loomed above him, holding the barrel’s lid and a hammer.

Henry flattened his hand over his breastbone, feeling the torc there. He inhaled what he thought would be his last breath of Irish air and nodded.

The world went dark.

He was suddenly on his side, rolling, bouncing, and bracing himself against the barrel staves. The wood chafed him. His stomach roiled, and his mouth began to water. He closed his eyes to fight the sickness threatening to overtake him. Cramps plagued his neck and shoulders, and he broke into a sweat. He was about to vomit when the barrel stopped rolling. It screeched under him as Thomas and his father slid it onto the cart. He crouched, grateful for the small mercy of an upright position. A muffled voice spoke, and then the cart began to move. He bounced inside the barrel and hit the back of his head on the lid as wheels rattled over cobblestones. His shins ached miserably, and his feet went numb.

He longed to spring out of the barrel, but could not risk discovery. He pressed his fingers against his neckerchief and pinched the stone caught between the dogs’ jaws. Uncle Sorley would not have it. Nobody would. Not as long as Henry McConnell lived.

Gulls’ screeches mixed with the shouts of foreign men. The yells grew so loud he feared for Thomas and his father. The barrel rolled uphill and renewed his battle with nausea. Then, someone carried the barrel for a time, finally setting it upright. The wood beneath his feet felt unsteady, as if the barrel floated in the river. He knew then that he, at least, made it on board
The Charming Hannah
. He prayed his father did, too.

It was dreadfully silent except for the raucous beating of his heart. The brine-scented barrel pickled Henry in fear. He could be lost or forgotten, doomed to rot in a barrel stored among others in the belly of a brig. Someone would look for salt beef and find his rotted neck ringed in gold. He lost track of his numb limbs, and his head thumped. It became hard to breath. If only he could open the lid. Just a crack, that’s all he needed. He succumbed to the urge to push against the lid, but his muscles were weak, and the lid would not budge. His heart thudded in his chest, and he gulped breaths of air that did nothing to feed his lungs. He tasted a salty trickle of his own sweat. At last, he heard voices and felt the vibration of footsteps.

The lid lifted, bathing him in welcome cool air.

His rain-soaked father peered down at him, concern creasing his brow. Father wiped sweat from his temple. “Ye make it, lad?”

“Aye.” He couldn’t stand, and when Father lifted him to his feet, he grimaced as pain seared into his hips.

“Gi’ it a minute, lad. Find your feet.”

“I can walk.” Henry grabbed the barrel’s rim and swung his legs onto the boards. “Where are we?” He noticed mattresses and pillows in two recessed berths. “Is this our cabin?”

Thomas laughed. “Heavens, no. Ye’ll have no cabin, only a berth in steerage. This is the cook’s quarters. We’re at the fore. Captain berths aft along wi’ the mate. Passenger berths are between. Now come, really, ye must move. The mate will nae take kindly to passengers in here, and ye risk my neck as well as yours by hangin’ about. We’ve no choice but to go up the forward ladder and across the deck.”

“But Uncle Sorley—”

“I’ll go up first and see if he’s about.” He opened a barrel and filled a sack with raisins and biscuits that looked like fork-pricked clay disks. “Take these. Hide them wi’ your goods. Save them just in case things get bad. If ye’ve paid full fare, the merchant’s already made his profit off ye. He has no reason to keep ye well during passage, if ye get my meaning. Buy naught from the crew and do nae purchase anything on credit, not e’en food, or else the captain will file a complaint wi’ a magistrate in Philadelphia and force ye to sell yourselves into slavery to repay your debt.”

Thomas climbed the ladder, disappeared for a moment, and then leaned overhead to whisper, “It’s solid wi’ passengers up here. Sorley’s gawking up Shipquay Street wi’ some lobsterback at his ear. He’ll be watching the streets and the quay, not the brig. Come on.” He waved them up.

“Go fast,” he muttered as they pushed past the foremast and toward a hatch.

“Ye e’er been on a boat afore?”

“Nay,” Father replied.

“If ye had, ye’d notice a few things that make this brig different. She’s a snow, but built to suit Conyngham’s purposes. Passengers o’er, cargo back. Not as bad as a blackbirder, but close.”

“What’s a blackbirder?” Henry asked.

Thomas faced him. “A slaver, lad. Built to haul human cargo and naught else.”

They followed him down the steep stairs.

“Ah, here we are. Now to find a free berth. They are supposed to be roomier, but the customs officers turn a blind eye at e’ery port. Paid well to do so, ye see. Count your blessings—they are far better than those sailing from the continent. God save the poor Germans.”

“Oh, my. Look at . . .” Henry could find no words to describe the chaos in steerage, which reeked of the smoke and vinegar used to fumigate and clean it. Passengers shimmied past one another with their meager belongings, choosing berths among the tiers lining the sides of the brig, one atop the other. Each berth barely accommodated two people, but families of six squeezed into them with everything they’d brought on board. With little headroom, a man could not sit upright, and even in the center aisle, the tall stooped to avoid hitting their heads on the deck beams. The brig’s sway rocked the lanterns hanging above the pitifully few tables and benches jamming the aisle.

“We’ll find our way from here, sir,” Father shouted at Thomas’s back. “I’ll trouble ye no more.”

Thomas turned to face them. “I suppose I’d best be on my way. Sarah will be awaiting word. She’ll be in a state. I’ll see to her.”

Father patted Henry’s shoulder. “Bide here.” He walked a few paces away with Thomas, placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, and muttered something that included Sarah’s name.

Thomas nodded his understanding and left.

“Come,” Father said. “We need to find a place to lay our heads.”

As they searched for a free berth, the odor of humanity began to overpower the scent of vinegar. Babies and women wailed. A man hunched over his lap and prayed. Families huddled together in their berths. There was no laughter, no joyful anticipation of a great adventure, only fear and sorrow.

Henry gaped at the condition of his own people. Eyes peered from hollows in grimy faces. Neck tendons looked ropey and raised, and knuckles and knees prominent. The brig’s main cargo seemed to be desperation. He could see nothing charming about
Hannah
, nothing at all.

When they reached the mainmast, Father said, “Looks like we’ll need to go all the way forward.” They returned to the fore of the brig and found a single free berth. It was the last chosen due to its smallness and proximity to the drafty hatch. A single chamber pot had been tied to its leg, and as Henry looked back the aisle, he noticed one pot for every four berths; apparently, they were to be shared.

Father doffed Randall’s greatcoat, then folded it carefully. He took the sack from Henry and leaned over the berth’s rail to fashion a pillow out of it. He tucked the stolen raisins and biscuits underneath it.

Henry prepared to crawl over the rail and into the berth when a pig-faced seaman clomped down the stairs with two men at his heels.

“Listen ’ere,” the pig-faced man shouted in a grating Cockney accent now common in Derry. He brushed his fingers under his snout and wiped his hand on his slops.

Behind him, a harried man pinched papers and a quill in his hand.

A third man, rotund, with brick-red cheeks, lowered a leather bag to the floor. He huffed, clearly unused to a sailor’s pace.