The Law of Dreams (40 page)

“A workhouse is it?”

“Oh I don't know.”

“Open up! We need air! We need water!” Martin Coole had
climbed up the hatchway ladder and was pounding the hatch cover with his fist, but no
one responded. They had pooled supplies with the Cooles and the old woman; the stores
Maguire had warned him to save for
mi an ocrais
. Most of the German cheese was
rotten but he cut out an edible portion. The apples were soft but sweet. The Cooles had
crackers, figs, rotten oranges, two quarts of lime juice. Brighid had oily little
herrings bartered from the crew.

Molly ate a little, lay poised and still, breathing softly.

Aren't you hungry for me?
he wanted to ask her.
Don't you feel strong when I'm beside you?

THEY WERE
sleeping when the hatch opened and a shaft of
white light bounced down into the hold. Molly poked him with her elbow. “Wake up,
man, smell the air. Let's go up, before they close us up again.”

He swung his legs from the berth and stood up, feeling strange and dizzy.
Dozens of white faces peered down from the tiers. Most passengers were too stunned or
weak to move.

“Give me your hand, man, pull me up.”

He helped her up out of the berth. She stood wavering, clutching his arm.
He thought she was going to faint.

“I'm walking to the sun. Come on.” Heading for the
ladder, she seized hold and started climbing into the white air, so bright it stung
their eyes.

Laramie
was making way, her sails packed with wind, her bow
biting the waves. There were tags of mist lingering on the sea but the sky above was
blue and the sun was an engine warming their faces.

More passengers began crowding up through the hatchway and spilling onto
the deck, blinking in the light and moving stiffly after their long confinement,
flapping their arms like pigeons, skipping and laughing, begging lights from the sailors
to start their pipes.

When Fergus held out his palm above the hatchway, he felt the pressure of
foul air rising from the hold.

“Sweep up the old straw and throw it overboard!” Mr. Blow
called. “New fresh bedding you shall have. I'll serve out no rations until
your quarters are clean and pure.”

The passengers set to work scouring the hold, raking filthy straw from the
berths and piling it into canvas slings that were hauled up through the hatchway and
dumped overboard. Soon there were tawny islands of straw and refuse bobbing behind them
on the bright blue sea. The mania for cleaning had seized the entire ship — even
the sailors were scouring out the fo'c'sle, bringing their hammocks on deck
to air, scrubbing their clothes and pinning them to dry on the ratlines and in the
rigging.

In the hold an old man had been found dead in one of the uppermost berths.
The widow could not be coaxed down.

The couple's two grown sons seemed stunned. When the old man was
finally lifted down and laid on the floor, Fergus noticed how small and yellow were his
hands and feet.

“Bring him on deck directly, Mr. Blow says,” Nimrod Blampin
instructed. “No bansheeing.”

Washtubs had been set out on deck and filled with seawater. The sky was
cluttered now with clouds but the air tasted soft and rain, if it came, would be easy.
Passengers were scrubbing their clothes and their blankets. The collapsed
berths were being repaired by the ship's carpenter, while
passengers scrubbed the 'tween deck with brushes and buckets of seawater, then
sprinkled clean sand and vigorously swept it up.

When all the trash had been raked out and the boards were glistening wet
from scrubbing, one of the cabooses was lowered into the hold on ropes and lit so the
thick, tart smoke might purify the air.

The corpse lay on a board on the foredeck, wrapped in sailcloth; their
first death at sea. He watched the sailmaker place two ballast stones inside the shroud
then sew it up with his awl while the dead man's sons stood by, puffing their
pipes.

Warm silver rain began to fall. Passengers began stripping off their
filthy clothes. He watched Molly pull her gown over her head and stand in her shift with
arms extended and face tilted to the rain, her hair black with it, her nipples prickling
under the wet linen.

Mr. Blow climbed onto the foredeck with a book tucked inside his jacket,
protecting it from the rain. “I shall perform the service now.”

“You
mean to say the prayers, master?” The dead
man's sons were staring at Mr. Blow.

“Of course.”

“But we can't have
you
say the prayers.”

“What do you mean? I am master of the ship. I have the proper
authority.”

“It wouldn't be right.”

“Are you being impudent?” Mr. Blow was getting angry.

Martin Coole had joined the little group standing by the shrouded corpse.
“Only a priest for burying, Mr. Blow. That is their custom.”

“There isn't any priest, you fool! I'll read the service
as written, right here in this book!”

“Without a priest, it is improper,” one son muttered in
Irish.

“What does he say?” the master said, furious. “I
won't stand that goblin talk.”

Coole translated.

“You tell me, they mean to bury their own father,” said Mr.
Blow, “without a word of Christian prayer?”

Mr. Coole translated this into Irish. The brothers looked at each other,
then nodded.

Mr. Blow slapped his book shut and stalked off.

The sons' wives began keening dutifully. From the foredeck ladder
Mr. Blow shouted, “Put him over! Put him over right now!”

The sailors lifted the board to the rail and tilted it slowly. The corpse
began to slide, and then it tumbled. It hardly made a splash, spinning for a few
moments, then disappearing.

“Land ho!”
— the shout came from Nimrod Blampin
in the tops.

In a moment the passengers were all crowding along the rail, elbowing and
shoving. Molly was next to him, her face glowing. She grabbed his hand, gave it a
squeeze. Mist parted for a moment, revealing a white line of surf and a rocky shore.

The passengers began cheering.

Coole grabbed Fergus's hand and shook it vigorously. People were
shouting with joy, and men were throwing hats in the air.

America looked green. He could see lines of fences and white specks of
cabins. The land divided into fields. So there were farms already.

Had you expected empty land, free for the taking?

“That ain't America, you ninnies!”

Looking up, he saw Nimrod Blampin twelve feet above the deck, hanging from
a ratline.

“That's only Ireland! Old Cape Clear!”

The celebration died immediately. The people accepted the news without
question, as if disappointment was their real faith, all they really believed in.
Turning away from the sight of land, men picked up their hats and joined the crowd
pressing for the hatchway, retreating below.

“Newfoundland it is, surely,” Martin Coole kept insisting, but
people pushed past him, ignoring him. Mrs. Coole and her children joined the others
going below.

Soon Fergus, Molly, and Coole were the only passengers left on deck,
staring at Ireland.

“Don't look so cut up, Fergus,” she said.
“It's worth a laugh, I suppose.”

“Perhaps it is, but I can't.”

“You with your Newfoundland talk!” She laughed at Coole.
“You don't know so much, mister, do you?”

“I'm not familiar with the sea, miss, and don't pretend
to be.”

“You do, though — that's the point.”

Coole shook his head sadly. He went into the bow and stood peering ahead,
as though he still expected to catch sight of America.

Molly slipped her arm through Fergus's.

Her body so near giving him a kick.

That warmth of her.

“Let it go, man. Forget it. What's coming is still
coming.”

“Why didn't you tell me that you carried a child?”

Staring back at Ireland, she didn't reply.

“It was his, wasn't it, Molly?” He hated the sound of
his voice.

“It's nothing now.” She sounded tired.

“It was Muck's, though, wasn't it?” He was afraid
she'd see his eyes and think he was crying; think he was soft, which he never
would be. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve.

“If it was mine you'd have kept it.”

“If I told you I'd got rid of Muck's baby, as I got rid
of Muck's watch, you'd understand? You'd be strong for me, then?
You'd say it was still on between us?”

“I would.”

Her face was tight. “Do you want the truth, man? I'll give it
to you whether you want it or not. Could have been his. Could have been yours. That time
on the cliff. Could have been. May have been. Wouldn't make no
difference.”

“Mine?”

“I won't carry a child. Not now. I don't trust the
world.”

“You're the witch. Not her. You're the witch.”

“Did you want a lie? Is that what you wanted? You asked. I
don't mind a lie, Fergus, I would have lied easy —”

“Get away from me, witch.”

She left him then and he watched her crossing the deck.

His hand had curled into a fist and was beating on the rail as he watched
her going down the ladder step by step. She was still weak, unsteady.

Nimrod Blampin came up and stood next to him along the rail. “Look
see — the damned old place is well behind us now. And there she goes.” The
Irish
coast was falling away fast, disappearing into mist.
“We're for the western ocean now. What are you doing, Michael? Knocking down
the ship?”

Fergus opened his fist. The edge of his hand was raw and tender where he
had been beating it on the wood, and he uncurled the fingers slowly.

Anger, what is it? It's nothing pure. It's yourself you
despise.

IT WAS A STRANGE
, fast life: day after day of singing
wind and empty sea, with America somewhere off the stem.

Had there been a berth unoccupied he might have taken his share of the
blankets and claimed it. It wasn't anger he felt, but awkwardness. He felt awkward
near her body.

If it was anger, he would refuse to make use of it. If it was anger, he
would carry it around like a dull little knife.

The tiers were packed; there were no empty berths. So he remained with
her, sharing their blankets, lying with the blackthorn stick between them. While her
body was recovering strength, at night she was often burning with heat.

They were quiet with each other. Perhaps she, like him, felt too sore to
talk.

The miles chopping past; the seas changing green to blue to green
again.

MARTIN COOLE
said, “I must charge a fee for
lessons.”

“How much?” Molly asked.

They were on deck, scrubbing their clothes and blankets in buckets of
seawater.

“Knowledge, it cost me a lot to get, such as I have,” Coole
said. “And like anything else, I must make it pay. I have my children to think of.
Do you have schoolbooks?”

She shook her head.

“No matter,” said Coole. “I have the primers — the
Dublin Universal
, and the
Goff 's
for doing sums.”

“If you give me a book, man,” Molly said fervently, “I
would eat every word.”

“Were you ever a scholar?”

“I can do sums — had fellows at the fairs teach me.
What's your fee for learning us our letters?”

“You can't say I'm not qualified. I had charge of the
famous school established by Sir William Hamilton to educate the sons of his tenants.
Have you heard of Sir William?”

She shook her head. “I have not.”

“A great man in north Tipperary. Paid me a handsome salary, and gave
us a cottage to live in.”

“Why have you come away?” Fergus asked.

Coole grimaced. “At the start of the winter, two landlords in the
district were shot down in cold blood. The miserable, shucking little priest went
running to Sir William declaring I was responsible for the outrage.”

A shagairt a rúin
, his mother used to call out, when she saw
the young priest, on his rare visits to the mountain. O dearest priest!

“Did you? shoot them?”

Coole looked at Fergus with horror. “No, no, what makes you even ask
such a thing?”

“I don't know.”

“I never knew the gentlemen, except by reputation! I never touched a
hair of their heads. That priesteen was always jealous of me; he had a school of his
own. He told Sir William that I was educating a nest of ribbonmen.”

“Were you?”

Drying his hands on his trouser legs, Coole pulled a thick little book
from his pocket. “I was for Repeal, and have shaken the hand of the Liberator
himself, Daniel O'Connell. Lately I am — was — am a Young Ireland man.
I have the national feeling. That priesteen had Sir William's ear, and Sir William
closed the school. We lost our dear cottage. My wife had a beautiful garden she was very
sorry to leave. The spuds were blighted, but we had turnips, strawberries,
peas. When our benefactor threw us out, we had nowhere to go, and
were put out directly on the roads. It was very hard on Mrs. Coole, to see her children
suddenly as little paupers — wild little paupers. We followed the road to Cork,
begging for food to put in the children's mouths.”

“What will you do in America, will you have a school?”

“Mrs. Coole says my opinions have put us on the famine road. A man
with mouths to feed cannot afford opinions, she says. I have sacrificed her babies for
what? For nothing. The patriot game. The national feeling.” He slapped the thick
little book upon his knee. “This was given me at a soup kitchen in Cork. It is a
Bible. Do you know it?”