Into the Storm (15 page)

W
hen Dr. Woodham went down to the steerage level, not only was he frowning, he had placed a perfumed handkerchief to his nose. Mr. Murdock, lantern in hand, was by his side.

“Pestilential place,” the doctor declared as he peered through the gloom made thick with tobacco and tea leaf smoke. “Can't there be any better ventilation?”

“Take my word for it, sir,” Mr. Murdock replied, “yer could put these people in the queen's palace, and it would be a pigsty by the end of the week. I've seen it again and again. They don't know better.”

“If there is real illness here,” Dr. Woodham observed, “it will spread rapidly.”

“Don't I know it, sir. That's why yer never see the captain here. Now, sir, if yer'll just come this way, I'll show yer the berth that's got the reported contagion. Here now, make way for the doctor. May way!”

Passengers hastily stepped aside. Maura followed in the doctor's wake.

“All right, mistress,” Mr. Murdock called to Mrs. Faherty when they had reached her berth, “we've had a report of sickness here.”

From her place near her husband's head, Mrs. Faherty shooed her two boys away, then attempted a clumsy curtsy. “If it please Your Honor, it's me husband.”

“Put the light on him,” Dr. Woodham ordered.

Mr. Murdock aimed his bull's-eye lantern on Mr. Faherty's face, then his body. The face was swollen, as were his fingers and joints. A distinct, disagreeable odor — beyond the stench of the steerage — was discernible.

“How long has he been this way?” the doctor demanded with revulsion, his handkerchief still held to his nose.

“Please, Your Honor,” Mrs. Faherty replied, “from the second day of the storm.”

“You should have reported it earlier,” Dr. Woodham said. “Has he had water? Food?”

“Your Honor, there was none to be had….”

Dr. Woodham frowned, lowered his handkerchief, and looked to Mr. Murdock for corroboration.

“Not safe for them on the deck in a storm, yer know,” the first mate explained. “Liable to be washed away. Captain can't allow it. As it was, someone managed to open the door to the main deck during the storm. We had to lash it down double.”

Dr. Woodham nodded with understanding.

“Please, Your Honor,” Mrs. Faherty asked in a low fearful voice, “is it what they call the ship fever?”

“I suspect so, yes.”

“Jesus have mercy,” the woman breathed, and reached out to touch her husband's hand. Even as she began to weep, she looked up at the doctor. “Is there anything to be done, Your Honor?”

The doctor stared again at the man's flushed face. “It's too late,” he answered brusquely.

The woman groaned. “Is there nothing to make him easy?”

With a curt shake of his head, Dr. Woodham turned and marched down the aisle, the handkerchief again pressed to his face.

Mr. Murdock lingered by the platform. “Yer'll want to keep me informed of any change,” he told Mrs. Faherty. Then he too left in haste.

Even before the doctor had reached the steps, the words
ship fever
passed quickly among the passengers. At first there was a hush, then sounds of praying and moaning.

Maura approached Mrs. Faherty timidly. “Is there anything I can do?” she whispered.

“Would you be knowing if there's a priest on the ship?”

“Faith, I've not seen one.”

“It's terrible cruel,” the woman said with bitterness, as much to herself as to Maura. “He keeps asking for water. Other than a priest, it's all he's wanting.”

“I'll try to get some,” Maura said.

Before she reached the water barrel on the main deck, the supply gave out. A second barrel had to be hoisted up. By the time she returned to the steerage deck with her can, a full hour had passed.

As Maura approached the Fahertys' berth, she saw that a crowd had gathered. Only when she'd worked her way through it did she discover that Mr. Faherty had died.

His widow sat by his body. She seemed to be in shock, not crying, but staring bleakly before her. Her three weeping children were pressing close.

A deeply distressed Maura came forward and held out the can of water. “I could get it no faster,” she murmured apologetically.

Mrs. Faherty made a small nod. “Give it to the children,” she said. “They've been terrible thirsty too.”

Maura looked at them. Bridy alone appeared relatively healthy.

Maura offered the can to them. One by one they drank. Mrs. Faherty merely shook her head in mournful resignation.

Maura, not wishing to intrude, began to leave.

“Maura O'Connell,” the woman called softly.

Maura turned.

“Sure, but it will be the same for me in quick time. Will you, for Jesus' sake, be willing to take Bridy under your care? You know she don't say much. And she promises to mind you.”

Maura stared at Mrs. Faherty. The look in the woman's eyes was exactly like that in her mother's on the night Timothy, her brother, had died, the same as when her mother fled the Cork dock.

“She's only a child and will be needing someone.”

“I'll look after her,” Maura whispered.

“A blessing on you,” Mrs. Faherty said, crossing herself.

Two sailors appeared at the edge of the crowd. One carried a folded piece of sailcloth. The other bore a heavy sack over his shoulder. “Where's the body?” one of them called. The crowd parted to allow the two men to step to the platform.

“Forgive us, mistress,” one of them said with rough kindness. “Captain's orders. The remains must be got rid of. He don't want the disease spreading.”

Mrs. Faherty remained unmoving.

“Did you hear me, mistress?” the sailor asked quietly.

This time she returned a tiny nod.

The man beckoned to his companion, who quickly unfolded the sailcloth and stretched it full-length alongside Mr. Faherty. The other sailor, with a quick push, rolled the body onto it. Then he took from his pocket a leather case of
sail needles and thread. Working together, the men folded the cloth over the body, then began to sew the edges of the cloth together with crude but effective stitches. Before closing it up, one of the sailors opened the sack he'd brought. From this he pulled some stones, which he stuffed by the dead man's feet.

“What's that for?” asked one of the onlookers.

“You don't want him bobbing about for the sharks, now do you?” the sailor replied. “The weight will get him down quick and keep him there till Judgment Day.”

Throughout this procedure Mrs. Faherty continued to stare vacantly before her. It was the sniffling children who watched the sailors intently, their eyes wide with fear.

Once the body had been sewn into the cloth, one sailor asked, “Will you be coming, mistress?”

“Faith, I've not the strength.”

“What about the children?” she was asked.

“They should go,” she murmured.

From the crowd of onlookers four men stepped forward and hoisted the awkward body bag to their shoulders. A way was cleared. Behind came the sailors and the three Faherty children. Others followed to make a motley funeral procession. Among them were Maura and Mr. Drabble.

Mr. Faherty's body was carried to the main deck. Near the bulwark a board had been laid out. Under the sailors' direction, the body was placed upon the board.

Mr. Murdock now appeared. “Is there anyone wanting to say a few words?” he asked. No one spoke.

“All right then,” he said, “do yer duty.” The sailors came forward, picked up the board with its load, and brought it to the top rail, feet forward. With a grunt and a sudden lift, they tilted the board up. The body slid off and plummeted over the side. There was a rush to see it descend, but too late. Mr. Faherty's mortal remains had been swallowed by the sea.

E
ager to get away from the deck and the greatly agitated steerage passengers, Mr. Murdock prowled about the cargo hold. Lantern in hand, he took note of the storm-wrought damage. Chests and barrels were strewn about, like so many ninepins struck by a bowling ball. While most were intact, there were a fair number destroyed. Their contents — from dishes to hats to toys — had been scattered about and broken or were now filthy from bilgewater. Indeed, the amount of wreckage was so great, Mr. Murdock realized it would not be possible to clean it up until they reached Boston.

As the first mate picked his way along the starboard aisle, he noticed four teacups and four saucers tucked tightly between two arching beams. For a long time he just stared at them. Something was wrong. The symmetry of the numbers alone — four and four — suggested they were not tossed there by the random pitching of the ship in the storm. Then too, not only were these dishes
not
broken, they appeared to have been carefully wedged one atop the other by someone. How else could they be there and in such good condition? The more Mr. Murdock considered, the more convinced he was that he knew who that someone was….
The stowaway
.

Turning, the first mate plied his beam about the hold. He would search again.

L
ater — as soon as Mr. Murdock was gone — Laurence climbed up the luggage-room ladder and lifted the trapdoor just enough to see if the galley way in the first-class passenger compartment was empty.

When he saw that it was, he lifted the trap higher. A small light was burning. It was enough for Laurence — who in any case had grown very accustomed to the dark — to see the seven doors that lined the way. Behind one of them, he hoped, was the one-eyed man, and with him Lord Kirkle's money.

Wanting to catch his breath and calm himself for the task ahead, Laurence rested on the edge of the trapdoor. He wished he was not alone. He had considered taking Patrick into his confidence. But that would have meant explaining everything to his friend. He had resisted that, fearful that if Patrick learned who and what he was, he might turn against him. For Laurence just the thought of that was unbearable.

For the moment, however, the only question was which door he would try first. One by one he considered them, but they told him nothing. He would simply have to take a chance.

Leaving the trap open — for a fast escape if necessary — Laurence crawled onto the galley floor. When he approached the nearest door, he grasped its latch and drew himself up.

Softly, he twisted the latch, but his heart was pounding so frantically, he had to pull back in order to regain self-control. Finally, he pressed his shoulder to the door and pushed. It opened.

The ship bell struck seven times, causing a tremor of nervousness to course through his body. When he was calm
again, he edged the door open farther, leaning forward to try and catch some sound from within.

What he heard was regular rhythmic breathing intermixed with the ever-present shifting and creaking of the ship. The breathing continued evenly, and at last Laurence swung the door wider and stuck his head directly into the room.

The only light seeped in from the galley way itself. Laurence could make little sense of the room. It was smaller than he had expected. A lamp — not lit — hung from the ceiling and swung gently back and forth. He saw, obscurely, a washstand, a sofa, and a chest of drawers as well as what might be a writing desk.

To either side of the room were beds. Only one was occupied. Under a heap of blankets, the sleeper stirred. Laurence froze, then pressed a hand to his heart to keep it from beating so loudly.

After a few moments, he crept farther into the room, moving silently toward the occupied bed. He stared intently at the passenger, trying to determine if it was his thief or not.

Though the sleeper shifted, the face remained hidden. Laurence stood motionless, waiting. Nothing! Carefully he reached forward — his hand shaking — and attempted to flick the blankets away. Though he managed to do so, he also brushed a cheek.

The sleeper sat up abruptly. He was a heavyset man with a mane of flowing gray hair. His face was somewhat square with eyes — only barely open — set together closely.

In haste, Laurence took a side step out of the man's line of vision. The man remained sitting for a moment before dropping back upon his pillow.

Breathless, Laurence waited for the sounds of regular sleep to resume. When they did, he inched his way toward the galley way and made his way out.

Deciding he had done enough for one night, he scurried back to the hold. When he reached his barrel, he removed the lid and climbed in. But instead of squatting down, he remained standing. With tongue and teeth he made a clicking sound.

In moments there was an answering squeak. Laurence called again. It brought the sound of scampering. The next moment a large brown rat was sitting on the barrel lid next to him.

“Good for you, Nappy,” Laurence whispered. He reached down and retrieved a bit of hard bread. “Here's your dinner.” He held the bread bit out to the rat, who sat up on his hind legs to take it. “Let me tell you what I did,” Laurence whispered.