Scattered Seeds (10 page)

Chapter 15

Henry pressed his back against Mary’s, a position she demanded.

“
If ye do nae like it, ye can just march back to your own berth.
”

That was hours ago. His aching shoulder and hip needed a stretch.

Shouts and bangs heralded dawn and the crew’s return with water.

“Stow those casks,” someone shouted, “and see to the deck, ye drunken fools. I want to be under weigh by two bells, forenoon.”

Passengers funneled toward the hatches in anticipation of fresh water. As they streamed past Henry and Mary, they cast reproachful glances.

Henry’s cheeks heated, even though he and Mary deserved none of their judgment.

Donald slid out of his berth and yawned. His voice was gritty with sleep. “I see you didn’t take no for an answer.” He winked, grabbed an empty cup, and joined the others heading for the deck.

Henry couldn’t feel his left hand or anything below his knee. He shifted to allow blood to refill his extremities, and his numb foot sent a pot clattering against the berth rail. He held his breath, fearing Mary would wake and discover him too close to her.

She didn’t stir, despite the noise, and he noted to himself that sleeping with one eye open on the frontier would apparently be his burden alone. The thought amused him, and he longed to tease her about it. She would fume, but only momentarily. Besides, he could no longer tolerate his discomfort, and he craved fresh water.

He sat up to shake her.

She rolled onto her back, her eyes half-open, her face ashen. Her lips fluttered as if reciting a prayer, but no sound came from her mouth.

Henry clapped his hands over his mouth. “Oh, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No, no. Mary.”

He shook her again and lowered his ear to her murmurings but heard only the chattering of teeth. He smoothed her hair away from her face, which felt sun-roasted.

“This canny be happening.” He threw a blanket over her. Did she not say last night that she didn’t feel well? She’d asked to leave the deck, but he’d kept her there, exposed and shivering. He killed her. He said he loved her and then he killed her.

He looked for his father, but Father had gone above with the others.

Water. She needed water.

He launched himself over the berth’s rail, swiped a tankard from the table, and raced for the deck, unable to outrun the worry sickening him. Stars streaked through his vision as he sought his father. He found him carrying a bucket of water.

“What is it?” Father dropped the bucket. Some of its precious contents sloshed onto the deck.

“It’s Mary,” he gasped, “she’s . . . I killed . . .”

Father grabbed him by the shoulders. “What are ye on about, lad? Take a breath.”

“Mary . . . she’s doon . . . fever.”

“How do ye know? Does she complain of chills?”

“She canny . . . babbling. Her skin . . . it’s hot.”

“Help me get this bucket of water doon. She’ll need it.”

They grabbed the rope handle together and carried the bucket to Mary, whose face was whiter than moonlit frost.

Donald appeared. “Good God, what’s wrong with her?”

“I think she’s taken a fever,” Henry replied.

Donald melted onto the edge his berth.

“She canny die, Father.” Henry’s throat felt like he wore a hangman’s noose. “She canny.”

“Simmer doon, Henry. Panic solves naught. We’ll think it through. Mayhap someone will notice our trouble and offer aid.” He examined the crowd of returning passengers moving in an ever-widening arc around them. All avoided eye contact as if seeing their problem would either infect them or obligate them to help.

A woman’s voice startled him. “Is there some trouble here?” She noticed Mary and instantly handed a pot of water to a bony girl hiding behind her skirts. “Mayhap I can help.” Without waiting for consent, she crawled into the berth, leaving her young companion exposed and frightened.

The woman pinched Mary’s cheek. “Get this blanket off her.” She followed her own orders and flung the wool off Mary. “Take the pot,” she said to the girl, “and go to our berth. See that ye drink aplenty, petal. I’ll be there directly.”

As the girl slipped away, the woman addressed the passersby. “Is there not one good Presbyterian among the lot of ye’s? Not a one who remembers the parable of the Samaritan?”

The passengers feigned interest in the items they carried and quickened their pace.

“Aye, that’s it, ye priests and Levites, keep walking and ignore those in need! Nary a Samaritan in sight on this brig. How many folk walked by these’ns and pretended not to notice their plight? What would our Lord say to that, I wonder? Ye’s should all be ashamed.”

A woman cast her eyes downward and limped past.

“Aye, Rachel McCurdy, that’s right, I see ye just fine.” She clucked her tongue and slowly shook her head. “And ye the daughter of a reverend. ’Tis a good job I did nae cast an upward glance when your foot needed seeing to. What would your father say, mistress?”

She spoke to Henry in a voice all could hear. “They’ll notice ye aplenty when there’s judging to be done, the dirty gossips. Funny how folk go blind when there’s need, aye? Canny see past the ends of their own noses then.”

Father said softly, “I hardly mean to interrupt, Mistress—”

“Martin. Molly Martin.”

“I am in your debt, and I am loath to appear contrary, but would it not be best to keep the lassie covered, since she suffers a fever?”

“It’s heat that got her in this state. Cover her up and ye may as well light her on fire.” She pinched Mary’s cheek again, and then the skin on her forearm. “See that? There’s no spring to it, and I’d wager she has nae used the chamber pot of late, has she?”

Father looked at Henry, and Henry looked at Donald, whose eyebrows rose in apparent shock at such a personal question.

Molly rolled her eyes. “Well, one of ye must surely know.”

Henry said, “She has nae used it all night.”

“Nor all day yesterday that I can recall.” Donald’s cheeks flushed.

“I thought as much. Water and rest are all the medicine she needs. If her innards are as dry as the skin she’s wearing, she’s in real trouble.” To Donald, she said, “My wain’s name is Phoebe. Go and tell her to gi’ ye my willow basket.”

Donald returned quickly with the basket.

Molly sorted through its contents, drawing out a wad of clean cotton. “Pour some water in a bowl,” she said to Father, who obeyed and handed it to her.

She dunked the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and looked at Henry. There was pity in her smile as she handed the cloth to him. “She’ll be fine, lad. Weak for a goodly time yet, and she’ll wake wi’ a thumping head, but she’ll be herself in less than a fortnight. Just ye lay this on her forehead and wring it oot every so often so it stays cool. Keep air moving around her, if ye can, and get some water into her. And into yoursel’ as well, sir, for your lips are looking a mite dry. Ye’ll be the next to fall if ye are nae careful.”

Molly climbed out of the berth. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on her.”

She made to leave, but Father halted her. “Plenty of folk walked by our troubles, e’en went oot of their way to avoid us. I canny thank ye enough for your kindness.”

She smiled. “I have nae done any more than the Lord asks of each of us. If it was my wain lying in that berth, I would hope someone would help her. ’Twill be thanks enough if ye one day think of me and offer aid to another in need.”

“I pray the day ne’er comes, but if it does, ye can be sure we will nae turn away,” Edward said.

Molly nodded and left.

Henry filled the tankard he still clutched. He climbed into the berth, then lifted Mary’s head and poured water into her mouth. Most of it trickled down her chin, but she managed to swallow a few drops and lick her lips. He stared at her mouth, recalling the softness of her lips on his last night, the night he killed her.

“Do ye think we should take her above, Father? Better air and all.”

“No,” Donald said before Father could answer. “The crew will think her contagious and leave her behind on the island.”

“Donald’s right,” Father said. “The captain would nae risk contagion, not this close to the Colonies. We’ll need to be careful, at least until the crew weighs anchor.” He lifted the blanket. “Here, we’ll tack this up.”

“But Father, folk will think me and Mary are—”

“Your purity will do neither of ye any good if Mary’s marooned on an island.”

His father was right, he knew, but Mary would kill him when she found out—if she lived that long. He slid out of the berth and helped fashion a curtain out of her blanket.

If anyone asked questions, Donald would feign disgust and say that the two lovebirds were busy. They’d keep up the ruse until the crew made sail, an imminent event judging by the thump and click of the windlass.

Henry refreshed the cloth and poured a few more drops of water into Mary’s mouth. “Hold on, Mary. Please hold on.”

Chapter 16

With Henry tending Mary, Edward lay alone in the berth thinking about the dead. Were secrets revealed to them upon their passing? He hoped not, for James Patterson’s sake . . . and for Elizabeth’s, truth be known.

If death revealed Rachel Patterson’s secret to Elizabeth, then Elizabeth was none too pleased with Henry’s interest in Mary. Her disapproval would have nothing to do with the girl herself, who was as perfect as a primrose. No, Elizabeth’s unhappiness would have more to do with concern for Henry’s progeny. She knew far too much about breeding, thanks to her father’s obsession with fine horses.

And James . . . poor James would be shocked and angry, as would any man.

“
Rachel was a faithful and doting wife,”
the reverend said at her funeral. All in attendance agreed and dabbed their eyes. All but Edward. He knew otherwise, thanks to a rainstorm that forced him to seek shelter in the Pattersons’ byre.

Rachel died bringing the evidence of her sin into the world. James died trying to save it.

Mary inherited Rachel’s black hair and petite features, but her eyes, those crystalline blue eyes . . . those were Sorley’s.

It was too late to do anything about it. Henry was already in the grips of the blissful agony that accompanies every boy’s first experience with the fairer sex.

Edward felt that with Elizabeth, too. How well he remembered the simultaneous misery and ecstasy his father found ridiculous.

“I canny live wi’oot her, Father,”
he recalled saying.

“One day, laddie, ye’ll be so sick of keekin’ at thon lassie ye’ll wanny bury her in yon dung pile
.”

Edward would never know the truth of his father’s prognostication. Elizabeth died in the dawn of their marriage, leaving his heart empty . . . until Sarah.

It was different with Sarah, more mature, perhaps, but no less exhilarating. A part of his heart would always belong to Elizabeth, just as Randall Wilkerson probably occupied the greater portion of Sarah’s. Still, he guessed that under different circumstances, he and Sarah would be happy together.

How silly to think about a woman an ocean away. He swallowed hard and rolled onto his side, determined to think of her no more.

Chapter 17

Henry refreshed the cloth on Mary’s forehead day and night, and forced her to sip water. By Friday, she signaled that she needed to use the chamber pot, a task Henry asked Molly Martin to oversee.

The Leeward Islands were far behind them, along with the fear of Mary’s deportation.

When Molly slipped out of Mary’s berth holding the chamber pot, Henry unpegged the blanket, its service as their curtain finished.

“A good sign, this.” Molly tapped the pot and walked away with it. “She’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“Ye hear that, Mary? Ye’re on the mend.”

Mary’s cheeks flushed, and Henry guessed why. He leaned in to shake her knee. “’Tis only pish. We all do it.”

A man rushed down the stairs and into the aisle. “We’ve caught the trade winds,” he shouted to his emaciated wife, who sat at a table nursing their infant son.

His words sparked life into all who heard him. Passengers sat up and addressed their neighbors.

“He said trade winds, I think.”

“Trade winds?”

“We’re in the trades . . . Thank Almighty God, the trades.”

The news spread like contagion through the berths, rising in volume and intensity until passengers shouted over top of one another.

Curiosity got the best of Henry. “I’ll be back in a bit.” He kissed Mary’s forehead. “I must go see.”

Father and Donald were already on deck. A slow smile deepened Father’s dimples when he saw Henry. His hair, grown nearly half an inch, fluttered as the brig bolted across the water like a runaway stallion.

“Look at her go. She’s like a thing possessed!” His shirtsleeves ballooned with wind, and his cravat flapped below his chin.

The brig rattled from keel to masthead as the sea roared under her bows. Every piece of her canvas lifted and stretched taut, as if she, too, sensed the battle’s end.

“Huzzah, that’s our girl!” sailors shouted, as the booms above them creaked and threatened to break. “Took her long enough, but she’s got ’er fingers ’round the rope to Philly now, lads!”

Reed approached the sailors and said something that crushed their exuberance. They hung their heads, and as Reed broke away from them and approached Henry, one of them shoved his tar-stained hands into his pockets and kicked at nothing.

“A word, if I may, my good fellows,” Reed said.

Henry braced himself for whatever bad news Reed was about to deliver.

Father and Donald turned amidships. The long hair at Donald’s nape slapped at his cheek.

“Folks are saying we’re in the trade winds,” Father said.

Reed gave a quick nod and rubbed the back of his leathery neck. “Aye.”

“Won’t be long now, then,” Donald added.

“Aye.” Reed’s expression implied otherwise.

Donald’s eyebrows met above the bridge of his nose. “Is there a problem with the brig? It’s creaking some, but we attributed that to speed.”

Henry glanced again at the sailors, who watched Reed expectantly.

Reed said, “There’s naught wrong with our ’
annah
. No, indeed, it’s only that the lord an’ master expects to make a grand entrance at Philly. The bloody agent won’t tolerate no signs of wear on ’is brig. We gotta tar, oil, varnish, scrub, scrape, paint . . .” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “An’ us two men down, thanks to them gales.”

Henry understood the crew’s sudden change from elation to despair. Just as they neared the journey’s end—and their wages—the captain handed them a mountain of work on top of their regular chores and watches.

“Will the work delay us?” Donald asked.

“Depends if we gets help,” Reed said. “I, uh . . . I been asked to find men willin’ to work. What the cap’n don’t seem to comprehend is there’s only three
free
men left alive.”

“Us,” Henry said.

“Aye, an’ it’s unfair of me to ask, considerin’ how you was treat—”

“We’ll do it. Of course, we’ll help.” Father looked at Donald, who nodded his head vigorously.

“You’ll be paid, a’course, but not until we anchor. You’ll need to see the agent for your wages, same as us.”

Henry fought the urge to jump up and down. They weren’t even off the brig yet, and they were already earning wages! Nobody discussed the amount they would earn, but it didn’t matter. Every shilling brought Mary closer to freedom.

For two days, they labored in the August sun, their skin blistering by day and seeping at night. On the Lord’s Day, they enjoyed well-deserved rest, even though the captain afforded none to the regular sailors, a matter some threatened to take up in court in Philadelphia.

The passengers spent the morning preparing for worship as if heading to chapel. They washed and shaved themselves and donned their best clothes.

Henry tied back his hair and wore his shoes and a clean shirt, though he could do nothing about his ill-fitting breeches and holey stockings.

Father even donned Randall’s wig, which, owing to his weight loss, looked like a bearskin draped over a fencepost.

Everyone gathered around the tables to hear the few literate passengers on board read aloud from the Bible.

It was Donald’s turn, and he stood in the aisle, his eloquent voice delivering the words of Exodus 14 from pages turned golden by a swinging lantern above it. When he finished the chapter, he gestured to Henry to take his turn.

As Henry slid out of the berth, a tingle ignited in the pit of his stomach. He was no stranger to reading aloud, but usually with only Father and Phoebe for an audience.

Donald handed him the open Bible and pointed to the place where he’d left off.

Henry cleared his throat. “‘Then sang Moses and the children of Israel this song unto the Lord and spake, saying, I will . . .’” He cleared his throat again, annoyed that his voice was quivering. “‘I will sing unto the Lord: for he hath triumphed gloriously, the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.’”

A deep inhalation subdued his trembling and set his mind adrift to his home chapel, where he’d fidgeted between his parents, and where the reverend would be dismissing the congregation about now. Was Uncle Sorley sitting in his usual box, red as beetroot, glaring at their empty pew?

He hoped so.

“‘Thou in thy mercy hast led forth the people which thou hast redeemed: thou hast guided them in thy strength unto thy holy habitation.’”

He thought of the long walks home from chapel, when he’d been glad of his shoes and hoping to beat Mary Patterson home or at least pass by her house unnoticed. But like Snowy, who met him every Sunday, Mary was always in the garden weeding, picking berries, or otherwise employed in some outdoor activity worthy of the reverend’s condemnation. Had Henry known she raced home and risked eternal hellfire to gawp at him, he would have been less defensive, maybe even sociable. His blindness and stupidity caused him to waste precious time with her. If he’d known sooner that she was sweet on him, he could have worked out something with her father, something to spare both Pattersons the need to sign indentures.

He redoubled his efforts to concentrate on his reading, hoping he hadn’t misspoken or skipped any words. As he approached Exodus 15:17, he regarded the passengers in the fringes of his vision. The coming verse was a Presbyterian favorite, one each knew by heart, and one they relied on in times of exile and when striking out in search of their own Promised Land. He paused just before the verse.

Some passengers leaned back their heads in mystical anticipation, their eyes closed.

Henry delivered the verse they craved. “‘Thou shalt bring them in, and plant them in the mountain of thine inheritance, in the place, O Lord, which thou hast made for thee to dwell in, in the sanctuary, O Lord, which thy hands have established.’”

He did not finish the chapter, but gently closed the covers of the Bible and eased down onto the bench, allowing the words to resonate. His effort bore the desired result. The passengers sat still, lost in their thoughts and prayers, leaving the brig silent except for the hiss of the water she parted on her way to the Promised Land.

He glanced at his father, who looked pleased.

It felt to Henry like a significant moment, as if something remarkable was about to happen.

And then, something remarkable did happen.

“Land, ho!”

The passengers abandoned their prayers, scrambled out of their berths, off the benches, and into the aisle. They swarmed there to embrace, tears tracking down their cheeks. Many threw their hands skyward and uttered thanks to their deliverer. Others giggled and clasped their hands over their hearts. Those who lost loved ones during the voyage dropped to their knees and wept.

He caught a fleeting glimpse of Mary trying to rise in her berth. He pushed through the passengers making their way toward the hatch.

“Let me through. Let me through!”

He crawled into the berth with her. “We made it, Mary.” He helped her sit up, barely able to believe his own words.

She tried to stand, but her legs failed her.

“I’ll carry ye.”

She weighed no more than the sack of flaxseed that ruined them. Her head flopped against the torc, but she said nothing of its hardness.

He set her down on a sea chest in the middle of the packed deck. “Bide here,” he said, realizing the ridiculousness of his statement. “I’ll be right o’er there wi’ Father and Donald.”

He joined them near the overturned cutter.

“There she is, Henry.” Father pointed at a curving chain of sandy strips and wiped his eyes. “We made it, lad.” He shook Henry’s shoulders and laughed.

Henry craned his neck to see past another man. To the west, the Atlantic foamed and eddied around several barrier islands. He saw no trees or crops, only wind-ravaged grasses and a few twisted shrubs that, if cut at once, would barely yield a night’s burning.

He was profoundly unimpressed with the Promised Land until the man in front of him stepped aside to reveal more winged creatures than seemed possible in one place. They were as varied as snowflakes. Clouds of them rose to blacken the sky. Some stood in shallow water on legs five times higher than their bodies. Others skimmed the breakers and lifted fish from the surf.

“Look at that.” He pointed at an ungainly bird. “Its beak is like a grain scoop!”

Donald pointed too. “Mainland must be that way. All the birds are flying in that direction.”

Henry saw no forests or fields, just barren islands and breaking surf.

In his letters, Alexander MacFarlane had gone into great detail when describing the North American coastline.

It starts low and unimpressive, and is comprised of all evergreens, then rises and becomes an infinite patchwork of every shade of green. Evergreens are good for building, but not much heat in them.

“You don’t look so good,” someone said behind him.

He turned to see Hobbes addressing Mary, who clutched her belly and leaned hard on the sea chest. Hobbes was a young midshipman from Boston, something Henry learned the previous day while helping him scrape and paint the gratings.

Henry rushed to Mary and shored her up against his thighs. “She’s grand.”

“She don’t look grand. What’s wrong with her?”

“Naught.” Henry feigned embarrassment and lowered his voice. “Lady troubles.”

“Oh.” Hobbes stepped back as though struck. He studied Mary carefully. “If I was you, I’d get her below and out of sight. Don’t want anybody to see her and start thinking about quarantine. Customs officer at Port James won’t let any sickly ones off the brig, ’specially now that we stopped off at the Leewards.”

Father, who had a nose for trouble, joined them. “Why does it matter that we were in the Leeward Islands?”

“Bad outbreak of yellow jack there a few years back. Customs men have been jumpy ever since. They’ll quarantine you fast as lickety if you so much as sniffle.”

“But we ne’er left the brig,” Henry said.

“Don’t matter.” Hobbes looked around before leaning closer. “You’re a hard worker and a likeable Jack, but you’d best find a cure for them
lady troubles
afore we reach Port James. Otherwise, this lassie’ll have to fight to stay on this brig.”