Scattered Seeds (12 page)

Chapter 21

“Henry, do ye smell that?”

Henry sniffed.

Freshly cut hay . . . manure.

“Smells like hame. I’m heading up for a wee look.” Father rose from the table. “Ye coming?”

Henry looked across the aisle at Mary, who lay like an angel in her new shift and petticoat. “Think I’ll stay here for a bit yet.”

Father squeezed Henry’s forearm.

“Best be saying your farewell, son.”

He probably expected a reply, but Henry offered none.

“Take as long as ye need. Come up when ye’re ready.” He merged with the flow of passengers making their way above.

Henry lifted a plate-sized leaf off the table, picked yesterday when the channel carried the brig close enough to the shore for passengers to pluck foliage from the ancient limbs hanging over the river. In celebration of their first touch of the New World, they’d marched across the deck waving their leaves like flags.

Henry took no pleasure in their celebration.

Donald sat at the far end of the table. “I always thought it unfair that Andrew and I were denied a proper farewell, but now I think it far worse to anticipate a separation.”

Henry set down the leaf. “Pain is pain. Your wound was acute.”

“And yours is protracted, like a gut stab. But it will be made right, Henry. You and Mary will have each other in the end. This will all be a distant memory one day.”

He hoped Donald was right. “I keep thinking of the unfairness of it all. Have ye e’er seen a cat play wi’ a mouse? That is what this feels like. Just when I have hope, I am impaled by claws again.” His gaze fell to the Bible resting on the table. “Why would God do this to us? Why allow Mary to get this far and then let her fall ill? And then why have her recover only to get sick again?”

“It is just bad luck, Henry. We will change it, once we reach Philadelphia.”

Luck. So much for the luck of a witch’s torc. For a guinea, he’d fling it into the river.

“I said my piece to her earlier, when you were above,” Donald said. “I believe she heard me and understood.”

Henry had no words to give her. His morning began—and ended—on deck, with pacing and desperate prayers for a miracle. But miracles were scarce on brigs carrying the hopeless and damned, it seemed.

He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Donald.”

“Aye?”

“I’ve been thinking. Say I had something that I could use to bribe the customs folk?”

“Won’t work. They’d only steal it and send Mary ashore anyway. Not many passengers sailed with baggage, but those who did had it plundered at each customs house until there was almost nothing left. Many were counting on selling their lost possessions to pay their fares. Save all you have, Henry. We’ll sell what we can in Philadelphia and deal directly with Conyngham’s agent. If that doesn’t work, we’ll petition the court for Mary’s release. I have not yet determined our grounds, but mayhap they do not matter; even a baseless legal action will delay her sale long enough for us to earn the money we need to free her.”

Henry rubbed his throat, which threatened to rob him of air. “I do nae know what to say to her.”

“Just talk to her. Say whatever is on your mind.”

“I do nae think I can get the words oot.” His voice reduced to a squeal.

“Then use this.” Donald tore the first three pages—fortunately blank—from his Bible. He went to his berth and returned with ink and a quill. “If your words convey love, God will forgive the desecration.” He slid the ink closer to Henry.

“She canny read.”

“She’ll find someone who can. Go on, Henry, I am going above. There will be nobody here with you but Mary and those two sick boys over there. It may be the last private moment you have with her.”

He squeezed Henry’s shoulder and left.

Dust particles danced in the sunbeams streaming through the hatches. The berths were silent except for the padding of feet on the deck.

Henry closed his eyes and savored the privacy, the first since leaving Ireland. He turned over one of the pages and dipped Donald’s quill into the ink. It scratched the paper as he wrote,

Mary—

He stared at her name, unable to think beyond it.

One of the sick boys moaning in a berth near the mainmast held his belly and called for his papa before falling asleep again. Henry recognized him as the boy from Tyrone.

Mary, I hope this finds you well.

He slammed the quill down on the table and shot upright, sending the bench skidding out behind him. His words would likely be his last to her, and all he could think to write was
I hope this finds you well
?

The bench thudded as he righted it and sat down again. He scratched a line through his first try and started over.

Mary, I tried my best to make you better before we reached Philadelphia, but you only got sicker.

He picked up the paper and blew on the ink as he reread what he wrote.

Och, hell!

He balled up the page, threw it across the aisle, and flipped over a second paper.

Dearest Mary, when you wake, you will find us gone. Know that we are not far away. It will not take us long to earn your freedom, so take heart and stay strong.

Hen
— Robert McAdams

He read it again, sounding out his own words. His message sprawled across the page in straight lines, and his penmanship was flawless, other than the mistake he’d made by starting to sign his real name. It was a decent effort for a boy with only a farm education: neat, clear, and concise.

So why wasn’t it enough?

“This is maddening.” He balled up the paper and hurled it across the aisle. It ricocheted off the berths and settled on the planks near his first try.

Mary stirred, and he rushed to lift her gaunt hand. “Mary?”

She opened her eyes, but they rolled.

He stroked her hair and wondered where she was in her mind. He hoped it was someplace nice.

He wanted to pick her up and hold her, but she looked fragile enough to shatter. Instead, he sat on his haunches in her berth, hung his head, and wondered why he struggled to write what he felt. The tears came, singly at first, and then in rivulets. No one heard his sobs, not even her. His tears and snot dripped onto her and left a stain, and as he dabbed at the wetness with his shirtsleeve, he noticed how concave her belly was. He leaned down and pressed his cheek against the place where their children would have taken root, had their luck not been so awful.

He wiped his eyes and nose, then returned to the table and flipped over the last sheet of paper. He pictured her waking from her illness to discover his letter. How disappointing to find no sustaining words of love therein.

He began anew.

Mary, you will not believe this, but today, I cried until my tears soaked your shift. I am still crying, and I am not ashamed of it. When I stop crying, I will get up from the table and tuck this letter into your pocket. And then, Mary, I will bite my tongue until it is bloody while they carry you to the pesthouse. I can do naught to prevent it.

You will wake and wonder where I am. You will think I lied to you, that I abandoned you. I have not, nor will I ever. I intend to keep my promise to your father to look after you, not out of honour, but because I love you. I love you, Mary. I loved you even when I thought I hated you, I know now.

Stay strong. I will come for you. We shall head for the backcountry and begin our lives together . . . free. You will have those wains you want, and you’ll have me, too. I will make you happy, Mary. We will get through this. Hold on.

–Robert

He folded the paper before he could succumb to the mounting urge to scratch out every word. The page, his last, would have to do, like it or not. His tears ruined parts of several words, but she might like the blurred evidence of his sorrow. He would, if things were the other way around.

He returned to her berth. “Forgive me.” He fumbled with her petticoat to find her pockets, slipped the letter into one of them, and felt something hard. It was one of his whittled roosters. He remembered unintentionally trimming off one of its legs, and in a tantrum, throwing it into the burn. Why did she have it, and how??

Ka-boom!

A collective gasp made its way down the hatch. He shoved the rooster back into her pocket, smoothed her petticoat, then sprinted up to the deck.

“What was that?” he asked.

Ka-boom!

“Cannon fire.” Father pointed with others to two plumes of smoke rising over the tree line to the northwest. “Frigates and men-of-war sound their guns when entering or leaving port. There, see the masts?”

An outbound frigate seemed to sail out of the forest to pass their starboard side. The men on board cheered and waved, the suffering of a prolonged journey not yet upon them.

“A few days on the open sea will wipe the smiles from their faces,” Henry said.

The brig left the frigate astern and rounded a bend in the river, where orchards and fields stretched inland like quilt patches.

“Province Island, ho! Off the larboard bow,” a sailor shouted from aloft.

Reed answered from the bridge, “Heave to and call the cap’n. Tidy up and make ready for customs to board directly.”

Henry’s stomach tensed.

In marshland crisscrossed by springs and streams, a solitary brick building with dual chimneys rose out of the reeds and cattails.

“That must be the pesthouse,” Donald said.

“Canny be. It’s too fine,” Henry said.

“No, I would say that’s it, Henry. There’s nothing else on the island except the guardhouse and that small wharf.”

Henry turned to the boy coiling rope behind him. “Hobbes, what is that building?”

“Pesthouse.” Hobbes hoisted the coil to his shoulder and carried it away.

The brig lost its momentum. On the shoreline, five redcoats stepped into a rowboat.

“I’m not ready.” Henry smoothed his sleeves, paced a few steps away, then returned and smoothed his sleeves again.

Father took his arm. “Then make yoursel’ ready. We must let them take her for now. There is naught on this island but the pesthouse. No shops, no hooses, no trade at all.”

Henry shook his head. “I canny do it. I canny let her go. I have this awful feeling that I will ne’er see her again.” He eyed the riverbank. He was a good swimmer; he could make it.

Father took hold of Henry’s elbows and gave him a penetrating look. “I know what ye’re thinking, but use your noggin, lad! Would ye swim up amongst yon crowd of redcoats so ye can sit ootside Mary’s window and bawl? What good would that do her? There is no work to be had here. We would only lose time, of which we have precious little. Look at yon trees, Henry.” He gestured toward a copse of buttonwood trees. “What color do ye see mixed among the green?”

“Yellow.”

“And what does that mean?”

He knew what it meant. He shrugged off his father’s hands, and then fell into his embrace, not caring that many eyes were upon them. His father’s muffled heartbeat thumped against his ear.

“Take heart, son, all is nae as bad as it seems.” Father pushed him an arm’s length away. “I know it does nae seem like it, but Mary’s illness is a blessing. If she were healthy enough to continue on to Philadelphia, mayhap someone would buy her indenture afore we could earn the money to do so oursel’. No one will want her as she is. Look to yon building. It is well kept. I canny think that the inside is less so. She will be looked after until we can get her oot.”

Donald pressed a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “We will petition the court to release her from her confinement, but that can only be done in Philadelphia. As willing as I am to jump overboard with you, Henry, I must agree with your father. I believe it would be wasted effort and time we cannot afford to lose.”

Henry nodded. His head hurt.

The rowboat banged against the side of the brig. Two redcoats climbed over the rail, then dropped onto the deck, where the captain awaited them next to Langley.

“Welcome home, Captain McElwain,” a tall officer said.

“Leftenant Satterfield.” The captain bowed. “I trust your wife keeps well.”

“She does indeed, and she sends word that Mistress McElwain awaits her husband eagerly, so let us be on with our business, shall we? Fletcher! The forms, if you please.”

A nervous-looking redcoat handed the lieutenant a wad of papers, which the officer perused carefully, flicking them one at a time with delicate fingers.

“Only one for quarantine this time,” the officer muttered.

Langley whispered something in the captain’s ear that set him to raging. “Why was I not informed before now? Has it been this crew’s sole purpose throughout our entire voyage to keep its captain in the dark? If this were a man-of-war, Langley, I would have you fastened to the shrouds and flogged!”

He softened his voice. “I beg your patience, Leftenant, but it seems we have three for quarantine. These incompetents allowed two boys to drink from the river.”

“The flux?”

The captain nodded. “Not an illness worthy of quarantine, certainly, but if I take them onward, they will fail to thrive and stink up my brig. I would end up paying to lodge them, shitty breeches and all, until they are well again.”

“I’ll take them in. Much cheaper for the merchant. A few days will see them right.” Lieutenant Satterfield flipped through more papers. “Lost a few at on the voyage over, I see.”