The Boy From Ballyclerahan

Chapter 2: The Ship

Waterford, Southeast Ireland, April 24th, 1811

The schooner was over 75 feet long, with a wide deck and two masts suspending the gaff, jib, fore and main sails; maintained by nimble crewmen who clambered about the riggings like squirrels in a tree. A crowd of passengers were queued at her gangplank. Although most were bachelors, there were several young families aboard, and a few old codgers who placated the youngsters with stories as they waited. All in all, there must have been two hundred heads wanting to get on that ship.

The wait was tough. The morning sun was higher in the sky now and it was uncharacteristically warm for this time of year. The people shifted back and forth in the heat, releasing a steady stink from bodies not washed in days. Pat smelled no better. Surveying the crowd, he started to worry. Would he even get on?

His mind raced, rolling through the potential scenarios that could upend his goal of reaching the New World. Vivid images of a ship tossed in a violent storm intruded his thoughts, along with a reminder that he had never learned how to swim. He shuddered at the possibility of being lost at sea. But who would be left to miss him? His mother's face flashed in his mind, triggering a deep sadness. Even when his father was alive, she was a rock of stability for Pat and his sister. Somehow, she had managed to give them a childhood worth remembering, in spite of the hard times they found themselves in. Now he had no one. He swallowed hard at the thought.

A bullhorn signaled the Fanny's impending departure, snapping Pat back to reality. The scenes of storm-ravaged seas still fresh, he scanned the ship's hull for imperfections while he perspired in the heat. A honeycombed divot caught his eye, gouging into the timber just above the tarry coating that sealed the hull. His throat tightened as his thoughts drifted to a dark place.

"It's just da sea worms," explained an elderly gentleman standing next to Pat, noting his worried face and the subject of his anxiety. "Dey burrows into da ship's timber and leaves der tunnels be'ind. Da whole bottom is tarred to keep 'em out but sometimes a few gets t'rough." He looked Pat up and down. "First time on a schooner, youngster?"

"First time on anything," Pat admitted.

"I'd be more worried about da ship hi'self den da sea worms. Da Fanny usually carries goods, sheep, and so fort', but passengers hadn't been on her manifest 'fore now. Dey've been working most of da week outfitting her wit' bunks to accommodate ye lot, all wantin' to leave our beautiful island. She's only 100 ton, ye know, not meant to carry a crowd like dis."

"Are you going overseas as well?" Pat asked, distracting himself from that last statement.

"Lord no! I lives here in town. I'm just out for me morning jaunt. Besides, dat stuff's for the young and not an old fella like me."

He chuckled and seemed lost in daydream for a moment. Then the old man's face turned more serious. "Be wise and keep your wits about ye while on board, me buddy," he advised. "And keep yer distance from da lower decks when ye can. Sickness down dere. Food can be scarce too, but more plentiful if ye makes yerself useful."

Pat gripped his pack anxiously, How long would his own store of hard tack last? Maybe a week, he calculated. Shite!

He turned from the old man as the purser began to call the names on the ship's passenger list. With nervous excitement, the patrons made their way towards the gangplank to hear the roster. One by one, those with tickets boarded the vessel, the schooner seeming to diminish in size as the hordes crowded the shrinking main deck.

Looking a little anxious himself, the purser called out to the captain to discuss the burgeoning manifest. Deep in conversation with the ship's owner, Mr. Redmond, the captain shot back a vicious glare, conveying his response. Admonished, the purser turned back to the ship's list, continuing the roll call until all were accounted for.