The Boy From Ballyclerahan

Chapter 5: The Sick

Schooner Fanny, 568 miles west of Valencia Island, May 9th, 1811

Pat awoke with a start, blind and disoriented. It was all wrong. And quiet, the consistent roar of crashing waves notably absent. He felt warm too. The first vestige of comfort in weeks. Was he alive? Perhaps this was Purgatory. He strained to remember Father Joe's homilies. There was certainly a lot of talk about Heaven, and even more about Hell, but almost nothing about Purgatory. Was St. Peter in charge here as well?

Pat was no saint. Some time in limbo was to be expected, wasn't it? How does one atone for his sins? How long would that take? He tallied his past transgressions. Maybe he should start getting used to the place.

A scream shattered the silence. What was that? Minutes passed. Another scream, closer now. Pat's heart raced. Were they doing their atonement rounds? A third scream, so close he could almost feel the poor soul's breath. He was afraid. Why can't I see anything?

A light blasted the insides of his eyelids. Jaysus, this is it! He tried to concentrate. Open your eyes! Nothing. Come on, Pat! Open them! With much effort, his eyes opened to narrow slits, admitting piercing beams of yellow light framing a black silhouette. "Eeeeeerrrrrrriii!" the fourth scream assaulted, hurled from the dark figure. Panicking now, he flailed wildly. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" he yelled. A vice-like grip pinned his arms by unnatural forces. The more he struggled, the tighter the hold. Lord help us and save us! Then, the bellow of a familiar voice...

"By's, Jaysus come quick! Pat's awake and 'e's kickin' like a goddamn mule!" yelled Johnny Kennedy, shielding his injured extremity and fighting to restrain the seaman with his one good arm.

Nearing exhaustion after many minutes of struggle, a realization dawned, Pat's muscles relaxing in response. Streams of sunlight poured in though a porthole as his eyes opened further, broken by fleeting shadows from hungry seagulls vying for the cods' heads being tossed overboard. The screams were less menacing now in context. With clear vision now, he exhaled in relief, losing himself in fits of laughter.

"He's pretty fecked up, 'by's!" Johnny yelled out the forecastle door. "Now 'e's laughin' like da Devil 'imself. Might need a goddamn exorcism now da once!" Johnny crossed himself and retained his hold on Pat. "Dis is da last time I tends to dis arsehole." he muttered to himself. "Every time dat bastard wakes up dere's some kind o' trouble! Jaysus!"

The crew were busy now, taking little notice of Johnny's concerns on this new morning. Rewarding the Fanny's survival of the protracted storm, the sky was bright, the wind subtle. The sea was as smooth as glass. Taking advantage of the clear weather, Lannon charged the crew with hooking some fish, both for themselves and for distribution to the passengers below. And so went out the handlines. Catching the fish – mostly cod in these waters – didn't take long, with 20 to 30 pound beasts hauled on board one after the other. The bigger issue was the human cargo in the hold.

When the storm started, Lannon ordered Jim to seal the hatch, locking the passengers below for the duration. The logic was sound. The crew had enough to worry about keeping the vessel afloat. Being responsible for the welfare of weakened passengers as the vessel rocked violently in the storm was an unnecessary distraction. The surprise discovery of the child found with Pat was testament to that decision. No one at that time, however, imagined the storm would continue for almost a week. Now, with the weather calmed, it was time to open the hatch.

It was Jim who locked the hatch and he would be the one to open it. He winced as unpleasant memories from prior voyages flooded his brain. The lack of food and water wouldn't be the problem. The Fanny's passengers were given double rations at the onset of the storm and Jim left a cask of water out so they could help themselves. No, that wouldn't be it. Jim shuddered as his thoughts drifted to a dark place.