The Boy From Ballyclerahan

Chapter 8: The Raparees

Schooner 'Fanny', 1036 miles west of Valencia Island, May 20th, 1811

"Pat," a weak and raspy voice called. "Pat, are you there?"

"I'm here, Jim," he replied, holding the first mate's hand. His nailbeds were white, with not a drop of blood left in them. The icy appendage unnerved him, unsure of its significance.

Since boarding the Fanny, Pat's whole life had changed, a lifetime of experience crammed into three short weeks. Exhilaration, loyalty, kinship, fear, horror, and loss, all thrust upon him, broadening his resolve and shaping his character. Learned skills to be recalled whenever he needed them. He had Jim to thank for that. For taking him on under the circumstances.

"Da boy?" Jim stammered.

"Liam is doing fine. His father is grief stricken, so I offered to keep the boy occupied, letting him tag along with the crew. He's becoming quite the sailor. Mouth is getting worse though, hanging out with this lot." Pat forced a smile.

"Dat's good, dat's good. He's got damn good teachers for bot' o' dose t'ings'," he replied, wheezing. "And da rest o' me crew?"

"Don't worry, Jim. Lannon's been hiding in his hole since the French left but Wilt has taken up the charge." Pat was heartened by this unexpected stint of lucidity. Jim had been either unconscious or spouting jibberish over the last couple of days. It was nice to have him back.

"Still need 'im, Pat. T'ings gonna get rough again. Dat island..." His voice petered off and eyes rolled upward.

"Jim! Jim!" Pat shook the seasoned first mate, desperate to hold on to his friend just a little longer. "Jim, wake up!"

Jim's eyes fluttered and rolled back into the front of his sockets. His face was ashen, with spidery veins reaching across his sunken cheeks. The Lord was calling and it was time for him to answer. Just needed another moment. He let out a cough and continued. "Yer a fine man, Patrick. Been an honour to know ye. Take care of Ed and da boy. We owes dem dat." He coughed again, this time with a wet rattle, his lungs filled with fluid. "Not too many women on de island doh, I'll tell ye," he admitted with a hint of a smile. "But maybe one or two fine fillies dere, me buddy. Go find one and make a life fer yerself."

"I will Jim, I will." Pat wanted to say so much more; to thank Jim for all he had done. He couldn't find the words.

Jim closed his eyes, his face content, the stress of keeping his fragile crew together having melted away. His breathing slowed, becoming more shallow with each successive breath. For a brief moment, his cheeks pinked up a little, fuelled by a large volume of air pulled into his chest. The rattling whistles accompanying the reflexive exhalation purveyed a joyous tone, a celebration of a life lived. His chest remained still for a number of seconds. Then another large breath, his rib cage cycling through its familiar rise and fall once again. And then nothing.

The icy hand maintained its temperature but it's moisture quickly evaporated, leaving a dry, sinewy piece of flesh in its wake. Searching Jim's face for signs of life, Pat recoiled in horror at the unwelcome sight. His mouth was gaping wide, the fleeting pink in drawn cheeks replaced with an ash-tinged pallor. Jim was gone. A rush of sadness flooded him, his brain screening memory after memory of his time with Jim. Collapsing in sorrow, the sobs controlled him, his body vibrating in torment. He fought to wrest control, steadying his thoughts, replacing his feeling of loss with memories of happier times. Jim's final words replayed in his brain. He would make a life for himself. Wiping his tear soaked cheeks, he released Jim's hand and covered his head with a wooden blanket.

_______________________

The coal-based fire burning near the center deck lured crew and passengers alike to her hearth, its heat emanating forth, taking the chill from bones nipped by arctic air. They were well into it now, the epicentre of the Atlantic's unfortunate collision of warm southern ocean currents with the frigid waters coming from the north. This abomination of nature wreaked havoc on weather patterns, causing wild swings in barometer readings and blizzards that could come out of nowhere. Extremes were common. One might don their short sleeves to greet the late morning sun only to haul out their woollens and oiled slickers a few hours later, defending against an onslaught of wind-driven sleet. This day, however, the Fanny bobbed gently in calm waters, albeit blanketed in a thick fog. Nature had chosen the middle ground. Despite the cold, a joyous mood prevailed, with full bellies and a newfound sense of hope amongst passengers and crew.