The Boy From Ballyclerahan

Chapter 10: The Rock

Schooner Fanny, 1751 miles west of Valencia Island, June 3rd, 1811

Tacking into the final leg of their journey, the Fanny skirted the rocky shoal that bordered the harbour's entrance. Excited, the crew invited the passengers to share in their victory, the prior animosity between them eroding over the past weeks.

It was late now, but an arc-shaped peppering of lights shining from dwellings in the town still served as a beacon for their tired vessel. The light pattern suggested a valley, its sides meeting at a trough opening to the sea. The lights increased in brightness as they approached, sprinkled like stars, not just above the landwash, but in the water too. They were coming out to meet them!

"Jaysus! Isn't da nice? A feckin' hero's welcome. Braved da stormy seas, we did! Never a doubt in my mind," said Johnny, smugly.

"Yes, Johnny. Never a doubt did you have," said Pat sarcastically. He looked to Ferguson who smiled and shrugged. Pat smiled back, shaking his head. A sense of relief washed over them, buoyed by the sight of the townsmen's boats, their pilot to port.

The bobbing lights were closer now, emanating from lanterns hanging in each boat. They counted seven vessels in total, each pushed towards them with a steady wind that billowed a small mainsail. The Fanny's crew called out to the welcoming party, cheering them on. The boatsmen gave no response to their overture.

When the gap between them closed further, the reality of their situation became clear. Light from lanterns revealed stern faces and glinting metal, reflecting from muskets pointed at the Fanny. As if on cue, Johnny verbalized his thoughts. "See 'by's, I told ya. We're not makin' port. No way!"

"Shut up, Johnny," Pat responded flatly, staring at the defenders in disbelief.

It was Wilt who spoke first, looking confident on the outside but shitting himself on the inside. "Hello friends!" he called to the boatsmen. "By the grace of God, we are happy to see you. We have travelled for many weeks and are weary after a long journey. Might we moor in your harbour to gather our strength for the push to St. John's?"

"Stop yer vessel and come no furt'er," yelled a man from the leading boat, his musket aimed squarely at Wilt. "Dere will be no harbouring in Bay de Verde tonight. Ye best be on yer way before we has trouble." His accent was unmistakable. Hardened somewhat but the man was clearly Irish, probably from County Cork. Or Dingle? Given their history, perhaps an Englishman wasn't the best choice to negotiate the landing.

Gathering his courage, Pat stepped forward. "Brother, we are mostly Irishmen here like yourself. We are tired and in need of a short rest before we carry onward. We mean no trouble for you or your village and we'll be gone within a few days. Surely, you can find it in your hearts to offer some charity to your brethren?"

The flotilla's spokesman hesitated for a moment, pondering the boy's request, all the while their muskets trained on the deck. "We had yer kind visit us before," started the man. "Dat last vessel brought a wave a ship fever to our town, killin' ten of our men, women, and children. We bears no ill will towards ye, and indeed we wishes ye safe passage, but we won't be allowing ye to land yer vessel here. Not until we're sure yer crowd are safe."

"Certainly, we understand your concerns. We too have lost many and mourn for their souls. In the last two weeks, however, we have had no deaths or illness. Our supplies are good, we are strong and well fed," Pat answered earnestly.

"Yes I s'pose you don't t'ink you'll cause any harm, and perhaps ye all are free from fever. But we can't take da chance." The man turned to whisper to his mate, who looked as if he had a different response, his hands moving in description. The spokesman considered for a moment then nodded. "Me buddy here says we should let you anchor in da harbour as long as ye stays on yer vessel. We can bring ye supplies as ya need but if ye sets foot on land, ye'll be shot on sight. We'll send for a doctor to come and check ye. Only on his word will we let ya land."

Pat turned to Wilt who dropped his head and sighed. They had little choice. "We'll accept that. Thank you," conceded Wilt. "Can I ask how long it might take for a doctor to reach the town?"

"He'll get here when he gets here," said the man. "Sit tight. We'll have men on watch at da shore, so don't try anyt'ing," he warned. And with that, the flotilla turned and rowed back to the town, their muskets still locked on the Fanny, ready to fire. But no shots were needed. The Fanny dropped her anchor and held steady. They would wait.

Up early that next morning, Ed scanned the open harbour, its tiny village straddling opposing slopes of a valley carved from adjacent cliffs. Standing beside him, he squeezed Liam's shoulders, the last of his family. I guess this is it, he thought. He turned when Pat approached. Sidling up beside them, the cabin boy leaned over the cap rail, supported by chafed elbows.

"Nice job last night, Pat," said Ed genuinely.

"We're still out here, Ed. Might've done better."

"Maybe," said Ed, shrugging his shoulders. Several silent minutes followed.

"You were right about one thing now weren't you?" Ed admitted as he watched the fishermen splitting cod at the harbour wharf. "Well at least partially right."

"How so?" asked Pat, shifting his feet to steady his stance.

"Weeks ago, you told me Liam would soon be running through the green fields of Talamh an Éisc. By this view, there are endless places to run. And I do mean endless. But he'll be running alone, now won't he," said the dwarf, his voice wafting in the wind.

Eyes down, Pat said nothing, just nodded.

"I will say though, by the Lord God Almighty, that there is little or no green here," Ed continued, as a day's work in the town unfolded before them. "No, you were definitely wrong about that little detail. Just a swathe of grey, barren, fecking rock!"

Pat bristled at the comment. Abruptly, his calloused hands gripped the cap rail as his mind flashed to that night during the storm. A feeling of dread consumed him as he relived the scene, his body teetering over the wooden barrier, poised to join the souls they would throw overboard just a week later. For a brief moment, he glimpsed their faces, so dead and decomposed. Ed's wife Eliza stood out among them. Untimely robbed of her beauty and wit. It horrified him. Clearly unsettled, he finally spoke, still staring straight ahead.

"Yes, I was wrong about that," he agreed.

Ed paused for a moment and glanced over at his friend. His eyes were sunken. Bruised and beaten. None of this was his fault. He let out an inaudible sigh.

"You know they call this place 'Bay de Verde'," he said with renewed enthusiasm. "Bay de fecking Verde! It's 'vert', for God's sake, n'est pas? As if we needed another run in with the French! Yet, the only bit of mercy we received during our horrific voyage came when the Frenchmen showed up."

"I believe the name is historic only, Ed. Might even be Portuguese. But they're mostly Irishmen in that town. That's for certain." Even from this distance, Pat could hear the familiar lilt of his homeland from locals working the wharf.

"Well, change it to 'Green Bay' for God's sake! Bay de Verde? Feck!" he said with feigned disgust. "And where in God's name is this 'green' anyways? I thought we already settled that point. Will someone please tell me when we leave for St. John's?" he yelled to some imaginary purser, hand to the side of his mouth to amplify his inquiry. For the first time in weeks, a devilish smirk. He was still in there.

Pat smiled too, as two unlikely friends and a boy continued to stand in silence, laughing a little and staring into the distance over that barren valley. And all the time wondering how they would make it in this most inhospitable of places.