The famine orphans, p.11
The Famine Orphans, page 11
I was already missing Nathaniel’s company and the special relationship I’d thought we’d shared. Now we were back to formality—Doctor Harte and Miss Gilvarry. I tried to avoid his eyes, which was not difficult since he ignored me altogether. It made me sick at heart. I blamed myself for my foolishness. All these feelings were new to me and I wished fervently that Ma was here to talk to. But she wasn’t, and that was that. So I formed a stiff upper lip and went about my days as best I could.
The other girls in the mess were beginning to show signs of strain. Maybe it was the fear that Australia was looming closer and their anxiety was growing, but I noticed that even Bridie had begun to flaunt the rules—slacking on her work and ignoring orders—blaming such shortcomings on her difficulty understanding what she was being told. I knew this was not the case since she was doing so well in her English lessons with me. Patsy and Sheila flirted openly with sailors and laughed in Phoebe’s face so often that she gave up trying to control them.
I worried about Mary, who had not spoken since Jamie’s death, although she still went meekly about her duties, the kitten following her everywhere. I was concerned about Lizzie too. She spoke only when spoken to, using as few words as possible and spent as much time as she could lying down in her berth, even during the day.
When I noticed that Lizzie was no longer bothering to go to the galley at mealtimes to fetch the food for our mess, leaving Mary to struggle alone, I decided I needed to confront her. She was lying sullenly in her berth one afternoon when I approached her.
“Lizzie,” I began, as gently as I could. “Are you unwell?”
She turned her back to me. “Mind your own bloody business!”
My temper rising, I turned her back to face me. “Look at me!” I shouted. “It is my business and the business of the rest of our mess. It’s not fair of you to put all the responsibility of the mess on young Mary. So I will ask you again, are you unwell, or just being a lazy, selfish bitch?”
I surprised myself with my language. I had never used that word before. Another new milestone, I thought. Lizzie began to sob. I was immediately sorry I had shouted at her.
“Are you sick, Lizzie?” I said more gently. “Do you want me to call Doctor Harte?”
“No!” she said through her sobs. “What can he do? Bloody nothin’. So just go away and mind yer own business!”
I was turning away when Patsy and Sheila came down the ladder to the hold. Sheila ran over to Lizzie, while Patsy glared at me.
“What’ve you been saying to the girl?” she demanded. “Can’t you see the state she’s in?”
“I was just trying to . . .” I began but gave up.
Sheila came to stand beside Patsy.
“Well, mind yer own business, you nosy bitch,” she said. “Patsy and me can look after her.”
I shrugged and walked over to the ladder.
“And don’t be running to Phoebe or that witch, Buckley,” Sheila shouted after me.
“Aye, and don’t be telling your fancy-boy doctor, either,” added Patsy. “We don’t need him down here poking and prodding her like a prize cow! Just keep your mouth shut, Kate.”
I raced up the ladder, anxious to get away from them and out into the fresh air. I went straight to the railing and leaned over, looking out to sea, breathing in the cool, fresh air. What on earth was going on? I wondered. I shrugged. Well, whatever it was, they were not going to let me in on their secret. That much they had made clear. I reminded myself again that no matter what my da had told me long ago, I was not responsible for everyone around me. My only duty was to myself!
* * *
The Sabine resumed her journey south, zigzagging, or “tacking” as the sailors called it, captive to the whims of the wind, which sometimes blew her west towards the coast of South America and sometimes back east towards Africa. After our spell in the Doldrums, I was grateful for the wind whatever direction it hurled us. We were at its mercy. The weather had cooled greatly, another welcome event. I realized that sea captains were not unlike farmers, whose livelihoods were so dependent on the weather. Too little rain, crops would wither. Too much rain, crops would rot. Too little wind, ships would stall. Too much wind, ships would flounder. How simple an equation it seemed, whether humans existed on land or sea.
We eventually passed a group of islands called Tristan da Cunha. Nathaniel gathered us on deck and gave one of his speeches. I stood at the back of the group, my eyes closed, listening to his calm, steady voice.
“These islands are volcanoes,” he began. “They lie in the South Atlantic roughly halfway between South America and Africa. He paused and I opened my eyes to catch him looking straight at me. “There is said to be a beautiful, perfectly heart-shaped lake at the center of one of the volcanoes.”
I felt myself blush, and I fancied I saw his cheeks redden as well. Silly girl, I thought.
He was talking again. “The islands are a British outpost. Many ships put in here to obtain provisions.” He smiled. “If we’d stayed longer in the Doldrums we might have had to do so, as well. As it is, I’m told there is enough food to last the rest of our journey, although sadly we won’t be offered much variety.”
He was right about that. To think that after starving in Ireland we would have begun to turn up our noses at salted pork and dried cod seemed almost treasonous. The sailors were seeking variety, however. They began fishing for sharks, which were numerous in the waters around the ship. We watched with fascination as they speared and gutted them, then roasted them for dinner, which they devoured with great relish. I had to admit the smell of roasted shark was very tempting.
Unlike at previous island sightings, none of the orphans seemed anxious to set foot on land. They listened to Nathaniel politely but asked few questions. Afterwards, as Tristan da Cunha slid out of sight, they returned reluctantly to their lessons and tasks. Even the sight of more whales and dolphins failed to summon up their previous enthusiasm. Only the sighting of loud, lusty, black and white penguins on the rocky shores of Tristan da Cunha sparked some short-lived joy. It seemed to me that the novelty of the voyage had begun to wear off, replaced by tedium.
In the past, I would have mentioned these things to Nathaniel but that was now out of the question. All I could do was keep my own counsel and try not to let myself or the others incur Mrs. Buckley’s wrath. I had not forgotten that, as head matron, she would be writing her opinion of each orphan for review by the Australian authorities when we landed. Her opinion of us might count against us in our chances of employment or, worse yet, might prevent us from being allowed to stay in the country at all. Early on, I might have welcomed the chance to be turned back to Ireland, but now—after all I and the others had been through on this journey—that was the last thing I wanted. I believed that after all we’d endured, we had each earned the right to stay in Australia.
* * *
As we neared the Cape of Good Hope, the winds grew stronger, stirring up the sea. We were ploughing through the water at a higher than usual speed, propelled forward by strong currents. As always, the crew seemed to anticipate something afoot, shimmying like acrobats up the rigging to tighten some of the sails and hoist others, ones they called “heavy weather” sails. I looked up from my needlework to study them. Were we finally in for a real storm? Nathaniel had mentioned several times over the course of the voyage that we had been very lucky not to encounter a bad one. He’d said the heavy rains and high seas we’d experienced so far did not qualify as a “real storm,” although he didn’t go into detail as to what a real storm would look like. I suppose he didn’t want to alarm us. Now, as I watched the crew go about their work, clearing the decks of any loose objects, securing coiled ropes and checking that locks on the hatches were sound, my stomach began to tighten. I wanted desperately to seek out Nathaniel and to hear his reassuring voice, but that was no longer possible. I hadn’t realized how much his comfort meant to me. I shrugged and went back to my sewing.
Phoebe looked up at the sky, then at the masts.
“Looks like we’re in for a right battering,” she said. “It ain’t far off by the looks of it.”
It was the following night when the storm finally hit. The wind picked up to gale force and we struggled to reach the hold without falling. All the lantern lights suddenly went out and we held on to each other in the darkness, trying not to stumble on objects that, despite the crew’s earlier efforts to secure them, had blown loose in the wind and were rolling around on the deck. There was a loud crash and something heavy and wet wrapped around my legs, threatening to topple me over. I leaned down and felt the wet canvas of a sail that must have been ripped free.
We eventually reached the hatch, which two of the crew had just opened, and one by one we made our way down the ladder and staggered to our berths like drunken sailors. The lanterns down in the sleeping quarters still provided dim light but swayed furiously with the motion of the ship. We climbed into our berths, shivering with fear. No one uttered a word as we lay there listening to the rattling and creaking from the deck above, and the squealing and squawking of the livestock below.
Before the crew could secure the hatch again, a great rush of water came roaring through the still open hatch, soaking ourselves and our bedding. Wave after wave it came, washing the sailors down the deck and rocking us so hard that our heads went down and our feet up in one direction and then the other, like an out-of-control seesaw. Some girls began to retch, others screamed and sobbed, while a few prayed aloud to the Virgin Mary for mercy. But no mercy came. Throughout the night we lay, our frozen fingers clinging to the sides of our berths, while the waves rocked the ship.
Just before dawn, the wind eased, and the ship grew steadier. Could it be over? I wondered. Gingerly, I eased out of my berth and climbed the ladder to the open hatch. Once on the deck I looked around at the debris strewn everywhere. Sailors were already aloft trying to replace the sails that had been torn from the masts. Incredibly, the masts, yards, and rigging looked intact, and I silently thanked God for it. Other crew were trying to control livestock which had been brought up from below. I ventured up to the top deck. The captain, looking windswept, his clothing soaked, stood on the poop deck shouting orders to the crew in a hoarse voice. I looked around for the other passengers but could see no one. I assumed they must have all been hiding in their cabins. I wondered where Nathaniel was. I was surprised that he hadn’t come down to our sleeping quarters to check on us. Had he given up on us just like Phoebe and Mrs. Buckley seemed to have done? I chased the thought away. More likely he was in the infirmary caring for sailors who’d been injured during the storm.
I went back down to the orlop deck and saw that no fire was burning in the galley, nor was there any sign of the cook. It hardly mattered, I thought, since breakfast would not be on the minds of many this morning. I sighed and began to shiver. My damp clothes clung to me and I went back down to the hold to see if I could find some dry garments, but I didn’t hold out much hope.
No sooner had I reached my berth than the rain began, charging at the ship in angry squalls. A sudden glare of light flashed across the room, followed by a resounding crack of thunder. Girls shrieked as they awoke from restless dreams. I tried to reassure Mary, who sat straight up, a terrified look on her face.
“It’s alright, love,” I said, “it’s just thunder and lightning, that’s all. The ship’s not rocking the way it was last night, so it will all be over soon.”
Patsy snorted from her berth beside mine. “Some chance,” she said. “I don’t think the divil is finished with us yet.”
Sheila and Bridie stumbled out of their berths and came to sit beside us.
“Some craic this is,” muttered Sheila, between yawns.
Bridie nodded. “’Tis worse than any storm at home.”
“Of course it is, you eejit,” growled Patsy, “we’re out in the middle of the bloody ocean.”
The noises on the ship had begun again—rattling and creaking—but a new noise drew my attention. It was groaning, coming from one of the berths. I put out my hand to silence the girls.
“Ssh!” I said. “Do you hear something?”
Patsy was about to retort when she stopped and nodded.
Without thinking she and I jumped up and, on impulse, made for Lizzie’s berth. Instinctively we knew the groaning was coming from her.
“Are you alright, Lizzie?” I shouted.
Patsy reached over to touch her, but Lizzie didn’t move.
Then another lightning flash lit up the room and we saw it. Lizzie was lying stiff and pale-faced and covered in blood.
“Mother of God,” cried Patsy. “Lizzie!”
“Stay with her,” I shouted. “I’m going to fetch Doctor Harte.”
For once, Patsy put up no argument and simply nodded.
I raced to the ladder and up to the deck. The rain was lashing down now, scudding in blinding sheets across the deck. I clutched the railing of the steps leading to the top deck. Wood splinters pierced my palms and the soles of my bare feet, but I ignored the pain. I was out of breath by the time I reached the deck and stumbled to Nathaniel’s cabin, where I pounded on the door. There was no answer so I turned around and retraced my steps, pushing against the wind, down to the lower deck towards the infirmary. As I was crossing the deck, I heard a deafening noise behind me that rose above the claps of thunder, cracks of lightning and the roar of the wind. The noise sounded like it was coming from hell itself. I froze and swung around. In the dimness I watched the main mizzenmast come tumbling down, crashing to the deck. I backed away, staring at the shards of wood and crumpled sails. I made a quick sign of the cross, thanking God for sparing me.
Turning back from the horror, I staggered towards the infirmary, tripping and rising several times, until I reached the door. I didn’t even bother knocking. I rushed in and found Nathaniel bending over a sailor, securing a bandage on his leg.
“Nathaniel!” I cried. “Nathaniel, come quickly!”
His head shot up and he looked at me in alarm.
“Kate! What on earth . . .”
“It’s Lizzie!” I shouted. “You have to come now!”
He turned to the sailor, pointing to the bandaged leg. “Try not to move it.”
Nathaniel reached for an oilskin raincoat hanging on a doorknob and threw it at me. “Put that on,” he said, “or you’ll catch your death!”
I looked down at myself and realized I was wearing only my soaking cotton shift, and my hands and feet were bare and bleeding. I took the coat and put it on, while he, still in his shirtsleeves, grabbed his doctor’s bag and followed me out into the storm.
“Thank God, you’re finally here,” Patsy shouted when she saw us. “You took your bloody time, so you did. What kept you?”
I started to protest but even in the dim light I could see the look of desperation on Patsy’s face. Sheila and Bridie stood beside her, Sheila as pale as a ghost, Bridie clutching rosary beads and chanting prayers in Irish. The girls parted to let Nathaniel bend over Lizzie. She lay as still and pale as when I left, her hands deathly white against the blood-soaked blanket. It was only then that I noticed a long knitting needle lying limply in her left hand. I gasped. For God’s sake, what had she done? I looked at the others, but they avoided my eyes. Nathaniel leaned over her, putting his ear close to her chest.
“She’s still breathing,” he announced, “but barely.” He looked up at us. “Fetch two sailors immediately. I need to take her to the infirmary.”
“Yes, Doctor!” Sheila raced out.
“The rest of you, please bring as many dry blankets as you can find. We must keep her warm.”
As I turned with Patsy and Bridie, Nathaniel called after me. “Kate! Take this please and put it somewhere safe!”
I stared at the knitting needle in his hand. He had wrapped it in gauze but the sight of it still made me want to retch. I shrank back.
“Please, Kate,” he said again.
I looked at his weary face and his rain-soaked shirt, then at poor Lizzie, still as a statue, and I summoned what strength I had left. Reluctantly, I reached out and took the needle, hiding it under my raincoat. I made my way back to my berth and shoved it beneath the mattress. Then I went to help Patsy and Bridie find some blankets.
By the time the sailors arrived, the other girls had begun to wake up and silently took in what was happening. They watched as Nathaniel directed the men how to lift Lizzie out of the berth, urging them to be careful ascending the ladder. The storm had not weakened. High waves still rolled us from side to side and the wind still put up a furious roar, while rain squalls battered the ship.
Mary stared at the scene, her face as pale and waxen as Lizzie’s. I was about to go to her when Nathaniel turned to me.
“Come with us, Kate,” he said. “The rest of you, stay here and try to get what rest you can.”
For once, Sheila and Patsy made no remarks, just nodded meekly.
“Keep an eye on Mary,” I said to Patsy, as I followed Nathaniel and the others.
My last glimpse was of Bridie standing beside Lizzie’s now empty berth.
“May God spare her,” she said.
* * *
“That’s all I can do for her for now,” Nathaniel said as he collapsed into a chair beside the bed where Lizzie lay sleeping.
Without thinking I asked, “Why don’t you go back to your cabin and get some rest? You look exhausted. I can stay with her. I’ll come and tell you if anything changes.”
I hardly had the words out when he shouted, “No! I’m staying here. I have lost one patient already on this voyage and I will not lose another!”
His eyes blazed briefly, exposing something between anger and desperation. Stung by his rejection, I backed away from him and sank down on a chair in the corner of the room.
