The Law of Dreams (35 page)

The deck was a tangle of ropes, hatches, spars, and boats. Passengers anxious to get below were shoving and fighting at the head of a hatchway while sailors perched in the rigging laughed at them.

“Come on, Fergus, we must claim a berth, and we'll only get what we fight for.”

They joined the crowd at the hatchway fighting to get onto the steep ladder that led to the 'tween deck hold. A chest had been dropped and was smashed open at the foot of the ladder where the owners were frantically trying to salvage their
goods, which were being trampled and crushed by the passengers pouring down. Molly raced forward to claim a berth while he dragged their chest over the wooden floor. The 'tween deck stank of mildew, and iron rust, and was fitted with berths, three tiers on each side. It was dark except for the daylight that fell down the hatch.

He found her lying in a slatted berth, hands clasped under her head, pipe jabbed in her mouth. When she saw him, she drummed her heels violently on the slats, taking the unlit pipe from her lips. “America!” she whispered.

He smiled and sat down, then stretched himself out beside her. Strange to think they were afloat. The ship felt amazingly solid, without any sway or roll.

“Does it suit you, Moll?”

Their hips were touching.

“Man, this is it,” she said warmly. “Waited for this all my fucking days.”

“Is he a ribbonman, Father?”

Fergus looked out at a little girl who had stopped at the berth and was staring at them.

“Why don't you ask him?” Her father was dragging a sea chest across the deck.

“Are you a ribbonman?”

Fergus shook his head. There was a boy, the same size as the girl, and their mother. “Deirdre, be still,” the woman said.

“They are very curious on ribbonmen,” the man said. “Every unhappiness in our part of the world is laid to ribbonmen, never the landlord —”

“Stop it, Martin,” the woman said sharply. She wore the red cloak of a country woman.

The man wore town clothes — a hairy brown suit, more or less clean. “Coole is my name, Martin Coole. We'll take the lease above, if you haven't any objection.”

“We haven't.”

Tall and stooped, he reminded Fergus of a riverine bird, an egret or heron. His wife was already lifting blankets from her chest. The man gave Fergus his hand, then Molly. “There's something I'm wondering. Perhaps you know the answer. How is it that Irish beasts are shipped for England, while Irish people starve?”

“Martin, don't!” the woman said. She was spreading blankets on the two upper berths.

“It's a crime somewhere.” The deck was too low for him; Coole had to slouch awkwardly, neck bent. “These are close arrangements, very close indeed. How do
they propose to feed two hundred souls? Yellow meal has to be cooked soft. Kill you otherwise with bloody flux. Where are the stoves for two hundred people? What about water? I counted but sixty-one casks taken aboard and I'm sure —”

“Martin, don't start. Calm yourself.”

“Have
you
seen any arrangements in the way of cooking?” Coole turned to Fergus. “Stoves, grates? Seen any kettles big enough for two hundred?”

“I have not.”

“I really can't think —”

“Get ahold of yourself, Martin! Think of your children.”

“Yes, yes, yes. The children.” Extending both arms, Coole flapped them in a strange, nervous gesture, again resembling a stalky, riverine bird.

“Think of Carlo and Deirdre. Get ahold of yourself for their sakes, and don't go to pieces now.”

Coole twitched his arms, shook out his wrists and big hands, raised each foot and shook out each leg — then shook his entire body, from his neck to heels, with extraordinary vigor, like a wet dog.

Suddenly there was shouting from the main deck, and feet rushing overhead.

“Sinking!” Coole gasped.

“No, mister,” Molly said. “I reckon they are throwing off. Leaving, it is. Come on, man!” She elbowed Fergus. “Let's go up and see.”

THE BREEZE
tasted sharp after the rottenness below. Girls with trays slung around their necks strolled about the deck selling oranges, nuts, and pocket mirrors.

Fergus watched as the gangway was hauled aboard. Sailors dragged in the dripping lines unleashed from bollards on the quay, coiling with frantic neatness and singing weirdly as they worked.

He studied the men up on the afterdeck. A man in a cowhide jacket — the river pilot, he overheard a passenger say — was giving orders to a sailor manning the wheel. A man in a black coat clutched a brass tube in his hand. Next to him an old man wearing a shaggy fur coat stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

A dozen sailors were singing as they worked a machine, winding a thick, wet cable that was warping
Laramie
off the quay. The taut cable drew her sluggishly
across the basin toward the water gate, where a footbridge had been raised so she could slip out into the river.

Passengers arriving too late for boarding had raced for the water gate, hoping to leap aboard as she slid through, but it was a terrifying jump. As the ship passed through the gate, he saw the old woman from the Goree in the cluster of anxious faces. A few men and boys made the leap, caught the rail, and were dragged aboard, but others were hesitating, too apprehensive to try.

“Come across, mother!” Molly screamed to the old woman. “Country of the waves! Come across!”

Without hesitating further, the old woman pitched her bundle then leapt across. They caught her by the arms, dragging her in over the rail as
Laramie
nosed into the river and began swinging about when the current caught her bow.

Wheezing and coughing, the old woman pounded her chest and spat voraciously.

“You're all right are you?” Molly asked. “That was a fair jump.”

“I'm old but I'm fleet.” The old woman pulled out a clay pipe she carried in her hair. “Spare me a pinch of backer, daughter? Never dreamed I could fly.”

A STEAM
tug was towing
Laramie
out through the busy traffic of steamers, ships, and barges.

Sailors armed with pikes went below, hunting stowaways, while the emigrants were herded up a pair of ladders and squeezed into ship's narrow foredeck. Sailors stood guard at the ladders and a clerk from Crawford's shop began calling out names, checking them off against a passenger list.

They were packed so tightly on the peak that people were lifting children up onto the rails.

“Oh man, this is awful business, I don't like this at all,” Molly gasped.

Never would he have pressed cattle so close. To distract himself from the grasping panic he could feel rising in his throat he stared up through masts, spars, and rigging to the white sky.

Can you control the song of fear in your head? It never really goes away. You're wound with it, like a French ticker.

After hearing their names and displaying their tickets, they were allowed to climb back down to the main deck, where they stood along the crowded rail. Tugs were buzzing up and down the river. Paddle wheels flashing, iron muzzles smoking. Laramie's bow sliced across the Mersey ferry's wake, a track of yellow fizz. The ferry was packed with red cattle and tramps, some heading for the railway works, probably; some for Murdoch's cutting.

The sailors who'd gone below hunting stowaways returned empty-handed. The river was opening, wide and green, marled with whitecaps. Their bow began to rise and fall, and some people were seasick on the deck or over the side. Looking up, he saw sailors walking out the yards, high above the deck, bare feet on footropes. The sails were still bundled in long white canvas rolls. Seabirds floated over the ship, crying bitterly.

The breeze smelled of salt and kelp.

The ship ahead of
Laramie
dropped her towline and filled her sails, clouds of pale canvas blooming as she started to roll.

Im long mé méasaim
, he thought. A ship I am.

A little boat was maneuvering alongside. One of the boatmen tossed a line that was caught by a sailor and the orange-seller girls began going over the side on a rope ladder, dropping neatly into the boat. He watched Crawford's clerk swinging down to take his place. The little boat fell off, raising a red triangle of sail and making for the Birkenhead shore.

“Good-bye, old England, you fucker,” Molly said. “Good-bye, iron men, hard roads, bad sleeps, sickness.”

He looked at her profile, small nose, strong chin. She was gall, she was bold. Her warm skin he loved, her scent, her clear, tough directness of thought. She was passion for staying alive.

“Good-bye, old Kelly,” he heard her say. “Good-bye, you heartless fucking Muldoon.”

Laramie
's yards were braced, the sails filled with a cracking sound, and the ship began to surge. The towline was cast away and passengers began cheering wildly as the tug fell off.
Laramie
began to roll and the cheering turned to terrified screaming as the world dipped. He heard Molly whoop for joy.

Cutting loose the old, the everything. The country of the waves now, green and wild.

THE WIND WAS COLD
. Molly soon went below but he remained
on deck, fascinated by flocks of ships coming in under sail, eagerly crowding for the
mouth of the Mersey.

When he finally went below he found her sitting on their berth while the
old woman placed drops of tincture on her tongue, using a straw. Mrs. Coole, hands on
hips, stood watching. The contents of the old woman's bundle — bunches of
dried herbs, little jars and bottles — were spread out on the berth.

“What is it? What are you feeding her?”

“A healing potion. Medicine for women.”

Molly's face puckered from the taste. The old woman touched her
forehead. “Now let the dose find her way in.”

Molly opened her eyes. “Tastes rough, mother.”

“It stings. Yes it does.”

“Here.” Molly handed her a pinch of tobacco for payment, then
lay back, and the old woman began gathering up her goods.

“In my own country of Faha, I am well known,” she boasted.
“I am Brighid of Faha, you ask them in my country.
Cailleach feasa
they
say.”

Wise woman. He sat down on the berth. “Are you ill?” he asked
Molly.

“I am,” she whispered. “I have the grumps. But
improving.”

“It's the ship rocking, perhaps. You'll get used to
it.”

“Perhaps — oh mother!” Molly
suddenly groaned, clutching her belly.

“Let the potion do its work,” Brighid of Faha said, taking her
hand. “We must dose you every few hours. If you wish to help her, man,” she
told Fergus, “rub her feet and ankles. Keep her warm down there; heat brings down
the blood.”

The ship was tossing and swaying and he could hear passengers being
violently sick, the stench starting to bite the air.

Untying her boots, he began to chafe her ankles and feet. Molly's
eyes were shut; her face glistened.

“In my country of Faha they come to see me,” the old woman was
saying. “I have a blue bottle and can see ahead what hasn't happened if you
pay me a shilling, or two pounds good butter. And I have the healing stones to cure the
pig —”

“Ignorant old witch! An old poison cook is what you are!” Mrs.
Coole snapped.

“Oh don't say so, missus! Don't speak so harsh —
you don't know me.”

THEY STOOD
in a queue while Mr. Blow, the master,
distributed rations: half a pound of yellow meal, half a pound of ship's biscuit,
and a piece of salt beef, with two quarts of fresh water pumped into their pails or
kettles. Children received half rations.

The old woman stood behind them. “You must soak the awful beef in
fresh water or the salt will burn your mouth,” she warned. “Blisters the
insides, and you'll shit yellow sprue.”

Coole was ahead of them in the queue. “What arrangements for
cooking?” Fergus heard him ask the master.

“We ain't a packet. See for yourselves. You'll have to
rough it.”

“Yes,” Coole persisted, “but where are the
stoves?”

“Two cabooses to be set on deck. You'll have one hour at
morning and another at evening to cook your mush, weather permitting. If I see any fuss
about the fires, I'll have them doused.”

“Two hundred souls aboard, and only two stoves?”

“You watch your tone with me, you damned Irish rebel, or you
shan't have no fire at all. Step away now. Next!”

* * *

AS SOON
as they smelled smoke, passengers seized their
pans and kettles and raced up the ladder to the main deck where the two cabooses were
smoking. Wooden boxes, the size and shape of coffins, lined with bricks and set with
iron grills, they had been stuffed with coal and lit by a sailor carrying a pan of red
embers from the galley.

Passengers mobbed the stoves, fighting for space to cook their food. He
was ready to join the fight but Molly touched his arm.

“No use, man, you'd only get spilled.”

Sailors were laughing at them. Kettles were knocked over, yellow meal and
water sloshing on the deck.

“I could sort out this riot in ten seconds if they'd let
me.” Molly sounded frustrated.

“They'd never let a woman,” Mrs. Coole said.

“Get back from the stoves!” The master appeared at the
afterdeck rail with a speaking trumpet. “Step away!”

Sailors were lowering buckets over the side and hauling them up full of
seawater. As they dashed the coals, yellow steam blanketed the deck and the riot broke
up, people coughing and wiping their eyes and searching for their children.

“Get below! I'll keep you below like a cargo of niggers if you
won't behave!”

Sailors swinging tarry rope-ends were starting to drive people below when
Molly called up to the master on the afterdeck. “Let me organize the rations
mister! I can tell you how it's done.”