I’ve finally started work on a sequel to Darkness Falling, my novel about the Irish famine. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’ve also been doing a great deal of research so I can accurately frame the novel within an historical context. I also needed to find a way in before starting. So far I’ve completed just the first draft of the initial chapter but I’m happy with it and I’ve worked out how the novel will then progress. Here’s a sneak preview anyway…
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
Raymond Carver (1938 – 1988)
Hope is optimism with a broken heart
Nick Cave
Chapter One
They had been at sea barely two weeks when the storm hit. On leaving Liverpool the sea had been unsettled but with calmer passages and although Mary, Sorcha, her sister-in-law, and Rian, Sorcha’s son, had all experienced mild sea sickness since their departure from Liverpool, only Simon, Mary’s partner had really suffered. During a particularly bad squall he had spent an entire night on deck, getting soaked by the sea spray spat on to the deck where he stood bowed over the rail. The sour taste of vomit in his mouth, he had wished only for death to end his misery. Still, he had felt marginally better there than down in the fetid atmosphere of the lower decks. At the best of times below decks where most of the passengers were housed was choked with the smell of shit and urine, either from the fetid and unwashed bodies of the diseased or from the waste slop buckets which were only emptied in the mornings.
Hours before the storm struck the wind had suddenly dropped, the ship’s sails hanging limply, the sea’s surface a glassy stillness. It was now dark, visibility reduced by a hangnail moon and thick scudding clouds. The captain of the ship, James Attridge, was alarmed, The barometer pressure in his cabin had plunged dramatically, a sure indicator of fierce weather to come despite the deceptively placid nature of the sea and sky, It was as though the elements were quietly gathering their strength before launching a full assault.
The First Mate, Cantrell, stood beside him in the cramped wheelhouse as they surveyed the scene.
‘There’s a storm coming, I can feel it. It’s just too damned quiet,’ said Attridge.
‘How long d’you reckon?’ Cantrell asked.
Attridge gave an involuntary shrug. ‘Soon,’ he muttered. ‘Before it gets light anyway.’
‘Do you want me to get the men to take in some of the sails?
Attridge paused before answering. If it was going to be as bad as he anticipated, perhaps, they should reef the sails entirely. But what if he was wrong? It would be putting the men to a lot of work which would then need to be undone again. Sensing his hesitation, Cantrell spoke first.
‘Take in some of the canvas on the fore and mainmast maybe?
‘Aye,’ said Attridge. ‘That should do for now.’ He turned to look at Cantrell. ‘Who’s on watch?’
‘Simmons.’
Attridge grunted his approval. Still, an extra pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt. It would soon be dawn as well. He could already see a glimmer of light in the west. ‘Get young Harry up here. Let’s see what he can spot from the crosstrees on the mainmast.’
Cantrell nodded and turned to leave. Minutes later he returned, Harry Webb trailing behind him.
Attridge watched anxiously as Webb ascended the rigging of the mainmast. Still small and with a shock of red hair, Harry had signed on as an apprentice at fourteen and had been at sea just six months. Attridge had himself joined a ship’s crew at that age so he felt especially protective towards him. Harry was brave but he sometimes took unnecessary risks, blinded by the same youthful insouciance Attridge had also possessed at that age. Finally, he reached the topgallant, using the crosstrees to support his weight as he carefully sat down. He had a small brass telescope in a canvas holder strapped to his belt and he now eased this out, using it to scan the horizon in all directions. It was still dark but towards the east there was an increasing brightening, the whole of the sky flooded blood red, pierced with shafts of yellow and orange from below as the sun struggled to heave its way upwards. Harry was momentarily entranced by its beauty but then he noticed in horror a roiling dark cloud lifting up from the north which second by second became more intense, a black ink spilling in all directions across the sea. ‘Storm! Storm approaching from the West,’ he yelled and even as he spoke a powerful wind suddenly blew up, choking off his cries. The ship shook with the sudden onslaught almost dislodging Harry from the crosstrees. His heart hammering, he righted himself and clung more fiercely to the rigging. He needed to get down and fast.
As he reached the deck there was already a maelstrom of activity around him, Cantrell barking orders at the top of his lungs, men swarming up into the ship’s rigging to reduce canvas, others rushing to secure the hatches for the holds, still others stowing barrels below decks and lashing down anything loose which might become a hazard. As the wind grew fiercer it became impossible for the men to move around the deck without first making sure they were either gripping a rail or a secured rope. Some of the larger waves were also now swamping the ship, knocking men to their knees or forcing them to momentarily stagger waist deep in freezing seawater. Then the rain hit; a tsunami of water so intense the boundaries between the sea and the air ceased to exist, the crew moving as though underwater, already drowned.
In the hold below deck there was complete darkness, all naked flames having been extinguished because of the risk of fire. Such was the violence of the yawing of the ship it was impossible to stand so the passengers lay against each other in their cramped wooden bunks. The ship seemed to be breaking itself apart, the timbers howling in pain above the frightened moaning and sobbing of the passengers.
Sorcha was lying on her side in their bunk. Rian lay in her embrace, his eyes tight shut in terror. Simon and Mary lay in the bunk directly above them.
‘Ma? ‘asked Rian in a barely audible voice. ‘Are we going to die?’
‘Hush, Rian. Of course not,’ she whispered back, her breath soft against his neck. ‘It’s a bad storm is all; it will soon pass.’
‘I don’t want to die.’
‘Sure, no-one’s dying. I know it’s hard but try and sleep. Then when you wake, this will all be gone, I promise.’
‘I can’t sleep, I can’t.’
She pulled him closer and kissed the nape of his neck. She could feel the tension in his small body. He was shivering with fear, a horrible trembling which was growing worse by the second.
‘Would it help if I told you a story? I could tell you the one about Oisin and Niamh? Would you like that?’
‘Yes. Yes, please.’
‘Good boy. I like this one too. Let’s start at the beginning shall we? She took a breath and started. ‘Once upon a time there was a beautiful land called Tir na nog and the only way to get there was across the sea.’
‘Is that where we’re going? To Tir na nog?’
‘Yes, we are darling.’
‘And is Oisin there? Will we meet him?’
‘Both Oisin and Daddy are there waiting for us.’
‘Are they friends then?’
‘Yes, they’re friends and love each other very much.’
‘If we had Niamh’s horse we could get there more quickly. We wouldn’t need this ship.’
Sorcha smiled to herself. We could indeed she thought. ‘Some people think there are horses in the waves. If you look hard enough you can see them, magical white horses dancing on the waves, carrying us over the sea.’
‘So, we won’t drown?’
Yes, so we won’t drown; the horses will save us.’
Rian’s shivering had stopped and she could feel him drifting off to sleep. Very gently, she stroked his brow.’
‘I like horses,’ he murmured.
‘So do I my love, so do I.’