No Country: A Novel by Kalyan Ray

protect his eyes. Mr. Connolly struck him again. He fell on the deck with a wheezing cry. Mr. Connolly stood over him.
    “What’s yer name, man?”
    “Blegg, sir,” he mumbled through his bleeding mouth. “Walter Blegg.”
    “Then listen, Blegg,” said Mr. Connolly. “Listen well, all of ye,” he added, raising his voice. “This is my ship and I command it. I answer to the Honourable East India Company and to God, in that order. No one else. I decide where we anchor. Your ma will have to forgo the pleasure of feeding her pap to you, Blegg. But first ye’ll be whipped at the mast, ye screaming monkey.” Blegg had pissed his pants, gaping with undisguised terror at the lascars standing like shadows. One of these, his long hair tied in a black kerchief above glinting earrings, smiled openly in anticipation.
    I never thought I’d live to see it, my heart’s blood pounding inmy head: An Englishman was being tied to the thick mast by the command of an Irishman, whipped by a black man in full sight under a blue sky on a swift sea. I had traveled to a different world altogether. But if I were to escape and go home, where was I to do this—now that we were not to stop at Liverpool?
    I could not take my eyes from the whipping, as if commanded by some dread magic. The crimson drops flew as the man deftly swung the many-stringed knotted flail. One bead settled upon my shirt, but I knew if I tried to brush it off, I would only smear it worse. It was the second time in these last few days that I’d had blood on me, Irish and English, though none of my seeking. Yet how ironic, green and eager as I was when I walked towards Clontarf and the great meeting which never was, I had been that enamoured of the idea of spilling English blood. Now I felt unable and unwilling to tell the difference.
    No matter what Fergus had said, I would someday tell all this to my mother. She would understand, as nobody, not Brigid—not even Brendan—ever could. I missed her sorely, to the point of heartbreak.
    •  •  •
    O N THE THIRD night, I dreamt that under my hammock was a gathering pool of blood, and I could see the last tremor of Blackburn’s hands. I dragged myself through the following day in a stupor. In all my daydreams of glory, shed blood had the bright colours of a printed page, but the killing of Blackburn weighed me down in a manner I had never imagined. Not once did I long for a kneeling confession in our weekly church and Father Conlon’s absolution. I needed something else, but could not name it.
    The following night when I lay down, I did not know what joyand despair was to assail me. Some fickle god was at his game. I had taken my shoes off and tucked them next to my head, when I heard something shift in one of the heels. Cautiously, I looked around, but everyone was asleep; some were snoring. I took the shoe and looked closely. ’Twas well-made, with a pewter buckle, compact and with a good heel. On an impulse, I twisted the heel. As it slid open, something fell on my chest, and I put my palm down to hide it, pretending to turn in my sleep. After a moment, I looked down and found it was a gold guinea! I wanted to shout about my Irish luck, but clenched one fist in another, a-quiver with excitement.
    When I had control of myself, I twisted open the heel again and there were two more, wadded in cotton. I counted them in the darkness, with my blind palms and fingers. One two three, one two three. Aaah. Now it was the turn for the other shoe. Again, the heel slid open at a twist, though it was not easy; it was well made. Another three coins. A sum of six. This was a great amount, no one needed to tell me. Now I need have no worry for my journey back. This was also an amount for which anyone on this ship would kill Alexander Blackburn for the second time in his young life. I hid my coins where I had found them. How easily I called them my coins now!
    By the time we came on deck, morning had broken. The English land lay