The Irish Bride by Alexis Harrington Page B

Maybe it’s
that poor old Paddy Hannigan. He’s been so seasick, he’s spent most
of these past six days hanging over the railing and—”

“ Bring her up into the
wind!” came an order shouted from the first mate, Mr. Quisenberry.
He stood on the quarterdeck, barking commands over the frightened
murmuring of other passengers. “Haul up the mainsail! Brace aback
the after yards!”
    All the nautical talk
sounded like a foreign language to Farrell, but replies of aye-aye were followed by
the slap of feet running across the deck and ship’s hands
scrambling up the rigging.
    With some adjustment of the sails, the
ship began to slow her headway. Two crewmen clambered into a boat
and were lowered to the ocean to pull the hapless victim aboard.
Lantern light from the little rescue craft bobbed on the waves like
a fairy’s magical glow over the peat bogs back home. A crewman held
the lamp at arm’s length as they searched the swells.
    The men in the boat circled the ship
several times and backtracked over its wake while passengers
watched anxiously from the rail. Farrell never took her eyes off
the little light. But after a half-hour, Mr. Quisenberry called the
boat back in. “More than twenty minutes in that icy water would
freeze the divil himself.”
    Captain McCorry had turned out at the
first alarm, but Quisenberry was handling the matter. After a bit
of investigating, it was determined that the ship’s cook, a kindly
bulldog of a man from Liverpool known simply as Doctor, had gotten
drunk and fallen from the fantail. He’d been generally well-liked,
always ready with a joke or a smile.
    “ Oh, no,” Farrell mourned,
still clinging to Aidan’s hand. “Not Doctor. Please, God keep him.”
For the moment, she was grateful that Aidan, solid and steadfast,
stood with her, someone from whom to draw strength and
courage.
    McCorry, who didn’t hold with the crew
drinking at sea, declared that he would have keelhauled the man
himself if he hadn’t drowned. “Aye, well, it’s one less mouth to
feed. Let that be a lesson to any seaman who might be entertainin’
the notion of having a wee nip. The fishes’ll be havin’ him for
tea.” He added tersely, “I’m back to my bunk, and I don’t mean to
be disturbed again this night.”
    Quisenberry said nothing but when
McCorry left the quarterdeck, his tight expression spoke for
him.
    Those passengers who’d witnessed the
proceedings huddled together by the gunwale amidships and grumbled
among themselves about the captain’s attitude. He treated them as
human cargo and this was just another example of his lack of
feeling.
    “ Will ye listen to that?”
Farrell whispered to Aidan. “Could he not say a word for the poor
man’s soul? You’d think he’s the Holy Trinity rolled into one to
hear him talk so!” She clapped her hand to her mouth, aghast at her
own blasphemy.
    Aidan lifted a brow. “I imagine you’ll
feel the need to be sayin’ a few Our Fathers for that bit. But,
aye, ye’re right about McCorry.” His face hardened in the low
light, and the shadows around his eyes seemed to grow darker. “He’s
no better than the landlords back home, working people like
animals, without a single care for what happens to them. May they
all rot in hell for their cruel ways.”
    An awkward silence fell between them.
They had both made a point of avoiding the subject of Michael’s
death since they left Skibbereen, but now it rose between them like
a ghost.
    Farrell realized then that she was
clutching his hand like a frightened child. When she tried to
disengage her fingers, he tightened his grip. Her heart froze in
her chest as their gazes locked. She was his wife, after all. If he
was of a mind to touch her, had the right. She could object but
would it do any good?
    At last, he shrugged and loosened his
hold. “The first mate seems to be a decent enough man, at
least.”
    While Alfred Quisenberry did indeed
seem to be a gentleman, as did Charles Morton, the