by Emma Jacklin
Nothing but a few lone gulls and us were crazy enough to be awake. But in these short hours before daybreak we alone had charge of the Dún Mara. The passengers were asleep and still in the hold and we wouldn’t catch sight of Captain Carrick till the sky was full bright. The first mate, Boyle, would be his eyes until Carrick came up. He was a lily-livered lad who was as tall as he was thin. Boyle stood at the helm, clinging like a damp rag to the wheel. The rest of the crew and I were swabbing down the decks. The oldest of us, McMurphy, a man who was more white hair than skin and had eyes as black as coal, cocked his head up towards the heavens.
“Wat time do ya tink we’ll be reachin’ port? Gotta be bout near, ay?” McMurphy Growled in thick brogue through his yellowing beard to the short barrel of a man on his right, O’Mahony.
“Yeah, a few more hours I’d say” Droned O’Mahony, still jiggered from last night’s graug. “There are birdies in da sky so we aren't too far out.”
I looked up to the sky, it was the color of pitch, but in the east a tawny sliver of light was creeping along the sea. The Boston shore lay unwelcomingly in the darkened western horizon. Waiting with it’s reeking harbour and America born juveniles hucking rotten fruit at any foreigner who dared set a sullied foot on their proud shores. We’d only be docked for a few hours to reload goods but packs of Yankee trash swarmed the port like horn flies around a bull’s rump, spitting at us and yelling ‘green nigger’ or ‘pot-licker’. We’d all hurry to set off for home, except Boyle. That boy could dolly like drunk cat and insisted on a real cup of tea in a cafe before reboarding.
The crew always has a hankering to set back for Ireland but I had a need. A need to return that ran in my blood, the others couldn't understand none of them had a young wife at home with a babe on the way, I did.
McMurphy was leaning against the mast, his bushy chin perched on the end of a mop, glaring with a crooked look at Boyle. O'Mahony stood next to him coiling a rope around his thick arm.
“Watcha’ tink tha’ stook is doin’? He’s just standin’ there like there’s bein’ no work to be done.” McMurphy croaked in a whisper to O'Mahony.
“Oh, he be bein’ too busy to get his hands dirty, with all that wondering how he can kiss up ta the captain next.” O'Mahony replied.
Both men bellowed in raspy laughter.
“Why don’t ya two leave the son of a gun alone? He’s just doing his job.” I cut in.
“Maybe so, maybe so. But he’s a doin’ dem with airs.” O'Mahony said. “His mother was a tory, did ya know dat? That’s why his nose be up so high all de time.”
“My grandmother was British.” Piped up young Dermot Duffy peering from behind the mast. He was the youngest of us by far being barely 16. He had been on his hands and knees wiping down the boards but now crept closer to the older men.
“Yeah! And look a’ how well you’ve turned out!” Laughed O'Mahony throwing his red mane back. “You’re fairer than the last femine company I kept in Dublin.”
Duffy blushed and slunked back towards his bucket of soap water.
I glanced over to where Boyle stood still as a stork. Usually by this time he’d be shrieking at us for standing around gabbing but he was silent.
“You boys got anything ta eat I’m right bout starved?” Grumbled O'Mahony rubbing his already robust belly.
“Ya best not eat the day before ya port or bad luck ya shall certainly find on land.” McMurphy answered his black eyes twinkling. The old man had Gypsy blood and every way he looked there seemed to be a curse at work.
“Oh, bah!” Scoffed O'Mahony. He gestured toward Duffy with the toe of his boot. “What about ya lad? Anything ya could kindly spare for ‘n elder?”
The poor boy began rifling through his pockets.
“Pay no mind ta him, lad. He’s as hungry as ‘n ox yet doesn’t have the excuse of pulling a plow all day.” I said to Duffy, then turned to all of them. “How bout instead o’ rufflin’ each other’s feathers we set on gettin’ back homebound by the turn of the day.”
All three nodded quietly in agreement. The sky had a dull silver glow now. Boston lay close along to horizon yet despite the awaiting nuisance, it could not appear soon enough. The sooner we docked the sooner we could turn. No port held a sailor’s heart like his home’s.
In slow humming melody O’Mahony began singing
“I've been a wild rover for many a year
And I've spent all my money on whiskey and beer
And now I'm returning with gold in great store
And I never will play the wild rover no more”
McMurphy quietly joined him in a husky tone
“And it's no, nay, never
No, nay, never, no more
And I'll play the wild rover
No never, no -”
A sudden splash followed by a blood curdling scream jilted us out of our remensicing. The helm’s deck was empty.
“Help!” Came a high pitched scream from the water below.
“To the starboard side!” I shouted. I leaned over, peering into the black sea. Then in a flash of dim light I caught sight of Boyle’s white face breaching the waves.
“Help me! Help!” Boyle frantically whined.
“Get me a rope!” I yelled to the men. O'Mahony lunged to throw me the one he was holding but tripped over his feet and hit the deck.
“Give me your hand.” I said reaching down towards the water. I’d lost sight of him but heard the thrashing and gurgling screams.
“Reach, Boyle! Reach for my hand.” I yelled. No answer. I listened; the thrashing had stopped. “Boyle? Boyle!?” It was dead quiet. Not even a gull was heard in the sky.
“He got swept under.” McMurphy said, the others had join me. “There’s nothing we can do.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” Duffy whispered, his face was sheet white. I rested my hand on the lad’s shoulder, “He’s with God now son.”
“The bloody fool musta fallen asleep.” O'Mahony mumbled.
“Poor laddie. Prolly too green ta ‘ave even know a good touch o’ a woman” McMurphy said somberily realising the loss in Boyle’s life.
“Or any touch of a women. We all knew he was a dunderhead.” O’Mahony nodded.
“He cut his hair yesterday?” McMurphy asked after a moment.
“W-What?” Duffy stammered.
“Di’ he or di’ he not cut his hair yesterday?”
“I think so.”
“Weel tere it tis. Dont’ never cut your hair on a boat. We’s all know dat bad luck.”
“You’re scaring the boy with your old gypsy talk.” I said, gesturing to Duffy who was near shaking.
“Weel it true.”
“I said I would kill him.” O'Mahony whispered, running his hand through his red hair. “Thad I’d ring his tory neck.”
“Ya were on de lash. An’ he was babbling like drunk gull.” McMurphy said not looking up.
“Asleep a’ the helm. Dam fool.” O'Mahony shook his head. “A damned fool.”
“We best get the captain” I said backing away from the side. “This has to be reported.”
“Nay son.” McMurphy said putting his hand on my shoulder. “We don’t wanta do dat.”
“Nah we don’t.” O'Mahony grumbled.
“Whatcha fellas talking about?” I asked confused.
“We near port an’ donna wan’ no trouble there or nothin’ ay? Just a clean sail home.”
My stomach began to twist. I wanted to hold my child in his first day on Earth. They were right. There’d be questions. And questions meant time.
“What are we going to do?” Duffy asked wide-eyed.
“I dunno, boy”
The sky was full of dull light now and I could see a hazy outline of land in the west. The captain would be up soon and I could hear passengers shuffling on the deck below.
“We don wan ta have ta stay too long dere fer a funeral or harasment fro’ the damned Yankees.” McMurphy growled.
“Yeah those blue boys won’t be easy ta let it go.” O’Mahoney agreed.
“Suicide.” I said in a near whisper, shocked at my own words, “Nobody would wanta deal with a suicide.”
“Ay. Tha’s good. There’d be no funeral. Nota ceremony. Nothin’.”
“W-we can’t. Tis a sin.” Duffy stammered, clutching at his heart. “We’d be condemning him an’ ourselves to Hell.”
“Well, tis not like the Devil will jump up an’ grab ya this moment.” O'Mahony said with a half smile. “Besides you’re young. Ya can spend the rest of your life tryin’ ta make up for it, if ya want.”
“Tha’ Boyle wa’ always a squirrely boy. Betcha na’one would put it past him.” McMurphy added, pulling at the end of his beard. “Never sem ta be livin’ fer much anyway”
The sound of boots on wood made us whip around. Captain Carrick and a few of the older passengers were coming up to deck.
“Morning, boys.” The captain said, straightening his hat.
“Mornin’ sir.” McMurphy grunted, squaring his shoulders.
The captain looked us over.
“Where’s Boyle?”
“About tha’ sir,” O'Mahony began.
“He jumped, sir.” McMurphy finished. “Right inta th’ sea. He was goin’ on bout what a miserable bein’ he was.”
“Ay sir.” O'Mahony continued, the lies slipping through his stained teeth. “Said sometin’ bout his mother bein’ disappointed too.”
Carrick paced his greased black boots clanking on the wood and the gold buttons on his jacket shimming in the sun. He stop and scanned each of our faces with a raised brow.
“What about you, boy?” He said to Duffy.
Duffy looked like he was about to be sick.
“Is this true what they are saying?”
Duffy stood still, then began to nod his head.
The captain turned to me.
“What do you have to say O’Leary? Is this true? Did Boyle jump?”
I felt my throat catch. I had never spoken more than a few words to Boyle, he’d never been a talkative fellow, once he’d mention a brother back in Carrey. I didn’t know him but then nodded and said, “It’s a right shame, sir. Tha poor lad barely had his beginning before he decided on his endin’.”
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