One

The rich aromatic smoke formed a heavy veil obscuring the features of the two rough-looking men sitting opposite Patrick McGowan. He shifted slightly in his seat, taking one last glance at the cards in his hand before placing them face down on the curiously stained and deeply scratched table. Lady Luck had favoured him this night, and he sensed he was about to overstay his welcome in the Belvedere Arms.

A small lamp hanging above the table cast shadows across Patrick’s only remaining opponent, a wizened old sailor, whose facial features gave him the gnarled appearance of an ancient wizard. He leant forward saying, “Okay, Belfast Boy, let’s see what thee has.” His voice was deep and harsh, the words creaking like an old schooner’s rigging.

“I’m from Dublin,” Patrick replied coldly, flipping his cards over and fanning them out in one smooth motion to reveal four jaded kings. “And I’m not a boy!”

An awkward hush descended across the room. It started with the small group huddling around their table, and like ripples on a pool after a stone is cast into its depths, spread outwards through the squalid dockside pub. The wizened old sailor remained hunched forward, looking down at the cards laid out before him as if unable to trust his tired, old eyes. Then, twitching his tobacco-stained moustache, he threw back his head to emit a deep roar of laughter, his deep-set eyes sparkling as they caught the light of the gas lamp overhead. His laughter immediately defused the tension in the room as people returned to their own private conversations. Throwing his cards down to reveal a pair of aces, he watched as Patrick gathered his winnings.

“You’re a bloody good liar, Belfast.” Waving away Patrick’s attempt to correct him, the sailor continued, “and I’ll wager, thee’s in town to gain passage to the land of opportunity in search of your fortune?” Fixing Patrick with an inquiring stare, which made the younger man feel uncomfortable, the weather-beaten sailor searched Patrick’s face for answers. After a short while, the sailor leant back in his chair, obviously content with his findings, and uttered, “and I fancy you’ll find it, too.”

Patrick nodded respectfully to the man, aware this might be his opening gambit in an attempt to win back his money. Taking care not to give too much away, he replied, “Indeed, it is true that I plan to travel to America and the point of that endeavour is always to be seeking a fortune. But you knowing these facts hardly qualifies you as a mind reader. We are in Southampton the night before a ship sails for New York, and I’ll warrant she’ll be full of immigrants.” Patrick flashed the old sailor a warm smile. “If you hanker after a chance to refill your pockets, old man, then you’ll have to engage me better than with a cheap trick and lame flattery.”

Patrick got to his feet and was busy stuffing the meager collection of coins that constituted his winnings into his pockets. As he bade his host a good day and was turning to leave, the old man’s voice boomed across the crowded bar.

“I have no wish to play any more games with you. I can ill-afford to lose any more money. If you doubt this then you have never met my missus.” The sailor joined in with the laughter around the table.

Smiling, Patrick replied, “Then we have ended our business, and I shall be on my way.” Walking through the smoke-filled pub he was aware of his vulnerability as an outsider in the roughest part of a strange town. An outsider who had some of their hard-earned wages weighing down his pockets. He was of the opinion people do not take well to losing money, especially to a stranger.

“Hold your horses there, Belfast,” the old sailor’s voice carried over the general chatter and commotion present in the run-down pub. “I like ya. Think ya ‘ave balls. I got a little present for thee to take with ya.” Patrick stopped. He was aware it might just be a simple ploy to stop him from leaving the pub so the sailor’s cronies could steal his winnings, or worse, give them time to arrange an ambush in one of the many narrow lanes or dark alleyways riddling the dockside slums. But Patrick was curious, and curiosity didn’t always kill the cat.

Turning to face his would-be benefactor, Patrick quickly scanned the crowded bar looking for potential threats. “Why would you want to give me a present? We only met but a few hours ago, and if truth be known, you’ve already given me so much.” He tapped his bulging pockets, smiling broadly as he did so. The assembled locals joined in with his mirth, a few shouted comments lambasting the card players still gathered around the table.

Raising his hands as if to protect himself from the barbed comments, the old sailor was again laughing, “You see, Belfast, you’ve a sharp wit and I daresay a sharper tongue when there is a need. There’s nay many walks in ‘ere take our chink and ‘ave the guts to play the wag.” Motioning for Patrick to re-take his seat, he continued, “Yesterday fortune sailed my ship, much to the misfortune of a naive young mariner just docked from journeying Africa’s eastern coast. He’d with him a rare treat that I fancy will serve you well in your pursuit of happiness and wealth.” He shrugged theatrically, adding, “And one my good lady wife would not tolerate in our ‘ouse.” Again, there was general merriment around the table as he shared what had obviously become a private joke.

Patrick was finding himself becoming more intrigued the longer the conversation continued but was mindful of the man’s need to tell his story. Besides, he wasn’t in a position to force the issue despite the apparent general good humour of both the old sailor and the pub’s other regular patrons. A word out of line on his behalf would alter the situation, and not in a good way. Satisfying himself he was in no direct danger for the present, Patrick remained seated as he glanced around the room, alert to possible threats. It was getting late. Patrick noted many of the men had drunk to excess, and as a result, the pub had a raucous atmosphere making normal conversation almost impossible.

The sailor continued with his story, his voice booming across the table. “Fact is, the rarity of his stake matched the rarity of his skill, and so, I now have his exceptional treat; something he surprisingly didn’t seem too disheartened by.” He fixed Patrick with a quizzical stare and continued, “At the time it seemed a fair conclusion to our evenin’ but with the harsh light of day, and a sober mind, I ain’t so favourably disposed to the notion. However, I’m sure a man of your talents will see the potential of what this opportunity offers.”

Patrick felt the time had come for him to press the sailor for a few details, but as he began to speak, the old sailor’s thunderous voice drowned him out, shouting instructions to the innkeeper. Before Patrick could even draw breath, let alone make himself heard above the general clamour that followed the sailor’s gruff order, a large wicker basket, its top secured by a thick leather thong, was placed on the table in front of him.