CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The chains tether me to the post like some wild animal. Though I suppose that is what I am. Or, at least, how they’re treating me. The captain did me no favors putting Coyle as my warden. At least Fergal comes with him to open the storeroom. At least I’m not alone with Coyle, for he’d surely beat me like an old rug.

With only a strand of light hemming the door to measure the passing of time, my eyes are used to the darkness. I’m worse than a rat now, preferring the shadows. The sound of Fergal’s key jangling in the lock makes me squint, readying myself for the daylight that presses upon my eyes until they ache. Coyle follows behind, carrying my cup and bowl. Fortunately, the captain insisted that each paid passenger got their rations. Unfortunately, mine are delivered by Coyle. My throat is bone dry, itching for a taste of that water. Looking over his shoulder at Fergal who is rummaging among the barrels, Coyle sets everything just out of reach.

“Looks like you’re going to make it to Quebec after all,” Coyle sneers. “We’ll make port within the week.”

Fergal hefts a half empty bag of rice onto his shoulder. “And none too soon, by the look of it.” He walks over to hand Coyle the bag. Noticing my cup and bowl are out of reach, Fergal squats and pushes them beside me. Turning to pick up another bag of rice, he misses seeing Coyle’s yellowed spit drop like seagull poop, splashing in the center of my cup.

“Enjoy your supper,” Coyle’s face slides into his malicious grin.

He can do what he likes to my food. I’ll not be eating or drinking anything served by his hand. Moments after the door shuts behind them and my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see him pop up from the shadows like a jack-in-the-box. Billy. God knows where I’d be without him.

“Would you not let me clout that eejit with another box, Kit?” he whispers as he scrounges among the barrels and boxes for today’s meal.

“I’d like nothing better, Billy. But another crate to the head might remind him of how he got that first clatter. We’re lucky he hasn’t remembered you’re here.”

Moments later, Billy hands me a cup of water that I down in one gulp. It does nothing to quench the fire in my throat. I wipe the sweat off my forehead.

“Dinner is served, m’lady,” he says, passing me a bit of mushy apple and some dried out cheese from the Cunninghams’ stores. “Alone, they’re so rotten they’re barely edible” he says, alternating bites between the cheese and apple. “But together, they’re not bad.” He spits out a pit. “We should be eating their good food, for the Cunninghams will probably have a great turkey dinner waiting for them when they arrive at Quebec.”

“All I have waiting for me is a long trip home to Ireland.” I think of Henry’s glittering eyes. “Or a short trip to the afterlife.” Though for weeks I’ve yearned to make port, now the thought of it terrifies me.

“Don’t fret, Kit,” he says, patting my leg, careful not to touch my raw and oozing ankles. “There’s a bit of hope in every calamity. Like that silver seam around the door, you just need a bit of it to find your way.”

Famine, fever, families rent apart. There’s no hope in any of that. Though I’m glad of his company, Billy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He tries to keep my hopes up, but I may as well be chained to a sinking ship. Nothing could possibly save me now.

In the distance, the bell tolls. Another soul has died.