Free Scattered Seeds by Julie Doherty Page A

his gaze to the girl whose eyes hid in dark circles on her ashen face. “I’ve three little ones of me own.” He pulled his neckerchief off his weak chin. “I’ll tell ye what. I’ll ask the mate if we can let the ’atch open for a bit, an’ I’ll see to them chamber pots.”
    “Can ye not ask the captain himsel’?” Henry asked. Asking the first mate would be a waste of time.
    “Afraid not, but I’ll try an’ ask ’im when the cap’n’s within earshot, will that do?”
    Reed could offer no more without endangering his own position—or maybe even his hide. Sailors adhered to a strict hierarchy, Henry knew. One who gave the slightest hint of malcontent or insubordination did so at great risk, even on a merchant vessel. There was little point in pleading further.
    When the sailors departed and battened the hatch, Henry and his father made their way to the table near the Pattersons.
    Mary sat in the shadows of their berth with her back against the side of the brig, apparently feeling better.
    He wondered if lice had caused her to doff her cap. Trying not to be obvious, he marveled at her freed hair, as reflective as a raven’s back. She would hardly notice him staring, enraptured as she was by the young man in the berth next to hers. Henry wondered who he was. He looked shifty, and already, Henry didn’t like him.
    A clammy Patterson dropped onto the bench, his checked shirt open to his midriff. He wore no stockings or shoes. His head looked too large for his neck. Shoulders that boasted hard muscle only weeks ago now resembled plucked chicken wings.
    “I must speak plainly,” he said, his voice diminutive and wavering. His lips were cracked, and they stuck together as he spoke. His breath smelled like the inside of a kettle. “I fear I have grievously wronged my Mary.”
    “Henry,” Father said, “fetch our good friend some small beer.”
    Henry obeyed, setting a full tankard on the table in front of Patterson, who held up a palm and shook his head. “I canny. Guts will nae tolerate it. I can keep naught doon or in. Such indignity . . . I had nae foreseen this.”
    “Can ye not try to sip a wee bit of it?” Even Henry knew some was better than none. “Ye really must try.”
    “I’m done, lads. I feel it as surely as the coming rain.” His eyes welled with tears. “I am nae afraid to die, mind, but . . . what’s to become of my Mary? What fate have I condemned her to?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Please, God, let me die afore another week passes.”
    “Nay, Patterson, enough of that talk,” Father said.
    James rubbed his wrists. “The most I can hope for now is that the Lord takes me afore the halfway mark and spares my wain the cost of my passage on top of hers. We are a month at sea; it may already be too late.”
    “Nay, man, ye have to fight. Sure, we’re all in a bad way, but naught stays the same. The boat is set to rights. The weather must be fair. Mayhap Captain McElwain will permit us aboveboard on the morrow. Ye’ll take some sun, a hot meal, fresh sea air—”
    “Nay, hear me, McConnell, I shall ne’er feel the sun’s rays on my leather again, and the only light I’m like to see is that which radiates from our Lord and Savior when He greets me at the gates.”
    By James Patterson’s blue fingertips, Henry knew the man was probably right.
    James coughed. “My Mary, she’ll be all alone in the world, wi’ no way hame. I know she is nae your responsibility, but—”
    “Cast aside your worries,” Father said. “I’ll do what I can for her.”
    Henry wondered if Mary knew the bleakness of her future. He’d ask her, but the lovesick dimwit in the berth next to hers was making sheep’s eyes and yammering about the inner workings of clocks. Henry doubted he could pry in a word.
    Mayhap that ginger-haired pinhead will look oot for her and save us the trouble.
    Mary glanced at Henry, and he looked away, his cheeks stinging. She didn’t