Free No Country: A Novel by Kalyan Ray Page A

Sligo itself, then to Wexford, or Galway, and walk back home, determined to forget this part of his life.
    The loading of the food and materials were done. The chandlershad filled much of the hold. I understood from their conversation that more recruits were expected when we docked. Someone in the crowd laughed and mentioned that O’Connell was in the hands of Peel’s men. Obedience to disband the meeting notwithstanding, the English were about clapping him in irons and dragging him for a monkey trial in London itself. I listened wearily and made no show of emotion.
    A middle-aged man with a sheet of paper and a dangling pince-nez came over, calling out names. A bleak sun was rising. I had had neither food nor draught of water since last night, and my head throbbed with every beat of my heart. I heard one name that sounded familiar.
    “Alexander Blackburn.”
    I looked around, momentarily expecting to see that young man stride up. Instead the man with the pince-nez continued to look about impatiently. I stepped up, my shoes beginning to pinch suddenly, and stood before him.
    “Alexander Blackburn? Why didn’t you speak up, man?” he scowled, “we’re late as it is. Get your uniform on your way in.”
    From a table in front of him, a sailor handed me a bundle. As I walked up the gangplank, I could now see the harbour entire. Anchored beside us were a large number of navy ships, Union Jacks flying. Many of these were now weighing anchor, preparing to set sail. From the chatter on deck, I gathered that because of O’Connell’s meeting at Clontarf and the dread of open rebellion all across Ireland, the English had barricaded the harbour and poured Dublin full of troops. The great uprising having fizzled, the troops and the ships were pulling away.
    This very ship had been delayed for days, and Alexander Blackburn, who came down to join the Company ship, had had to cool his heels in Dublin Town. So Alexander Blackburn andPadraig Aherne had chanced to meet, thanks to the great Daniel O’Connell himself.
    The sea outside Dublin was glinty in the sun, its port far grander than our Sligo. I tried not to stare or draw attention to myself in any way. ’Twas midday already. In Dublin they surely had, by now, found a young man dead by a doorstep, smelling of whiskey. Alexander Blackburn was on his ship, his name marked present on the roster. The secret was safe, for now. Fergus Murphy had given me good advice.
    Na gearradh do theanga do sgornach . Don’t let your tongue cut your throat . . . That is what happened to Blackburn, I thought grimly. I would mind mine.
    •  •  •
    I COULD SEE the receding top of the Dublin lighthouse, a white finger with a red tip. Sailors climbed barefoot, nimbly among a myriad ropes that hung overhead, tugging some, loosening others, shaking out sails. A red-faced fellow stood on the higher of two decks. Shading his eyes with one large hand, he was directing the operations with the other, occasionally shouting a word or two in a hoarse volley.
    “Aye-aye, Captain,” the men among the ropes called back to him time and again, and “Yes sir, Mr. Connolly.” So this was Mr. Connolly—an Irish captain in authority, no less. I observed him carefully and with respect.
    The flag of the East India Company tossed and snapped in the breeze high above—red and white horizontal stripes with a blood-red cross on its corner, close to the masthead. I could now feel the lurch of speed as the willing vessel urged forward.
    Evening fell, and a variety of lanterns were strung up in differentparts of the deck. The men up in the riggings had now climbed down; they were coppery, long hair in braids, black paint on their eyelids and rings in their ears. They wore no uniform, I marveled. I had never seen men like these.
    “ ’Tis your maiden voyage then?” The voice behind me was Irish and friendly-like. “This is my second voyage.” added the young man with pale brown hair with pride. “My name