Free No Country: A Novel by Kalyan Ray Page B

is Hanratty.”
    Mindful of Fergus’s words, I replied briefly, “Blackburn.”
    “Those are the sailors from the Indies, Muslims and Malays from India, Madagascar and Penang. They drink from their own barrel of water and eat their own food.” Hanratty wanted to show off his acquaintance with the ship and its manners. “They speak their own tongues, but our Mr. Connolly makes himself understood,” he said with awe. “He is a County Cork man and a right seasoned salt. Hindu or Malay or any man from the East Indies, no matter, he can speak their jabber.”
    Hanratty was happy to talk on, “These brown fellows—the lascars—they are hardy, no matter how ugly the waves.”
    All night the big deck shivered and swayed as the great Indiaman swooped and rose, headed for Liverpool.
    I felt exuberant, in spite of myself. Perhaps, having lived by the frothing sea for so long, I had sea legs all along and just did not know it. Overhead the skies were scarred with racing clouds and no stars. I even remembered Mr. O’Flaherty’s classroom Latin: No star: dis-aster . But stars or no, Mr. Connolly knew the way to Liverpool. Then at this moment, I realized that I had not retrieved my mother’s shillings when I had hurriedly exchanged my coat for Blackburn’s. I had not a groat with me for my journey back to Mullaghmore.
    Ach, I will find some way once I am on dry land! I thought.
    I planned to wear Blackburn’s clothes under the Company’s uniform—which in any case was baggy and hung about me. Once on shore, I would moult from these garments and become Padraig Aherne again. Nothing would keep me from going home.
    •  •  •
    W HEN THE NEW recruits had come to our part of the hold, we were shown where our respective trunks, which each one had sent ahead, were heaped. I waited till the others had hauled theirs to their own corners to see the last one: a small trunk marked A.B. I had to shake the idea of dead Blackburn watching me, but there was no help for it. I decided to retrieve “my” trunk, otherwise it would be odd indeed. It had a simple padlock. I put the trunk away, but at night I prised it open with a boathook. Inside were some shirts, two pairs of trousers, two novels, one by Mr. Fielding and the other by Mr. Sterne, and a number of embroidered handkerchiefs. Underneath these was a small oval portrait of a handsome lady of mature years, probably his mother. I felt a stab of grief for the obdurate young man and unexpected sorrow for this unknown lady. Then I thought, perhaps she is dead. But I knew I was trying to find ways to ease my burden. I dropped the portrait in the waters, unable to look at it again.
    Tormented, I lay on the unfamiliar hummock among other swaying bodies. I thought of Brendan, who was surely reading into the night, as was his wont, as long as his tallow candle would not sputter out. He could never imagine what I had lived through in the last two weeks—well, in the last one day. As I grew drowsy in the sway of the ship, I thought of Brigid and our last kiss. Hadshe returned to Mullaghmore? Then I recalled the trickle of blood on the pavement, and Blackburn lying dead, and became stark awake, throat dry, heart pulsing. I stifled my groan.
    I could not tell when I fell asleep but woke with a mighty start and went on deck. A recruit was screaming, shaking off some that tried to restrain him. But the fellow was strong, flailing his hands and legs, and his mates fell thick and fast around him. A door burst open in the upper deck. Mr. Connolly seemed to fly down the steps.
    “Tell me it ain’t so,” screamed the recruit. “I just heard we are not to stop in at Liverpool. My mother is coming to meet me there. Dammit, why go to London port direct?”
    Mr. Connolly brought his hand down, and the riding crop crackled across the recruit’s face. A red slash appeared instantly on his inflamed cheek, tearing his lip down to his chin. He drew his breath in surprise and his palms came up to