Free The Law of Dreams by Peter Behrens

Fergus said. “We can’t stay
     here or we’ll be as bad off as the rest of them. We have to move along.”
    â€œDo you know where she goes? Is it Limerick?”
    â€œIt’s a road, man, we’ll follow it and see.”
    â€œThis is worse . . . everything’s worse . . . I want something
     sweet again,” Murty moaned.
    Four heavy gray horses were drawing the dray; he could hear the harness
     jingling. Fergus pulled Murty out of the road and watched the big wagon rumble past,
     loaded with stacks of newly built pine coffins and lids. The teamster was swaddled up
     against the cold.
    Murty Larry sank down on his knees and began coughing and vomiting bloody
     dregs.
    â€œOnly don’t leave me here, your honor,” he whispered.
     “Only take me with you!”
    Fergus looked at the dray disappearing down the road. “Come on
     then.” Half carrying Murty, he struggled along the road after the dray.
    The people under the hedges were already dying, rain was dissolving them,
     they would all be finished soon.
    â€œMy head is knocking, Fergus, I can’t think.”
    The horses were plodding along steadily. Supporting Murty Larry, Fergus
     struggled to catch up to the back of the dray, but they were losing ground.
    â€œPut me down, captain, put me down. You’re killing
     me.”
    Murty Larry’s legs were soft and would no longer support him. Fergus
     brought him to side of the road and let down gently on the frosty grass.
    He stared after the dray, hearing the hubs squeaking and the harness
     jingle as the horses moved away under the moon.
    He looked down at Murty Larry flopping on the grass, barking, his face
     dark. In a few hours the maroon fever sores would be blossoming on his chest. But he
     wouldn’t live that long, not in the cold.
    He looked at the dray, moving away from them.
    You had to stay alive; every instinct told you. Stay in your life as long
     as you can. If only to see what would happen. Every breath told you to keep
     breathing.
    Kneeling, he rifled Murty’s pockets until he found the
     warden’s coppers. Gripping them tight in his fist, he stood up and started running
     after the dray.
    After catching up, he didn’t try to climb in at first, but kept a
     few paces back, close enough to reach out and touch the tailboard with his
     fingertips.
    The teamster in the driving seat didn’t know he was there. The
     horses plodded on.
    Light bled from the sky. Rain ceased and the sky blew clear. The road
     hardened with frost. There was no other traffic. Fergus stared at his feet,
     concentrating on the effort required to keep going. Finally when he knew he could walk
     no farther, he dragged himself aboard and wriggled in between stacks of empty coffins.
     He lay in a tight space, smelling pine pitch and glue and iron nails, and let the
     horses’ footsteps lull him to sleep.

The Bog Boys
    WHEN HE AWOKE THE DRAY was still moving and he had no
     sense of how far they had traveled. The moon had arisen. Looking back, he could see a
     patchwork of stone walls and fields falling away from either side of the road. The cold
     was thorough and sour. He could hear the teamster snoring. The wheels banged and thumped
     over the frozen road.
    Suddenly a youthful voice called out, “Halt and stay! Halt and
     stay!”
    Peering out between the coffins, Fergus saw a young man walking alongside
     the dray, holding up a pitchfork and addressing the teamster. “Lift your mitts, or
     we shall drill you quick.”
    Peering ahead, Fergus saw a soldier standing in the middle of the road,
     aiming a musket at the teamster.
    â€œHoppers aboard, Luke!” the soldier cried, seeing Fergus and
     shifting his aim.
    â€œDon’t shoot me, if you please,” the teamster begged.
     “Swear before God, I haven’t any money.”
    Small boys were dropping over the walls, grabbing the bridles, pulling the
     team to a