Voices Beckon, Pt. 1: The Voyage

  FRIGID SEAWATER MISTED HEAVILY throughout the hold as the storm continued to batter the Industry the next two days, adding to the despair of those trapped within. The ship pitched violently, throwing possessions and those passengers still standing against the tables, bunks, and floor. Those in bunks were tossed against the side of the ship and each other, rolling in their own or their mates’ vomit. The two sloop buckets had long since overturned, the stench of their contents overpowering all others in the cold, airless shelter.

  Children cried, women screamed, some prayed earnestly; most just moaned in misery, pleas for water repeated over and over in vain. The water barrel was empty, with no hope of getting another while the storm raged. When it finally began to abate that second night they were all too exhausted, sick, and frightened to do more than lie helplessly in their berths until morning came.

  ELISABETH PRESSED A COOL CLOTH against her father’s forehead, then down along his face and throat.

  “Can you drink, Papa? Just a few sips?” He opened his mouth slightly, and she held up the back of his head, pressing the cup to his lips. He closed his eyes and mouth after a swallow, and she lay his head back on the pillow, waiting. Good, it stayed down. He’d been vomiting for hours. Maybe it had been days, she’d lost track of time.

  Captain Honeywell and his first mate were coming down the ladder. She stood and went to the door, listening. The captain was speaking, his words slurring from exhaustion. “Confounded fool lads, damn near brought my ship down. If they make it through this, they’ll wish they hadn’t. See to it, Mr. Ritcher.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, speak up, man, will they?”

  “Sir?”

  “Make it. Have you checked on them or not, damn it?” the captain asked, turning back to face Ritcher.

  Ritcher had noticed her and nodded in her direction. The captain turned to look, set his mouth in that way he had, then turned on his heel and disappeared into his quarters.

  “Mr. Ritcher, who? Who is he talking about? Mr. Ritcher, please!”

  Ritcher had mumbled something unintelligible and hurried back up the companion ladder, dropping the hatch down after him.

  David. Or Liam. Why else would Mr. Ritcher behave in such a manner? My God, what had happened? Not David; please not David. Then, ashamed, she bowed her head and said a short prayer for the safety of them all.

  But please, not David.

  Her father moaned, and she walked back into their room. Alex; Alex will know. Alex would be down soon to see to the captain. She just must stay awake until he did. She mustn’t miss him.

  Oh, God, please not David.

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