Captains and The Kings by Taylor Caldwell Read Free Book Online

attended Mass. "But it is closed in the day, and there are no visits to the Blessed Sacrament but on holy days," Daniel had written, "and there is but one Mass on Sunday." Daniel had spoken often of the freedom in America before he had left Ireland. He had not written of it but once during these last months. Joseph looked at the flag twirling and tugging in the wind on the wharf. Now nothing was on the wharf but piles of freight and seamen pushing barrows and carts, and the silent and rain-soaked crowd of wretched folk still hoping and praying numbly for the sight of a beloved lost face on the ship. The heavy dimness of the stormy morning was too deep now for the identification of any features. The watchers seemed but of one body and one mass, hopeless and unmoving. Fog mingled with smoke. The water quickened and began to boom restlessly. "There is naught here for us, I am thinking," said a man near Joseph, and his voice was sick with despair. But Joseph's young face grew smaller and tighter with resolution, and his exhausted eyes were charged with angry bitterness. Scan moved against him, whimpering insistently. "I want my Mum," said the child. "Where is Mum?" I do not know, thought Joseph. Sure, and it must be nowhere. He said to Scan, "Soon. She is sleeping." The child had left a spoonful or two of cold porridge in the bowl and Joseph ate it. Scan watched him, then he began to cry. "Mum," he sobbed. "Mum?" "Soon," said Joseph again. He thought of his infant sister. He hesitated.

Then he said to Scan, "I will look for Mum. Stay here a bit, Scan." He gave the child a hard and commanding look and it was frightening to Scan who saw it in the swinging light of the lantern on the ceiling. The child shrank and watched his brother go down the deck. The women's quarters were silent and muffled in the total surrender to hopelessness. Some sat on their bunks, nursing or soothing little children in their arms. Some only sat, staring at wall or ceiling emptily. Some wept without sound, the tears dripping down their faces, to be wiped away with quiet hands. Even the children were still, as if recognizing calamity. Joseph found Sister Mary Bridget, who was administering to a sick woman and her child. She turned her old head and looked in silent compassion at the boy. "The babe?" said Joseph. The old nun tried to smile. "She is with Sister Bernarde, and there was warm milk, and she is a lovely babe, Joey. Come, and see for yourself." She led the way to the bunk of the young sister who sat like a childish Madonna with a bundled infant in her arms. She lifted her beautiful pale face to Joseph and her blue eyes sparkled bravely. Slowly she unwrapped the ragged wool bundle and showed Joseph his sister. "Mary Regina," said Sister Bernarde with maternal pride. "And is she not a darling?" "And she is an American too, for sure she was born in American waters," said Sister Mary Bridget. Joseph was silent. The child had been born under disastrous circumstances, but there was no mark on her waxen little face. She slept. Long golden lashes lay on her cheeks but her wisps of hair were glossily black. "She has eyes like an Irish sky," said the young nun and gently stroked the small white cheek with her finger. Joseph felt nothing at all except a fierce resolution that this daughter of his mother must survive. The curtain was pushed aside, and Father O'Leary's face peered around it. "Joey," he began, and then faltered and bowed his head and he let the curtain fall. But not until Joseph had seen his devastated face clearly. Joseph returned to the men's quarters, his thin shoulders squared, and he went to learn all that he needed to know, and he knew it would be evil.

Chapter 3

Father O'Leary wras sitting in a broken attitude on the edge of Scan's bunk, and he held the little boy on his knee and stroked his bright hair with a tender and shaking hand. He saw Joseph approaching. He saw the strength in the thin rigid body, the set of the shoulders, the