Voyage of Midnight Read Free

blinked. “That’s all it says?”
    “I’m afraid so.” He handed the letter back to me. “Tell me, you didn’t by any chance arrive on the
Hope
this afternoon out of Baltimore, I suppose?”
    “Yes.” Tears burned my eyes. For all these weeks I’d assumed that the important letter with the green wax seal acknowledged Uncle’s desire for the custody of his nephew. But it contained nothing of the sort.
Doesn’t Uncle know I’m here? Did the parish authorities just send me away to be rid of me, not knowing where Uncle was? Am I to try to find him in this great, frightening city?
    The man was saying, “Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for my nephew who was aboard, about your age. Paddy O’Brien. Did you know him?”
    “I—I don’t know. A good many lads died aboard the ship—more’n ten, I should think.”
    The man frowned and, without another word, stepped aboard one of the ships and disappeared in the direction of the
Hope
. By this time it was dark enough that whale-oil lanterns were being lighted all along the waterfront. The bustle of thewharf had slowed. I swallowed my hunger and settled beside one of the cotton bales. My lip quivered. I was adrift in this foreign city, with no one who cared whether I lived or died.
    A while later I watched as the kind man with the brogue meandered his way back across the ships and deposited himself once again on the wharf. His face now shadowed with dusk, he looked about, saw me curled in my nook, nodded, then turned and strode away. I watched as he disappeared into the crowd.
    I was dreaming of roast beef with gravy when someone shook me awake.
    It was the man again.
    “Would you like to come home with me?” he asked. “The purser of the
Hope
says my nephew died,” his voice choked, “and, well, it seems to me that, well … Would you?”
    Had he spread mutton and chops before me and said I was the long-lost son of King George, I couldn’t have been more surprised. My chest swelled. My throat thickened. I found my voice, quavery with relief. “Yes, please. You’re quite kind, Mr. uh—”
    “Gallagher.”
    “—Mr. Gallagher, sir. The kindest fellow I’ve ever known.”
    He took my hand then, helped me to my feet, and off we went into the big city.
    “Why, bless me,” Mrs. Gallagher said, putting down her sewing and rising from a chair by the window. “If he don’t blow away in the first stiff breeze, it’ll be a miracle.”
    And though I’d never seen her before in my life, and though I was dirty and no doubt as smelly as the water-filled ditches that lined the narrow streets, she kissed both my cheeks and wrapped her ample arms about me as if I were her own beloved nephew, Paddy O’Brien, who’d died at sea and was eaten by sharks. She smelled of rose water and talc, and, like Mr. Gallagher, she’d acrown of silver hair and a kindly look. “You poor, poor lad. Mr. Gallagher told me. Such a hardship.” And so saying, she released me, her eyes moistened, and she turned away to dab her tears.
    Mr. Gallagher put a hand on my shoulder. “His name’s Philip. Philip Arthur Higgins, isn’t that right, lad?” He looked at me. “He says he’s twelve.”
    For a while no one said anything. Then, fearing perhaps that Mrs. Gallagher had changed her mind, especially as I was so dirty, I said, “I’ll do anything, ma’am. I’ll clean, I’ll work sharp, I’ll run errands—”
    But Mrs. Gallagher was turning back around, hushing me. “My, my, my, but there’ll be plenty of time for that later. My heart alive! Where are my manners? First things first. Let’s get you scrubbed clean and dressed proper. And I’m sure you’re hungry as if it were the last day of Lent. Mr. Gallagher, fetch some water on to boil while I see to dinner.…”
    And off Mr. Gallagher whisked me, to a copper tub set in front of the fireplace, where steam presently curled to the ceiling, where bubbles slopped over the rim, and where I soon slipped my body into the