Wake of the Perdido Star Read Free Page A

said.
    â€œPlease, Ethan. Leave him be,” she answered quickly. “He’s feeling bad. And please don’t speak of him as my son. He is our son, mi hito.”
    Jack eased himself quietly off the wagon and stood staring at the few lights still visible in the distance. His father’s voice ruffled the evening air. He knew he could slip into the night and return to the familiarity of Hamden, or stay and become part of something new, foreboding, and in some odd way, exciting. He stood alone on the road. A nighthawk swooped past, heading east toward the rising moon.
    â€œJackson, please come now.”
    Without taking his eyes from the bird of prey, Jack smiled to himself and said quietly, “Yes, mother. I’m ready. I’m coming.”

    The road from Hamden to Providence was ruined from the recent fall rains. It was lined with leaves, gold turning brown, stacked against the rock fences bordering the highway. On either side, fields crackled with the rustling of dry corn, the air thick with the scent of ripe fruit and Indian summer.
    They were chasing down a ship bound for Cuba. It was nearly ten days since they had left home, and the mysterious Providence was still nowhere in sight. The sound of wheels grinding against the road became sickening to Jack; the flat clop of the mares’ hooves, the working of the timber that held the wagon together—after the first day it was a constant irritation. Jack leaned over the wagon bed and tried to count the revolutions, the sun burning the back of his neck.

    They arrived in East Haven, then took the coast road toward New London, where “there be ships a-plenty heading for southern climes out of Providence town,” according to one passerby.
    Jack’s hip was raw from the constant movement of the wagon, and he shifted back and forth, alternately sitting on clothes, bedding, and boxes. Nothing helped. He stared at the backs of his parents’ heads, his father’s hat and mother’s bonnet keeping time with the swaying wagon. They were talking, really more of a mumble, and Jack made no effort to overhear.
    He told his father he would walk for a while.
    Hours later, Jack moved between the tired horses, coaxing them gently with the reins in each of his hands. Ahead, there was the beginning of a hill that seemed to rise gradually for several miles.
    â€œProvidence is probably just beyond the crest,” his father said. “Let’s push on before nightfall.”

    In Providence they missed the boat to Cuba not by hours but by days. They were told by the harbor master that because it was so late in the fall, there might not be another ship going south until spring. Then he told them of a boat sailing for Habana and points beyond in just five days, out of Salem harbor: the Perdido Star .
    The strain of being on the road left the O’Reillys exhausted and concerned for their diminishing resources; but they pressed on. Ethan decided to skirt the city of Boston, as they could no longer afford the proper inns and now took to camping out on the way to Salem. He and Pilar slept in the open wagon bed, Jack bundling in a thin blanket, always by a dwindling fire. He awoke each morning bone-chilled, made worse when a wet snow caught them unprepared.
    It was three weeks since their start in Hamden when one morning they saw a group of towering masts jutting above a smoky city: Salem.

    When they arrived in the city, Jack was fascinated by the energy. Children ran and shouted on the dirt street; drivers in wagons transported lumber, hides, and barrels of whale oil, shouting pleasantries at one another.
    â€œMaybe we should ask directions to the wharf, Pa.” Jack said.
    â€œAll in good time, Jackson. All in good time.” Ethan seemed oblivious to the exotic sights and sounds. He pushed the wagon forward, a man obsessed.
    Pilar looked at her husband, smiling. “Mi hito, please ask directions so we can make our travel arrangements