At William Brown’s dockyard, he stared out at the slime-coloured water and saw the brig — the Syria — a small, squat, wooden vessel with three masts and an ugly tangle of rigging. A lighter was transporting cargo out to it, stevedores on deck loading crates into the hull. It didn’t look as if it could make it as far as Liverpool, let alone New York.
His thoughts turned to James, how the boy liked to sleep on Knox’s chest after he had been fed, his contented face, eyelids closing, soft little breaths. Yes, it was a miracle that James was alive, but Knox didn’t believe that God had made it happen. Too many others had died for this notion to make sense.
The only reason for staying would be to find his brother. His other brother. John Johns, last seen heading west to Lisvarrinane. Knox hadn’t been back to the cottage, hadn’t said goodbye to his mother, father or his brothers. He hadn’t wanted to see them. That part of his life was finished.
From the dock, he looked back towards the main street and then up at Carrigmoran hill, emerald green, a narrow track cut into it. He had always loved his country, had never imagined leaving it. Looking up at that hill, he felt overwhelmed and even a little sentimental, but there was nothing left to do now but wait.
THIRTY
THURSDAY, 11 FEBRUARY 1847
Atlantic Ocean, West of Ireland
H e couldn’t get used to the rocking of the brig, especially down in the hold where most of the steerage-class passengers congregated, so he spent his time up on deck, watching the crew work, staring out at the drab horizon. He was told that two hundred would be making the crossing but there had to be nearer to three hundred on board, the young and old, the sick and soon-to-be-sick. That was another reason why he spent as little time as possible below deck. A doctor had inspected the passengers before embarkation but only cursorily, and the first night he had been kept awake by the sound of a child moaning quietly next to him. The following morning, he found out that the child had perished in the night. Another death, but there was nothing to be done. He kept himself to himself, listened to the voices speaking Irish, glad of the anonymity, of the chance just to stand there on deck and watch the waves breaking against the ship and think about everything he had left behind.
A wave crashed over the side, splashing his feet, washing over the deck, but he didn’t mind that his shoes were wet, because he was looking at a point on the horizon, far, far away, and trying to remember the day that Felix had been born and the nursemaid had passed him the mewling baby. The day Pyke had held his son for the first time.
THIRTY-ONE
MONDAY, 4 JANUARY 1847
Dundrum, Co. Tipperary
‘I didn’t do it,’ John Johns said, backing away towards the river. ‘I didn’t kill your son.’
Johns had bolted and Pyke had pursued him through the long grass until the former soldier had been caught out by the bend in the river, with nowhere left to run.
It had been more than a month since Pyke had last seen the big man and he seemed different. Less sure of himself, skittish. He looked thinner, too.
‘Who did?’
‘Apparently it was an accident.’
Pyke felt the skin tighten across his temples. ‘Apparently?’
Johns glanced behind him at the river, black, cold and silent. ‘I found him at the courthouse, at the bottom of the stairs.’
‘You’re saying he fell?’
‘My guess is that Smyth had been keeping him there against his will. I can only assume your son tried to escape and fell down the stairs, broke his neck.’
‘So who picked him up and put him on the bed upstairs?’
‘I did.’ Johns looked down at the frozen ground. ‘I found the letters he’d written to you and realised he was your son.’ Johns tapped his coat pocket. ‘I brought them with me.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t want anyone else to identify him. I knew you’d go there eventually, that you’d find him. I wanted you to find him, to be able to bury him, and grieve. But I couldn’t stay in Merthyr…’
Pyke felt a stabbing pain in his chest, a sharp ache from the pointlessness of it all. ‘And Smyth?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘You followed him here?’
‘He killed William Hancock.’ Johns looked into Pyke’s face. ‘Or he as good as killed the lad.’
Pyke nodded blankly. He could let Johns carry on thinking that Smyth was guilty but at the same time the man deserved to know the truth. ‘That night at Fernhill, Maggie Atkins was meant to see Smyth. It’s why they didn’t kill her. So that when the Hancock boy turned up dead, she would be able to implicate Smyth.’
Johns stared at Pyke, still trying to take in what he’d said. Pyke just felt immensely sorry for the man, sorry for the news he was about to break and the terrible hurt it would cause.
‘Zephaniah Hancock arranged to have the boy killed. He knew William wasn’t Jonah’s son.’ Pyke tried to smile. He had travelled for weeks, across land and sea, for this moment, and now all he felt was exhaustion and pity. ‘He was yours, wasn’t he? You, Cathy and the boy, you were going to start a new life together?’
Johns nodded but said nothing. Cathy was dead and so was his son. Both their sons were dead. Pyke wanted to tell Johns that he understood, but at the last moment held his tongue. What did it matter that someone understood? That wouldn’t change anything.
‘I’m sorry.’
Johns looked up at him. There were tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, too.’
They waited for a moment while the wind gusted, wet leaves blowing all around them. ‘What did Smyth say when you confronted him?’
‘Nothing.’ Johns’ expression didn’t change. ‘Didn’t get a chance; as soon as he realised he was trapped, he turned his pistol on himself and pulled the trigger. The fire was to cover my tracks.’
Pyke considered the implications of this. ‘So I’ve got to take your word for it — that my son died falling down the stairs?’
‘Is knowing for certain going to bring him back?’ Johns reached into his pocket. It took Pyke a second or two to notice the blade of a knife.
‘What are you going to do with that?’
Johns didn’t seem to have heard the question. In a nearby tree, a blackbird twittered, but there were no other sounds except for the breeze and the quiet flowing of the river.
‘I found Cathy’s body. She’d taken her own life, slit her wrists. I suppose she felt that she’d caused William’s death.’
‘If we hadn’t gone ahead with the scheme in the first place, our son might still be alive.’
‘Perhaps — but do you really imagine that Zephaniah Hancock would have let you leave and live happily ever after?’
‘I suppose not.’ Johns waited and added, ‘What happened to the Hancocks?’
‘Didn’t make it.’ Pyke shook his head. Then he gestured at the knife in Johns’ hand. ‘Put it away, John. No need for anyone else to die.’
Johns looked around at the barren landscape. ‘You know, I was born here. Grew up in the gatehouse. Only when my father was on his deathbed did he tell me I wasn’t his son.’
‘Who was?’
‘My father?’ Johns laughed bitterly. ‘That old coot who lives in the big house. Asenath Moore, Lord Cornwallis. Fucked a kitchen-hand. She was engaged to be married so I was given away.’