The Emerald Key

CHAPTER 3





Never in Jamie’s wildest imagination had he ever thought of setting out across the Atlantic Ocean on a six-week voyage to another continent. His life, however, had been filled with unexpected turns from a very young age, and as he walked towards the long departure quays that jutted out into the sparkling crown of Cork Harbour like sharpened thorns, Jamie thought back to those early happy years.

He had grown up helping his father run a well-

managed flour mill in the village of Clara, Westmeath. His father was a respected elder in the community, and he was very vocal in his objections to the ways of the British government. It angered him when officials looked the other way as the many British landlords ran thousands of desperate tenants off the properties that they had farmed for generations. The potato blight had robbed many of the small farmers’ incomes and they could no longer pay the rent. Desperate, the tenants led the villagers of Clara in an uprising against the government. Several irate farmers broke into the Lord Westmeath’s personal smokehouse and stole a full side of pork. Several families might have eaten well that week, but the lord complained of the break-in to the authorities. They in turn sent a detachment of soldiers to punish the community.

In the middle of the night, armed with rifles and torches, the redcoats descended upon the Galway flour mill. The Galway family would be punished, since Lord Westmeath assumed their objections had likely incited the vandalism. The loss of the mill would, in turn, punish the community for not turning in the criminals who had stolen Lord Westmeath’s property.

Within minutes, the prominent family business was engulfed in flames. The small Galway home sat next to the mill. Jamie could still remember staggering up to the window and seeing his father running through the flames of the mill’s doorway, armed with only a single bucket of water. Whatever his father’s plan was to stop the flames, Jamie never did find out. When he didn’t return from the flames, Jamie doubted his father ever contemplated that his wife might enter the burning building in an attempt to rescue him. Her screams of fear turned to screams of pain, and then no screams at all. Jamie remembered his older brother’s arm wrapping around him. He looked up at Ryan, tears in his eyes, unsure of what to do.

Ryan, eleven at that time, stood, not staring into the flames but at the redcoats on horseback, laughing at the inferno and warning the villagers who had gathered around the burning mill not to further break the laws of the land or more punishment would be heaped upon their village.

Perhaps it was remembering the single bucket of water in his father’s hands that made Jamie think of that fateful night. Now he was staring out at a sea that could fill up an endless line of buckets and likely never lower the level of its mighty basin. Jamie examined the long wooden hull of the Independence and its three huge masts that seemed to reach as high as a cathedral spire. This was the vessel that would take him across that mighty expanse of water to the land called Canada.

Jamie, dressed in common travelling clothes, entered the sea of people that filled the pier. The Brotherhood had decided it would be wise not to bring undue attention to Jamie’s departure. Around him, young men waved handfuls of tickets in the air, shouting out to the bedraggled crowd offering cheap passage to Quebec, New York, or Philadelphia.

A young sailor came up beside him as he continued to gawk at the ship. He joined Jamie’s gaze skyward.

“She’s a beauty, eh?”

“She’s bigger than I imagined.”

“This is my ship. It’s my first duty on board the Independence. Jim Darby is my name.”

“I’m Jamie Galway. Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands.

“Good to meet you, Jamie. I heard that she has a good captain who treats the crew and passengers fairly. After my last tour across the Atlantic, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever want to sail again.”

Jamie looked at him. “Why? What happened?”

“The ship I sailed was an old slave ship. Shipping companies used to make a fortune running slaves from West Africa to the southern United States until the Civil War changed the rules. Slave running to the colonies was then outlawed. So the companies switched their human cargo from slaves to starving peasants. Not much of a difference, really, if you ask me. Governments still paid the shipping companies good money to haul needed labour to the colonies. On my last ship, the captain treated them the same if not worse than if he were transporting a shipload of slaves.”

Jamie had to force his next question from his lips. “On which ship did you serve?”

“The Carpathia,” Jim said, shaking his head. “The captain didn’t seem to understand that those were human beings down in his hold. He would treat those poor Irish worse than livestock. He crammed far more in than was allowable and then he barely fed them the whole way there. If any died, and many did, they were unceremoniously tossed into the sea during the crossing so he wouldn’t have to deal with the paperwork upon his arrival in Canada. Lord, I hated working under him.”

Jamie felt sick. “Is the Independence faster than the Carpathia? My brother is on board the Carpathia and I was hoping that we might catch up to them before it docked in Canada.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the young sailor said as he hoisted his kit onto his shoulders. “The Independence is fast for its size, but she won’t catch the Carpathia. We’ll be loaded down not only with passengers but with a full load of cargo as well. I imagine we’ll be at least a good week behind her.”

The sailor hurried off to join the rest of the crew boarding the ship up the rear gangplank. Jamie looked down at his ticket. It was labelled “2nd class.” The Cardinal had been able to arrange the money to keep him out of the crowded holds that were the cause of so much sickness and death during the crossing. Jamie felt guilty accepting the generous offer as the church coffers had all but dried up during the horrendous famine. But, as the Cardinal said, it wouldn’t do Ryan or the Brotherhood any good if he was dead upon arrival in Canada.

Jamie joined the other passengers boarding on the forward gangplank and slowly made his way up to the deck and the awaiting officer. There was a family of five ahead of him, a mother and father, two boys and a little girl. They seemed as destitute as the family that had tended to him after the attack. Their tattered clothing hung loosely from their bones, their sunken eyes underlined with dark rings.

“Have you been to Canada before?” Jamie asked, trying to ease his own nervousness with conversation.

The husband gave a bitter laugh. “Never been on a ship before, let alone the shores of another land.”

“My sister has a small farm in Canada West and she’s invited us to live on it with her family,” said the wife, teary-eyed. “There’s nothing left for us here.”

The husband extended his hand. “I’m Brendan O’Connor. This is my wife Erin and my three children, Neil, Colin, and Patricia.”

They shook hands. “Jamie Galway.”

“Are you planning a move to Canada as well?”

“No, I’ll be soon coming back home.”

“Back to Ireland?” he asked incredulously. “What is there left to return to? This island is a floating morgue.”

The officer, eyeing the destitute family over a thick greying moustache, kept his distance from the three sniffling children. After a brief examination of the tickets, he pointed them in the direction of the hold.

“Fourth class. Take the stairs to the very bottom. Your berth will be labelled.”

The family shuffled slowly towards the opening through the deck and then disappeared into the bowels of the ship. The officer turned towards Jamie.

“Ticket.”

Jamie passed it to him.

“Ah, second class. Follow the deck around to the forward cabin and a purser will show you to your room.”

Jamie did as he was told. He made his way toward the front of the ship, past two towering masts, and handed his ticket to a young purser who was waiting for him at the doorway.

“Welcome to the Independence, sir.”

The porter led him down a narrow hallway to a finely crafted door with a brass handle. Jamie opened the door and had to step over a tall ledge to enter the room.

“Safety reasons,” commented the purser, nodding to the ledge at base of the door. “Keeps the water out of your cabin should the weather get bad.”

“Then let’s hope for good weather, shall we?” said Jamie, who then offered the young lad a coin, which he gratefully accepted.

After lowering his single bunk away from its stored position on the wall, Jamie collapsed onto its mattress and stared up at the freshly painted ceiling.

“Hold on, Ryan. I’m only a week behind you.”


Jonathon Wilkes was a very patient man. Waiting on the docks at Cork with a young boy standing by his side, he realized that he would not be closing in on one of the greatest treasures in Europe if he had not planned every step of the way with painstaking precision. Somewhere in this crowd was the missing piece of the puzzle that was required to find Ireland’s fabled ancient treasure. After all of his work and effort, a few more hours of waiting in a restless crowd would not bother him in the least. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. It was all part of the exhilarating game of the hunt, and he was the one controlling all the pieces.

As Wilkes eyed the crowd, he let his mind drift back to his first big payday. It had taken him three years, eleven months, and fourteen days to wait out the Buddhist monks in Tibet before he finally struck the motherlode. The Dalai Lama, the spiritual leader of the monks, had left his palace compound with his entourage as if he were a ghost, in the dead of night and with remarkable silence. The only reason Wilkes had discovered his silent departure was through one of his ingenious tripwires, which he had stretched across several paths that he had suspected might lead to the treasure. It was the tinkling of a soft bell that had woken him from his light sleep. He quietly rolled out of his covers, grabbed his machete, his unlit torch, and his gun, and by the light of the quarter moon ran for the marked path.

It was difficult to follow the mountainous trail at night with only sparse moonlight to guide him, but he had memorized the terrain so well, he knew exactly where the monk he was following was taking him, deep into the steep Himalayan cliffs that surrounded Tibet’s capital city of Lhasa. The path quickly became treacherous and narrow, but Wilkes could sense that the monk was just ahead, and he was not about to let up on the chase.

His life nearly ended as he rounded a protruding crag in the mountain and his foot came down on nothing but air. The path had vanished at the edge of a cliff. Wilkes had not sensed the sudden drop and he began to fall toward his death. His flailing arms swung wildly for anything to help stop his fall. A lip of stone smacked against his right palm. He grabbed hold. It was not enough to stop his momentum, but it was just enough to swing him across to his right. While dangling on one arm, he controlled his panic long enough to allow his body to make the half turn. His head and body crashed hard into the towering rock face next to the path. With his right hand remaining on the protrusion, his left groped desperately along the rock for any purchase. Miraculously, it found the rough root of a plant jutting out into the darkness. He grabbed hold and prayed that it would take his weight. For a moment, Wilkes hung with his feet hovering three thousand feet above an invisible jagged valley far below.

Wilkes quickly recomposed himself and assessed his situation. Even in the inky darkness, he knew that the path he had taken up the mountain must be somewhere just to his right. He swung out a foot and felt for it. Yes! His boot caught the edge of it, but it was too far away for his foot to get a proper grip. He had only one chance. Before his strength gave out completely, he heaved on the root, found a temporary toehold, and brought both hands to the rocky ledge that had saved his life. Tentatively sticking out his foot again, he could finally hoist his leg up onto the flat surface. With a final push, he swung himself back onto the path. His body collapsed onto solid ground and he thanked the heavens that he couldn’t see what nightmare lay below him at the base of the cliff.

Suddenly, his side exploded in pain. A foot had lashed out from somewhere in the dark, crunching hard into his ribs. Wilkes ignored the stinging fire from his side as he rolled away from the edge. He sprang up into a crouch. He heard a blade being unsheathed somewhere in the darkness. Wilkes slowly reached down to his feet and grabbed a large handful of dirt. His attacker must be close and likely moving in for the kill at this very moment. With a wide arc from his arm, he released a cloud of dirt at what he guessed would be head height. A grunt of pain just to his left told him the dirt had found the wide open eyes of his attacker. He leaped to his feet and charged like a bull at the sound, shoulder down, catching his attacker in the side. Wilkes felt a searing pain in his back from the swing of a sword as he slammed the attacker hard into the side of the mountain. Then he heard a satisfying crunch as his full weight crushed the attacker into the jagged rocks.

Stinging hand chops suddenly exploded around his neck and head. Instead of blocking them, Wilkes ducked and swung a leg low, tripping the attacker, who fell to the ground, but Wilkes lost his balance as well and fell hard onto his injured back. He could hear his attacker get to his feet first and charge forward. Wilkes curled into a ball, feet up, ignoring the fiery pain from his back. He felt a sudden weight on the soles of his boots. He used momentum to roll backwards and with the attacker’s weight still perched on his feet, kicked his legs out over his head. For a second, there was only silence as his attacker was launched high into the night air. A terrified scream fell away as the invisible man tumbled down the side of the dark cliff to his doom.

Curled on his side, it took a minute for Wilkes to catch his breath. He felt his back, and the warm stickiness of fresh blood told him he would have yet another scar decorating his tattered body. He ripped off a piece of his shirt, rolled it into a ball and placed it over the wound. He then used the strap of his satchel to keep it in place.

Working his way back along the dark face of the mountain, his hands suddenly disappeared into a hidden fissure. It was a perfect secret entranceway that led into the heart of the mountain itself. Turning sideways, he squeezed his tall frame into the fissure. Complete darkness enveloped him. He paused and listened. From somewhere deep inside the mountain, he could hear the rhythmic chanting of Buddhist monks. Surely they would not be worshipping in the dark, he surmised. Therefore they must be a long way off.

Wilkes decided to take a huge gamble. He checked his gun to make sure that it was cocked and loaded. Then he pulled out his torch and lit it. A long, narrow tunnel suddenly flared to life in the orange glow of his torch. His eyes were drawn to a beautiful oval-shaped shrine that had been carved into the stone wall of the tunnel. Sitting inside the shrine, surrounded by a stunning halo of iridescent stars, was a golden statue of Buddha. His welcoming smile and extended arms were highlighted by a ruby-encrusted toga that adorned his rotund belly. Wilkes instantly knew the statue alone was worth a small fortune. He could only imagine what treasures lay further down the tunnel. Wilkes was not stupid. A bird in hand was worth more than two in the bush. He opened the flap to his leather bag, removed the Buddha from its perch, and carefully lowered it in.

The three years, eleven months, and fifteen days of waiting it out in the Himalayas had finally paid off in spades.


His adventure in Tibet now seemed so long ago. Wilkes did return to that same cave years later, but not surprisingly, after searching the entire cavern, whatever had been in there had long before been removed. The missing Buddha and dead guard were all the evidence the monks had needed to prove their secret location had been blown.

Since then, Wilkes had been able to scrounge up some interesting Egyptian artifacts and steal a couple of small Mayan statues, but he could no longer afford the life of luxury he had grown accustomed to after the sale of the Buddha. He needed another big payoff, and soon.

After hitting the history books in the London library as he searched for a new treasure trail, he had come across an old story about Ireland that explained how, after the fall of Rome, the Irish had become the wealthiest and most educated country in Europe. Several legends proclaimed that a vast treasure had been hidden during Ireland’s golden years, but its location remained a mystery to this day.

“Not a mystery to everyone,” chuckled Wilkes. “Surely someone, somewhere must know where it is.”

He then glanced at his copy of the London Times. The headline quoted the prime minister as saying only market forces could cure the continuing Irish famine.

“An unending famine in a land that holds treasure,” muttered Wilkes. “This is what a man who has an interest in antiquities would call ‘easy pickings’. ”

Wilkes booked a ticket on the next ship leaving London for Dublin. Upon his arrival in Ireland, he had gone straight to Trinity College, where he set eyes on the Book of Kells, one of the only books known to have survived from the golden age of Ireland. He had never seen anything like it before in his life. Each letter was a work of art in itself, producing almost magical depictions of Irish nature from the ancient ink. The text itself read in an almost spellbinding beauty that seemed more the written word of an angel than that of a human being. His appreciation for what the Irish had accomplished after the fall of Rome rose considerably. He no longer had any doubts that a country capable of such a high level of culture could also produce magnificent treasure.

He knew from experience that a coin placed in the right starving hand might get him the information he needed to begin his search, and indeed it had. He learned from a penniless historian that there was a secret group of men called the Brotherhood, and rumours continued that they knew the location of a buried Irish treasure. The historian also mentioned that the Brotherhood seemed to have connections to the Irish Catholic Church. Prodded further about the treasure, the historian believed that the key to finding the treasure lay encoded in several keys kept safe by the Brotherhood, and one key was rumoured to be encoded in an old text located within the walls of the abbey in Limerick.

Wilkes quietly slipped a few more coins into the hands of those with intimate knowledge of the abbey in Limerick, which turned up only wild goose chases — until he made contact with the starving choirmaster. That old man informed him that the text he was searching for had been hidden in the abbey, but word was out that someone had been enquiring about it. It had been removed from its hiding place only the previous night, and it was on its way south. Where, he couldn’t be sure.

Wilkes immediately travelled south and put on his payroll a dozen hungry altar boys, all of whom had access to Ireland’s large abbeys and cathedrals. Their job was to try and listen in on private conversations. If they heard the word “Brotherhood” or witnessed any unscheduled meetings, they were to remember as many details as possible of those meetings and then report back to him. The size of their reward would depend on the quality of the information returned.

After waiting nearly two weeks, the big break had finally come that morning. Out of breath, an altar boy banged on his inn door. While working at Cork Cathedral that evening, he had followed a visiting priest deep into the catacombs and managed to get close enough to a secret meeting to hear the words “Brotherhood,” “key,” and “text.” It seemed that a young priest had to travel quickly across the ocean to Canada and return with his brother or with a text that was important to the Brotherhood that he had taken with him. Pleased with the news, the young lad was rewarded with a few coins and then sworn to secrecy. Wilkes immediately started to pack his gear and told the boy to meet him on the pier later that morning.

The lad met Wilkes near the shipping line ticket offices and Wilkes offered to double the reward if the boy could identify the young man who had attended the meeting in the catacombs of Cork Cathedral.

“I’m pretty sure I can,” the boy said, climbing up on a crate. “I got a good look at him as he left.”

Hours passed. The sun was lowering in the sky and Wilkes was starting to have his doubts that they would find their young priest. The crowds were still huge and the light was dimming. Would he have to attack the problem from a different angle if the priest somehow slipped through his fingers? He was pondering the possibilities when the boy’s hand started rapping him hard on the shoulder.

“There he is, sir!” he shouted, pointing. “That’s him, I’m sure of it!”

Wilkes followed the finger to a tall young man dressed in travelling attire, talking to a sailor at the bow of the nearest ship.

“He’s not dressed like a priest,” countered Wilkes.

The lad remained confident. “Then he must have changed. I’m sure that’s him.”

“Good lad,” he smiled. “You’ve earned this.”

He handed the boy more money than he could have made in a month.

“Thank you, sir!” He grinned as he climbed down off the crates.

“And don’t forget to keep listening. There may be more rewards for you yet.”


Lifting his expensive leather suitcase off the ground, Jonathon Wilkes kept an eye on the young man who was now boarding a Western Star clipper. Wilkes approached the Western Star Shipping Lines ticket office and purchased a ticket. Making his way through the crowd, Wilkes followed the young man up the gangplank and onto the deck of the Independence. The moustached officer asked for his ticket.

“First class, Mr. Wilkes. Welcome aboard the Independence. Please, follow me to your cabin.”


For the next week, Jamie left his berth only to obtain the occasional meal. He tried to ignore the increasingly violent ocean swells by concentrating on the books about Canada East and Canada West, the two halves of the United Province of Canada. He pored over Canadian historical records and maps lent to him by the church, and which were now scattered across his modest desk and over the floor. With study, he hoped to prepare himself for whatever might lie ahead in this foreign land.

Jamie had difficulty comprehending the numbers that lay in front of him. Canada was simply huge. Several Irelands could fit into just Canada East alone. And not everyone spoke the same languages. The French were the first settlers in the new land and had colonized an area along the banks of a great river named the St. Lawrence. This French-speaking land was now known as Canada East. The British were the second to settle. They built up ports along the Atlantic coast as well as further inland, on the shores of an impossibly large lake named Ontario. The land north of Lake Ontario became Canada West while the south shore marked the border of the United States of America. Jamie knew that both his ship and the Carpathia were destined for Quebec City. Quebec City was in Canada East and Jamie was thankful for the French lessons he’d received in France. With a little luck, he would quickly find his brother in this port town, and together they would return to Ireland.

Suddenly, a monstrous swell sent the nose of the ship heavenward. Before Jamie could react, his books slid off the table and crashed onto the floor. He held his balance until the ship veered sharply downwards. Losing his footing, he cartwheeled sideways and crashed hard into the wooden bulkhead. Dazed, Jamie could hear shouting from the deck above. He managed to open the door and stagger out of the cabin. The hallway resembled a river as water rippled around his ankles. Water this far in could only mean one thing — the ship was in trouble.

He made his way to the deck hatchway, holding on to the railing for balance. When he opened the hatch, rain lashed his body furiously. The officer with the thick moustache was leaning into the wind, trying to make his way towards the bow.

“Are we in trouble, sir?” yelled Jamie, over the howling wind.

The officer protected his eyes with his free hand. “Aye, that we are! We just took a giant rogue wave to the bow. There might be some damage below decks. Keep that door closed! We don’t want any more water inside the hull!”

“Can I help?” asked Jamie.

The officer sized him up then nodded. “All right. We might need your young arms. Close the hatch and follow me, but whatever you do, don’t let go of this rope!”

Jamie nodded, stepped out into the lashing gale, and closed the hatch behind him. The wind tore at them relentlessly, trying to throw the men into the frothing sea. Hanging on to the guide rope for dear life, they finally slipped and crawled their way to the bow and the forward hatch. The officer unlatched it and a gust nearly tore it off its hinges. Jamie quickly shut the hatch behind them and then followed the officer into the descending darkness. The steep stairs took them deep into the hull of the creaking, rolling ship. Baying livestock filled the first deck. Penned cows, goats, and chickens lined either side of the forward hull. Heavy crates of goods were lashed to the floor.

“Are the crates centred for balance?” Jamie asked as they made their way to the next ladder.

“Aye,” agreed the officer, “and it’s a good thing they’re lashed down. If the cargo had shifted when that wave hit, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

They continued their descent. They arrived at the lowest deck, where the curve of the hull flattened into the bottom of the ship. The sight that greeted Jamie instantly appalled him. Hundreds of people were packed into the immense, dreary chamber. Cries of hunger were punctuated with moans of pain. Jamie noticed the iron rings still hanging from the walls from the ship’s earlier slavery runs to Africa. He wondered if the trip could have been any worse for those slaves than the sorry sight meeting his eyes at this very moment. And if this was good, according to the sailor back in Cork, how much worse could it possibly be on board the Carpathia?

“Fourth class?” asked Jamie.

The officer glanced at the sea of humanity. “Aye, fourth class. Follow me. We need to get to the pumps.”

They waded through the sickness, coughs, and human fluids that filled the belly of the hold until they reached a set of hand-held pump handles. There were two other sailors already working the seesaw-like mechanism. Water could be heard sloshing through the attached pipes. The officer grabbed the opposite handle and nodded at Jamie to take the nearest one.

Together they gripped the handles and grimly worked the pumps. As he worked, Jamie took in the human misery that surrounded him and couldn’t help but think of Ryan, likely suffering in a hold worse than this, injured and alone. It was over an hour of arm-breaking work before the pumps finally gurgled. Air was finally starting to be sucked through the system, and the team finally relaxed to stretch out their weary arms.

“Well done, lads,” said the officer. “Let’s head topside for a spot of tea.”

Officer Keates started to lead the men aft when the ship suddenly lurched hard to the side. Everyone was thrown off their feet. Children screamed as parents reached frantically for flailing arms. A large crack reverberated through the ship. Water began to spray out from a hull plank just above the pumps. As the ship slowly righted itself, the crew looked on in horror.

“My God,” cried one of the sailors, “Officer Keates, if that plank goes, we’re done for!”

“Quick, run to the captain and tell him what’s happening. Get him to send down a repair crew immediately!”

“Aye, sir!” The sailor ran up the stairs.

“It may be too late by the time they make it down,” lamented Officer Keates, as water sprayed through in torrents.

Jamie looked around the hold. He spied a stack of lumber under the stairs.

“Are those planks?” shouted Jamie.

“Aye, for making the fourth-class berths.”

“And did I see an axe in the cargo hold above us?”

He looked to the young man. “Yes, in case of a fire.”

“Go and grab the axe. I have an idea!”

The officer looked at the young man suspiciously, but Jamie Galway had an air of authority about him that seemed beyond his age. Without any other recourse until the repair crew arrived, Officer Keates ran for the stairwell. Ignoring the mounting panic of the passengers surrounding them, Jamie grabbed the last remaining sailor and together they pushed their way through to the stack of timber. He eyed the pile and grabbed a thick beam that seemed to be the right length.

“Grab some extra pieces of wood about the same size!” he commanded. The sailor, twice Jamie’s age, didn’t argue. Together, they heaved the wood back to the spraying sea water. It was getting worse. Jamie took his piece of lumber and wedged it against a rib in the flooring and then leaned it into the spray. With grim determination, he threw that aside, grabbed another longer piece from the sailor, tossed that aside too, then tried a third. Officer Keates returned with the fire axe. Jamie dropped the wood, took the axe, strode through the spray, and drove its blade into the heart of the buckling plank in the hull.

“Are you mad?” Officer Keates screamed as Jamie splintered out a chunk of wood from the plank. “You’ll destroy the entire plank!”

“He’ll sink us all!” shouted another.

Officer Keates grabbed the handle of the axe and yanked it away from Jamie. Jamie didn’t seem to mind as he reached down and picked up the last piece of wood he had dropped and again wedged it down against the thick rib on the ship’s floor. He then lowered the top of the timber until it rested against the spray gushing out over the top of the stricken plank. The freezing sea water thoroughly soaked Jamie as he backed into the spray, took hold of the top of the piece of wood, and heaved downwards.

“That won’t do any good,” yelled one of the fathers, now seeing what he was up to. “The water’s coming in too fast!”

“Do you want your families to see the shores of Canada?” Jamie hollered over the roar of the sea and the cries of the frightened crowd. “Grab hold and help me!”

“Come on, men!” shouted Officer Keates, wading into the icy spray and grabbing an edge of the board. “Let’s do what the lad says!”

Jamie wrapped both arms around the top of the timber. Officer Keates, followed by his men, grabbed on as well. They all heaved down on the makeshift beam, but the pressure of the ocean water coming in was simply too great.

“Pull down with all you have!” shouted Jamie. It made no difference. The ocean poured in relentlessly.

“Everyone!” Jamie pleaded to the gathered crowd. “Grab on to this beam and help us pull!”

At first, the frightened crowd remained frozen, but then, a boy no older than ten ran up beside Jamie and grabbed on. The boy’s father waded up and joined him. Several of the mothers then stepped into the water and grabbed hold. Suddenly, with shouts of growing encouragement, dozens of hands grabbed on to the timber, so many that large sections of the wood could no longer be seen.

“All together now! Heave!” Jamie screamed.

The tremendous tug suddenly jolted the wood along the wet surface until its edge slipped neatly into Jamie’s newly hacked V-shaped groove. There was a tremendous whoop from the passengers as the gushing sea water was reduced to a thin spray. Jamie was suddenly in the centre of a swirling hurricane of hugs, kisses, and congratulatory rufflings of his sopping hair from the ecstatic passengers and crew.

The repair crew finally arrived among the revellers. The chief admired Jamie’s work of engineering before setting out to complete a more permanent repair to the ship’s hull.

Officer Keates managed to pry Jamie away from the admiring crowd.

“Let’s get you back up top and dried off,” Keates shouted above the hoopla.

Together they weaved their way through the crowd. Several young women blew Jamie kisses as he passed.

“Now how did you come up with that idea?” asked the officer as they reached the first staircase.

“I just used Pythagoras’s theorem,” said Jamie, following him up. Ryan, he knew, would have been proud.

Officer Keates shot him a strange glance. “A Greek trick? Well, whatever you want to call it, lad, I’m just glad it worked. Well done! I’d say this calls for a drink.”

As they neared the hatch, a voice shouted out from the crowd.

“Jamie! Jamie Galway!”

For a moment, Jamie’s heart leaped in hope that it was his brother calling out to him. He scanned the mass of people until his eyes came to rest on the face of a familiar man. It was the husband of the family that had been ahead of him when he’d boarded the ship.

“Thank you for saving my family, Jamie,” he said, making his way to the bottom of the stairs. “What you did over there was simply brilliant.”

Officer Keates gave Jamie an elbow in the ribs. “It appears that you have now reached hero status among the passengers, Mr. Galway.”

In the distance, Jamie could see the rest of the man’s family waving to him from their tiny, filthy berth near the curve of the wooden bow. As he waved back and climbed the final steps, Jamie couldn’t help but feel the children’s haunted stares follow him to the heaven-like cleanliness that waited for him above.