The Scarlet Cross (15 page)

It was not until late the next day that the hatch was thrown back, letting a welcome blast of fresh air pour through. Stephen leaped to his feet and pushed his way through the mass of bodies. He had to speak to the master and make clear to him who they were and what their mission was.

“Come with me,” he called to Father Martin. “He must listen to you, a priest.”

“May I come, too?” Angeline asked. She was as pale as death and weak from vomiting. “I must get up into the air.”

Other children dragged themselves to their feet as well, but a sailor’s face appeared in the opening and yelled down to them.

“Twenty at a time. No more.”

Stephen took a great gulp of air as he emerged from the stinking hold, then tottered to the rail and vomited yet again, over it, and into the sea. He held himself up weakly by the railing until he gathered strength enough to stand upright. Then he looked around for a sailor to take a message to the
master. The same man who had ordered him down below the day before was standing nearby, watching the retching children with disgust. Stephen made his way over to him with as much dignity as he could muster.

“I must see the master,” he announced.

The sailor laughed and turned his back on him.

“You insult our Lord himself when you insult me!” Stephen cried. “Do you not know who we are?”

“I know you are a rabble of children, that’s who you are,” the man replied, turning back and spitting at Stephen’s feet.

“We are a crusade of the young, not a rabble,” Stephen shot back. “Chosen by God himself to liberate the Holy Land and restore it to the true faith.”

Weak and filthy though he was, there was power still in Stephen’s voice, conviction enough in his eyes to make the man pause.

“The master is over there,” he said grudgingly, and pointed to the forecastle.

“Take us to him,” Stephen ordered, drawing himself up as tall as he could.

Muttering under his breath, the man motioned for Stephen to follow him.

“Which one is the master?” Father Martin asked.

It was only then that Stephen noticed another man standing half hidden by a stack of roped-down barrels.

His question was answered as one man turned toward them and the other took a step back, almost as if to conceal himself in the shadows.

“What is it you wish?” the master boomed out. “Why are you bothering me?”

“We must speak with you,” Stephen replied, making his way up to him and trying to match his steps to the roll and pitch of the ship. He staggered and reached for the railing to steady himself.

“You will be fed when we have the time,” the master roared. “Go back where you belong.”

“It is not for food that I have come,” Stephen answered.

“Although that will be very welcome,” Father Martin put in hastily.

“It is to take you to task for the way we are being treated,” Stephen said. “Do you not know who we are?” he repeated.

“I know that you are scum that I am being forced to transport,” the master spat out.

At that the man in the shadows spoke out.

“And for which you are being well paid,” he said curtly. “Enough!” Then he glared at Stephen.

“Go back,” he ordered. “We know who you are and why you are here. You will be taken care of, never fear.”

The exchange between the two men sent a chill up Stephen’s back. There was something not right here. Ange-line’s words echoed in his mind.

Father Martin must have felt something of the same unease.

“We are doing God’s will,” he said to the master. “Take care how you deal with us.”

“You will be dealt with exactly as you deserve,” the stranger replied, then he retreated into the enclosed cabin behind him.

“Who is that man?” Father Martin demanded, looking after him with a frown.

“He is the agent of Hugo Ferrus and William Porqui-erres,” the master replied. “And not a man to be trifled with. Now you have had your assurances, get back to your followers. There is bad weather approaching and if you wish to be fed, it will have to be done quickly.”

Before they were given food, however, all who were up on deck were herded back down into the hold.

“I do not think I can stand it,” Angeline said as she climbed down the ladder. The smell smote them like a wall.

Later that evening, buckets were lowered with maggoty salt meat and a kind of gruel, all slopped together. It was not fit for pigs, but most of the children were too sick to eat it anyway.

That night the wind rose. The waves began to slam against the sides of the ship with alarming intensity. Stephen had thought the rolling to be bad before, but now the ship wallowed and pitched from side to side with such force, that even crushed in together as they were, they found themselves thrown around. Angeline crawled away from Stephen and Father Martin to see if there was anything she could do for the children, who wailed in terror. It was not long until she crawled back.

“Two of the little ones have died,” she gasped. “Help me with them.”

Father Martin and Stephen followed her to the other end of the hold. They made their way with difficulty through, around, and over the other children. Most of them were so distressed they did not even notice they were being trodden upon. The priest blessed the dead children, but there was nothing else he could do.

All that night and all the next day they suffered in the hold. Stephen began to think that Angeline had spoken more truly than she had known when she called that place a hell.

By the time the storm finally ceased, they were all too weak to move. Three more children had died. When the hatch was raised it took a while before anyone could react. Father Martin was the first to collect himself.

“We must get up on deck,” he said, “and take as many of the children as we can.”

A sailor’s face appeared at the opening, grimacing at the stink that rose to greet him.

“There are dead children down here,” Father Martin called up. “You must send someone down to take them up.”

“Take them up yourselves,” came the reply. The face disappeared.

Stephen dragged himself to his feet and picked up one of the small bodies. Angeline and Father Martin staggered to their feet to help him. Between them, they carried all the dead children up to the deck. Father Martin stepped forward to give them a final blessing, but before he could do so, a sailor picked them up and flung them, one by one, over the rail. Angeline cried out, Father Martin made the sign of the cross, but there was nothing more to be done.

Then, as Stephen looked around him, he realized he could count only five ships. The two that had sailed to the landward side of them were missing.

“Those two ships—the one with the red sails and the other one—where are they?” he asked the nearest sailor.

“Foundered on the rocks of San Pietro in the storm, they did,” he answered. “Every soul aboard them perished. And it was only by the grace of God that we did not follow them.”

The grace of God? Stephen looked at the children dragging themselves out of the hold into the fresh air. How many had died on those two ships? And how many more would die before they reached Jerusalem?

Then he remembered—Renard had been on the ship with the red sails. Weak and annoying as he had been, Renard had stayed faithful to him for the whole journey. He had stood by Stephen even when the sea did not part, and so many others had abandoned him. Renard had been one of the first four boys to believe in him and follow him. And now he was the last of them to die.

He had lost them all. Betrayed them all.

He dropped his head onto the railing and wept.

Father Martin did his best to console Stephen.

“They are with God,” he said. “Their journey is over.”

His words were meant to be comforting, Stephen knew, but the priest’s face was so stricken and the pain behind the words so deep, that Stephen could feel no solace.

That night he stood at the prow of the ship, watching the waves break on either side of them in foam and spumes of white water that glistened in the light of the new-risen moon. Then he became aware of Angeline at his side. She stood in silence for a long time. Finally, she spoke.

“I am sorry for the things I’ve said, Stephen,” she said. “For my lack of faith. You chastised me for it, and you were right. But
you
cannot lose faith now.
You
cannot despair.” The wind clawed at her words, fragmented them into the salt-heavy air. “We need you. If you fail us, we are doomed and all this will have been for naught!”

Her words seemed to tear a rent in his soul.

“Is it worth it?” he cried. “So many deaths! Is it worth it?”

“You have to believe that it is.”

“I have to. But can I?” Stephen raised his face to the wind. He felt the spray, cold and stinging on his cheeks.

“It is too much,” he whispered. “It is too much to ask of me.”

“But it
was
asked.” It was almost a sob, thrown into the dark of the night. “It
was
asked of you—and you accepted.”

In his heart he knew she spoke the truth. He had accepted the responsibility. He had exulted in his power, had gloried in the belief that God had chosen him. Him! A simple shepherd boy. To what unimagined heights had he been raised!

But if he had known the cost…?

The next few days were brilliant and sun-filled; the remaining ships sped through the waves. The children were allowed up on deck in small groups and Angeline organized some of the older youths into helping her clean up below decks as much as possible. Father Martin hiked his robes up to his knees and helped as well. The food was still foul, however. It was a way for Stephen to vent his bitterness, and it was only with difficulty that Father Martin restrained him from demanding to see the master again and voicing his complaints.

“Be patient, Stephen,” the priest said. “It matters not. What is important is that we are speeding toward Jerusalem. Toward the Holy Land. Feed your spirit, worry not about your belly.”

The children, recovered from their sea sickness, were bright and cheerful. No more died. Some even began to get a blush in their cheeks from the wind and the sun, and their eyes sparkled. Once again, they sang and the ship sped on accompanied by the sound of hymns. Each morning Father Martin said Mass, each evening Stephen preached, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he prayed and implored God’s mercy, it was impossible to summon up the fire and the energy that had filled him before. He felt hollow. Empty. He made his confession to Father Martin, but even the priest’s absolution did not take away his doubts. He scanned the horizon each day, searching for the first sight of land. Then one morning there was a different smell to the air when he went up on deck, Angeline close at his heels.

“It is land, Stephen,” Angeline said. “I know it!”

By midday they could see a low, rolling outline against the horizon which revealed itself to be seemingly endless dunes of sand. Fringed-leaf trees such as the ones they had
seen on the beach at Marseilles lined the shore. Two tall spires rose up behind the trees like sentinels, reaching up to the implacable sun that beat down mercilessly. The wind that ushered them in was hot. Sea birds began to fly over, almost as if they were escorting the ships to shore. Children crowded the rails, pointing and shouting.

“The Holy Land!” Stephen whispered.

Finally. It was over.

They sailed past the ruins of a great lighthouse into a wide, calm harbour. Together, Stephen and Angeline watched as the ship was made fast to a wharf. A throng of turbaned and brightly robed men waited there. The sailors threw out lines to them. A plank was laid against the side.

Stephen bowed his head in prayer, then lifted his chin and tossed his hair out of his eyes.

God had delivered them here. His faith had been rewarded.

Now. Now it was up to him.

He did not see Father Martin gazing at the lighthouse with a furrowed brow.

“I have heard of such a wondrous lighthouse,” the priest murmured, “but not in the Holy Land. The pharos I have read of stands in the harbour of Alexandria. In Egypt. The land of the heathens.”

Stephen paid no heed to the words. His eyes were fixed on the waves of sand as if he could will Jerusalem to rise up out of the shimmering desert heat.

Nor did he notice as the men began to swarm up the side of the ship.