A whale spotter was first to sight the steamer. Peeling off, just before dawn, from the bunched-up clouds on the horizon, belching smoke. Cabin lights twinkling like so many fallen stars. Churning the waters to a froth as it closed on the small, still-sleeping island of Pico. Bringing with it who knew what troubles and joys.
A blind woman was first to come ashore. Pausing at the top of the gangway to fervently cross herself, before being led off on the arm of a nun. Followed by a young matron, big with what Rosa could only think must be twins, if not triplets. Followed, in turn, by a skinny, wan-looking girl cradling a newborn. Then everyone else, in a rush. Lurching, stumbling, weaving after days at sea.
The animals were next. A piebald mare trembling badly, hard on her heels the probable cause—two fierce-looking dogs, jaws bound with strips of cloth. Two donkeys, a cow, a couple of pigs, sheep, goats. Any number of chickens, ducks, geese, borne aloft in baskets, boxes, crates.
Finally, the luggage. Suitcases, valises, hat boxes, carpet bags, portmanteaux, packages, parcels. What looked to João to be a trombone, roughly swaddled in a blanket. All carried ashore by a band of grunting, cursing, pigtailed sailors and piled up on the dock.
No sign of a sea-chest.
They’d all but given up hope when two burly sailors suddenly appeared, a large chest carried between them.
‘Carvalho?’ The older of the pair squinted at the shipping label.
João nodded…
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