Dread was in the water. Like the days when Leather Apron had prowled Whitechapel, there was fear amongst all those that the murderers that were whalers would harm. When Melusine had explained to Cormac what the singing of the whales truly meant memories washed over him. Memories of when a whaling ship had made port in Brigid.
It had been seven years prior he had merely been a boy of nine when he saw the whaling ship coming in like some dark floating mountain on a day that would have brought a smile to men such as Blackbeard or Captain Kidd. Cormac had not known what it had been until he saw what was hanging from the sides. From the port had hung the head of a bowhead while from the right had hung that of a North Atlantic right. Blowing from the mast had been a flag featuring an American Indian upon a blue shield, the flag of Massachusetts.
The kills must have been made fairly recently, for dripping from the severed craniums of the cetaceans had been blood. Into the water the blood fell, blue sharks following after, hungry for the flesh hanging above the water.
The first act that one of the American whalers did had not even required him to walk off the ship. Near Cormac had been a seagull, sleeping peacefully. All the whaler had to do was hurl a harpoon at the poor bird. For what? For pleasure!
That had not been all the whalers had done. They had made port in Brigid for fresh water. Their actions against the good-hearted Irish had made certain that they left without, leaving with stale water that had mold in it. People had been killed, animals had been killed and at that moment, Cormac swore that these whalers would cause no death.