Chapter 55
Jock
Halifax, Nova Scotia
May 5, 1912

The lawn of Fairfax Cemetery was deathly quiet. Of all his adventures, Jock had never been to Canada. It was a strange thing to be lying stark naked, still half-frozen from the voyage of the Mackay-Bennett, crammed into this tiny coffin. He lay next to nearly a hundred other pool souls, the lids to their coffin having been hammered shut as quickly as possible. The struggle for life that was permanently etched on these corpses' faces was too much for the living to bear witness to.

The cemetery had been hastily prepared. There had been no time for headstones, so wooden crosses had been cut with identification numbers roughly carved into them. They still didn't know who Jock was. It was impossible to identify him without his violin.

A priest said a prayer over the dead before the gravediggers got to work. He could hear the thud of the earth hitting his coffin, taking him even further away from the light.

What a strange thing to be buried here, an ocean away from his family. Away from his homeland.

Away from Mary.