Shrill screams pierced the still morning air, quickly followed by desperate shouts and commanding calls. It upset the animals, sleeping in barns that they passed, not to mention the owners of the creatures themselves. More than one bleary-eyed farmer stormed down to the new, blasted canal, determined to give the rude noisemakers a verbal thrashing.
What each farmer would inevitably see, however, was shocking to say the least.
There was a narrow boat cruising down the canal at painfully low speeds for the chaos happening upon it. Packages were thrashed to the sides and somewhat filling up the center, making it difficult to observe the events taking place - but what events they were.
A woman was lying on the deck, clutching her engorged stomach and wailing like she was staring into the face of death. Around her was a crew of men, desperately trying to both keep the boat in control and assist the soon-to-be-mother.
The farmer would watch on, befuddled, before realizing that perhaps his wife could help, perhaps she could assist in the birth, if only the boat would come to shore. He would freeze for a few seconds, unsure whether to call out first or fetch his wife first, but no matter what he chose, it was hopeless. If he called out, his voice was lost in the commotion. If he ran back to get his wife, by the time he had woken her and convinced her to come down to the canal with him, the boat was too far gone, practically to the next farmhouse, and the farmer and his wife could only shake their heads and wish the woman luck.
"Hold on, Ophelia! Hold on!" a man begged, kneeling beside the woman and clutching her hand. The other sailors, as busy as they were with trying to keep the woman comfortable, let their gazes slip off of the man as if he wasn't even there. The sorrow about to befall him was not theirs to partake in.
For there was something wrong with this birth, this birth that was many months early. In the best of circumstances - in a quiet house, surrounded by loved ones and women skilled in delivery, the odds of survival for either the mother or her child would be slim. On a boat cruising down a canal, surrounded by rough-hewn sailors who didn't know the first thing about childbearing?
It was a recipe for disaster.
Ophelia looked up at her husband, the father of the child within her. He pushed her hair back from her sweat-dampened forehead, pressing a kiss there, a kiss full of desperation and a sliver of mad hope that was waning by the second.
"How far until the next lock?" he demanded. The sound of him was more difficult to ignore than the sight of him, so a sailor hesitantly answered him.
"About eight kilometers. We'll be there in an hour or two, less if we manage to get this thing moving faster."
"She can't - we can't make it that long!"
"We could stop the boat at a farm. See who can help us. Can she move?"
Ophelia let out an earsplitting shriek and clutched her husband's hand so tightly that he could feel the bones moving, grating against one another. He clenched his teeth through the pain, which was likely a fraction of what his wife was experiencing.
"Yes," he managed through his teeth. "I'll carry her myself if I have to."
"We won't be able to wait for you. We have to make this delivery, James."
"So just leave us at one of the damn farms and get it over with!"
The men bit their lips, returned to ignoring the man. It was not out of cruelty, but rather out of fear - fear as they pictured their own mothers, sisters, wives, daughters in Ophelia's position. It is in the nature of humans to, at the pinnacle of one's suffering, turn away and force them to bear it alone.
To James, it felt like years until the boat began to draw to a stop. He saw a farmhouse back from the canal with a small figure running towards them, doubtless drawn by his wife's horrific screams.
He bent to whisper in his wife's ear. "Darling, you must move. You must stand. I can carry you from the boat but I cannot pick you up as you are. Please, if there is any chance that we can save you, you must stand."
Ophelia's eyes opened slowly, gazing up at her husband with a look of steely determination. She grabbed his forearm with hers and he moved a hand hastily behind her back as she struggled into a sitting position. She gasped with the suddenness of another contraction but somehow swallowed down the page and forged onwards.
Finally, she had an arm looped around James' neck, and he helped her from the boat in an agonizingly slow process. He had no time to thank the crew for their kindness - it would not make up for the stress he had put them all through as it was.
Ophelia wasn't initially supposed to be on the boat. She had begged to, to see the countryside and get some fresh air for the baby, but the other men had doubts about these sorts of things, old wives' tales about the unfortune women on ships brought.
Perhaps they had it all backward. Perhaps it was the ships that brought the unfortune to women.
Either way, James was sure they would never allow his wife - or any of their own, for that matter - back on board now. He wasn't sure how he himself could face them, or how he could even find the strength to carry on if something happened to his beloved.
He saw a man exit the farmhouse as the boat slowly pulled away from the canal. "Help!" he roared, his voice cracking with desperation. "Help us!"
The figure stared motionless for a moment before backtracking into the house, quickly emerging with a woman. The two dashed toward James and Ophelia, the latter of whom was moaning with every exhale now.
When the couple reached them, James quickly explained the situation.
"Get her back in the house," the farmer's wife said with bustling efficiency, not allowing a second to go to waste. "I can help her from there."
"Just a little farther, love. Just a little farther and you'll be safe," James murmured to his wife. She gave no indication that she had heard him, instead bending over slightly and giving out a sharp cry.
The journey back to the house took what felt like forever in James' heart, but finally, they entered the building.
The farmer's wife began shouting out orders, quickly involving her drowsy children appearing from their bedroom. Soon, Ophelia was resting on a blanket on the floor of their parlor, her skirt around her knees. James was responsible for keeping her as cool as possible, cradling her head in his lap and wiping the perspiration from her forehead with a damp cloth.
The children had been sent to fetch a doctor or a midwife, whoever they could get ahold of first. The farmer was helping his wife, looking stricken with horror every time he had to look directly at Ophelia.
Suddenly, James' wife's screams reached a new crescendo. Echoing around the small farmhouse, the sounds nearly drowned out the farmer's wife's cry of, "The baby's coming! Push, dear, push!"
Ophelia gave one more cry and then fell still, eyes fluttering shut, not squeezed tightly closed like they had been.
A different squall entered the room, high-pitched and emanating from the tiny infant clutched in the woman's arms.
"It's a boy," she proclaimed, and quickly moved to wipe down the red, indignant baby.
James was more focused on his wife, although he couldn't help the thread of delight at the survival of his newborn son. He bent down, whispering desperately, "Ophelia? Ophelia, darling, wake up," but got nothing in return.
He held the back of his hand under her nose, feeling for air.
There was nothing.
"Ophelia?" he asked, voice wavering. Then, louder: "Ophelia!"
"Henry," the farmer's wife murmured warningly, and her husband moved to crouch by James.
"Come on, friend. Get up."
"Ophelia. Ophelia. Ophelia!"
"She's gone. Get up now, come hold your son."
"No. No, please, no." James' words were interrupted by a broken sob bubbling up from his chest.
"You have a son who is alive and well," the farmer's wife reminded him. "He needs you."
As if in a dream, James stood, resting Ophelia's limp head gently on the floor. He moved slowly over to the woman clutching his son, who was just now beginning to quiet down.
"He's early," he murmured. "He's so early..."
"Well, by some miracle, he's here, and healthy as could be," the farmer's wife replied gently, easing the infant into James' arms. "He is small, though."
James cradled the child, looking down into his warm brown eyes. They drifted shut and the baby turned toward his warm chest, falling fast asleep.
"What will you name him?" the farmer's wife asked in a whisper.
"Matthew," James whispered. "It's what his mother wanted. If he was a boy."
"Little Matthew. He's a beautiful baby. You're lucky to have him."
James cast a glance at his wife, growing cold on the parlor floor. "Yes," he replied, tearing his gaze away from her and drinking in the sight of his child instead. "I am lucky to have him."