The Law of Dreams

by Peter Behrens

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  “This is a lodging house, ain’t it?” said Molly.

  “William Maguire, at your service.”

  “Lodging we want.”

  He studied them. “We’re a little dear, I’m afraid.”

  Molly shook the bonnet bunched in her hands and they all heard money jingle.

  “Shilling a night,” said the man. “Porridge for breakfast.”

  “Can you do us any kind of supper?”

  He shook his head. “My kitchen help is dossed down. We get an early start here, feeding Germans.”

  “Really, mister, we have come a long way.”

  “Where from?”

  “We’re off the Chester-and-Holyhead.”

  “Where in Ireland?”

  “All abouts. Derry.”

  “I am Fermanagh myself. Well, miss, perhaps we might do you something cold. Follow me, but quiet.”

  They followed him through the house, past people sleeping on upholstered benches in the hallway and wrapped in blankets on the floor.

  “This lot just came in from Hull, and Bremen before that. There is always a few won’t sleep in a crib because of a few bugs. Do you know what a German is?”

  “I don’t,” Fergus admitted.

  Some of the people had tied themselves to their baggage with rope.

  “These are all for New York on Humphrey. They ship from Hamburg or Bremen to Hull, then by train to Liverpool. I have pushed through thousands of Germans for New York and St. Louis. They use their own German brokers and stay clear of the thieves on the Goree. They use the Black Ball packets.”

  Maguire led them into a large, chill kitchen. When he turned up a lamp, they saw plates and noggins stacked in enamel cupboards and steel knives arranged on a rack by a cutting table. A bag of onions dangled from a beam. The kitchen had the smell of a clean stone. Maguire opened a locker and brought out a dish of cooked onions and a shoulder of mutton covered with sacking.

  “How much these days for a passage on Humphrey?” Molly said, casually.

  “Seven or eight pounds. New York packets are expensive this year,” Maguire reached down two plates from the shelf and brought out a dish of butter and loaf of bread.

  “What about Quebecs?”

  Choosing a knife, Maguire stropped it briskly on a steel. “The ships in the timber trade are starting to cross, hoping the ice will be out when they get there. They like to fill with emigrants. But Quebec and St. John can be a brutal crossing, as I hear.”

  Whisking off two slices of mutton, he laid one upon each plate and added a spoonful of cooked onions.

  “There it is. Go on, eat.”

  The meat was tough to chew but tasted fresh and delicious. Fergus shoveled the salty, slippery curls of onion onto buttered bread while the landlord stood with his arms crossed, watching them. “Do you want a mug of beer? It’s fresh.”

  They both nodded.

  Having money changes everything.

  Money, the hard power of the world.

  THEY LEFT their grip in a boxroom crowded with German leather baggage, crates, sacks, and bundles of tools.

  “Germans are good farmers and prosperous men. I have emigrants through here — Germans — with machines for making glass lenses; with violins and brass horns and every kind of musical box; with crate after crate of books; and one fellow had a machine for pulling teeth from horses. They’re not like the Irish, all sputter and luck, most of it bad.”

  Maguire gave them two clean blankets. Molly was leaning heavily on Fergus’s arm as they followed the landlord upstairs. “I’m beat, man, my soul is dead.”

  “We’ll find you a bed,” the landlord assured her. “Only a wee bit farther, miss.”

  “My bones are even sore. I can’t walk much longer.”

  They following him along a corridor, where more Germans roped to their baggage were sleeping on the floor. A woman nursing a child watched them balefully. Maguire began opening one door after another, shining his lamp briefly into each sleeping room before going on to the next. The people asleep in the corridor wore beautiful cloaks, leather jackets, embroidered aprons and nightcaps, woolen stockings, woolen mittens. Good boots were scattered everywhere. “This lot are going for Illinois, they’ve already purchased their farms.” Maguire opened another door. “Here we are — top shelf, over there,” he whispered, holding up the lamp. “Go on, climb aboard.”

  Men were snoring. Bodies were stretched out on two of the three sleeping shelves racked on each wall. The uppermost shelf, on the far wall, was unoccupied. Maguire shone the lamp to give some light as they crossed the floor, jumbled with baggage and boots. Molly tripped and nearly fell but Fergus grabbed her arm and steadied her.

  “I’m so tired, man, past the end of the world.”

  He helped her step up onto a German trunk from which she could climb into the sleeping shelf. He climbed up after her.

  “Safe ashore? Good night.”

  Maguire shut the door softly, and the room went black. Struggling out of their coats, they knocked their heads on the ceiling and bumped against each other while struggling to spread a blanket over the straw pallet. She bundled Muldoon’s coat to use for a pillow while Fergus untied his boots and strangers asleep sighed and moaned in the dense, sweet darkness. He finally got the boots off. Dropping them on the floor, he stretched out on the straw pallet, spooning alongside her.

  “Molly?”

  “Sleep, man, sleep.” Her voice was thick. She was already half asleep.

  He felt alert and excited, smelling her skin, feeling her heat.

  Longing burns down fear, consumes hesitation, ignores danger. You wish to lie open as a field.

  But people can’t be truthful, not all at once.

  THE HALL where they were fed breakfast was noisy with Germans speaking their storm of a tongue. Girls brought kettles of porridge from the kitchen and German graybeards at the head of each table served it out while Maguire and his porter went around the hall pouring tea. Fergus felt his body relaxing in the German noise. He felt safe in the hubbub. He liked the salt smell of their leather clothes.

  When breakfast was over a tobacco pouch went around the table and all the German men helped themselves, stuffing the carved ivory bowls of their pipes. He was offered the pouch and filled his clay pipe, then passed the tobacco along to Molly. A candle came around for a light.

  The German smoke was mild and sweet. “Better gear than what you used to sell, Moll.”

  “That old railway shag was nasty goods. How it crackled though. You could smoke my stuff under water — stop scowling at me, you old hare!” She stuck her tongue out at a German woman staring at her across the table.

  None of the German women were smoking.

  Eyes half shut, Molly leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, puffing contentedly. “You know what I am wishing, Fergus?”

  “No.”

  “Wishing I had my pack of cards. German farmers, man . . . Pharaoh could make some money here.”

  “Have some tea, miss.” Maguire was standing behind them, holding a big tin jug.

  “Tea, tea!” Molly cried. “Oh mister, you are a very gift. Tell me, where do we go to buy our Quebecs?”

  He filled their noggins with tea. “Go down the Goree piazza, where they used to buy and sell the blacks. All the brokers selling Quebecs hang loaves of bread outside, meaning the vessels they sell follow British navigation laws, which isn’t much — a pound of food per day per passenger, ship’s biscuit or Indian meal with bugs. The fast packets and the Yankees, of course, feed much better. Try Crawford’s on the Goree. They will not cheat you any worse than the others.”

  The Goree

  PASSAGE BROKER SHOPS FLANKED the Goree, with their loaves of bread dangling from poles. Long queues of emigrants extended from each shop and snaked around the piazza. They asked for Crawford’s, and joined a queue of ragged, wet emigrants who looked straight off the docks and the Irish steamers.

  T
he boy standing directly in front of them said he was going for Cattarackwee, in Upper Canada, where his brother owned a farm.

  “Has he any cattle?” Molly asked.

  “Cattle I cannot say, but he owns one hundred sixty acres, some in wheat, some barley, some in timber. He is feeding pigs and selling off his timber and a kind of honey they draw from trees.”

  “How will you reach there?”

  “Steamer, three or four days up the river from Quebec.”

  “Three or four days!”

  The boy nodded. “They’ve so much land in America they don’t know what to do with it, they give it away. It’s not like Ireland at all.”

  “I want a piece!” Molly gave an excited little skip.

  “Ah yes, well,” the boy said somberly. “Myself as well. Hungry for land. What I wouldn’t do. My brother will be surprised to see me, I’ll tell you.”

  “I have heard they die of the snow at Quebec,” said an old brown-faced woman.

  “Don’t tell me so, mother.” Molly laughed. “I’ve heard enough bitter news. Don’t wish me no more cold!”

  “Wish it or not, what’s coming will come.”

  It was midday before they got inside Crawford’s shop. The walls were slathered with shipping bills. Three clerks at wickets were selling passages.

  After waiting in line another quarter of an hour they finally stood before one of the clerks.

  “We want a passage for Quebec or St. John.” Molly held the money, rolled up and knotted in a handkerchief.

  “I’ve got Laramie sailing for Quebec tomorrow.”

  “How much?”

  “Steerage?”

  “What is that?”

  “You aren’t requiring cabin passage, I suppose?” the clerk sneered.

  Neither of them could grasp what he meant. “Listen, man,” Molly said nervously, “we want tickets for Quebec —”

  “Steerage fare, three pounds a head.”

  “How many days across?”

  “Long as it takes. Come along, Mary, let’s see your money now.”

  Molly untied the handkerchief and spilled out the coins. The clerk counted them briskly then swept them into a drawer and pushed two slips of blue paper across, their tickets. “See the surgeon outside, have them stamped. Next!”

  Going back out, they joined another queue, standing behind the old woman. It was cold and windy on the open square.

  The surgeon was a plump young man wearing horse boots with mahogany leather tops, lolling in an armchair dragged out from one of the broker shops. Stepping forward one by one, emigrants showed him their tickets and opened their mouths. The surgeon glanced at each one, asked a question or two, and nodded to pass them.

  His clerk, sitting at a portable table, stamped their tickets.

  “Thinks he won’t let fever aboard,” the old woman grumbled. “Only he’s not looking very hard is he?”

  “What if he won’t stamp me, Fergus?” Molly looked worried.

  “You’re not ill. Don’t worry. He’s turning no one away.”

  “He trusts himself to see the humors, but he can’t,” the old woman said. “Fine fellows like him never can.”

  “What if he won’t?”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “You’d leave me here, you’d go without me.”

  “I would not.” He was shocked.

  “I’ll die in bloody Liverpool.”

  “No, Molly, you’ll pass fine. Everyone is.”

  The surgeon had one leg hooked over the arm of his chair. He kept wetting a handkerchief from a flask and dabbing at his upper lip.

  “How delicate he is! Frightened of smells!” the old woman said. “How can he know fever or sickness without catching the scent?”

  “I reckon he only gets paid for them he passes — do you think that’s so, Fergus?”

  “Yes.” He had never seen her so jittery.

  “In Derry if they thought you had fever, they would leave you under the hedge.”

  They were nearing the head of the line, and people in front of them were removing cloaks and jackets. When her turn came the old woman stepped forward, smiling and nodding at the surgeon.

  “Are you feeling quite well, mother?”

  “Blessed I am, going for America.”

  “Hold out your tongue. Passed. Next. Come along, miss.”

  Molly hesitated and Fergus gave her a little push. The surgeon glanced at her. “Are you feeling quite well? Show your tongue.”

  She seemed unable to respond.

  “Come, come,” the surgeon said impatiently. “Show your tongue or I can’t pass you!”

  She didn’t step forward and didn’t open her mouth. The surgeon snorted and got to his feet. The old woman, having her ticket stamped by the clerk, glanced back at Molly. “Come across, come across,” she called out, “don’t fear the country of the waves! The day has its feet that will see you on the other side.”

  Frowning, Molly stepped forward. “Now hold out your tongue!” the surgeon said. She stood stoically while he peered into her mouth, then unbuttoned the top of her gown and roughly pushed up her sleeves, searching for fever rash.

  You look at a girl and it’s like seeing a road. My life, you think, here is my life — curling away into distance, far beyond what you can see.

  “Passed.” The surgeon sat down with a grunt. “Next! Come along, man. Are you feeling quite well?”

  Fergus stepped forward. “I am.”

  “Hold out your tongue.

  “Passed. Next!”

  FOR TEN shillings they bought a battered sea chest at a chandler’s shop on the Goree, along with three pounds of tobacco and some gray felt stuffing for extra warmth. Molly bargained for knives and spoons at a tinker’s cart in the Vauxhall, along with a pair of tin dishes, two noggins, and a mended kettle.

  Packing everything into the chest, they lugged it to Maguire’s, fighting off runners trying to seize it for a fare. Halfway there it started to rain, cold rain sliding down their necks. When they finally reached the lodging house it was noisy with a new set of German emigrants in from Hull. “One hundred twenty,” Maguire said proudly, “all going for New Orleans and Missouri.”

  They were surrounded by Germans with mountains of baggage, the women with their squirming, red-faced babies. Shivering in her wet cloak, Molly looked white and exhausted.

  “The supper is almost ready. Take off that cloak, miss, come get a piece of the fire.” Maguire took them each by the arm, leading them into the parlor. “I’m burning coal, it’s like burning money.” There were Germans on every chair and bench, and some sitting on trunks, smoking their enormous white pipes. Children were playing on the floor. Mothers nursing infants. A coal fire buzzed at each end of the long room.

  “Let the fire warm your bones.” Maguire helped Molly out of her cloak, settled her on the bench closest to the fire, then took the cloak to the kitchen to dry.

  “Are you feeling all right, Moll?”

  Rubbing her hands and knees, she was gazing at the coals. “Cold,” she whispered. “Cold.”

  Maguire returned with a mug of lemon tea for Molly and a blanket he wrapped around her shoulders. “There, better, is it not?”

  “Yes. Better.”

  “Don’t let anyone push you away from the fire. Soak up the warm.” He beckoned to Fergus. “You — come with me.”

  Out in the kitchen, the landlord indicated a pile of supplies on the table. “These provisions I have set aside. You’ll find you can’t live on ship rations.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Turnips, carrots. Here are onions, a few apples, leeks. A jar of whiskey. A cheese — cut off what rots, and eat the rest. Some hard bread. Plum preserve in this jar. Honey. Salt and sugar in those sacks. Juice of lime.”

  “How much, mister?”

  “All this you can have. My gift. I won’t charge you nothing. No I won’t, God help me. I’m rich enough to spare.”

  “Than
k you, mister.”

  “Only see to that girl of yours. Do you remember mi an ocrais, the hungry month?”

  Fergus nodded.

  “The old spuds is always finished weeks before you lift the new. Well, your crossing may have its hungry month, so save what you can. If they feed you the yellow meal for rations, make sure it is cooked soft or it’ll kill you with the gripes. Keep the berth fresh as you can. Bathe whenever possible. Change the straw. And pack everything with felt, and don’t let her freeze to death. What ship?”

  Fergus showed the landlord their tickets. “Do you know Laramie?”

  “No. Ships in the timber trade are old scows, they’re not famous. Sailing when?”

  “Tomorrow from Princes Dock.”

  “You be on the quay at daybreak, boy. There’s early tide tomorrow.”

  “The clerk says she won’t sail before midday.”

  “He don’t know and don’t care — a clerk will say anything to get you along. Any master collecting his crew in Liverpool will try to slip out on the first tide, before they all change their minds and run away. No, you be on the quay, bright and early. Watch that girl of yours! She’s fragile!” Maguire gave him a push. “Go in and sit with her — I pays for fire, it’s a crime not to use it. See she gets plenty to eat.”

  AS HE came out of the kitchen, Fergus saw Molly heading for the stairs. “Don’t you want any supper?” he called.

  “No.”

  Bewildered, he followed her upstairs and along the chilly corridor. She went into their room.

  It was much colder in the upper reaches than down in the parlor, by Maguire’s opulent fire. The sleeping shelves were empty — everyone was downstairs.

  Unbuttoning her gown in the dim light, she stepped out of it, letting it fall on the floor.

  “What’s wrong, Molly? Do you have a chill?”

  “No.” Wearing her linen shift, she climbed up into the crib.

  Worried, he picked up her damp gown from the floor. She had wrapped herself up in a blanket. She didn’t look flushed or feverish. She wasn’t shivering anymore.

  The supper bell began clanging downstairs.