Envy the Wind

by Anita Davison

  “It's no different to the lifeboats, sir. To transfer everyone aboard a small craft, we would have to stop the engines. Captain Johnston is very experienced, and he knows the harbour well. He wouldn’t have made this decision if he didn’t believe it was the best course.” He backed away rapidly. “Now, I must join him. You’ll all be kept informed.”

  “I'm not staying on board until the ship sinks!” A terror stricken young man started to climb the rail. “I’ll swim to the pier if I have to.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” A crewman threw himself on the man and dragged him back. “You’ll freeze before you travel twenty yards. That water was solid ice a month ago.”

  “It looks as if we’ll make it to the wharf before we go down,” Grace pointed to where the row of wooden warehouses loomed closer. “Even if we go into the water there's a chance we'll be pulled out.”

  “But I can't swim,” Aoife whimpered.

  “And I don't want to. This is my best coat,” said Priscilla who reappeared from somewhere. “No one will be forced to swim.” Grace reassured them both, while images of the cold harbour water closing over them flashed into her head. The list of the deck worsened and there was still a wide expanse of water between them and the dock.

  The sound of distressed weeping came from a woman several feet away, being comforted by two others.

  “Poor Mrs Simmons. She must rue the day she boarded this ship,” Priscilla said, though there was little sympathy in her tone.

  “Who is she?” Grace tried not to stare at the obviously hysterical lady who refused to be consoled.

  “Don’t you pay attention to what anyone says?” Priscilla tutted.

  “Gossip, you mean?” Grace arched an eyebrow. “Not as a rule, no.”

  Priscilla shrugged off the implied insult. “A day out of Liverpool, rough seas swamped the deck. Her husband hit his head on the rail or something. He was killed outright.”

  “There was a death on board?” Grace gasped. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”

  “I did.” Aoife retrieved her shawl from the deck and shook it out. “I woke up at about dawn the next morning when the engines stopped. A woman in the next bunk told me it was for the funeral. Poor bloke was buried at sea.”

  “I had no idea.” Grace thought the openly distressed woman looked only a few years older than herself. One of her companions patted her hand while the other whispered endearments, but neither appeared to have any effect.

  “The crew kept it quiet,” Aoife whispered. “A death on board's bad for business. Sailors believe in omens like that.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to do with omens.” Grace shuddered. Strange things certainly did happen at sea. The telegram in her pocket proved that, just when she hoped to have escaped her father-in-law's clutches. “What will happen to her?”

  Aoife shrugged. “She’s got two nippers. With no man to provide for them, she’ll have ter go back.”

  “The poor woman,” Grace sighed. ‘To have all her hopes dashed so cruelly. And now this.’

  “Looks like we’ll make it!” someone shouted, redirecting Grace’s attention away from the crying lady.

  The quay, on which men in overalls had lined up wielding grappling hooks and lifebelts, lay little more than fifty yards away. A cheer went up on both decks, women hugged their husbands and children as the engines ground into reverse and then slowed. The ship came alongside the pier where shoreline staff rushed to secure lines and bolted the barriers into place with a clank of metal.

  “We're still taking on water.” Aoife indicated the now badly listing deck where passengers were making a dash for the gangplanks. “We'd better move or we'll not get off in time.”

  “I can't see Priscilla.” Grace stared around but the girl had gone again.

  “Don't worry about her. Nay doubt she'll be one of the first off.” Aoife pulled Grace towards the crush of passengers making for the nearest gangplank. “Come on, let's go.”

  Chapter 4

  Halifax, Nova Scotia

  Silent, white-faced passengers crowded the rails as the SS Parisian headed at full speed for the jetty. Crewmen ran back and forth in response to orders to unhook the barriers ready for the gangplanks to be slid into place. The engines roared into reverse and the ship eased into the quayside where ropes were thrown from the deck to waiting dockworkers who wound them around the stanchions on the quayside, securing the Parisian

  Grace’s relief to have reached the relative safety of the quay was short lived, as with so many people still on board and only two gangplanks, it occurred to her they might sink right there in the harbour.

  The panic of the race to the quay left no time for her to formulate a plan once she left the ship, but with so many fretful passengers clamoring to disembark, she might be able to lose herself in the crowd.

  “I shouldn’t be here, Grace,” Aoife said. “I need to go down below. What if they’re checking names as we get off? I’ll be in trouble.”

  “It’s safer here.” Grace tugged Aoife into the queue lined up at the end of the nearest gangplank. The deck listed badly on the starboard side, and although it had only been stationary a few minutes, already the waterline crept further up the stern deck.

  “You might become trapped if the water on the lower deck gets higher.” Guilt filled her that the Irish girl’s safety wasn't the only reason she wanted her to stay. The agent wouldn't be looking for two girls travelling together. Aoife was right. Her predicament was not her problem.

  “I’ll fetch my bag, then I’ll come find you in the Customs Hall.” Aoife nodded to where the first of the passengers were making their way along the quay. “There’ll be quite a crush in there with everyone trying to get through at once, so it will be a while before the officers examine everyone’s papers.”

  “Which is probably where this agent will be looking for me. But you’re right. You should go, Aoife.” She broke off at the sound of shouting from below. “What’s going on down there?”

  Frightened faces pressed against the metal gate that separated steerage from the main deck which remained locked. A crowd of angry men pressed against it, voices raised, and hands reaching through the bars. A crewman stood guard on the other side, but he kept shaking his head and ordering the people to step back. “Why doesn’t he open the gate?” Aoife asked, nodding to the crewman. “They are below the waterline down there. If the water starts rushing in they'll be trapped.”

  “I don’t know. Let’s go and see.” Anything to delay coming face to face with an official who might be looking for her.

  Grace eased her way back through the queue of passengers who streamed around them towards the gangplank. Dragging Aoife with her, she ignored the annoyed murmurings and critical looks as they descended the companionway to the lower deck.

  “Let them through!” Aoife demanded of the stone-faced crewman at the gate who ignored her.

  “You can’t leave them there, the ship might sink!” Grace said.

  “Can’t help that, miss.” The sailor shrugged. “I've been ordered to wait until the saloon and second passengers are off, then there’s the cabin baggage to be cleared.”

  “You must open the gate!” Grace insisted. The noise level from below deck had grown louder and more frantic. “There are four hundred people down there. The women and children at the back are being crushed.”

  “Not worth my job, miss.” He shrugged. “I'll open it when I get my orders.”

  The ship gave a sudden creak and the aft deck sank a few more feet. A rivulet of water crept along the edge of the boards towards the steerage deck like a fast-moving snake.

  “Please,” Grace pleaded. “We're taking on water. If the deck tilts any more, they could be in real danger.”

  “Open that gate!” A loud, commanding voice carried over the din from behind them. Grace swung around, her gaze travelling from a sapphire blue vest upwards into the face of one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. A smooth shaven chiselled chin below a strai
ght nose and grey eyes fringed with thick black lashes regarded her steadily. Her gaze went to a rogue streak of white that ran from his left temple and blended into straight, raven black hair that disappeared beneath his hat.

  “There's a hole in the side of number four hold large enough for a man to walk through.” The stranger said, pointing the silver top of a black japan cane at the crewman. “Do you want to be held responsible for any casualties if this ship does go down?”

  “Er, yessir.” The crewman's belligerent expression dissolved. “I mean, no sir. I wouldn't want to be held responsible. But I haven't had orders to open the gate.”

  “Consider this an order. The situation is an emergency. Those people need to get off the ship - now.”

  The crewman swallowed, touched his cap and executed a small bow. He withdrew a key from a breast pocket, unlocked the sturdy padlock and swung the gate open. A loud cheer went up from the packed companionway, followed by the clamour of booted feet ringing on the metal steps as a wave of steerage passengers surged through and spilled onto the deck, shoving the sailor aside.

  Relieved, Grace stood back as women, the elderly and small children were swept along or dragged behind them. Fear and panic turned instantly to excited enthusiasm in their eagerness to get onto dry land.

  The crewman's eyes widened in alarm and he darted to the front of the crowd, his arms waving in a feeble attempt to make them walk no more than two abreast across the gangplank.

  The crowd ignored him as they thundered to the quayside. A half dozen customs officers on the dock sprang forward with shouted orders to direct them into the various entrances of the customs shed.

  “That was kind of you step in like that,” Grace said to the stranger. “Those people were beginning to panic.”

  “My pleasure.” He tipped his hat to each of them in turn. “I suggest you ladies leave immediately. I don't know how long this vessel will stay afloat. We're still taking on water, and as you can see, we’re listing badly.” He nodded at the pressing crowd. “The customs men appear to be having a difficult time controlling them. You wouldn’t want to get lost in the chaos.” He inclined his head, turned and strolled off towards the bow end.

  “That’s where he’s wrong,” Grace said as they joined the diminishing queue at the gangplank. “It’s exactly what we want.” She unwound Aoife’s emerald green shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it around her own head. “I have to keep my head down so tell me when we reach customs.”

  “Good idea,” Aoife said. “Keep close to me.”

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but better than Grace had come up with thus far. She pulled the edges of the shawl together beneath her chin and with her arm tucked through Aoife’s, crossed the gangplank, keeping close to a chattering family of eastern Europeans in front, and a Sicilian woman hurling what sounded like abuse to her hapless husband close behind.

  “I can't see where I’m going,” Grace whispered.

  “Hush, we’re nearly there.”

  Grace stepped onto the solid quayside where she swayed on the firm ground. Had she been able to, she might have broken into a run, but the press of people forced her to shuffle along among calls of, “Move along there,” and “Don’t block the path, keep moving.”

  The customs area was little more than a wooden shed resembling a livestock market, long and low with wooden barriers marking the routes the passengers from different areas of the ship were to follow. Uniformed officers hustled the steerage passengers into an untidy line four times the length of the passengers on the stateroom side.

  A low roar of voiced echoed through the shed as seven hundred steerage passengers chattered in their own language to each other or aimed incomprehensible questions at harassed customs men who attempted to maintain order, assuring everyone they would be attended to.

  “Here’s where we part company, Aoife.” Grace nodded to a sign over the desk where uniformed officers stood. “I have to go over there to show my papers.”

  “All right, but I’ll hang around at the back until you’re safely through. By the looks of this lot, I’ll be here a long time as we all have to be examined by a doctor.”

  “A doctor? Whatever for?”

  “They don’t want anyone with a disease comin’ into their country. Don’t look at me like that, I don’t like the idea much either.” That Aoife omitted the fact the stateroom passengers were not required to suffer the same humiliation did not escape Grace.

  “I see, and what happens if they find something?”

  Aoife shrugged. “I suppose they’ll send me back to Liverpool.”

  “I’ll hope that doesn’t happen. Besides, you look healthy enough to me.” Grace lifted the edge of the shawl, prepared to hand it back when her gaze caught and snagged a man in a stovepipe hat at the far end of the shed in conversation with a customs man. At intervals he would scan the shed with a penetrating gaze, his neck stretched to peer into faces. Once he grasped the arm of a female passenger, said something to her then when she shook her head, gestured her brusquely away again.

  “What's wrong?” Aoife whispered when Grace didn’t move with the queue.

  “I think that’s him. MacKinnon’s agent.” She nodded to where he approached a young woman at the rear of the queue behind them. “What do I do?”

  “Nothing you can do. Don’t look at him.”

  Grace’s throat dried, and she tugged the shawl closer round her face, praying he wouldn’t see her. The line moved slowly but steadily towards the desk where an officer examined passports and papers until it was almost Grace’s turn. Her nerves on edge, she was about to check if he had come any closer, when a voice demanded, “Your papers please, Miss.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Grace released the shawl that dropped onto her shoulders as she fumbled in her bag. She removed the sheet of paper with its official seal obtained in London with the help of Mr Beech’s helpful contact at the Salvation Army office. Never having had a passport before, it surprised her how important carrying it made her feel.

  Her heart beat rapidly as his disinterested gaze lingered on the details before he applied a rubber stamp before handing it back with a smile. “Thank you, ma’am, and welcome to Canada.”

  “Er, thank you.” She shoved the paper into her bag and left the desk, looked up and froze.

  The agent bumped into an elderly woman. She scowled at him and tapped him hard with her umbrella. He nodded in apology then forged on, his path blocked by a couple accompanied by a lady’s maid.

  Aoife left her place in the queue and joined Grace.

  “Not that way, Miss.” A customs man leapt forward and barred the Irish girl’s way. “Steerage passengers must remain on the other side of the barrier. Do you have your papers?”

  “That I have!” Aoife’s eye widened. “I came to say goodbye to my friend. I’ll be doing nothing wrong, sir.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware we had some trouble in the harbour.” Grace approached them. “This young woman helped me.”

  “Aye, well.” The officer lifted his cap with one hand and scratched the wavy brown hair beneath it. “As far as I know, everyone is off the Parisian and safe, but regulations are regulations. If your papers are in order, madam, you may leave,” he addressed Grace. “But you-” He jabbed a finger in Aoife’s direction. “Get back behind that barrier.”

  MacKinnon’s agent had negotiated all obstacles and stood a few feet away, watching the exchange with more than mild interest.

  Grace kept her head down, her mind racing. Once the customs man left, he was bound to question her. What should she do? Deny she was the person he was looking for? Make a run for it? Before she could make up her mind, a strangely familiar male voice said behind her, “There you are! I’ve been waiting over there for you to finish. Is everything in order?”

  Grace turned around to where the handsome man who helped with the gate stood smiling at her.

  “Um, I-”

  “No problem here, sir.” The custom’s man stepped
between Aoife and the newcomer as if shielding him from unpleasantness. “A slight misunderstanding about procedures with this passenger, sir.” His face blazed a self-conscious red. “Everything is under control.”

  “Forgive me, but it doesn’t appear so to me.” The handsome man eased him back with a wave of his cane. “Since when do you refuse entry to British citizens travelling second class?”

  He wasn't as young as she first imagined, evidenced by tiny lines beside his eyes and deeply tanned skin that told of a life spent outdoors. His lips twitched into a smile as he returned her astonished look, his pupils widening as they roved her face.

  “The lady hasn’t been refused, sir. Her passport is in order and has been stamped.” The officer’s flush deepened, and he kept dipping his shoulders. Grace almost expected him to curtsey. “The query is with this young woman.” He nodded to Aoife. “She hasn’t shown her papers yet and has no business on this side of the barrier, I was just-”

  “I will vouch for her myself, my man. You don’t have to concern yourself.”

  “But sir, all passengers must show their papers.”

  “Agreed, but can’t you see this young woman is suffering a debilitating case of seasickness?” He leaned closer to Grace. “Are you still feeling ill, my dear? It’s very stuffy in here, with all these people, I can hardly breathe myself.”

  “Oh, I- uh, yes.” Grace’s throat dried. “I do feel quite faint.”

  “Then what are you waiting for,” the handsome man whispered beside her ear. “Do it.”

  She had barely dipped a few inches in a feigned collapse before her feet left the floor and she was swept into a pair of strong arms.

  “I must get her into the fresh air.” The man glanced back and called to Aoife. “Come, girl, your mistress needs your help.”

  Grace’s heart thumped with thrilled relief as she was borne through the door to the street. She summoned a pitiful moan and let her head sink onto his shoulder that gave off a smell of expensive cologne. It was all she could do not to press her face into his neck and inhale deeply to appreciate it more.