Voyage on the Great Titanic

by Ellen Emerson White

  And yet, in many ways, I suppose our situation here is rather pitiful. The nuns have limited funds, and we are always overcrowded. Right now, there are at least twenty other girls sleeping here in the tiny dormitory—one of three in the orphanage — and it can be very loud. The room can barely hold ten beds, so we have makeshift double bunks. Nora, who is only five, sleeps below me. I know she would rather have the upper bunk, but she is so often troubled by nightmares that I fear she would fall out and hurt herself.

  There is a window just above my bunk, and when sleep will not come, I like to look out at the lively streets below. Whitechapel is never still, and there are always people to see. There is a public house ‘round the corner, and I am particularly fond of listening to the sounds of music and laughter.

  I was not quite eight years old when I came here. No, the true story is that William left me here, one cold and desperate night some five years ago.

  When my family lived in Wapping, near the river, we were happy. We rented the bottom half of a cottage, which had two small rooms separated by a muslin curtain. Father worked very hard as a labourer on the London Docks. When times were good, he helped load cargo; when work was scarce, he would toil as a coal-whipper, and come home black with soot. Mummy was always frail, but she took in sewing when she was able. She was consumptive, and I would often wake in the night to her muff led coughing. We worried about her greatly, but in the daylight hours, she always had a smile for us.

  I suppose we were poor, but we never went without food. There was little money to spare, but Father always made sure that Mummy had her tea with sugar, and that William and I had a glass of milk to drink. Once in a very great while, we would get to feast on fish and chips, all bundled up in newspaper. I don’t know that there is any food I love more than fresh, “‘ot” chips. After supper, Mummy would smooth out the newspapers and blot away the worst of the oil so she could read whatever was beneath. I remember her helping me with my letters and numbers, and later, we would read together for hours.

  One icy February afternoon, three burly men came to the door, twisting their wool hats in their hands, and avoiding Mummy’s eyes. A great load of crates had come crashing down at the Docks, and although Father was able to push another worker out of the way, he could not save himself. They were sore sorry, the men said, shuffling their boots.

  Mummy did her best to keep the family together. She began working in the rag trade, and was gone from sunrise to sunset, sewing buttons in a hot, airless factory. She grew very thin, and we rarely saw more than a shadow of her old smile. Then, early the next spring, she took ill. Her fever raged, and William and I did not know what to do, other than make tea and try to feed her digestives. By the time Mr. Harris, who lived down the way, brought a doctor — a grey-faced little man dressed in a black suit — it was too late.

  These are hard memories, and I will save the rest of the story for another time.

  Sunday, 31 March 1912

  St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls

  Whitechapel

  Today was a quiet day, as Sundays generally are. We go to a very long mass in the morning, eat a substantial midday meal, and then have free time until our early evening tea. I spent most of the afternoon glancing through A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and trying not to think too much. I am to return to Claridge’s later this week, as Mrs. Carstairs has concerns about my wardrobe, and wishes to have me fitted for “appropriate” clothing. That seems like a frightful waste of money to me, but I have been told not to concern myself with such matters. I gather that neither money, nor the lack thereof, are problems for the Carstairs. I would far prefer to wear the clothes I have, but when I broached this to Sister Catherine, she just sighed, and said, “Be agreeable.”

  As I sit here in the library, thinking about the future, I cannot help also remembering the past. In his letters, William speaks about the Colonies in glowing descriptions, but I am still feeling a trifle hesitant. I scarcely know Mrs. Carstairs, and if we don’t get on, the voyage could be difficult. For both of us. I suppose, though, I can occupy myself with Florence.

  But this journey can only be easy, compared to the horrible days after Mummy’s death, when William and I were on our own. For a time, we were able to stay with the McDougals, who lived three streets down. I knew two of their daughters from the ragged school. The McDougals’ small rooms were crowded, so William and I each slept in a burlap sack, on the floor near the woodstove. Food was scarce, and William did what he could to provide for us, so that we would not be a burden. I know he resorted to stealing more often than not, but if I asked him, he would get very angry, and I learned to avoid the subject.

  Mr. McDougal and his brother Kieran spent many an hour at the public houses, and would come home much the worse for drink. They would be spoiling for a fight, and Mr. McDougal would swing out a big hand at anyone who looked at him cross-eyed. After I got knocked down a time or two, William grew to fear for my safety, and packed up our few possessions one morning and took us away.

  But, of course, we had no place to go. We lived on the streets, sleeping in alcoves and doorways, or anyplace we could find shelter. Sometimes, we were able to earn a few shillings by mud-larking—exploring the riverbanks and wading into the filthy water, trying to find objects we could sell. Lumps of coal, lengths of rope, broken crates—anything that someone else might want. While William tried to interest passersby in our gatherings, I would crawl under the stalls in the market, looking for discarded food. Sometimes I might be lucky and find a squashed orange, or heel of bread, but other days, we lived on rather foul scraps or—far too often—went hungry.

  I think it was December — we had long since lost track of the days — when hard sleet fell all one day and night. Though I was terribly ill with a fever and hacking cough, I was afraid to go to hospital. William wanted to take me to a charity orphanage for girls some mate had told him about, but I refused. We had had this argument before, and I had no intention of being separated from him — he was all I had left. He threatened to make me go, and I said he would have to round up every bobby in London to do the job — and even then I did not like his chances. In the meantime, the sleet faded into damp fog, and then back to bone-chilling sleet. We huddled in an alley, with me trying not to weep between bouts of shivering and coughing.

  “That’s it,” he said suddenly. He stuffed our belongings — a cracked teacup of Mummy’s, a battered mug, a bent spoon, some bootlaces, an old sardine tin filled with a pennyworth of salt, a chipped china figurine of a cat, and three slim water-stained books of Father’s — into his sleeping sack, and helped me up.

  By then, I was so sick, I could not find the strength to protest. We walked and walked, as he could not quite remember where the convent was. William wanted to carry me, but I stubbornly shrugged him away and kept tottering along. As always, there were other wretched souls wandering the streets, or slumped in odd corners, but they never looked at us.

  It must have been near dawn, and I was asleep on my feet, when he stopped one last time.

  “Here you go, then,” he said, sounding pleased. He settled me down on an icy stone step and wrapped Father’s old coat more tightly about my shoulders.

  I knew he was going to leave me, and I started crying so hard, I could not speak.

  “You stay here,” he ordered, “until the ladies wake up.”

  I was able to choke out his name, and William must have been crying, too, because he blinked a good deal and his voice was thick. He wrapped his arms around me, told me I was his best girl, and promised to come back as soon as he could take proper care of me. Then, as the sky faded from black to grey, he handed me a piece of toffee wrapped in sticky paper.

  “Make it last until the ladies come outside,” he said.

  I knew he was about to leave for good, and I tried to get up so I could follow him.

  “Please, Margaret,” he said, tears covering his cheeks. “Do as I tell you.” Then he smiled at me — I tried to smile back — a
nd kissed me on the forehead before quickly walking away. He did not wave, or even look back, and I watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

  When he was gone, I sobbed until I thought my chest might break apart. It hurt very badly whenever I took a breath, and my whole body shook with each harsh bout of coughing. I was dizzy and hot, and the gas lamps seemed to twirl around me.

  Some time later, I heard a horse’s hooves clattering on the street, and the sound of a rickety cart trundling along. But I was too weary to look up, or even try to open my swollen eyes.

  “‘Ere now, wot’s all this?” a deep voice said above me. There was a clank as he set down some milk-cans, then a harsh knocking on the thick wooden door where I was leaning.

  The door creaked open, and there were more voices, but I stayed huddled inside Father’s coat, still crying. I can remember just staring at the cans of milk. I wanted one so much. Weak as I was, I had a notion that I could nick one and dash away before they could stop me. I even reached out a shaking hand, but then thought of how ashamed Mummy would be, and pulled it back.

  I could not make sense of what was happening around me, but the man seemed to be gone and the voices were all female now. There was talk of calling a police ambulance, and whether a child who was so ill could be brought in among the others, and then whether, after all, they could do anything other than bring in such a child. The last thing I remember is a warm hand on my forehead, and then someone lifted me up and carried me inside the building.

  When I awoke, many hours later, I was in a bare white room with a strange, sharp odor. I found out later it was the infirmary. A lady in a big black cape was sitting by the narrow iron bed. Her clothes frightened me, but her face was kind. I remember that she spooned some beef broth into my mouth, and washed my face with cool water from a tin basin.

  I have been here ever since.

  Monday, 1 April 1912

  St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls

  Whitechapel

  Yet again, I cannot seem to fall asleep. So I am writing by moonlight. All day, I have been wondering how long it will take William to receive my letter. How surprised he will be! Postage is a luxury, so as a rule, we only exchange one letter a month. He is working very hard as a bricklayer, somewhere in the city of Boston. He lives in a boardinghouse run by an Irish immigrant lady in Charlestown, which he assures me is almost as fashionable a neighborhood as Whitechapel. The mail can be so slow that it is actually possible I will arrive in the States before he even finds out that I am coming!

  Once I get there, I would like to keep going to school, but I know that will not be possible. I will have to work, to help support us. I am sure that, like London, Boston has factories, and saloons, and rich ladies who need maids — so, I should be able to find a job.

  I have not seen my brother since the summer before last, although it seems even longer. He must have grown a great deal by now, as he is almost sixteen. For all I know, he will scarcely recognize me, either.

  One of the reasons I miss him so is because I am afraid I have never been one for making friends. Not by design, mind you. Still and all, I have few talents in this area. It may be because I am loath to share my feelings. Also, I read too many books and speak, as I am often told, “like a right toff.” My not having the grace to be ashamed of this worsens the situation. Father always said —

  Later

  I stopped writing for a while, as Nora was crying out in her sleep again. She is so small and alone that I always like to keep a special eye on her. She tends to follow me about a good deal of the time, but I find this to be a compliment, more than anything else, and slow my pace so she can keep up. At supper, she likes me to help her cut up her food, and butter her bread for her. She is an adorable child, and I am happy to do it.

  I sat with her for quite some time just now, talking softly so we would not wake the others in the dormitory, and trying to calm away her tears.

  “You was down the ‘Dilly?” she asked. Nora speaks in the very sweetest and pure Cockney. “And ‘ad you Rosy Lee?”

  I agreed that I had, indeed, been to Piccadilly, before having a scrumptious tea at the fancy hotel. I had brought her home a few petits fours and some smushed trifle, which she had eaten happily, without leaving the tiniest crumb behind. That only made me wish I had managed to set aside even more for her.

  Unfortunately, talking about this reminded her that I would soon be leaving for America, and she began to cry all over again. I promised—as I had several times already in recent days — that I would write her lots of letters and that someday, when we were both rich ladies, maybe we could visit each other. She found this to be scant comfort, so I changed the subject by telling her a very long story about cats, and Buckingham Palace, and astonishing amounts of candy. This lulled her to sleep, finally, and now I am back up in my bunk, looking out the window.

  There is no question in my mind that Nora and Sister Catherine are what I will miss most about living here. It is several days away, but I already dread our final parting, as I know that the chances of our meeting again are very slight, indeed.

  There are few things more difficult in life than saying good-bye to people.

  Tuesday, 2 April 1912

  St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls

  Whitechapel

  Tonight, the moon is obscured by fog, so I can barely see to write. Not that my handwriting is admirable under the best of conditions.

  After William left me here at St. Abernathy’s, several months passed before we saw each other again. I wondered endlessly where he was, what he was doing, and how he was surviving on his own. Even if he was surviving on his own. Then, one Sunday afternoon, the littlest Murphy sister—there are four of them living here, each more freckled than the next — came to tell me that a young man was waiting to see me in the visiting parlour. At first, I was perplexed, since I do not know any young men. Then I was overjoyed, realizing that it could only be my brother.

  I ran out of the library so swiftly that Molly Murphy was left quite startled — and Sister Judith even more so, when I dashed slam-bang right into her near the kitchen.

  William was standing by the window, looking out at the grey, rainy day. He was wearing a thin black sweater and frayed wool pants, with a cloth cap hanging out of one pocket. It was the first time I had ever seen him in long pants. His face and hands were very clean, but his clothes were soot-stained, and he looked so much more grown-up than I remembered. Sister Eulalia was posted right by the door, with an expression of great suspicion on her face. Girls at the orphanage do not — ever—receive young men. I assume Sister Mary Gregoria was lurking nearby, also.

  “William!” I said happily.

  He turned, his whole face changing when he smiled. “Sure, and she’s tall.”

  “Sure, and we get bowls and bowls of porridge here,” I answered.

  We both laughed, while Sister Eulalia — who often helps with meal preparations — frowned. I introduced them, and after a few moments, she went out to sit in the hall to give us a bit of time to get caught up.

  There was so much to talk about! I have to admit now that I cried a good deal, because it was so wonderful to see him after worrying for so long.

  He had brought along a small bag of toffee and licorice, which we shared. I had forgotten I even knew how to smile so broadly. For a time, after we parted, he had miserably continued mud-larking. He tried to find a job at one of the breweries, or the foundry, but was told that he was too young. His luck changed when he ran into one of Father’s old mates, Mr. Daniels, on the street one day. Mr. Daniels helped him get work on the Docks and secure cheap lodgings in a sailors’ home. The home certainly wasn’t fancy, but neither was it a workhouse — or a reformatory — and for that, William was grateful. And so was I.

  From then on, he came every Sunday. The weeks passed much more quickly, and easily, for me, knowing I could look forward to his visits. He would always bring a gift of some kind — candy, a newspaper, and on
e special day, a little bundle of hot chips. I wanted to give him something in return, and Sister Catherine patiently taught me how to knit so I could make him a scarf for his birthday. The final result was amateurish to say the very least, but he accepted it with great enthusiasm.

  It was the summer of 1910 when William got a chance to sign on as a cabin boy on a cargo steamer heading to America. He did not want to leave me alone in London, but we decided that he would have many more opportunities to make his way in the States. We planned that I would follow him when I was older—and he had enough money to pay for my fare.

  The captain on his steamer was an unpleasant man, and William had a difficult journey. He worked long, hard hours, and was so seasick that he subsisted on nothing more than hard biscuits and water the entire time.

  This gives rise to a bothersome notion. What if I get seasick, too? That would make me a rather unsatisfactory companion, I fear. Never in my life have I set foot on a boat — or even gone in the water, beyond wading in the Thames. However, I suppose worrying about it will not help matters any. I shall simply have to wait, and see — and eat sparingly the entire time, perhaps.