All about them was talk and gossip of what America was going to be like. The family ahead of them was talking about relatives who had sailed more than a year ago. Patrick strained to hear the glorious details. Callie could catch only brief snatches of the conversation. “My brother and his seven children . . . land of opportunity . . . back-breaking work . . . they do have stoves on board for cooking, but so many have to share them . . . cramped. . . dysentery . . . typhus . . . cholera . . . not to worry, we have our health . . . warm weather will greet us.
“Another hour at the most,” Patrick assured them. “We should be allowed to board the Yorkshire before evening. She came in from anchor and is docked at the Albert pier; they’re loading her now.”
Callie tried to smile appreciatively. She could never be as enthusiastic about leaving, not when it meant being thousands of miles away from Peggy and the children. A pervading sense of loneliness that she had been fighting since boarding that wretched steamer in Dublin threatened to erupt in a spring of tears. Damn Patrick Thatcher and his adventure! Callie bit into her bottom lip. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d never confided why she was emigrating to America; Patrick and Beth could have no idea that she’d been all but exiled by her own mother. They seemed to trust her so; she couldn’t tell them that she’d become a thief and that was why she was being sent away. If they were to know the truth and decide they didn’t want her companionship, she’d be alone again. Alone and frightened.
Paddy continued to sleep against Callie’s shoulder. If Patrick was right, the child would awaken just as it was their turn with the doctor. Poor little thing, he always coughed and hacked when he awoke. Maybe because he was sleeping upright against Callie, he wouldn’t be so congested. She had her own views on Paddy’s condition; still, he wasn’t her child, and it wasn’t her place to voice her beliefs. Surely Beth and Patrick couldn’t really believe Paddy had nothing more than a cold.
The line at the back pressed forward, pushing Callie into almost direct contact with the family just ahead of them. She narrowed her eyes, really noticing them for the first time. Each was more dirty than the next. Callie’s eyes widened still further when she saw a body louse half the size of her little fingernail crawl up the neck of the man in front of her. She backed off a step and bumped into Patrick. She motioned to him to look at the man’s neck. Patrick seemed as disgusted as she and took her back another step. Callie watched in horror as another louse joined the first, crawling between the oily strands of the man’s hair. The man’s wife turned to say something to her husband, and Callie drew a deep breath. She was what mum would call a slattern—filthy and unkempt, dark scabs from where she had picked sores dotted her face. Abhorred by her first real contact with filth, Callie squeezed her eyes shut. Thank the good Lord they wouldn’t be sailing on the Yorkshire. The physician would take one look at them and send them somewhere to clean themselves and get well.
In dumbfounded amazement Callie watched as first one child then the next held out his ticket and the doctor stamped it perfunctorily while asking to see his or her tongue. Obediently each child stuck out his tongue and then laughed and scampered away, waving his ticket for all to see. Callie was aghast. What manner of doctor was this? In Dublin the kindly doctor wore a spotless white apron and had clean hands, unlike this disheveled man whose smock was gray with grime and food stains.
Noticing Callie’s amazement, Beth whispered in her ear, “There’s so many like them.” She indicated the family in question.
“By the time we set foot in America, no doubt we’ll be just like them, scratching the lice till our skin bleeds.” Her tone was so resigned, so listless and forlorn. Callie turned to reassure Beth that as long as there was water and she had a bit of soap, she’d never be that way, but the doctor was calling “next,” and Patrick was jostling Callie ahead of him.
“Stick out your tongue.” Callie obediently did as she was told and watched as her ticket was stamped. This was a certification that she was fit and healthy, carrying no communicable diseases. She jostled the sleeping Paddy a bit and had to resort to pinching his cheek so he would stick out his tongue for the doctor. His ticket was stamped, and Patrick had it back in his pocket when the examiner called, “Next!” and Beth stepped forward.
Outside the crowded offices, Patrick put his arms about the three of them, smiling broadly. “I told you we’d pass with flying colors, didn’t I? Now all we have to do is wait for the captain of the Yorkshire to admit passengers. But first we’ll see about getting Callie’s extra provisions, and we’re all going to make a visit to the privy.”
Where did the man get his energy? How could he remain so excited and enthusiastic after all they’d been through? Callie herself felt flattened, deflated, her usual ebullience gone. Beth was feeling the same way, she knew. Callie reached out and took Beth by the arm, helping her skip across wide, muddy puddles. She wondered at this feeling of guardianship, protectorship, she felt for Paddy and his mother. Was it because Patrick was like Thomas in so many ways?
A raw, wet wind was whipping up again, portentous of another storm, sending up cloudy sprays of mist. It was colder than before, a damp cold that went straight through the bones. Callie longed for home and her faded, warm quilt where she would snuggle between the warm, soft bodies of the twins. She noticed the dark circles of exhaustion beneath Beth’s eyes, the drawn lines around her gentle mouth. Only Patrick, with his ruddy cheeks and zest for life, looked hale and hearty.
Several hours later, just as the lamplighters came with their long sticks and lanterns to touch spark to the tall gaslamps lining the wharf, they watched as the longshoremen loading the cargo into the Yorkshire’s great, dark hull began closing hatches and removing empty casks and barrels from the boarding area.
Callie could feel her stomach churn with anxiety. Soon now she would be aboard the Yorkshire, sailing among hundreds, perhaps a thousand strangers. So far from Ireland, a world away from her mother and family. Would she ever see them again? Even amidst the growing commotion, she imagined she could hear Peggy’s voice calling her name. Her feet felt leaden, the weight of the moment crushed down upon her. A prickling of tears burned the back of her eyelids. Her child’s heart cried for her mother and the security of family. “Oh, Mum, you should never have sent me away,” she moaned inwardly, feeling the undeniable need to bury her head in Peggy’s lap and feel the comforting touch of her mother’s hand brush back her hair.
It was not to be, if it was ever to be again. Callie James was about to board the packet ship Yorkshire, her face turned to the west, an autumn storm wind drying her tears upon her cheeks.
Callie sat in the oily glow of the gimbaled lanterns, which were hung from the inner ribs of the Yorkshire’s hull. It was very late, according to the call from the crew’s watchman who patrolled the decks. In the relative silence that was broken only by muffled snores and the occasional whimpering of a child, his voice rang true. “Three bells! Three bells!”
Paddy slept at the far end of her own bunk, the warmth of his feverish little body pressed against her stockinged feet. In another berth, erected against the bulkhead beneath a porthole as Beth had requested, Patrick slept with his wife, his arm thrown over her swollen body. Even in sleep he wedged against her, attempting to steady her from the rolling pitch of the ship, which caused her such misery.
Touching the pen nib to her tongue, Callie smoothed the thin white sheet of paper that Patrick had given her and continued with her letter:
Mum, I’m that happy to be with the Thatchers. They’re fine people and have taken me into their family. It is Mrs. Thatcher, Beth, who worries me. This whole business of emigrating has been very hard on her and her condition. When it was time to board the Yorkshire, the blue flag was raised from the mast. Never in your life have you seen such a wild scramble! People pushing and shoving to get aboard. When the gangplank was stuffed up, many tried to climb over the side only to fall into a rushing crowd. One man was trampled, and this minute he lies nursing wound
s to his head and limbs. It was terrible, Mum, so terrible. We are so much cattle without decency. I’m awful scared, Mum. I can’t think what will happen to me. If all the people in America are like the ones I wrote you about in Liverpool and some of those on this ship, it must be the closest place to hell anyone could know.
I managed to find a place for the Thatchers and me by running ahead. Being as I am so small, I was able to squeeze through the crowd. Good thing, since many families are sharing the smallest of quarters together with others. Mr. Thatcher almost had to beat off those who wanted to shove us out of our place. Mum, you never heard such fighting and arguing in your whole life. It was worse than Bayard Street when the good Church was handing out bread and soup.
But this is our second day out, and things are quiet now. So far the seas are calm, but you’d never know it from how many people are down with the seasickness. It mostly hits the grown people; children seem to do well.
Oh, Mum, the people, say a prayer for the people. Never have I seen such suffering. Women with swollen eyes cry for the ones they left behind. Men have a scared look about them, and their voices are rough. Mothers try to comfort their wailing babes. In one place there is an old woman who was separated from her family. She just sits, Mum, so quiet, living in a world of her own. One of the sailors said she is German, and she cannot talk to anyone or understand them.
Above us on this ship are the cabins, and they are all filled. It costs dear to travel in such luxury. Twenty-five pounds! Why would anyone who had that much money want to go to America?
Mr. Thatcher says there was a search for stowaways yesterday, just before we left the Mersey River for the open sea. First there was a roll call, and each ticket had to be presented as the name was called. I did not hear my name called because I was below deck (that is what the sailors call the steerage area where I am) taking care of Mrs. Thatcher. But Mr. Thatcher answered for me with my ticket. Afterward, he told us, the sailors and the ticket broker’s clerk went below with lanterns and long poles to search for stowaways. They turned barrels in case someone was hiding inside. With long poles they poked in dark corners and the piles of bedclothes. Three stowaways were found! Mr. Thatcher said they took a terrible beating from the crew and were thrown overboard into small boats to be taken back to the docks. Mum, what am I doing here?
Your everloving daughter,
Callandre
Ten days later Callie had a neat stack of letters ready to be posted to Peggy when she arrived in New York. She had just written that she didn’t know which was worse—the crowded conditions or the constant wetness. Since leaving Liverpool, they had enjoyed few hours of sunshine or clear weather. Clouds hung close over the Yorkshire, seeming to settle in an eternal pall over the tall masts. Drizzle and fog penetrated even the warmest clothing and made the decks so slippery that Captain Bailey posted sailors at the entrance to the hatches and companionways to prevent passengers from coming above to escape the stench of vomit and excrement below. Dysentery was becoming epidemic aboard ship, and there were whispered fears of an outbreak of cholera.
Paddy was tolerating the journey better than Callie had expected. Beth was the one plagued by the constant motion of the ship. It seemed to Callie that the young woman lived on the peppermint that Patrick had purchased from a fellow passenger at an appalling price. Everything aboard ship was dear, and Callie was glad she had followed Uncle Jack’s instructions to buy coffee and beans and tea and dried peas. The ship’s staples, which every passenger was promised, were dispensed the first day of the crossing and again on the seventh. Most of the food was inedible—worms and vermin had nested in the flour, and the fatback was thick with mold and on the verge of being spoiled. Before the voyage was over, the meat would have to be thrown overboard and the damp flour sifted and sifted again until barely enough remained to keep a man for a week.
Through the long days Callie took Paddy into her charge, telling him stories and encouraging him to nibble on the hard biscuit and to drink enough water. She was touched by Patrick’s gentle ministrations to Beth. He was at once tender and solicitous, seeing to her every comfort. Several times in the past few days Beth had experienced alarming cramps in her lower back, and some of the women looked at her with piteous understanding. All expected Beth would come due before her time and that it would be a hard birth. Even Patrick seemed subdued, his sense of adventure dulled by worry for his wife.
Yet even between ships, as the sailors called steerage class, the Irish spirit opposed hardship. After the first few nights, revelry and song relieved the monotony. Beth was even able to smile when a fiddler began playing melancholy ballads and Patrick Thatcher lifted his voice in song. His sweet tenor when he sang the “Maid of Killee’” brought tears to the toughest of men, and Callie cried, remembering it was the song Thomas always sang to Peggy.
Dearest Mother,
It is now eighteen days into this hellish voyage. Mrs. Thatcher seems much improved and is able to sip tea and a peas porridge I made with a precious bit of fatback. Little Paddy is my concern. His cheeks are ever flushed with fever, and his eyes burn brighter than coals. Three days, it is said, until we reach New York.
The weather is much improved, and there is sunshine and fair breezes. Today the ship’s doctor came below and cursed the stink and blamed the filth for the eleven passengers who died of the dysentery. Sailors brought down barrels of sea water and lye, and we were ordered to scrub and scrape and air the bedding. There was a great hullaballoo when the men were ordered to go on deck to air their clothes and wash themselves. The women attended these duties while the men were above. Grateful we are for this bit of good weather. It was the first I had heard of quarantine, and we must all be prepared for the doctor and the government inspector. Our first stop will be a place called Tompkinsville on Staten Island where we must pass inspection for disease. No amount of scrubbing will ever rid this ship of its stink!
Captain Bailey was preparing the Yorkshire to pass muster. Ships were generally cleaned for the first and only time just before entering port. Emigrants were made to scrub the steerage with sand, rinse it down, and then dry the timbers with pans of hot coals from the galley in an attempt to fool government officials into thinking that a clean and prosperous voyage had been made.
New York was fearful of ship fever, smallpox, and cholera, and the city was lucky to have escaped with no great epidemic such as had struck Quebec, Canada. Harking back to quarantine laws passed in colonial times, health officials set up a marine hospital on Staten Island, and all vessels coming into New York were required to anchor in the quarantine area and await inspection.
The quarantine ground was a stretch of bay marked by two buoys approximately one mile to the north and to the south. Those who died in quarantine were buried on the shore in trenches. The ground was soapstone rock, which was dug out by pick and shovel and broken into pieces to cover the coffins. This porous covering allowed the stink of rotting bodies to surface.
The Yorkshire’s captain had every reason to allay the suspicions of the government doctors. If disease was found aboard his ship, the passengers were sent into the hospital and the ship would be quarantined for thirty days. From Captain Bailey’s experience, those could be thirty days of hell. Twice before the Yorkshire had been grounded in quarantine; he knew what conditions loomed before him.
He also knew that the quarantine was a farce. Twice a week friends and family could visit those being detained at the hospital, and hundreds came and went on ferry boats between the island and the city. Rags and discarded bedding from Tompkinsville were sold to ragpickers and peddlers and found their way into the city before nightfall. Hundreds of emigrants awaiting clearance dug hovels for themselves on the thirty acres of hospital grounds rather than risk being contaminated within the filthy, overcrowded buildings where health care was at a minimum. Many ships failed inspection for unsanitary conditions only to have their passengers held “for their good as well as native Americans” in conditions far worse.
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An old salt as well as an experienced businessman, Captain Bailey realized all too well the economic reasons for holding a thousand people at a time in relative captivity. While detained at Tompkinsville, emigrants needed to purchase the necessities of life: coffee, tea, and food stuffs. Cook pots, blankets, medicines, preventatives, and the like were offered at outrageous prices by the bands of peddlers and hawkers who paid the health officers a generous stipend to be “allowed” to ply their trade in Tompkinsville.
Callie craned her neck to see over Patrick’s shoulder as the Yorkshire sailed through the narrows. To the right was the low, flat land of New York City, buildings and wharves clearly visible along the harbor where ships’ masts on South Street stood like a never-ending forest. To the right were the ancient, crumbling walls of Fort Wadsworth, and beyond that, hundreds of ships lying at anchor. She heard the order to weigh anchor, and the sails reefed. The Yorkshire bobbed in the choppy waters of Upper Bay like a cork on a string. All eyes were turned to the Island of Manhattan, the place of their future, the hope of their new beginning. Tears brimmed, and all wondered if the great city of the western world would swallow them in one greedy gulp. Or would they find the promised land?
Hardly a spit away from Manhattan at the narrows was the shore of Staten Island, a narrow beachfront from which rocky ledges rose into shallow cliffs. Beyond the cliffs Callie could see the greens and golds of trees in full autumn array. She could smell God’s good earth and hear the sounds of voices carrying over the water. Small boats and steamers scooted back and forth between the anchored ships. Peddlers and merchants manned these small rivercraft, selling their goods to the passengers. Ready-made clothes, fresh bread, God blessed milk!
“Tis the American way!” Patrick beamed. “Free enterprise! And wonderful it is!”
Cinders to Satin Page 6
