I may not be your flesh and blood,’ she sighed, looking into the little stranger’s eyes, ‘but I’ll do my best.’
Lower Manhattan
He was going to be late for his shift but Angelo Bartolini lingered, putting the finishing touches to his apartment off Baxter Street. He’d been counting off the days on his Holy Saints calendar. He couldn’t wait to see Maria again, and meet his new baby daughter, but he didn’t want her to be disappointed with the two rooms so he was giving them a lick of paint.
His uncle Salvi and aunt Anna had helped him furnish the tiny home with a bed, a crib, a table, two chairs and a cabin chest for their clothes. It had to be finished before their arrival on Wednesday. As he stood back to admire his handiwork, he smiled. This was as grand as a palace, with new lace curtains waiting to be hung, and a bowl of fresh fruit from Salvi’s stall on Mulberry Street. Everything had to be perfect for their reunion.
He fingered the postcard in his dungarees pocket. There was a picture of the most mag-nificent ship in the world; his wife and baby were travelling to New York in style to begin their new life together. It was such a good omen for their future happiness.
How long they’d put off this reunion, first because of the baby and then because he wanted only the best for his wife. They would not be sharing rooms with anyone else. The Mulberry District was noisy, dusty, full of their compatriots trying to scratch a living. The streets of New York might be paved with gold but it was the Italians who had to do the paving.
The bustle of the streets was shocking to him at first, so different from their Tuscan vil-lage. Buildings towered over him and he could hardly breathe in the stale air. The heat, the smells, the crush of bodies lying on the floor, all of it was unbearable. It was tough, but Angelo survived long enough to see the opportunities in the New York streets. He helped Salvi’s friend on a building site as a stevedore, up scaffolding where he caught the breeze off the Hudson. He had a natural head for heights and found steady work and regular pay.
His original idea had been to make money and eventually return home to Italy but Maria had begged to join him to see America for herself. He missed her so much he couldn’t argue and, scrimping and saving, he’d got together the fare, found rooms and now – finally – his dream was coming true.
For his beautiful wife nothing was too good, and he clung to his crucifix and crossed himself, praying to the Saints that they would settle in this new life. He’d seen such pitiful sights in the back streets, widows and children picking rags, living in cubbyholes in stair-wells.
When he was eight storeys high working on tenement sites by day, he could see where families perched in shacks on the rooftops, lying on the roof in the heat of the night, unable to breathe in the sweating streets of downtown.
How many hopes and dreams died right there after an outbreak of typhoid fever? He wasn’t going to bring his family to squalor, not after the beautiful Tuscan countryside they’d been used to. He wanted only the best for them. With reluctance, he put down his brush and rushed out into the streets to start the working day. Later, as Angelo worked suspended above the Manhattan streets, his mind kept drifting to all the preparations still to be made. There would be a family feast. Anna and her daughters would see to that, but he must go to the grocery store and fill the cupboard.
‘Angelo! Careful!’ someone warned. His concentration was drifting away from safety by the sight of someone running down Mulberry Street, shouting. The word ‘Titanico’ drifted up and he saw women in aprons and smocks gathering in Mulberry Bend, men frantically turning pages of newspapers.
‘What’s going on?’ he shouted to his workmate. Rocco shrugged his shoulders but an-other of his gang yelled across to them. ‘They’re saying a ship’s gone down . the Titan-ic ’s gone down . . .’
Angelo went ice cold, throwing his tool bag over his shoulder as he shinned down the scaffold and raced after the crowds. The blood was pulsing in his temples and he was sweating with anxiety. On the corner he saw the newspaper heading on a billboard and sank to his knees with joy. ‘TITANIC SUNK; ALL SAVED!’ If it was in the paper it must be true. The newspapers wouldn’t lie.
Nevertheless, Angelo kept on running, following the news-hungry crowd to the queue gathering outside the White Star Line office on Broadway, spilling across to Bowling Green Park opposite. Everyone wanted news, any news, but the rumours going round gave no comfort and Angelo’s English seemed to have frozen in his panic and he couldn’t catch just what was being said.
‘Per favore . . . please, what news?’ he kept repeating, cap in hand, trying not to shake. Faces that had been relieved at first later reappeared full of strain. ‘Molti morti . . . many dead. She is sunk, we think, but the rescue ship is coming in tonight. There’s still hope . .’ He daren’t move from the queue in case there was more news and eventually a list of survivors was pinned to the board. The day gradually darkened and news of the Carpath-ia’s unexpected return spread from mouth to mouth. Only relatives of passengers could go
down to the harbour to claim their loved ones.
‘Per favore , what I do?’ he kept asking anyone who would listen. You wait, you pray you stay calm and you hope, said the voice in his head. But how could he stay calm knowing his wife and baby were on that ship?
Long before dark, crowds began to gather in their thousands by Pier 54 waiting for the tragedy to unfold, spectators wanting a ringside seat. The police had prepared barriers. Only those with relatives on board were given chits with permission to wait closer in. Clutching his yellow ticket, shivering in the rain, Angelo was led with the others towards the harbour docking bays. The streets, already bursting with onlookers, curious and anxious to see the ship’s return, backed up with even more people. Rich and poor stood shoulder to shoulder, all greedy for a sighting of the rescue ship, while ambulances, limousines and cabs lined up with hearses. The sight of the black vehicles chilled Angelo’s very bones.
Alongside the nurses and doctors were the black-robed nuns of the Sisters of Charity and the familiar priests of Old St Patrick’s Cathedral, who held out their hands in support and comfort.
‘Now then, Angelo, have a brave heart. All shall be well.’ Father Bernardo gave his blessing as he saw him.
There was a woman standing in front of him already keening in a high-pitched voice, tearing at her clothes, unable to control her grief. Angelo moved away from her, unnerved. It made him feel sick to his stomach.
It wasn’t very long ago that he’d made this voyage himself, a stranger tossing about on the ocean, wondering what the hell he was doing leaving his beloved country. Now he was standing on this dark wet night, praying his wife and daughter were both safe on board, praying this nightmare would end with his arms around them.
Across the water every small boat seemed to be making its way to the Ambrose Light to await the first glimpse of the rescue ship. The sea was choppy but the mist and fog were lifting ahead. A cry went up that the Carpathia was on the horizon, a huge black hulk with one smoking chimney silhouetted in the far distance. ‘Ship ahoy!’ went through the crowds straining for a sighting.
Angelo stamped the life back into his feet through his wet shoes and hugged himself, trying not to shiver. He clutched the crucifix round his neck as a talisman . Oh please, God, keep them safe.
Buffeted by strong gusts and pelting rain, after a long journey delayed by fog, the Carpathia chugged through the storm, through the narrow straits into New York Harbour. May and Celeste stared out over the choppy waters, watching a line of small boats sounding their wel-come. Reporters were holding up cardboard messages asking questions and offering to pay for survivors’ stories. Flashlights exploded from photographers straining to get the first pic-tures of the Titanic survivors. On deck, neither of them spoke but looked out with dull eyes on the spectacle as the ship edged ever closer to the pier head.
‘We’re going to be a big attraction,’ Celeste said eventually, but May wasn’t listening, lost in her own thoughts. This sh
ould have been the most exciting moment of her life. Joe would have been hanging over the edge, pointing out the city skyline. But she felt nothing now, seeing those tall buildings and bridges dotted along the night sky, nothing but an aching weariness. She didn’t want to be an object of pity or curiosity. All she wanted to do was to catch the first boat back to England, but that wouldn’t be possible for days. She had only the borrowed clothes on her back and the bundle of her own garments. There was nothing in her pockets to pay for even a meal.
Survivors were summoned to muster points. There were over seven hundred of them squeezed on board. Now they were to be divided up according to their tickets. Celeste would be getting off first, leaving for her life back home far away. May would have to fend for herself.
As if reading her mind Celeste linked her arm through May’s. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not leav-ing you, I’ll stay here and see you settled. We have to find you lodgings. If Akron wasn’t so far away I’d take you home with me.’
May looked at this unlikely friend – so tall, so striking with her wild auburn hair, strong chin and sparkling blue eyes – and wanted to cry with relief. ‘You’ve been so kind, but you must go back to your husband and little boy,’ she said. She felt a fraud. What would she think of her if she knew the truth about Ella? She would run a mile.
‘A few more days won’t hurt. I’m not leaving you and Ella to be bundled into some flea-bitten hostel. I’ll find us a decent place. There’s bound to be somewhere now our Relief
Committee’s in charge of things. Americans are wonderful at organizing in emergencies, full of pioneer spirit, and we’ve collected thousands of dollars on board already.’
Celeste was soon ushered away but turned back to May and waved. ‘I’ll wait at the gate for you.’ May was not so sure. Once she was in her husband’s loving arms, she’d be whisked away and that would be the end of this strange friendship. It would be better if she stuck to her own plan and kept to herself. They’d be just ships that passed in the night, and those words shook her with their poignancy. She heard rumours on board that there were other ships that had not come to their rescue. If they had, more people would have been saved.
There was always the chance that Ella would have a family waiting at the gate to seize her too. May had thought about that on the seemingly endless voyage on the Carpathia and had her story ready for them. Better Celeste knew nothing about any of that.
It wasn’t until 11 p.m., nearly an hour after Celeste left the ship, that the Third Class survivors disembarked after being checked over, processed like pieces of paper, given tick-ets and chits for aid and some dollars to spend. Suddenly May felt nervous clinging to the gangplank, afraid to leave the ship. Her legs wouldn’t budge and she felt nauseous.
‘I can’t go,’ she whispered to the stewardess behind her. ‘Yes, you can,’ came the order. ‘There’s nothing for you here, dear.’ Oh yes there was: the last precious link with Joe. If she left the Carpathia , she would be
leaving Joe and Ellen behind for ever. How could she arrive in a foreign land without them? Once again, the enormity of what she was doing overwhelmed her. Was there someone on the quay waiting for Ella and her family? Someone who might recognize this baby? There were so many fathers lost that night, but what if the mother was travelling alone and her husband was waiting here, desperate for a sighting of his family?
She clutched Ella tightly, covering her hair with the bonnet . I can’t let you go now . . . But she knew that she might have to.
Angelo bent over the barrier waving a tattered snapshot of his beloved, the one he carried next to his heart. ‘My wife . wife. Have you seen my wife?’ he shouted in Italian. ‘Maria Elisabetta Bartolini! I’m here, over here!’
‘Stand by the B gate, boy . . . They come through the letters of their surname. Over there,’ said a porter, pointing towards a line of gates that filtered out the passengers. ‘This is W for Wagner,’ he added.
‘Non capisco . . .’ Angelo was confused now. ‘No understand . Dove Titanico? Where is the big ship.’
‘This is the Carpathia , friend. It picked up the survivors. If she’s not on here . . .’ The porter shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Angelo began to cry. ‘No, no . . . My wife, my baby, where are they? How can I live without them? She must be here. Mother of God, please help me!’
As they disembarked slowly down the gangway, May managed to unlock her stiff limbs and descend, seeing waving crowds of onlookers had been held back. None of them was allowed close enough to pry on those tender moments of reunion that had come for the lucky ones. Reluctantly she pulled back Ella’s lacy bonnet to reveal her face and the winsome smile that would warm the coldest of hearts. She walked slowly around the edge of the passengers to the barriers, shuffling in line past the relatives’ enclosure, listening in dread for shouts of re-cognition. Slowly and deliberately she showed off her baby to the crowds but no one stopped her or claimed the baby as their own. There were men holding photographs, shouting in for-eign languages as they passed by.
Ella began to cry, frightened by the noise and the bright lights and the sheer crush of hu-manity surrounding her. May’s heart was in her mouth. She’d got her story word-perfect: she’d say she’d been given charge of this baby by the captain, no less, and his special orders were to release her only to a parent or relative. But still no one came forward as she lingered, her arms shaking in case someone rushed out to claim her at the last minute. She paused one more time and then passed through the S gate. She heaved a sigh of relief.
Then she saw Celeste standing with a man in an overcoat and a bowler hat. She assumed it was her husband, come to meet her from the boat.
‘At last! I’m sorry they made you wait, but there were so many of us to process,’ Celeste smiled, holding her arms out to Ella.
‘Is this Mr Parkes?’ May asked as the man whipped off his hat, smiling. ‘No, ma’am, I’m Jack Bryden.’ She shook his hand. He paused, waiting for Celeste to ex-
plain further.
‘This is one of my husband’s managers, sent to escort me home. I’ve told him I’m not ready to leave yet. I shall stay here until you’re ready to leave yourself.’
‘But you must go. Your family will be desperate to see you,’ May protested, seeing the man looked anxious, gripping his hat.
‘Grover is very busy, too busy to make this trip himself, evidently. Mr Bryden will kindly wait a day or two, I’m sure. I’ve just heard the terrible news, May. Only seven hundred of
us survived. Fifteen hundred people drowned. I can’t take it in. All those families who need help. I’ve work to do here and a meeting to attend before I can head home.’
‘But, madam, I had express instructions to escort you on the train back home right away. The family are anxious to have you back.’
‘I’m sure they are. Thank you, Jack, but as I said, I have pressing business here.’ There was an edge to Celeste’s voice that May hadn’t heard before. She was shocked at
the number of souls lost: all those other widows and orphans like herself. Suddenly she felt sick and faint with exhaustion.
‘I have to sit down.’
‘No worries, we have a taxi waiting,’ said Mr Bryden. ‘I came down in the railcar with a young man from Akron. I want to see if he found his family. Did you come across any Wells folks from Cornwall?’
Both women shook their heads. There’d been too many survivors scattered over the Carpathia to remember many names.
‘Let’s get out of this sad place. They’ve organized some decent hotels for us and I think little Ella needs a change of diaper,’ Celeste ordered, taking May by the arm. When the ship emptied, the gangplank came up and a hush fell over the lingering crowds; there were only stragglers left. Angelo was so caught up in shouting that his voice was hoarse. If he held his photo up high or shoved closer to the front, perhaps Maria would see her own face and know he was here waiting and turn back to find him.
Everyone was pacing about, in
cluding doctors and nurses pushing empty invalid chairs. Angelo had watched the passengers disembark: women clad in furs, wearing hats, shaken, but still proud. There was a rush of lucky relatives screaming with joy Many were whisked away into the arms of husbands and wives; others leaning on walking sticks, their faces suntanned, slumped with shock.
Hundreds of walking heroes and heroines poured off the ship, shouting names into the ranks of people. It was the numbers Angelo couldn’t fathom. Nearly two-and-a-half thou-sand had been on board Titanic , but only seven hundred had returned on the rescue ship. The numbers changed like whispers in a game. Surely they must be wrong?
His arm was aching from holding up his photograph. There was still a trickle of steerage passengers passing through the B section. No one looked at him. Their eyes were dull with exhaustion and fear. He waited and waited until the last straggler had passed through. No one else was coming. He must find the passenger list and check for sure. Could this be true? Was there no one else left on the ship? His wife and baby were lost and it was all his fault. If he had gone back home to Italy, as planned, he could have brought them himself. How would he tell their family back home this grim news?
His legs were trembling as he scoured the arrival space, searching, searching . . . There must be some mistake. He ran to each arrival gate, begging the stewards to look at his pic-ture. They had to be here somewhere. ‘Please . please, my wife, my bambina ,’ he pleaded until the officials shooed him away.
‘They’ve all gone, sonny. Go home. There’s only crew left.’ ‘But are you sure? Look at my wife.’
He ran out into the rain, crying, ‘Maria!’ before collapsing in a heap like a drunken man, his eyes blinded by tears. A lady in a black veil helped him to his feet. He trudged out into the cold night, passing others collapsed in grief, men with beards crying out to the heavens. It was only then he saw something on the floor, a scarpetta , a baby shoe in lacework, the sort his mamma and Maria made, a pattern he would recognize anywhere.
Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter Page 7
