Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  He’d run out of choices here and it had cost him. He pressed his forehead against the porthole glass, remembering the despair he’d felt as the Eliza J limped into port after escaping the hurricane. She didn’t fly on the sea anyway—packets weren’t built for high speed, but then they rarely sailed in the light wind latitudes—but her three square-rigged masts and single topsails were designed to carry a tremendous press of sail in heavy weather without straining, and her crew of twenty-five was handpicked from among the very best northeastern American seamen. They had weathered storms at sea before—many, many storms—but never one so unrelenting nor one that claimed so many lives.

  At midnight, he’d given the “All Hands,” and two men held the wheel against waves twenty feet high that slammed against the stern and threatened to wash them overboard. Mister Cobbs, his second mate, took six men aloft to crawl out on the swaying yards and sea-slippery ropes, where they struggled to reef the sails. Small John, ship’s boy and fearless, had followed them up. The sail had filled out like a balloon as the ship pitched and yawed mercilessly, and then the fiercest of winds had hit, snapping the yard and the topmast, flinging the men into the furious black sea.

  There had been no way to save them—they’d not tied themselves off as he’d ordered, aware that every minute counted in such a brutal storm. He had watched it unfold helplessly, the yard and the men simply gone, the topmast snapping and slamming into the lower mast, which took the blow with a sickening crack. Sails had shredded before his eyes and two more of his crew had been swept over as the heavy canvas billowed across the deck. The rail had been crushed in three places and a hole punched in the deck over the forecastle. He and the rest of the crew battled on until dawn when, at last, the storm was spent and the sea grew calm. Exhausted, all sat stunned as the roll was called and the number of lost men grew. Cobbs had been with him for three years, despite offers of a first-mate position on other ships, and the lad, Small John, was a soft favorite of the crew, being high-spirited and tireless in his work.

  Reinders had not allowed himself to feel grief—grief crippled a man and made him weak—but he acknowledged regret and a deep sense of loss. He shouldered full responsibility for their deaths and the deaths of the others, but he could not afford to sink into despair when there was so much work to be done.

  Arriving in Liverpool, the remaining crew had flung themselves into the arms of the prostitutes and barkeeps who set up shop in dance halls along the docks. Sailors were a superstitious lot—even the tough New Englanders, whose veins ran with brine instead of blood—but despite the black cloud of doom that had followed the ship into port, most would return; those who did not would have no trouble signing on elsewhere. His crew was among the very best and crimps were waiting the minute they stepped ashore, courting possible defectors with false promises of better ships and luckier captains.

  Cole Mackley, his first mate, despised crimps and spat upon the first one who approached him. He slept aboard each night, and made himself available to the captain each day. Reinders expected this kind of loyalty from his second-in-command, but privately he was relieved; Mackley had been with him from the start, and Reinders counted on his excellent seamanship and sound advice. It was Mackley who suggested naming Tom Dean as second mate; Dean was an able seaman with a solid reputation who’d showed great courage during the storm. Like Mackley, he was a true-spoken man with an undeterred sense of duty; Reinders knew instinctively he could trust him. Both men were well respected by the others; they would be able to control the crew and complete the voyage should anything incapacitate their captain.

  This voyage would be different, however, because of passengers. Reinders had been forced to strike a deal with the Liverpool Trading Company in order to secure repair of the ship—they agreed to finance labor and materials, and in return, he’d carry passengers back to New York City. Company directors were well aware that the Eliza J was no luxury ship, though she could offer a few small private cabins on the upper deck to those willing to pay. Most would travel steerage, and the mid-level of the ship had been outfitted with additional bunks so that they rose three levels high, instead of two; they were also packed closer together than Reinders thought necessary, but he’d bowed to the judgment of those to whom he owed money.

  Proper ventilation was a concern, and he planned on allowing as many passengers as possible up on deck in all fair weather. They would cook on deck, and he’d even rigged up a low tented structure where they could relieve themselves down a hole flushed clean with seawater. The standard was a toilet on the weather deck in the bow of the ship, which women were loath to use because of the presence of sailors who thought the situation hilarious—they themselves simply let fly off the stern with no thought to modesty or comfortable accommodation. That was why, he’d been told, women and children sought the privacy and convenience of the orlop deck, below steerage, despite the smell that would begin to rise in a matter of days. Others surreptitiously relieved themselves in buckets they brought up and slopped over the side; but too often these spilled or were not cleaned out properly and this, combined with fetid air and poor ventilation, encouraged the spread of typhus and cholera. Reinders was determined to avoid that. He knew all about the coffin ships that sailed into Canada with more dead than alive, and no ship of his would carry that shame.

  But he was worried. The directors had oversold the ship—booking more than twice the number he’d expected to carry. Standard practice, they assured him, simply protecting their investment. Not everyone who bought passage would actually board the ship, they said. It was a lie and he knew it; he’d spent every day talking to sailors who’d made this voyage before.

  He could expect every passenger to show up, they told him, so desperate were the poor beggars to get out—expect stowaways, as well. They advised him to make a thorough search after everyone was aboard, and they promised he’d find at least five, and as many as twenty, packed into trunks and cargo boxes down in the hold. These he could throw overboard or put ashore to be tried by the magistrate, as he saw fit. Some of the passengers would die at sea, they said matter-of-factly—infants rarely survived, especially if there was illness aboard. Same with the young, the old, the women. Childbirth was rough; women lost strength and hope, especially if they buried a child at sea. Men fared best, but they smuggled drink aboard and drink led to fight; men with wounds might live or die depending on the man and the weapon used. These experienced veterans told him all this and more. It was true—they’d seen it all before. Never trust the company men, they warned.

  As the departure date neared, Reinders’ dealings with the directors grew more heated; he could not be responsible for the safety and well-being of so many people, he insisted, but was told in no uncertain terms that the Eliza J would then be detained until full restitution for her repair was made. He was too involved, they soothed; he should focus on the ship and leave the passengers to them. They had even secured a ship’s doctor, American like himself, returning home after study abroad. What more could he want?

  What Reinders wanted—returning to his desk, reviewing again the impossible list—was what he had always wanted: more space, fewer bodies because each body required provision. He figured six pints of water daily per passenger, and a small weekly allotment of flour, oats, salt, molasses, and salt beef. The directors had assured him this was more than enough; he should keep in mind that these were Irish peasants, starving to death just days ago, happy for bread and water.

  The veteran sailors just shook their heads—aye, they said, the starving would indeed be grateful for hard bread and stale water, but they’d eat the week’s provisions in a single day, so desperate was their hunger, and then they’d have nothing. Some would bring extra food with them, but this they’d have to guard with their lives, especially at night. Doling out each day would take hands off the sailing, and who could spare that on a winter sea? The old hands advised telling passengers the way of it right off—rations came weekly and no more. Deal harshly with t
hem that pay you no mind, they warned; set an example straightaway and carry a pistol for weight—you won’t have to use it if they think you will.

  He gritted his teeth, thinking of it all, trying to foresee every unforeseeable event. He hoped to make the voyage in four weeks, five at the outside; there was no room for extra provisions, no room for livestock of any kind, nor the larger tools of a man’s trade—anvils, carpentry and farming tools, looms and spinning wheels. Each family would be allotted a small space in the hold for one trunk, crate, or barrel. Only one.

  Reinders shoved the list away from him, the cabin suddenly too close. He left the room and took the steps two at a time, emerging on deck to survey the ship that was his whole life. He breathed deeply and admired her solid masts, the complex web of her rigging, her tightly bundled sails and blunt bow. Above him, heavy rolling clouds pushed the sky low over the murky river and a chill wind rattled the rigging. Not for the first time, he thought about slipping her lines and navigating her downriver to the open sea. She’d outrun the other tubs in this port; no one would catch him once he reached the sea. But he couldn’t sail her alone, and he couldn’t round up a crew without drawing attention and, in the end, he had given his word.

  What pride he’d felt in striking this bargain! No need to write to Lars for money or to use up what little they’d made from the cotton and tobacco—ruined, most of it, in the storm. He’d congratulated himself for keeping a level head despite the catastrophe, for taking immediate action to minimize the loss of what had promised to be a lucrative deal. Lars was the acknowledged money man, but Reinders had wanted to prove his own financial sensibilities, as well.

  He looked toward the dock, disgusted with himself and his pride, and saw the somber line of passengers boarding downriver—boarding small, tired ships run by apathetic captains and squirrelly crews who wanted only to get the best price and be done with it. They were mere cargo, those passengers, and they knew it. They shuffled slowly forward, heads bent, murmuring anxiously as they approached the gangway.

  Dirty gray gulls circled the docks in their endless scavenging, but it was an enormous raven that landed heavily on the rail beside him, opening its beak in a raspy caw, black eyes glittering. Bad omen, he thought, then corrected himself. There were no omens; it was a random and chaotic universe, nothing more. He had only himself to blame. In the beginning, he’d had many choices—in the end, too few. Today, there were none. Not for him, and not for those sorry bastards down the way who had already disappeared into a dark hold.

  Six

  “HAVE you got it all, now?” Julia eyed the small trunk beside Mary Kate. “You’ve not forgotten anything?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “All right, then.” Julia inspected her charges one last time, eyeing with grim satisfaction their stiff leather boots and heavy woolen cloaks. “You can cover yourselves with these if it gets too cold at night,” she reminded them for the hundredth time. “And leave your boots on.”

  Grace took her hand. “We’ll remember everything you’ve said, won’t we, Mary Kate?”

  “Aye.” The little girl nodded. She moved closer and took Julia’s other hand. “Please come?”

  “Ah, darling girl.” Julia scooped her up and held her in a hard embrace. “Don’t I wish I could? I’ll miss you ever so much.” She squeezed her once more, then set her down, straightening the bonnet she’d knocked askew. “Take care of your mother, now. See she eats and stays warm. And that she eats.”

  “You said that.” Mary Kate smiled shyly.

  Julia stepped out of the slow-moving line to have a look at the front.

  “All trunks and boxes go to one side,” she reported. “The sailors are carrying them off. Over there.” She pointed to another gangway at the other end of the ship, where crewmen bore the luggage up on their backs. “Look, they can’t take everything.”

  Grace craned her neck and saw a growing pile of pots and pans, farm equipment, tradesman’s tools, and spinning wheels; someone’s goat had been left behind, and two crates of squawking hens.

  “There’s a man checking names at the head of the line,” Julia relayed. “He’s talking to everyone who boards. Whatever about, do you suppose?”

  “Have you seen the outlaw Grace O’Malley? Do you know anything a’tall about Gracelin O’Malley?” Grace mimicked in a low voice.

  “Not funny!” Julia hissed, glancing around. “Not a bit funny, that!”

  Grace put her arm around Julia’s shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Just having a bit of fun, is all,” she apologized. “Take our minds off things.”

  “Well, don’t take your mind off who you’re supposed to be!” Julia admonished. “You’re Missus Bram Donnelly, remember, and that’s risky enough as far as I’m concerned. I know, I know”—she held up her hand to silence her friend’s explanation—“you want to make sure Sean can find you no matter what happens.”

  “And there must be a record of us for Mary Kathleen’s sake,” Grace added. “For her future.”

  “Fair enough,” Julia allowed. “But no more jokes and no mention of any other names than those on your papers, agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  The line inched closer to the gangway and Grace looked up at the ship that would hold her life and Mary Kate’s across the vast ocean. Its size and sturdiness reassured her, as did the professional manner of the crew working steadily under the watchful eye of a tall, commanding figure at the rail.

  “What’s he called, then? The captain?”

  “Reinders,” Julia told her, then spelled it. “German name—the ‘i’ is long—but he’s an American. Ship’s American, as well.”

  “Guess he knows the way, then.” The two women traded guarded smiles over Mary Kate’s head.

  When it was nearly their turn, Grace got out her papers, gripping them tightly against the wind that gusted along the wharf. She looked down at Mary Kate, all bundled up, and gave her a wink of courage. Then she turned to Julia.

  “I’m wanting to say something to you if you can hold your tongue for all of a minute.”

  Julia opened her mouth to protest, then caught herself and squeezed her lips together contritely.

  “I want to thank you for all you’ve done, Julia. For coming with me to London, for getting us to Liverpool in the first place. Sure and I don’t know what would’ve happened to me without you. I would’ve been lost, and that’s the truth of it.”

  Julia shook her head.

  “Aye,” Grace insisted. “I couldn’t …” She hesitated. “’Twas killing me, you know.”

  Pain flooded Julia’s eyes with tears.

  Grace put her arms around those stalwart shoulders. “Ah, Julia, I know you loved him. I didn’t see at first, but then I did.”

  “Forgive me,” Julia whispered, her cheek wet against Grace’s.

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” Grace kissed her. “And I know you love me, as well, now, though I’m sure you’ve cursed me plenty.”

  Julia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, agree or deny, and so she just clung more tightly to her friend.

  “On the strength of that—the love we have for Morgan and for one another—I’m asking you, Julia, will you look out for Da and the baby? Will you see to them until all this is settled? If Ireland wins out, I’ll be home on the next wind … but if time is passing …” She pushed away the feeling of desperation. “Will you send them on to me? Will you help them the way you helped me? I’ve no one else to ask, you see, and I know that if you promise, it will be done.”

  Julia wiped her eyes. “I promise,” she said, and then her heart began to pound as the group in front of them fell away.

  “Papers?” Cole Mackley, the first mate, took the documents Grace handed him, then compared the information to the names on his passenger list.

  “Missus Bram Donnelly, age twenty, widow, and Mary Kathleen Donnelly, age three, child, bound for New York City?”

  “Aye,” Grace confirmed.

>   “One trunk?”

  “Aye.”

  He raised his hand and the wiry crewman at his side pulled it over. “Unlock it, please.”

  Grace hesitated and looked at Julia.

  “Now,” he insisted, not unkindly.

  “Stowaways,” Julia mouthed and Grace nodded, took out her key, and opened the trunk.

  The crewman poked around among the few articles of clothing and extra foodstuffs, then stood up and nodded. Grace closed and re-locked the trunk.

  “Any firearms or liquor on your person?” Mackley inquired.

  “No, sir.” No need to mention the boning knife sheathed in stiff leather, well hidden inside her boot.

  “You may board,” he ordered, and suddenly Grace was being directed toward the gangway, away from Julia.

  “Wait!” she called, now caught in the flow of those ahead making their way up to the ship. “Wait—Julia!”

  “All aboard!” The sailor at the top waved them on.

  She struggled to disengage herself as another group closed in behind her. “Julia!” The panic in her voice unnerved the others, who shifted nervously and began to mumble.

  “You there! Stop!” Mackley commanded as Julia tried to shove past him. “Back in line!”

  A struggle ensued as passengers pressed forward, afraid suddenly of being left behind; and then a gap appeared with Julia elbowing her way through. She rushed to the gangway and met Grace at the bottom, throwing one arm around her, reaching down with the other to pull Mary Kate into the embrace.

  “Farewell,” she whispered to them, in Irish now. “Farewell, farewell. God bless you both and watch over you both and see you safely to the other side.”

  Tears streamed down her wind-reddened cheeks even as she tried to give them a confident smile, a nod of assurance that all would be well even in the face of the impossible voyage ahead. She set Mary Kate down, kissing her tenderly.

  “You are brave and strong,” she pronounced. “Remember that.”