by Ann Moore
“Get out,” he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth.
The girl beneath him renewed her struggle, and he released her long enough to deliver a sound punch to her jaw.
“Let her go!” Grace moved forward, but Draper wrapped an arm around her waist and covered her mouth with his hand.
“Do it,” Boardham urged. “You take her first.”
Grace brought the heel of her boot down hard on the doctor’s toes, causing him to loosen his grip; she drove her elbow into his gut, then shoved him off. Quickly, before he could recover, she pulled the boning knife out of its sheath in her boot and held it out, warding off the doctor.
“Let her go,” she demanded, and to her surprise, Boardham rose off the girl, but kept his fingers twisted in her hair, pulling her with him.
“Drop the knife.”
“Help!” Grace yelled.
“Shut up!” Boardham moved closer. “Drop it, or I’ll tell. About the murder. About you being wanted for murder.”
Grace’s heart fell, but she tightened her grip on the knife.
“They’ll be very interested in that when we land,” he warned, eyes glittering. “They’ll lock you up. Take away that little brat of yours. And the boy.” He tongued the cut on his lower lip. “Drop the knife, and no one’s the wiser.”
Grace held steady, eyeing both the steward and Draper; she sensed that others were awake now, that some had risen and were standing just outside the circle of light, though none moved forward to help. Had they heard? she wondered. Did they know? Or were they simply too afraid of going up against the black marketeer and the ship’s only physician?
“Let her go,” Grace demanded fiercely. “And you can live.”
His bluff called, Boardham angrily flung the girl to the floor and nodded to the doctor, who crept in from the side. Grace took two steps back, swinging her knife from man to man, but when Boardham suddenly lunged, she held her ground. He came in low, then let out an anguished howl that froze everyone in their tracks; bringing his hand away from his cheek, Boardham looked in amazement at the blood dripping from his fingers, then at Grace.
“You bitch,” he snarled. “You fucking bitch.”
He attacked and she slashed him again, opening his arm, then stuck him in the shoulder when he fell to his knees. The knife was part of her hand now, part of a rage so black, she could easily slaughter him where he knelt, and then the doctor, and anyone else who got in her way; she was so tired, so tired, so furious and angry and tired of all of this. She raised her hand, but it was caught in midair—caught, and held firmly while a strong arm went round her waist, and a familiar voice said in her ear, “Stop now, Missus Donnelly. Missus Donnelly, stop,” it said. “I’m here now.”
She did as he commanded. Her vision cleared and she saw Boardham cowering on the ground, covered in blood, so much blood; she saw the doctor wide-eyed in the corner, saw the other passengers come out of the shadows, their faces guarded. Saw Liam with his arms around Mary Kate, forbidding her to look, though he looked—looked and saw and was stunned. And that was when all the air went out of her body. She sagged against the captain, and he took the knife from her hand.
“What the hell is going on down here?” Reinders looked around the room, Mackley and Dean on either side of him. “Boardham?” The steward struggled to his feet, holding his arm and moaning. “Draper? I want an answer. Now!”
The doctor eyed the crowd, weighing the situation. “The Donnelly woman attacked him,” he tried cautiously. “A case of jealousy, I believe, Captain. Your steward is a popular man with the ladies.”
“Is he?” Reinders snapped.
“I was minding my own business when she come at me with that knife,” Boardham complained, picking up the story. “I’m bleeding here, sir. I’m right hurt. Weren’t nothing going on she had to cut me.”
Reinders eyed the bloody knife that had fallen from Grace’s hand. “What about that, Missus Donnelly? Anything to say?”
She heard him as if from far away and could not answer, only stare at the steward as if she’d forgotten who he was.
They had all forgotten the discarded girl, who now gathered herself up and stepped out of the dark corner. “Don’t blame her,” she said quietly, holding the torn dress together with one hand. “’Twas my own doing and no one else’s.”
“Who are you?” Reinders asked, not ungently.
“Ada, sir. Ada Murphy.” She hung her head. “I didn’t think I’d have to … that he’d want …” She covered her face and began to weep. “He said he’d give us bread.”
“Is that right?”
Boardham shrugged sullenly. “She’s the one made the offer—I seen nothing wrong with taking her up on it.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” Reinders turned back to the girl. “What happened when Missus Donnelly tried to help?”
“They held her,” Ada said through her tears. “Him there, and the doctor. They said she was next. She fought ’em off, though.”
The captain’s jaw tightened. “All right. I’ve heard enough. Are you with someone on the ship, Miss Murphy?”
“My sister.” She cried harder now.
Reinders sighed. “Mister Dean, help her find her sister, please.”
Dean stepped forward and took the now sobbing girl by the arm, shielding her as he led her through the crowd.
“The rest of you, back to bed now,” Reinders ordered. “Not you, Draper,” he added. “You come here.”
Draper’s eyes widened in surprise. “Me? Surely, Captain, you don’t think I had anything to do with this? In my ignorance, I may have misread the situation, but my only crime is naivete.”
“I’m not sure what your crime is yet,” Reinders warned. “But yours”—he turned to Boardham—“is assault.”
“Assault!” Boardham clenched his fist, then winced. “She’s the one had the knife. What about her, then?”
Reinders and Mackley exchanged a quick glance.
“That’s your knife, Boardham,” the first mate said smoothly. “I’ve seen it on you a dozen times.”
“She pulled it out of her boot!” Draper insisted. “Really, Captain, these charges are false.”
“You charge me,” Boardham threatened, “and I’ll report her to the authorities the minute we land. For murder.”
Reinders felt Grace tense against him, and kept his arm firmly around her waist.
“They’ll throw her in prison right off,” Boardham jeered. “Or ship her back home to hang.”
“They lock up lunatics, too. Take him, Mister Mackley.” The first mate grabbed Boardham’s good arm.
“I mean it, Captain.” The steward yanked his arm away. “I heard the whole thing. In your cabin. You’re a party to it.”
Grace was alert now—painfully alert, knowing Mary Kate and Liam were listening—and stood on her own two feet.
“What?” Draper narrowed his eyes. “Is this true, Captain? You were aware this woman is wanted for murder, and now she’s nearly committed another?”
Reinders saw Liam’s face out of the corner of his eye. “Boardham’s a liar and a cheat—his word means nothing on my ship.”
“Obviously not, but it may mean something on land, and I intend to take it up with the proper authorities.”
“You do that,” Reinders said evenly. “Ah, Mister Dean. Everything all right with the young woman?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean crossed his massive arms and eyed the steward with disgust. “They say our Mister Boardham was running quite a trade down here, and that the good doctor—”
“I had nothing to do with it!” Draper held up his hands.
Dean nodded. “Too drunk, I guess. Boardham did as he pleased.”
“Take him to the brig,” Reinders ordered.
Mackley and Dean gripped the steward under each arm and hauled him toward the stairs.
“And you.” Reinders turned to Draper. “Get your things together. Then go down and stitch him up. Mackley’ll come for you.”
“You’re in no position to say anything. Get going.” He turned to Grace. “Can you walk?” he asked quietly. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Captain.” Her voice was shaky. “I can walk.”
“Good. Then follow me.” She looked ghastly, he thought. “Liam.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Good boy to run for help. I’m proud of you, son.”
Liam smiled weakly.
“Take the little girl back to bed now, and I’ll see you in the morning.” He knelt down in front of Mary Kate. “I must speak to your mother, but I won’t keep her long,” he promised. “She did a very brave thing tonight. I’m sorry you were frightened.”
Mary Kate nodded, then rushed to Grace and buried her face in her mother’s skirts. Grace hid her bloody hand behind her back and stroked Mary Kate’s hair with the other.
“Go with Liam, agra,” she murmured. “’Tis over now, and I’ll be back soon.”
She kissed both children, then followed the captain up the stairs and across the deck—pausing to take in the hard, glittering night sky and breathe the cold air before entering his cabin.
“Sit down.” He handed her a brandy. “Drink this. I know I’m having at least one.”
She drank and felt steadier; they regarded one another in the dim lantern light of the cabin.
“What’ll happen now?” she asked. “Now I’ve made a mess of things.”
He laughed shortly. “Well, you probably saved Miss Murphy from bearing an unwanted bastard in nine months.”
“He must’ve been listening at the door.” Grace shook her head. “Now they all know. And the doctor. I’m afraid for the children.” Her eyes filled with tears.
Reinders set his glass down. “I’ll keep Boardham in the hold until we land and you’re safely off. I have to take those who are still ill to the marine hospital, but I’ll feign ignorance, unload the well passengers first, then sail back to Staten Island.”
“Won’t they speak to the doctor?”
“I believe he’ll be tied up.” He grinned wryly. “In surgery or something. Maybe I’ll send him back to Boardham, forget he’s there. His family can disembark—they’ll understand about medical emergencies.”
She nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Captain. I’m causing you a great deal of trouble.”
He waved that off. “Will your brother meet you on the dock?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “He thinks we sailed on another ship out of Cork City, but I’ll find him. He lives above a saloon run by Mighty Dugan Ogue.”
“The boxer?” Reinders’ eyebrows went up in surprise.
“I don’t know him myself,” she admitted. “But he’s a cause man, and Sean’s been there since he come.”
“If you run into trouble, go to the Irish Emigrant Society. They have a good reputation for helping their own.” Less tense now, the captain leaned back in his chair. “I, for one, will be glad to see you swallowed up by the city.”
“Will there be trouble, then?”
Reinders shrugged. “I’ll have Boardham beaten up and thrown overboard, and I’ll let the doctor watch, then threaten him with the same. That ought to shut them both up long enough for me to lodge my own complaints and discredit them before I leave town.”
“Another voyage so soon?”
“A short one,” he said, casually. “Something important that’s been waiting for me. But then I thought I’d take a trip upstate.” Reinders smiled. “Time I did that, don’t you think, Missus Donnelly?”
“Aye, Captain. I do.”
They looked at one another for a long moment.
“Missus Donnelly.” Reinders leaned forward again, hesitating before he spoke. “I want you to know I’m not a man who places much value on the regard of others—especially those idiots who roam the society pages—but I find that your regard, your good opinion, matters very much to me.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Do you remember, Captain, what I said to you the very first day—when you asked me did I want to get off?”
He thought for a moment. “You said I had a good reputation for bringing ships through bad storms.”
“And what else?”
He frowned. “That God told you to put your life in my hands.”
“Well, then, Captain, if God has such high regard for you, how could I have anything less?” She smiled gently. “Was He right, then, do you think—to put my life in your hands?”
Reinders considered this under her steady gaze, considered it in light of her own considerable faith, and all she had been through. In one more day they would dock on Manhattan in the year 1848, to a country presided over by James Knox Polk, the eleventh president of the United States. All of these passengers—all but the sixty-five who had died—would find lodgings and jobs, carve out a living, raise their families, and slowly, slowly, the tale of their voyage to the new land would change from one of trial to one of triumph. This was what he sorely hoped.
“Yes, Missus Donnelly,” he said at last. “Yes, He was.”
She didn’t hear the call of “Land!” in the middle of the night, but in the morning when she went up on deck, there lay the coast in all its glory with its tall ships and taller buildings, clatter and commotion, clouds of dark coal dust, clouds of white steam; and up in the bow in the place that he’d claimed from the very first day—the weathered old man, his face alight with Joy.
“’Tis America, then?” She put a hand gently on his arm.
“Aye, ’tis!” He turned and hugged her fiercely. “We’ve made it, girleen! All the way across the bitter sea to the land of the free!”
He hooted gleefully and did a little jig, and she laughed to see it. She kissed him for luck, then went below again and said her good-byes to those she’d come to know—the fiddlers and pipers, the singles and couples and families, old folk and young runabout children. Liam and Mary Kate danced about her in excitement, begging, and at last they came up on deck to stay until the ship eased her way into the long quays of South Street, Manhattan, America.
The gangway went down, and passengers lined up to disembark, listening to the instructions about passing through the medical inspection building first. Grace, Mary Kate, and Liam were midway in the line when the captain approached in a clean jacket and brushed cap; he took Grace by the arm, drawing her aside.
“Get off right away,” he directed quietly. “With the first-class passengers. I’ll take you over myself.”
“My trunk.” Grace looked for it.
“Right here.” He tipped his head toward Mister Dean, who had hoisted it onto his shoulder and was waiting to follow.
He led her to the front of the line and turned her over to Mackley, who checked her off the list.
“‘Missus Gracelin Donnelly,’” the first mate read, a great grin upon his handsome face. “‘Mary Kathleen, daughter. Liam Kelley, cousin.’”
“Aye.” Grace glanced surreptitiously at the captain.
“Welcome to America, Missus Donnelly.” Mackley tipped his cap and stepped back to let her pass.
“Captain, I …”
Reinders held out his hand. “Missus Donnelly. I wish you well. And you, little miss.” He bent down to look in Mary Kathleen’s face. “You proved very seaworthy. As did you, young Master Kelley.”
“Oh, Captain.” Liam pulled himself up straight and threw a perfect salute. “I love the Eliza J, Captain!”
“Then you’ll have to come back when you’re older and learn to sail her yourself. That’s an order.”
“Oh, can I?” he breathed.
“I’ll save you a place,” Reinders promised. “Now off you go. You’re holding up the line.”
Grace looked over the boy’s head at the captain, and an understanding passed between them.
“Come and see us,” she said quietly and put out her hand.
“I will.” He held it tightly. “I’ll tell you all about my mother.”
Her eyes sparkled
and she laughed then, letting go of his hand and starting down the wooden ramp, hands on the ropes for guidance, the children behind her, Mary Kate holding Grace’s skirt, Liam’s hand on Mary Kate’s shoulder. When they reached the wharf, they turned and waved up at the captain, who took off his cap and held it over his heart. Good luck, Missus Donnelly, he thought.
“Good luck, Captain!” she called, then stepped into a new world.
Grace held her breath as they passed through the immigration station and back out into the swarming confusion of the harborfront. She spotted the runners with their green neckties immediately and beat them off before they could say a word. She saw an Irishman in his bowler and green vest, but fought the urge to approach him and was glad when she witnessed him eyeing the crowd with professional objectivity, picking out a simple, exhausted-looking family and greeting them with the exuberance of a long-lost uncle before hustling them off. He was no uncle—he’d returned in fewer than ten minutes to choose yet another harried and confused victim.
It was the same as Liverpool and she fought off her disappointment; she’d hoped for better in America, but maybe this wasn’t truly America—maybe America lay farther in, away from the docks. She sniffed the air, but it was much the same as anywhere—salt water, coal dust, fried meat, horse dung. She glanced around, but the people were no different either; different language perhaps, but the faces just as baffled, the children just as ragged as any she’d seen. The buildings along the wharf were newer and had a more modern look about them, but their intent was the same as any other building on any other wharf. It was the sound that was different, now that she listened: the English sharper and more buoyant, the slang unfamiliar but confident—coupled with winks and nods, tipping hats—the speech and manner of cocky optimists. Americans. She was surrounded by them.
“Stay close to me, now,” she admonished the children. “Sit down on top of the trunk and don’t move while I think what to do next.”
She denied the feeling of complete exhaustion, forced herself to stand and take a good look around. They were in a vast area from which narrow streets led away from the waterfront to the boulevards beyond. There were many large buildings and a number of boardinghouses—she could see signs for rooms to let, but knew now that these would be expensive and dirty, and she pitied the weary groups that made their way to the first open door.