Our Destiny Is Blood

by Clare Daly

  ‘Something tells me you’re in a hurry,’ she winked. ‘You’d be wanting one of Bricker Murphy’s boys. They’ll take it no question. Give you a few bob for it. Where you headed?’

  ‘America,’ he said.

  ‘You and your girl, get yourselves to the Gresham Hotel back up there on the right. A coach goes from outside to the docks and it’ll take you where you want to go. Find you the right ship. It’s a shame to see so many of you leaving,’ she said. ‘It’s disgusting what’s happened to this country.’

  She spotted a scruffy-looking boy in a worn peak cap and gestured to him. The boy was barely in his teens yet he carried himself with authority – his shoulders back, chin high, his face serious with the business at hand. He leaned into her as she whispered something in his ear. He looked up at Michael and then to the horse and cocked his head for them to follow him.

  ‘Good luck to you both,’ the woman said and she pushed the cart onwards, singing to herself.

  The boy smiled at Evelyn – a practised smile – the corners of his mouth rising but that sobriety still lingering in his eyes. What choice did they have but to follow him? They needed that money. To their right, a laneway ran back from the cobbled street. Half way down, the boy put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Behind them, three more boys appeared, one slightly older than the other two, wearing a battered old top hat, sitting on a bird’s nest of unkempt hair and a coat that was older than all of them put together.

  ‘You want rid of your horse?’ he said.

  ‘How much?’ said Michael.

  The boy laughed. ‘We won’t be paying you today. We’ll just be taking. Lads…’

  One of them sank a punch into Michael’s ribs, before snatching the reins of the horse. Evelyn caught his arm. She would not be the victim again. She would fight them if she had to. Burn them all. No-one was taking that horse. A high-pitched whistle sounded behind them, accompanied by the heavy footfall of two burly constables. The gang scarpered, the young boy reefing his coat away just as she felt the heat intensify. He flung himself onto the horse’s back and kicked his heels into it, saluting Evelyn as he galloped away. The others had either run or shimmied up the drainpipes to the low roofs behind. Quick and efficient with practice.

  Michael pulled her arm, making a run for it, the two constables in pursuit. Victims, they may be, but the horse wasn’t theirs to sell, and as for the wellbeing of its owner – well, it was best to avoid that conversation altogether. They had no choice but to flee.

  Michael was finding it hard to catch his breath as he ran. He’d been winded and the running wasn’t helping. He stumbled and she thought he might fall but he swerved to his right, into an open doorway. A darkened hallway, with boxes stacked high either side, led to a bright room beyond and a startled shop girl, who jumped back in fright. Flanagan’s – First Choice for Gentleman. The words were printed on a sign over the counter with a portrait of a tailor, presumably Mr. Flanagan. The real man stood below as if he’d only just sat for the artist, right down to the pomade in his hair and the tape measure around his neck that he held looped with one hand. He stood behind the counter of silk neckerchiefs and cufflinks, stunned by their invasion. He was slight of frame and had no desire it seemed, to intervene.

  ‘Lock the door,’ a constable cried out behind them. But the tailor froze. One of his customers, an elderly gentleman, in an attempt to find the quickest remedy, held the shop door open. As he passed, Michael took a hat from a nearby stand and Flanagan found his voice.

  ‘Thieves! Thieves!’

  But they were gone, back into the bustle of Sackville Street again, the pavement thronged, the road a sea of moving carriages. They ran between the horses, Michael taking her hand as he eyed a coach loading trunks outside the Gresham Hotel.

  ‘You do the talking.’ he said, planting the hat firmly on his head and pulling down the brim.

  Evelyn paid the driver and soon they were safely inside, as the coach rumbled along. Outside the post office, half a dozen constables had gathered. One of them, his uniform decorated with medals, held one of the boys by the scruff of the neck. She sank back into the seat, away from the window. Above them, Horatio Nelson towered atop his granite pillar – a captain at the helm of a sinking ship.

  13

  The sight of the river was a welcome relief. Even the smell of sewage into the cabin, would not deter the gladness of its waters as they rode over the cobblestones to the docks. Sitting opposite them were a couple in their twenties, their young son asleep on his mother’s lap. The father stared at Michael, assessing the danger of the dishevelled man opposite, his grip tightening around his wife’s shoulder. Evelyn was worried. How were they going to board a ship if they couldn’t afford the passage? Stowing away would be tricky, especially for two of them and it was a long journey to remain invisible from crew and paying passengers. They wouldn’t survive it. Perhaps they could get as far as Liverpool? Her dream of America was fading before her eyes. Michael’s thoughts had also turned to their finances. He dug his hand into his pocket to count their coins. When it came up empty, he patted them all in desperation. Their money was gone.

  ‘He must have taken it when he punched me,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘And it didn’t even take until nightfall.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. We didn’t have far to fall anyway. We were paupers to begin with.’

  The coach jolted as it came to a stop. A sign, painted emerald green across the front of a large warehouse said ‘Fortfield’s Shipping’. There was an office to one side, while the rest concerned itself with the storage of goods for distribution or export. The driver began to unload the passengers’ luggage, seeing the uncertainty on their faces.

  ‘If you’re stuck, just ask Maggie. You can’t miss her. She’ll set you right.’

  The room inside was very official. Two men and a woman sat behind a counter topped with iron bars. So, this was the pit into which the Irish economy had fallen, the poor simply tipped upside down, their pockets emptied and sent abroad. A queue wound back from each agent, and so they joined what must be Maggie’s line and waited. Above their heads on a large chalk board was the next departure:

  3 O’CLOCK – THE ELEANORA –

  LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND/NEW YORK, AMERICA – £4

  She desperately wanted to be on it. Whatever they proposed, she would take it. She was going to New York – even if she had to swim there. The young woman ahead of them turned to leave, her hand gripping a piece of paper tightly to her chest, as if a sudden wind might erupt and blow it out of her grasp. They stepped forward and Evelyn felt the woman’s eyes judging them already. She must see thousands like them – nothing left anymore to hold them in Ireland – and she sent them out to conquer a new world or let it be their ruination. She did not feel the burden of it, she was sure for her manner was so brisk, you could cut yourself on the edges of her.

  ‘Destination?’

  ‘New York,’ they answered in unison.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And I presume you don’t have the fare?’

  ‘We’ve nothing,’ Evelyn said.

  ‘Well then, these are the terms of travel. Take it or leave it. If you wish to sail, you sign a contract of indentured servitude – meaning on arrival at port, the Captain will pass on your contract to those looking for workers. You will work for a period of five years for your employer after which you’ll be free to go about your business.’

  Satisfied that they hadn’t run away at the notion, she took out two pieces of paper and began writing.

  ‘You first,’ she said to Michael. ‘Name? Age?’

  ‘Michael O’Neill. Twenty.’

  ‘Read and write?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Skills?’

  ‘I’m a farmer,’ he said.

  ‘No good for this. Anyt
hing else?’

  ‘I’m good with my hands, carpentry, that sort of thing.’

  She scribbled something down before stopping midway to look at his face.

  ‘Are you a drunk?’

  ‘No. Chance would be a fine thing.’

  She cracked a smirk. ‘New York will eat you alive if you are.’

  ‘I’m a hard worker. Just fallen on bad times.’

  ‘I can see that,’ she said.

  Her eyebrows rose again and Evelyn wondered how many times a day they did that. They must ache at the close of business. She threw them now towards her.

  ‘Are you Mrs O’Neill?’

  ‘No, he’s my brother.’

  ‘Right, well. There’s no guarantees you’ll get to stay together over there. You take your chances like everyone else.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘Name and age?’

  ‘Evelyn, seventeen. I can cook and sew.’

  ‘A maid,’ she said as she wrote. ‘Good.’

  ‘Read and write?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her mother had instilled the importance of it from a very early age.

  ‘Okay...sign here.’

  She handed the sheets of paper to them and they each signed their names.

  ‘Now take it to Captain Pearse on the Eleanora. He’ll give you the once over and if he thinks you fit for the contract, he’ll sign it for you. He wants to be paid in New York mind, so you’ll have to show some enterprise with him. Go on now, take yourselves off.’

  ‘Mr O’Neill?’ Evelyn said as they stepped back out on the river.

  ‘Yeah, do you like it? New start – in case anyone comes looking for us.’

  ‘Well, I’m dead,’ she said. ‘Or so everyone thinks.’

  ‘Well, then it’s the freshest start anyone ever had, isn’t it?’

  There was something delicious about the notion – a chance to reinvent herself. Be someone else, someplace else. They crossed the grey cobblestones to George’s Dock and looked for the Eleanora. There were ships all along the quay wall. Most were large cargo ships, bringing in coal, sugar and other luxuries destined for this and other ports. The Eleanora drifted shabbily among them. Its paint was peeling on the portside and where there had once been a clean red stripe of paint, it had been flayed away by the salty air, revealing the timber underneath. They joined a queue of people making their way slowly over the gangway. Two boys were talking in front of them.

  ‘I heard they can get three hundred on board, pack us to the rafters,’ said the older boy of about fourteen, jumping up and down to get a better look.

  ‘Three hundred! She’d sink, Tom. She’s not going to sink, is she Tom?’

  The smaller boy’s lips were trembling and he looked on the verge of tears.

  ‘Don’t be silly, these things are as strong as an ox. We’ll be grand. You stick with me, Bill. I’ll look after you.’

  ‘I can’t swim,’ said the boy, a tear escaping to roll down his cheek.

  ‘Well I can, so we’ll be grand,’ Tom said.

  He noticed Michael and Evelyn behind him and put both hands on the boy’s shoulders.

  ‘It’ll be brilliant, you’ll see.’

  As they reached the gangway they caught their first glimpse of Captain Pearse. He was smartly dressed, the buttons gleaming on his navy double-breasted coat, his grey ponytail neatly tied under his bicorne hat. He was examining someone’s ticket with great interest, turning it over in his hands. Had it been a coin, he would surely have bitten it between his teeth.

  ‘Very good,’ he said ushering the people on board.

  ‘You’re travelling alone?’ he asked the two boys, taking their tickets.

  ‘Yes, Sir’ said Tom. ‘We’re joining our father in New York. He sent us the tickets. Ma is too sick to go but she’ll follow when she’s better.’

  ‘Very well. Below deck now with you boys. We sail in an hour.’

  He waved an impatient hand for Michael and Evelyn to come forward, taking their papers. ‘Servitude?’

  ‘Yes, Sir’, Michael said.

  ‘Do you understand the contract? Five years?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Have Doctor Elliott look at that face when you board. And I can tell you, I won’t have any trouble, do you hear?’

  ‘There’ll be no trouble from us, Captain,’ Michael said.

  ‘Good. I’d hate to have to throw you to the sharks.’

  He leaned on a wooden crate beside him and signed both contracts, handing them back to them.

  ‘Miss O’Neill.’ He nodded towards Evelyn.

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said and they crossed the gangway. There were over a hundred people on board already. Many had taken a look below at their lodgings and come straight back up, keen to take in the civilised air again before they had to succumb to their dwellings. Some clung to the sides, shouting farewells to loved ones on the docks. Michael and Evelyn held onto the ceiling ropes as they made their way down the narrow stairs.

  ‘How are you supposed to do this at sea?’ Michael said.

  ‘Maybe we’re not,’ she replied. ‘Maybe we’re to stay where we are.’

  A peculiar smell was coming up the stairs, stronger and more pungent with every step. It emanated from the main hold – a mix of urine, sweat and vomit. An old mop and bucket stuck out of a nearby doorway but Evelyn doubted any amount of mopping could make it go away.

  ‘Christ,’ Michael said, putting his sleeve to his mouth.

  The room extended the length of the ship. On each side, built into the hull were two dozen large wooden bunks, big enough to take four adults lying down end to end, though they were already overpacked and creaking with the extra weight. Running down the centre was a long dining table with benches either side. Two lanterns lit the entire room, which meant that most of it was in shadow. They could just make out the notice that hung on the wall.

  STRICTLY FORBIDDEN:

  Smoking

  Naked flames and candles

  Swearing

  Fighting

  Gambling

  Spitting

  Alcoholic Beverages

  By order of Captain John Pearse

  ‘Rules me out so,’ Michael said. Evelyn gave him a playful jab in the ribs. He groaned in pain.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ she said. ‘Let’s find the ship’s doctor and get him to have a look at you.’

  She eyed the list again as they passed and shuddered at the thought of a fire below deck; a flaming ship with hundreds of burning souls, clawing their way up the narrow staircase. She flexed her fingers. Would she be able to control her gift in such a confined space? Was she a hazard to them all?

  By the time they fought their way back up the stairs, there was barely an inch to move. With the last of the luggage on board, Captain Pearse signalled to the first mate to begin preparations for sailing. Crewmen stood on the pin rails either side, holding onto the rigging and shouting at the top of their voices. All passengers were to move below deck. Evelyn felt Michael’s hand pull her towards the rail. A tall man of about thirty stood there talking to a number of passengers. There was no mistaking the ship’s doctor. He wore a long black fitted overcoat, black trousers and a white shirt with a pale blue cravat tied neatly at his neck. He had brown curly hair with long sideburns that he grew along his jawline almost meeting his large mouth, which grimaced as he examined a man who stood with his mouth open, tongue extended. On his nose, were a delicately balanced pair of wire rimmed spectacles that he adjusted upwards every few seconds as he spoke. Michael and Evelyn waited patiently despite the cries of the crew to go below deck. The doctor at last turned to them.

  ‘I’m afraid you must go down to the hold,’ he said.

  ‘Please doctor,’ she said. ‘My brother was attack
ed as we travelled and I did what I could to sew his wound but I fear for infection. Could you take a quick look? Please?’

  ‘You sewed it?’ he asked. He turned himself to get a better view of Michael’s face.

  ‘Ah, it’s nasty but not too deep and the bleeding has stopped. You did a good job my dear, very good. You must keep it covered now to prevent infection. I’ll give you some dressing. Just for a few days and then the sea air will do it good. I’ll remove those stitches then. I recommend you allow a beard to grow, Sir, as you’ll not be able to shave for some time until it heals.’

  He took up a worn leather bag at his feet. Inside it, were all sorts of medical provisions, tiny jars strapped into leather encasements. He opened one and tapped a little of the powder into a vial, handing it to Michael with the dressings.

  ‘It’s willow bark. Take it with some cold boiled water. It will stop the inflammation and help with any pain.’

  Michael thanked him. The doctor smiled at Evelyn, and then said, ‘You are lucky to have such good help, Sir. This young lady is good to have in a dangerous situation. Are you hurt yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no. I’m fine.’

  ‘You take care and if you need me on the journey don’t hesitate to come to me. I’ll be very busy, you’ll see, but I try to make time for everyone. Now I suggest you go downstairs before Mr. Harper there, throws you overboard.’

  The second mate, Ronald Harper was scowling at them. The deck was almost cleared and they were among the last above, save for the crew, which Evelyn counted at nine – ten if she included the doctor. Below deck there were others too, a handful or so. They’d passed the cook on the stairs, his apron already grubby and a sailmaker who carried reams of extra fabric should they be needed on the crossing. As the gangplank was taken aboard, two of the men climbed up the main mast to secure and check the middle and main sails. The ship creaked and popped under the weight of its cargo.

  They joined the queue as people filed into the hold. Already the place was suffocating. Every bunk was full to capacity and the long benches were all occupied, with some sitting on the table. They found a spot beside the door and sat down on the sawdust, their backs propped against the wall. The first mate, a man called McGregor, strode into the room and stood at the top of the long table.