His mother, on the other hand, had a stubborn tenacity in confronting life that was astounding. Life had come at her with the relentless force of an avalanche, and she had simply planted her feet, tipped her head back, and dared it to sweep her away. David was old enough now to realize that he was mostly a product of her strength, her courage, her passion, her intensity. And he would ever thank her for that. So how much had he gotten from his father? Not his patience, that was for sure. Nor very much of his wisdom and sound judgment. David tended to be more spontaneous and impetuous—even rash.
He reached up and rubbed softly across the scar forming on the top of his head. Ask Sean Williams if that wasn’t true. Or Bertie Beames. He sighed. A little more of patience from his father might be good.
He returned to his previous train of thought. In these last three weeks, his respect and love for his father had grown much. Every day brought some new revelation of his father’s strength, his wisdom, even his cunning. For example, it was not until they were clearly out of danger that David realized something. Setting that fire had not only been an inspired way to get back their funds and cover their escape, but his father had set it against the back of the blacksmith’s shop—the brick blacksmith’s shop. It attracted the attention of the whole village, but the only real damage it would have done was to scorch the bricks black. No one was ever in danger, and no damage was done that would put the miners out of work, not even for a day.
David still thought of his mother every day and greatly grieved for her, but the pain was lessening a little all the time. Their flight had left him with a hollow feeling in one way. Never would he be able to sit beside her simple slate headstone. Never would he be able to lay some spring flowers on her grave. But . . . it had brought David and his father together. And maybe that was some kind of justice of its own.
Thursday, June 10, 1869
As they entered the outskirts of Liverpool, David was completely overwhelmed. On that first trip to Barnsley with his mother, he had thought they had entered the largest city in the world. Now he saw that Barnsley was but a country village compared to Liverpool.
The sidewalks were packed with people, pushing and shoving past each other, stopping to shop at the markets, all of which had sidewalk displays. Some of the streets were completely blocked off to wagons and other vehicles, and vendors had set up their wares right in the middle of the road. Most of the people they were passing were of the working classes, like themselves. But here and there he would catch sight of a couple of dandies in their long coats and tails and ruffles at their throats, or women twirling their brightly colored parasols while they held handkerchiefs to their dainty little noses.
The streets were littered with dung from cattle, sheep, goats, mules, and horses. The stench was powerful even to David, who had long ago grown used to it in the confines of the mine. And with the stink came the flies. Swarms of them. The flies were so bad, in fact, that David saw one street vendor with what looked like a platter of rice cakes filled with raisins. But when a woman stopped to look, the man made a pass with his hand and all the “raisins” flew away.
If the sidewalks were bedlam, the streets were a nightmare. Shepherds tried to keep small flocks of sheep and goats together until they could reach the butcher shops. Children darted in and out among every possible kind of conveyance—wagons, carts, coaches, gigs, grand carriages, drays, phaetons. Merchants trudged along pulling heavily laden donkeys. Several of the upper classes rode on perfectly groomed thoroughbreds. There were also hundreds of bicycles with their huge front wheels and tiny back ones. How they stayed erect as they wove in and out of the rush was astounding to David.
The cry of teamsters rent the air. They swore, they cursed, sometimes even cracking their long black buggy whips over the heads of another team. One driver of a wagon filled with huge bales of cotton savagely whipped his team forward to cut off an oncoming coach. He succeeded in locking his wheels with theirs, bringing both vehicles to a crunching halt. The drivers went at each other with their fists while the people in the coach leaned out and cheered their man on.
David’s father paid all of this little mind. He stopped three different people—all from the working classes like themselves—and asked them how to find their way to the docks. They all said the same. Keep on this street for about two miles and they would reach the River Mersey. The docks were to the right once they reached the river.
David suddenly lost interest in the bedlam around him. In one instant, he was tired of it all. It had been almost one full month since they had last slept in a bed, had a hot bath, eaten a warm meal at a table. “Can we find lodging and sleep indoors tonight, Dahd?” he asked plaintively.
“Aye. But sumthin’ a little closer ta the docks. Per’aps a wee room wit access ta a bath.”
“Promise?”
John laughed softly. “It’s been a long journey, eh, David? But it almost be over. Ah be thinkin’,” his father continued, half musing. “The less time we be ’ere, the better. So what if t’morrow we split up. What if’n Ah stay back, do the laundry, maybe start lookin’ at what we need ta buy fur our passage. An’ ya cud go doon along the docks an’ see what ya can learn aboot bookin’ passage—when the next ship sails, ’ow mooch the tickets be, an’ sooch. Whaddya think?”
“We could, but wouldn’t it be better if we worked together?”
There was a long silence, then, “Are ya naw furgittin’ sumthin’, Son? Ah cahrn’t read.”
“Oh.” David felt awful that he had forgotten that little essential.
“But Ah be real gud at doin’ laundry. Ah used ta ’elp yur mum, r’member?”
“That’s a good idea, Dahd.”
“Except thare be one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Ah don’t think Ah ever be gittin’ the body smell oot of yur shirts. Ya be as rank as a skunk in a bath hoose.”
“Hey!” David exclaimed, hardly believing that his father had just made a joke. “You should talk. Remember that last village we went through. When you went in, the dogs started barking and coming out after you, like they always do. But one whiff, and they turned tail and ran.”
“Spekin’ of dogs, ya cheeky little pup,” his father growled, “Ah be showin’ ya a thing or two if ya dun’t put a sock in it.”
“Yah, yah!” David jeered. Then he leaped aside to escape being cuffed alongside the head.
Friday, June 11, 1869
The tiny boarding room they secured was just four blocks from the dock. As David prepared to leave the next morning, his father stepped in front of the door. “Do ya r’member that Sunday be yur thirteenth bur’day, David?”
“Actually, no. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“What wud ya like fur yur bur’day, other than a ticket to America, which we be gittin’?”
“Breakfast in bed.”
“Ah be findin’ a market later. ’Ow aboot a new name instead?”
David blinked.
“Ah be guessin’ that ev’ry shippin’ cump’ny be required by law ta keep a list of all passengers. Ah think by noow ole man Rhodes be givin’ up any ’ope of findin’ us. But ’e be a stubborn ole goat. Wudn’t put it past ’im ta keep checkin’ fur a year or more.”
“But if we be in America? He can’t do anything there, can he?”
“Dunno. Prob’ly not, but Ah’d rether naw be wurryin’ aboot it. Far as Ah’m concerned, it be time fur David and John Dickn’son ta disappear, go away, vanish.”
David pulled at his lip as he considered that. The very idea felt strange, but why not? “Do you have something in mind?”
John seemed pleased that David wasn’t going to fight him on it. “’Ow aboot David Moore?”
“Hmm. Why that?”
He shrugged. “It joost cum ta mind. Ya got sumthin’ better?”
“I don’t care,” David went on. “Moore is fine, I guess. What about our first names?”
“Thot aboot that too,” John said. “But our first na
mes be pretty common. Ah think we be okay thare. Well, then, Moore it is.”
And then came a sudden thought. “No,” David blurted. “How many people in Cawthorne knew Mum’s maiden name?”
“Draper?” John rubbed his beard. “Not shure. Nobody, far as Ah know.”
“Good.” Then more softly, “I would like to take her name.”
His father gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “David and John Draper. Aye. That be mooch better.” Then, to David’s surprise, his father’s eyes were gleaming. “That be a gud way ta never forget yur mum,” he said huskily. “Thank ya, David Draper.”
David returned about half an hour before suppertime and found their room filled with shirts. trousers, smalls, and stockings hung up in every available space in their little flat. He sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
His father laughed. “It be called soap, ya lug’ead.”
“Oh.” He came over, and plopped down on a corner of a chair that held his shirt, and looked around. “Beats a creek and a rock, doesn’t it?”
“They were gittin’ purty grey after a month.” John transferred a pair of trousers from another chair, then brought it over to sit before his son. “So, what did ya find oot?”
With a flourish, David withdrew a small pad of paper. He had paid Mrs. O’Keefe, their new landlady, a penny for it and a stubby pencil this morning before he left.
“A lot. In fact, it was a wonderful day.”
“So the news be gud?”
“Really good.”
His father sat back, folding his arms. “Ah’m listenin’.”
Moving slowly so as to increase the anticipation, David unfolded the paper, smoothed it out on his leg, and began. “Here’s what we know so far. Number one. You don’t deal with ship captains or any of the sailing crew personally. Most shipping companies use agents. Number two. Almost all of the shipping agents have offices along the docks or in adjoining streets. I went to six or seven.”
“Bless yur mum fur teachin’ ya ta read.”
“Number three. There has been some terrible sickness in New Orleans—that’s a port in America—so now almost all companies go into New York, Boston, or Philadelphia.”
“That be awl reet?”
“I think so. Number four. Some of the shipping lines are American. They have shipping offices here, too. In fact, I talked to two ‘Yanks,’ as they call themselves. You think Yorkshire Tykes talk funny? You should hear them. Anyway, fares seem to be pretty much the same, American or British.”
“Still fifteen poonds?”
“Ah, now, that be the good news, Dahd.” He consulted his notes. “In the last few years there’s been a major change in shipping across the Atlantic. I guess the people Mum talked to in Barnsley a few years back made no mention of this. But, anyway, a few years ago, someone invented what they call a propeller screw—don’t ask me what that is. Different than a paddle wheel is all I know. But with the propeller screw, steamships are replacing sailing ships for passage across the Atlantic.” He was trying to contain his excitement, doling out the good news one piece at a time, hoping to build some enthusiasm in his father.
He didn’t seem that impressed. “So?”
David’s grin was huge. “So instead of two to three months to cross the ocean, it now takes only about a week.”
That got John’s attention. “Only seven days?”
“And that’s not all. The docks are all abuzz with news that has just arrived from America. The Americans have just completed what they call a transcontinental railroad.”1
“Transconta- what?”
“Transcontinental. It means it goes clear across North America.”
“An’ that be gud fur us?”
“The railroad goes from New York City to California. That’s coast to coast. That means we can go clear across America by train if we choose.”
“How fur that be?”
That caught David off guard. He hadn’t thought to ask. He just knew the people seemed very impressed with the news. “I dunno. A hundred miles or more.” He couldn’t sit still any longer. He was up, walking back and forth, consulting the paper from time to time. “Do you understand what that means for us, Dahd? The farther west we go, the less chance there be that Rhodes will ever find us. Now, with the steamships and the railroad, guess how long to go all the way to California? That’s in the far west.”
His father had no way to even venture a guess. He just shrugged.
“Before, it would have taken us about six or seven months, and that’s just traveling time.” David drew in a breath, letting the suspense build. “Now, they told me we can go from Liverpool to San Francisco—that’s in California—in just three weeks!”
His father gaped at him.
David’s grin felt like it was going to split his face. “So guess what all of this has done to the cost of traveling to America?”
John’s face fell. “Made it much higher?”
“No, Dahd. Think about it. A shipping company had to pay the crew of a sailing ship five or six months’ wages to go to the New World and back. Now they only have to pay them for two weeks to make the same trip. Think of how much savings that be for them. They save on food and other costs too.”
“Are ya sayin’ that the fares be less?”
“Aye, Dahd.” He waved the paper in his face. “The fare is now only ten pounds. What do you think of that?”
John jerked forward. “Ten?”
“Yes! So instead of thirty pounds for the both of us, we only need twenty. I just earned us ten pounds today.”
To his surprise, his father suddenly looked sad.
“What?”
“If’n we’d known that, we cud ’ave left earlier, b’fur yur mum died. Maybe . . .” He couldn’t finish it.
That hit David hard. For a long time he looked at his father, then he finally shook it off. “She could never have made it this far, Dahd, let alone to America.”
“Ah know, Ah know.”
“Oh, Dahd, I wish she were here too. It would be such a grahnd day for her.”
“Aye.” John sighed and forced a smile. “It be a grahnd day fur us, Son. And she wud be reet prood if she cud see us.”
“Maybe she can, Dahd. Maybe she can.” David began folding the paper up again, then something caught his eye. “Oh, one more thing.”
“What?”
“If this is true—and it may not be—a man told me there is another shipping company that has tickets for less than ten pounds. And—” He held up one finger to cut off his father’s exclamation. “And, he said that they include all food in the passage, unlike most of the lines, who pay for only about half of what we need.”
Again his father started to react, and again David held up his finger. “And they will help us do all the paperwork we need to leave England as part of the fare.”
“Cud that be true, ya think?” his father asked, clearly skeptical.
David shook his head. “Dunno. By then the shipping offices were all closing. I’ll—no, we’ll—go first thing in the morning and find out for ourselves.”
“What be the name of this supposed wonder cump’ny?”
David glanced at his notes. “He called it the Mormons. Don’t know if I spelled it right, but that’s what the man said. And he even told me how to find their office.”
Note
^1. The rails of the Union Pacific and Southern Pacific were joined at Promontory Point in Utah Territory on May 10, 1869.
Chapter 13
Saturday, June 12, 1869
A bell above the door tinkled as David pushed it open and stepped inside. His father followed right behind him. As they had approached the office a few minutes earlier, his father had insisted that David take the lead once they got inside. He felt awkward dealing with something he knew so little about. More than that, there would surely be things to read, and calculations to be done, and there David was clearly the one to handle things.
The office was spacious enough, but hardly
luxurious. It was well organized. There was a large desk with stacks of papers on one corner, an inkwell and blank paper on the other. Two hard-back chairs were set in front of the desk. A worktable in one corner, with a high stool beside it, held more stacks of paper. A bookshelf bore a few books and a large grey ledger. An open door revealed a short hallway where David could see daylight coming from a back room.
On the wall behind the desk hung a framed certificate of some kind. David took a step closer: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
He gave his father a questioning look. There was nothing else in the office to indicate what their business was, and the letters on the glass door said only, “LDS Emigration Company.”
A chair scraped somewhere, then there were footsteps. A moment later, a man appeared in the hallway. He was an older man, in his late forties or early fifties, a bit overweight but with a pleasant countenance. “Good morning,” he said with a broad smile. “May I help you?”
An American, was David’s first thought. Good. “Yes. My name is David Dick—” He caught himself. “David Draper. This is my father, John Draper.”
The man stepped forward and shook their hands with vigorous enthusiasm. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Brother Daniel Miller.”
David shot his father a quick look. Brother Miller? Was he a Quaker, by chance?
“Come in, come in.” He motioned toward the two chairs. “How may I help you?”
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