by Ann Moore
When, at last, it was time to board, Grace found she could not lift her feet off the ground, could not step away from the land onto the gangplank.
Julia, lone witness to the growing anxiety, pulled her quietly off to one side and told her to wait. As Grace watched, she hurried down the dock, up the low bank, and across the street to someone’s fenced garden. Glancing around, she opened the gate furtively, disappeared into the shrubs, then reappeared, hurrying back to Grace.
“Give me your handkerchief,” she demanded upon her return.
Grace handed it over and watched in amazement as Julia put a handful of soil in its center, then knotted it thoroughly.
“It’s dirt!” she exclaimed.
“It’s Irish dirt,” Julia said, wiping her hands on her own skirt. “The stuff that grows potatoes and pookahs, shamrocks and warrior kings. Take it to America. And for God’s sake,” she added, “don’t throw it in the wash!”
They laughed and Grace was able to follow her up the gangplank to the main deck, where they found a place at the rail. Within minutes, the lines were untied and thrown back on the dock. The captain stood solemnly next to the first mate, who called out orders to the men who scrambled over the rigging and raised the sails. Slowly, slowly, the ship inched out of the harbor, past the other ships and fishing curraghs, past markers and buoys, then out into the sea and beyond. As Dublin faded, Grace fell silent.
“I’ll take Mary Kate to the cabin for a story,” Julia said gently, her hand on Grace’s arm. “We’ll leave you alone to say good-bye.”
Grace nodded gratefully, reluctant to take her eyes away from the disappearing land. And then she was alone, Ireland but a speck in the distance. Panic suddenly overwhelmed her and she gripped the rail to steady herself. There were others beside her, sick to their stomachs on the choppy sea, but it was a sickness of heart that afflicted Grace. How could she have agreed to leave? What madness had overtaken her thinking? How could she have ever considered risking her life and Mary Kate’s on a voyage halfway around the world with winter coming? She could have kept them hidden and alive until they were all strong enough to travel in better weather—somehow she could’ve done it. What if she never saw her father or son again? No matter that Sean waited on the other end. No matter that there was nothing left for her in Ireland—no food, no future. She bowed her head and prayed to God to still the fear that threatened to break her. In only a moment, He gave His answer, and she had a clear vision of Morgan’s face before her—head thrown back in laughter, white teeth flashing, eyes sparkling with mischief, freckles dancing down a sunburned cheek. He was singing and she heard the echo of his voice over the splash of the sea against the ship. She strained her eyes to see him clearly and there he stood, waving her off with Ellen holding his other hand, and his mother and sisters behind him; Mary with her arm around Kathleen’s waist, Gran beside with Ryan and Aghna, the little boys rolling at their feet. Moira stood beside her father, Jack, both of them with a hand on young Nolan’s shoulders. Next to them were all the faces of her neighbors and friends—Ryans, O’Dugans, the Haweses, Shane O’Daly, young Neeson—people she’d known all her life. And there was Henry, standing off to one side; Morgan beckoned him to join them, to stand with them, with her family and those she loved. They all waved and she lifted her hand and waved back, waved until the vision had faded and they were gone, and still she waved.
“Land!” someone called from the far side of the ship and Grace was left alone at the rail, her hand in the air, as the others went to see their first glimpse of England.
There was nothing but whitecaps in her wake now—no land, no family, only fleeting glimpses of what had been her only life. She pushed the palm of her hand into the ache beneath her chest and felt the rigid paper of Morgan’s letter buttoned inside her shirtwaist. Her hand flattened out upon it.
Weep for me and then be done with weeping—he’d written—for I am watching over you as I never could before.
She looked up into the clear sky.
I cannot tell you whether to go or stay, to struggle with the past or fight for the future—it said—but you, Grace, you know what is best. Listen to your own heart, and pray always to God for guidance. Trust in Him.
“I have,” she whispered. “I do.”
“Then look away now, love.”
She turned toward the strong sound of his voice, toward the front of the ship, but he was not among the passengers gathered there. She let go of the rail and stumbled with the sway, moving unsteadily across the deck to the bow from where she could see the spot of looming land. There the future lay, she knew, though the past rode hard on its heels.
“Hard to leave them all behind, agra, is it not?” asked the old man who made room for her at the rail.
She nodded.
“Where is it you’re off to, then?” He kept his eyes on the sea, squinting against the glare.
She studied his profile for a moment, the face of a thousand Irish men. She knew he had a clay pipe in his jacket pocket and the woody smell of whiskey in his beard, she knew there was soil under his fingernails and a hundred songs in his heart, she knew he’d lived a long life and lost too much hope, and that hope was the mantle of the young.
“To America,” she said, but the wind whipped the words from her mouth and hurled them into the sea. She moved closer to his ear and put a hand on the mended sleeve of his best jacket, felt beneath her fingertips the nubby Irish cloth worn old.
“Tir na nog,” she said, “Land of the Young,” and this time the words were clear and strong.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Gracelin O’Malley Trilogy
One
THE Irish Sea was behind them now. Thick fog rolled over the deck as the small ship made its way slowly up the river Mersey, the only sound that of the sharp crack of canvas sail, trimmed by the crew to catch any little wind. Only three miles to port, and all the passengers had come to the rail, wordless and watchful, readying themselves for whatever might emerge when they passed out of this world and into the next.
A glimmer of torchlight pierced the fog, and a murmur rippled through the crowd. Now they could see the riverbanks in the distance, the row of torches along the waterfront, the shadowy hulk of warehouses behind, as slowly the small vessel made her way toward the looming docks.
Ghostly figures shrouded in swirling mist drifted into view and out again; loaded wagons and men on horseback were momentarily illuminated as they passed through pools of flickering light; and the mingled shouts of sailors, vendors, immigrants, and runners were muted and fragmented as if this were a teeming city of apparitions. Gracelin O’Malley bent down to look in her young daughters wide eyes.
“Liverpool,” she whispered.
Everyone crowded to the rail, bags and satchels clutched anxiously in cold hands, mother’s and fathers counting heads, wrapping children more tightly against the damp chill of this November night. Almost all were country folk already overwhelmed by the cities of Ireland, completely unprepared for what they would find here.
Grace looked at them, her countrymen, and knew them well: the old, whose faces belied a struggle of bewilderment, exhaustion, and grief; the families—eight, nine, ten huddled together, older ones holding fast to younger; mother’s come alone with babes in arms, toddlers on hips, children clutching fistfuls of skirt. There were the eager young colleens, arm-in-arm with their dreams of employment in big houses, a half-day once a month, marriages to good lads with steady pay, babies that lived. The spinsters linked arms with no one—a factory job, a shared room, a meal each day was all they asked; they went unnoticed by the young men with faces full of false bravado who shoved and punched one another, all the while stealing anxious glances at the rough mob waiting on the docks below. Older men, grim-faced and wary, collars turned up and caps pulled low, stuffed rough working hands deep into pockets worn thin.
Grace looked at all these ragged people and knew them to be the fortunate ones—those who had somehow escaped the te
rrible hunger and suffering. They knew it, too; there was a measure of guarded relief in the way they held themselves, along with the guilt and—for the older ones, the men—humiliation. They were dependent now on the very country that had brought them to their knees; here they were, crawling into England for food, lodging, and passage to a better life—crawling like pathetic beggars when, in their hearts, they knew they were kings.
But kings did not abandon their countries, nor their countrymen, and so they kept their eyes lowered and didn’t speak unless spoken to. Some would make the long journey to Australia, hoping to reunite with family deported to Van Diemen’s Land. Others would buy a cheap passage to Canada, though more than half of these would eventually make the brutal walk down through the back country, crossing the border into the United States of America. Those with a little more money could pay their way directly to Boston or New York City, where they would be absorbed into the Irish Quarters, but those who had spent every penny just to cross the Irish Sea would find themselves battling for any menial job and a space on any floor of any room in the swelling, squalid Irish slums that now existed in every major city in England. A few might venture further inland—young men who had hired themselves out every summer as farmhands and knew the lay of the land—or travel the northern roads to Scotland, but for many of them at the ship’s rail tonight, Liverpool was the end of the line.
“Hold fast to Mary Kate now, and stay right with me when we go ashore.” Julia Martin’s voice was grim as she surveyed the docks with the eye of a general about to engage in battle. “Watch out for those boys, there, the runners. They’ll try to snatch your bag or Mary Kate, and force you to follow them God-knows-where.”
“It’s how they make their living,” Grace said, remembering her brother’s letter about the docks in New York.
“Let them make it off of someone else, I say.” Julia eyed them menacingly. “We know where we’re going, after all.”
“Can we walk to it, then?” Grace asked, tying Mary Kate’s scarf securely under her chin.
Julia hesitated. She had an address and directions that now seemed quite vague, considering the enormous warehouses and tall buildings that allowed only a glimpse of the street maze beyond.
“I don’t know that, exactly,” she admitted. “But we’d better not stand around looking lost or those thieves will be on us in a minute.” She felt for the coin purse tied inside her skirt. “I see carriages moving out in that main road beyond, but first we’ll have to get past this crowd and down over there.” She pointed to a street barely visible through the fog. “Once we’re on the main road, we’ll hire the first carriage we see and I’ll give the address to the driver as if I know exactly where it is. He’ll be less likely to take advantage of us that way.”
Grace frowned. “Should I not know the name of the place myself? In case we’re parted?”
“We’re not going to be parted,” Julia said resolutely. “Just stick close to me.”
Grace shook her head. “Much as I trust you, I’m not getting off this ship until you tell me where it is we’re going.”
Julia looked at the thin, weary young woman who was her charge and realized that she had been parted from everyone except the girl who stood by her side fiercely gripping her arm. It’s a wonder she’s got any fight left at all, Julia thought.
“It’s in Prince Edwin Street. Number four. A Mistress Brookshire is holding the room for us.”
Grace’s face relaxed and she nodded. “Thank you. Thank you,” she said again and—not for the first time—Julia found herself moved by this woman, moved by all she’d been through and by how bravely she bore it when Julia herself could hardly bear to think of all that had been lost. But she had only herself to blame—when William Smith O’Brien had broken the news of McDonagh’s death, Julia had insisted she be the one to get Morgan’s widow safely out of Ireland, and now here she was, faced with the reality of those words.
“Right,” she said, shaking off her reverie. “I’ll carry these bags. You take that one, Grace, over your shoulder. And hold on to Mary Kate with both hands.”
Grace did as she was told, looking down into her daughter’s eyes before giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.
“C’mon, then.” Grace winked. “Off on another adventure with your old mam.”
Mary Kate nodded soberly, but said nothing. She was too quiet for a three-year-old, and Grace promised herself for the hundredth time that one day soon her daughter’s steady companion would be joy instead of sorrow. Holding tightly to one another, they followed the column of figures disembarking and entered the throng of confusion on the docks.
“This way,” Julia shouted, pulling Grace and Mary Kate through the crowd to the side street that would take them to their carriage.
A sudden yank on Grace’s bag nearly pulled her off her feet, but at the same time Mary Kate was being pulled in the opposite direction. Grace hung on to both desperately as Mary Kate screamed and kicked at the boy who had her other arm.
“Ouch, bloody hell!” The little ruffian clutched his shin. “Only trying to help, missus! Takes you to good lodgings, I will! Gets yer ticket squared! Finds you good eats! I’m yer man, missus!” he insisted, trying gingerly to reapproach Mary Kate, who kicked at him again.
The other boy shouted much the same thing—he, too, could be of good service, better service!—refusing to let go of Grace’s bag. She followed Mary Kate’s example and kicked him off, her heart pounding as he fell to his knees, howling as if she had attacked him. They were tough boys and leathery, but so thin, and dressed in tattered clothing, one with rags tied round his feet instead of boots.
“Sorry,” Grace said, backing away. “I’m sorry … I …”
“Sod off, you cheeky bastards, or I’ll have the guards on you!” Julia swung her bags at them, then locked arms with Grace and hurried her toward the street.
The curses of the boys behind them stopped abruptly; Grace glanced over her shoulder and saw the two swarm a group of timid young girls huddled together under a lamp. With sudden clarity, she realized that runners—boys and men—were everywhere, first cajoling, then bullying immigrants into following them wherever they might lead. Overwhelmed, many immigrants were easily taken up and led away down alleys and narrow streets, away from the docks, away from friends and even family members. There was no one to stop it, and Grace’s heart pounded with anxiety.
They emerged from the side street onto a wide boulevard; Julia spied a carriage for hire and raised her arm, signaling to the driver that they would cross over. Realizing that the street was ill-lit and that horses, carriages, and wagons were everywhere, bolting suddenly out of the fog, Grace instinctively swung Mary Kate up into her arms, then let out a gasp of pain.
“Down!” Julia demanded instantly. “You’re not to lift anything heavy—doctor’s orders. It’s too soon after the baby!”
Grace lowered her child carefully, breathing out in a steady stream of vapor against the sharp pain in her abdomen. Blinking away tears, she gripped Mary Kate’s hand and held her close as they attempted to cross the street.
“All right, then?” Julia asked more gently. She handed their bags to the driver, then lifted Mary Kate into the carriage.
Grace nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and took up the hand Julia offered, sliding gingerly across the bench to make room. She pressed her hands across her belly, willing the pain to subside, hoping there would be no blood.
“Prince Edwin Street, please, driver,” Julia commanded.
The driver twisted around in his seat to have a good look at them. He eyed especially Julia’s good cloak and hat, the quality of the luggage, the expensive boots; then he nodded as if he’d come to a decision.
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” he said, doffing his hat. “But you’ll pay more for the price of riding to Prince Edwin Street than you will to lodge there.”
“That is our business.” Julia straightened her spine. “Drive on, please.”
The dr
iver frowned and chewed the end of his cigar. “Beggin’ your pardon again, miss,” he said firmly. “But you don’t look like the kind of ladies what lodge in that there street.”
“And why is that?” Julia asked haughtily.
“Well, you see, miss, they sleeps ’em ten to a floor there, maybe you gets blankets, maybe you don’t, but you’re still sharing the place with strangers and you being ladies and all, and I see you got a young one.”
“We’ve made prior arrangements,” Julia assured him. “There is a private room waiting for us.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s right.” The cigar worked its way over to the other side of his mouth. “All’s I’m saying to you—respectfully, of course, miss—is that your room’ll be full of others cut from different cloth, if you get my meaning. And I don’t like to say but for your own good, the lodgings in Prince Edwin Street’s known for the spreading of things, not to mention those what bring in the fever.”
“Spreading of things,” Julia repeated. “You mean, lice?”
“Them what gets all up in your hair and such, miss, is what I’m saying. Most of these Irish coming off the boats is a different class from you and they don’t notice, but they leave them little buggers—pardon me, miss—and other things beside, and not a few die before they ever get to where they’re going. Plus all the drink and rough talk and … well, it’s not proper lodging for ladies like yourselves, is all I’m saying.”
“I see.” Julia frowned ever so slightly. “And what would you suggest instead?”
“Well,” he said, his foot in the door. “My wife’s cousin’s husband runs a nice little inn, he does, not too far from here. The King George. It’s clean—I’ll promise you that on my mother’s grave—and you’ll have your own room with fresh water in the morning and a cup of tea, nice and hot, to go with your breakfast, which’ll be more’n a hard roll. Very reasonable, though it’ll be more’n you’d pay in Prince Edwin Street, I’ll give you that, as well.” He puffed the cigar, proud of his own virtue.