“And so you will,” Callie assured her. “Look about you. All these people can’t be wrong, can they?” Even to her own ears her confidence struck a false note. “Sit back and rest, Mrs. Thatcher.”
“Please, call me Beth. That’s Patrick’s name for me.”
Callie smiled; whenever Patrick Thatcher’s name was spoken a soft, loving glow came over Beth’s face. It reminded her of the way Peggy’s face and tone softened whenever she thought of Thomas. She fervently hoped that Patrick Thatcher was more of a doer than a dreamer. Thinking about Peggy and Thomas made Callie homesick. For distraction, she looked to little Paddy.
“Would you like to sit up on one of these barrels?” she asked.
Paddy nodded, and Callie slipped down and lifted the child onto the barrel beside hers. She was stunned at how thin and frail he felt in her arms. The layers of clothes he wore made him seem more robust than he was. She didn’t need a doctor or the child’s mother to tell her he was consumptive. Poor tyke. The wet, damp sea journey would do him no good, and from the looks of Beth, it wouldn’t do her any good either. Her pregnancy was advanced, and if she could hold it that long, the babe would be born in America. If there was one thing Callie knew about, it was pregnancy. Hadn’t she watched her own mother through five of them?
Callie settled Paddy and then propped up several pieces of the soft baggage beneath Beth’s head. “It was wise of your husband to limit the baggage,” Callie said approvingly. “I’ve only been in Liverpool two days, but I can tell you it pays to travel light. I’ve seen those with too much baggage who cannot move about without the aid of carts and wagons, and I’ve seen those who were as good as nailed to the spot because they had to sit guard on their boxes and trunks.”
“My Patrick is as smart as men come,” Beth agreed. Not for anything did she want to think about all the household goods Patrick had sold to buy passage across the Atlantic. Not for anything did she want to remember the huge family Bible that had been passed down to her from her mother’s mother, or the fine linen tablecloths, or Paddy’s first pair of shoes, and the low, wooden cradle into which generations of Kellys had placed their newborn babes. Gone, all of it. Never to be seen again.
“Why don’t you take a short nap until your husband comes back? I’ll care for the boy. I’ll tell him a story the way I used to do for my own little brothers. You can trust me, Beth.”
It never occurred to Beth that Callie couldn’t be trusted. Her eyes were already half-closed, and it was a great relief to leave Paddy to another’s care. She knew this pregnancy was a terrible drain on her. She should have convinced Patrick to wait until after the baby was born. But his arguments had made so much sense. “A babe in the arms is more difficult and more vulnerable than one in the belly,” he told her. And what of washing dirty nappies? And where would they find milk if hers gave out as it had with little Paddy? “And besides, think of it, Beth. The first Thatcher born an American citizen!”
Beth had wanted to argue, to find some other answer, but she couldn’t destroy Patrick’s dream. She would never deprive him of anything he wanted or needed. Whatever was best for Patrick was best for her and Paddy. Patrick loved them, so it had to be right.
Paddy cuddled against Callie, and soon he too was asleep. Glancing down at him, she was touched by the delicate blue lines in his eyelids and the unhealthy bright spots in his cheeks. She was certain he was feverish. Tenderly she cradled him closer, remembering tiny Joseph and his lusty, demanding cries. Surely Mrs. Thatcher realized her son was ailing. Or did she, like so many others, attribute her child’s puniness to the hard times they’d suffered?
The day was becoming colder, the wind whipping the relentless rain into wet and clinging curtains. The steamer trip from Dublin to Liverpool had been a trial of endurance. There was no shelter for the passengers; the hogs and poultry between decks enjoyed better accommodations. The inner layers of Callie’s garments were still damp, and the waistband of her drawers and petticoats chafed her slender body.
Leaning back against the cold masonry wall, Callie sighed. She knew she should be down at the Black Ball offices seeing to her own passage instead of playing sentry for Beth and Paddy Thatcher. In the two days she had been in Liverpool, she had learned the hard facts of being an emigré. First, no ship sailed until its hold was filled with cargo. In the case of the Yorkshire, the ship on which cousin Owen had booked her, it would be at least another day till sailing. The agent in the ticket office where she had to confirm her passage had pointed out the tall, masted ship as she lay at anchor in the Mersey River, her furled sails hanging like shrouds in the bleak light, her hull lolling in the muddy waters like a huge, black sea bird. Callie had never seen such a preponderance of ships and steamers of all description. The muddy Mersey was trafficked by an endless line of steamers plying up and down the river to various landing places. Steam tugs and small boats with familiar dark red or tan-colored sails that were oiled to resist the wet darted in and out of the larger ships like scurrying insects. Yachts and pleasure boats rode at anchor, the commercial packet boats having precedence for dock space. Most common of all were the small black steamers whizzing industriously along, many of them crowded with passengers.
Resisting the impulse to close her eyes in sleep, Callie decided the ticket agent and the validating of her passage could wait. She was needed here to watch over her charges, to protect them should a cutthroat approach them demanding money or worse. If only there was somewhere to go to eat a proper meal and sleep in a proper bed. Such a thing was impossible, Callie knew. Thousands of people were stranded in the city, many of them seeking nonexistent employment or living the best way they could. Too often a man would find himself the victim of robbery or a poorly dealt game of cards, stripping him of the money he would have used to purchase packet tickets, leaving him and his family with nowhere to go.
The dark and dingy streets were peopled by the poorer than poor. Women openly nursed children at their breasts; men, haggard and often drunk, wandered the roads and byways, sleeping in doorways. Sick and dirty children begged on street corners. It seemed that every few steps there were taverns, and the buildings were plastered with placards advertising strong drink and food. It seemed to Callie that the entire city was geared to the business of emigration—Ship brokers, provision merchants, eating places, and public houses. And everywhere were signs advertising the Cunard Line, the Black Ball Line, and various ships. Public-service posters were squeezed in every available space. One especially chilled Callie to the bone:
TO EMIGRANTS
CHOLERA!
CHOLERA having made its appearance on board several Passenger Ships proceeding from the United Kingdom to the United States of America, and having, in some instances, been very fatal, Her Majesty’s Colonial Land and Emigrations Commissioners feel it their duty to recommend to the Parents of Families in which there are many young children, and to all persons in weak health who may be contemplating Emigration, to postpone their departure until a milder season. There can be no doubt that the seasickness consequent on the rough weather, which Ships must encounter at this Season, joined to the cold and damp of a sea voyage, will render persons who are not strong more susceptible to the attacks of this disease.
To those who may Emigrate at this season the Commissioners strongly recommend that they should provide themselves with as much warm clothing as they can, and especially with flannel, to be worn next to the Skin; that they should have both their clothes and their persons quite clean before embarking, and should be careful to keep them so during the voyage, and that they should provide themselves with as much solid and wholesome food as they can procure, in addition to the Ship’s allowance to be used on the voyage. It would, of course, be desirable, if they can arrange it, that such persons should not go in a Ship that is much crowded, or that is not provided with a Medical Man.
By Order of the Board
S. WALCOTT,
Secretary (sic)
Someone was making a bad joke, Callie frowned. Clean clothing, extra food, uncrowded ships! Whoever S. Walcott was, he evidently had no idea of the circumstances of the people in Liverpool. Take poverty, add cholera, and you’ve got disaster.
Closing