sat on a crate, poke baggage at her feet, riding the ferry across Upper Bay to the city. The November wind lashed at her cheeks on this sunless, dismal day as she looked back at Staten Island and the hospital facilities that stood high on the hill. She raised her eyes to heaven. “I pray it’ll be the last I ever see of that place,” she said softly. Then she turned to look at the nearing shoreline of the island of Manhattan. And even as I live and work here, she told herself with resolve, I’ll never look across the water again! Callie did not seem to be alone in her thinking. As she looked about at the other passengers, not a single head was turned back towards Tompkinsville; all eyes were searching the city before them, looking to the future, determined to forget the past.
The open ferry slid soundlessly into its berth. The engine belched steam, and its whistle blew with an asthmatic groan to herald its arrival at the South Street port. Falling into step with the other passengers, Callie walked the cobbled slope into the busy terminal. Hustled and jostled, she found a relatively quiet corner against a window looking out onto the streets of New York. Byrch Kenyon had told her the truth; the street was not paved in gold nor did anyone here seem especially prosperous. New York City seemed to hold the same ragged masses as did Dublin. Long lines of travelers and peddlers waited to be taken across on the returning ferry to Tompkinsville. Vendors selling hot chestnuts and peculiar twists of bread plied their wares. Men pushed wooden-wheeled carts filled with rags or vegetables; others sold apples at three cents apiece. That was something she’d have to learn, American dollars and cents. She’d had a taste of it during the quarantine, and it seemed simple enough. Patrick had shown her a silvered coin and told her it was called a nickel. Callie had decided it was her favorite. Still, all manner of money was acceptable to these Americans. The lead-colored shilling she had saved from Uncle Jack’s generosity, the copper penny, and the little round ha’penny were all safely stowed away in a little drawstring pouch pinned to her chemise.
Callie huddled into her corner, waiting for the appearance of cousin Owen. Most of her fellow passengers from the ferry had left the terminal, having been met by family or friends or wandered into the city on their own. Porters, or runners, as Callie had heard them called, wrestled with crates and baggage, checking names against tags and extending their hands for gratuities reluctantly given. As she waited, apprehension was churning in Callie’s breast. She had no way of knowing who, among these men loitering about the terminal, might be Peggy’s cousin. For that matter, he had no way of knowing her either. Colleen had sent him a description of herself as he had asked, stating her height and weight and bright auburn hair. But where Callie was diminutive, Colleen was tall and buxom; where Colleen was bright-haired and freckled, Callie felt as brown and dim as a backyard wren. Also, there was the difference in their ages: Colleen was almost nineteen and already a woman; Callie was just sixteen but looked even younger. Would Cousin Owen be terribly disappointed?
A small man, wearing what Callie could only think of as a horse blanket tailored into a jacket and trousers, was staring at her across the nearly empty terminal. She could feel his eyes boring into her even though she looked away. Was this the way Americans dressed? Bright tweeds and boxy plaids, walking sticks and jaunty caps? A shiny stickpin was prominently displayed in the fold of his cravat. A diamond? Glass? Whatever, it was big enough to choke the horse who’d lost the blanket. As she had feared, the flamboyantly attired man approached her, a lopsided grin breaking across his narrow face. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss, but you wouldn’t be Colleen O’Brien, would you?”
It was clear to Callie that the man truly hoped she wasn’t. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said importantly, “Owen Gallagher, Miss. I was awaiting the arrival of my cousin from Dublin, Colleen O’Brien.”
She searched for her voice, knowing how disappointed he would be when she told him. “I’m Callie James, your cousin Peg’s oldest girl. Colleen couldn’t come because she’s getting married. She gave me the ticket you sent, instead.” There, it was out. Let him make of it what he would. If he didn’t want her, couldn’t help her, then let him send her back, and pray God he did.
Owen Gallagher tipped his cap back, revealing a high forehead and thin, tight blond curls. Hands on hips, he looked up and down the length of her, his features tightening, with disapproval. Callie spoke up. “I’m young and I’m strong, and I can give a good day’s work!” She realized that if Peggy and the family were to survive, she must make her way here in America.
Owen Gallagher continued to look her up and down. He was thinking he had bought himself a pig in a poke. What good was this child to him? Thirteen, if she was a day, and her hair was an abomination. Men like to run their fingers through a woman’s hair. True, her hair was thick and glossy and tumbled around her head in wicked little curls, but she’d been shorn like a sheep in springtime. For sure, this little lamb wouldn’t get him a return on his investment of a ticket from Ireland. She looked as though a good wind would blow her over, and he didn’t like the sound of the cough she tried to hide. On the other hand, she was the picture of an Irish lass: fair skin, pink cheeks, clear blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, and a pert little nose that pointed straight up to heaven. There were men who had appetites for the very young—the younger and smaller the more they paid. No, all wasn’t lost, Gallagher told himself, suddenly pleased. Especially considering that this little one had no one to depend upon but himself. She’d be putty in his hands. The older, more independent Colleen might have taken it into her head that she didn’t need nor want cousin Owen’s protection.
Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, he walked around Callie, appraising her carefully. She squirmed beneath his inspection. She didn’t like cousin Owen; he was as slick as a greased pig at the fair.
“How old are ya? How much do you weigh?”
“What’s it to you, sir?” The title of respect was said with sarcasm. “You paid for my ticket and here I am.” No, she didn’t like cousin Owen, and though there were no snakes in Ireland, she’d seen pictures of them in the Bible, their black reptilian eyes staring out from the page, the soul behind them hidden from view. Owen Gallagher had such eyes.
“A sharp tongue won’t serve you here, girlie. Be nice and polite,” he admonished, a hard edge in his voice raising the hackles on the back of Callie’s neck.
Something in Callie shrank from this man who was supposed to be her protector. As she had since she was a wee child, to save herself the shame and embarrassment of showing weakness, Callie stared at him levelly, pursing her full lips and tilting her chin upwards, steeling herself, holding back her fear.
“Feisty little thing, ain’t cha?” Gallagher sneered. “Don’t be getting hoity-toity with me, Miss. The way I sees it, you owe me the price of a ticket from Ireland to New York. You cheated me by showin’ up instead of Colleen, and the law won’t look too kindly on that, I can tell you.” He leaned so close to her that she could smell the liquor on his breath. “And don’t be thinkin’ I won’t go to the law just because you’re family. A deal’s a deal, and the honest business man is treated fairly here in America.” His words had the impact he intended. She shrank back against the wall; he could hear her breathing, sharp and erratic, but damn it all, she still had that look of defiance about her. Instinct told him this piece of fluff was going to make trouble. He should just forget the loss of her fare from Ireland and let her go her own way. After all, what was a few pounds to a man who always had the jingle of a coin in his pocket and still more hidden under the floorboards in his basement flat? But studying her more closely, he recognized a good deal of potential in this girl. She was young and small, and if he was any judge, her hips would be slim as a boy’s and her chest not much more developed. She would be a good one to add to his stable, allowing him to cater to some men’s specialized preferences.
Owen backed off a step or two, giving Callie breathing room. “Since you’re here, you can come along with me. But don’t forget, I won’t put up with any shenanigans.” It was a threat; it was a promise.
“I’m a hard worker; I’ll give a good day’s work for a day’s pay. I can read and write and do numbers—”
“Oh! A real educated Miss, I see. Well, you won’t get nowhere unless you know when to keep your mouth shut. What I have in