with a great deal of coarse black hair and low-set pointed ears that framed a peculiarly wrinkled face.
The officer directed the women to board the wagon. “I’ve two more for you, Flea,” he said to the waiting driver. “Go on then.” He gave one of the women a little push toward the wagon. “You’ll be looked after.”
Luke was so bemused by the novelty of the man’s name and appearance that he watched the scene for a minute or so before it occurred to him to wonder what was going on. It was possible, he supposed, that some benevolent organization, perhaps one of the churches, had organized some sort of relief system for young emigrant women separated from their families. Or maybe employment had been arranged for them at a factory or in domestic service. He hoped that this was the case, but the fact that the wagon had been waiting around the corner, hidden almost, lent a sinister air to the scene.
“Hans says he’s a little short this week, but he’ll make it up to you next,” said the man called Flea. And he handed a package to the officer.
“Tell him he’d better. One more short week and the arrangement is off.”
“Come on now, Badger, and who would you be dealing with if you don’t deal with Hans?” Flea replied. “Ye’ll take what he gives you.”
“Irish bastard,” the officer muttered under his breath, but he turned away as he said it. It was then that he noticed Luke. “And what do you want?” He pulled a truncheon from a loop at his waist and held it at the ready.
Luke had been curious, that was all, but realized that an excuse for his presence might be a provident thing to provide. He seized upon the first thing that occurred to him.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “I just wondered if any of these young ladies might know him.” He turned to the women sitting sullenly in the wagon. “Do you know anyone named Charley Gallagher?”
At the mention of the name, the man called Flea spat and fixed him with a glare.
“What do you want with Gallagher?” he asked.
Luke shrugged. “I don’t want anything with him. I was just asked to make inquiries about him. Apparently he was expected some time ago by a neighbour of mine.”
Flea’s eyes narrowed. “And where does this neighbour of yours live?”
“A long way from here,” Luke said. “You won’t ever have heard of it.”
He could see that the officer was puzzled by this exchange. Whatever the name Gallagher meant to Flea, it was apparently nothing to do with the man called Badger. “You’ll have to move along,” he said. “There’s no loitering here.”
Luke hesitated. Should he demand an explanation of what was going on? He had no real objection to make — only an uneasy feeling that the driver looked suspicious and that the women were vulnerable. Besides, Badger was evidently acting in some official capacity and he carried a very heavy truncheon.
“Thank you for your time,” he said politely and turned away. He hoped he was doing the right thing. He headed back to the wharf, with the distinct impression that he had somehow narrowly avoided some serious trouble. Perhaps his imagination had run away with him. He hoped so.
The encounter did, however, remind him of the promise he had given. He would see if there was anyone at the wharves who kept a list of the emigrants who had arrived. With some difficulty, and a great deal of misdirection from the labourers who worked the docks, he was eventually directed to the emigration office.
There was a counter inside, behind which a clerk was scratching away at a sheaf of papers.
“I’m wondering if you could help me,” Luke said. “I’m looking for someone.”
“You and the whole rest of the world,” the clerk said without looking up. “What’s the name?”
“Gallagher.”
The clerk sighed, and grabbed a pile of papers to his right, again without looking up. Quickly he scanned his lists.
“No Gallaghers today,” he said.
“He was expected some time ago.”
“He’s probably been held back. You’d have to check at the other ports.”
“Held back? Why?”
The clerk looked at him as though he was being deliberately obtuse.
“Because of the fever,” he said. “Sick emigrants are held in quarantine. Where have you been that you haven’t heard? The whole province is in an uproar about it.”
Of course. The scene he had just witnessed at Toronto’s harbour must be happening at other ports as well. “I’m sorry,” Luke said. “I’ve just arrived from Huron. Do you keep lists of those who were kept back?”
“No. I have lists of those who have arrived here. I have no lists for those who didn’t.” The clerk finally raised his head to look at Luke. “The records are in a shambles anyway. There are hundreds of emigrants on every ship. Some of them die on the way over, some of them die in quarantine, the rest of them are piled on steamers and brought up the lake. We do our best to keep track of them all, but chances are nobody will find anybody until the season ends and the dust settles. Sorry.” And with that he went back to his paperwork.
Luke wandered back outside, stunned by the notion of hundreds of people aboard each ship. Even in the backcountry, they had heard that there would be a lot of emigration this year, but hundreds multiplied by what? How many ships crossed the Atlantic in a season? Another hundred? The sheer number of people on the move was staggering, and what on earth were they all supposed to do when they finally got here?
At the wharf outside the emigration office, the steamer that had just deposited its load of passengers was being swabbed down, buckets of water thrown haphazardly over the decks, followed by a cursory mopping. Luke hoped that this was not the vessel he would be boarding shortly. This boat had just dumped a number of very sick people on shore, and he doubted that the random sloshing of water around the decks would do anything to disinfect the craft. He resolved to spend his coming journey outside, on the deck of the ship, and to avoid entering the cabin or going below decks. He wasn’t entirely sure where malignant fever came from, but surely fresh air would do much to blow it away.
When it came time to board, he realized with relief that it was a different vessel entirely — one of the packet ships that offered regular passenger service around the lake. He should have realized this, he supposed. If there was fear of the malignant fever spreading, the packet steamers would lose a great deal of business if their passengers were made to sit in the same seats as infected newcomers. The overloaded ship he had seen must have been hired especially to handle the emigrant traffic.
Even so, once he boarded, he discovered that the passenger cabin was airless and fusty-smelling, so he held to his original resolve and found a place at the bow of the boat, where he could lean against the railing and watch the passing sights. He almost changed his mind once the steamer had left the shelter of Toronto’s harbour and entered Lake Ontario, where the swell caused a steady thump beneath him. But then he became engrossed in watching the passing shore, marvelling at the number of settlements that lined the lake.
As they pulled in to the pier at Port Darlington Harbour, Luke could see that
