health offices. Hundreds of emigrants, thousands it seemed, waited, the close press of unwashed bodies and mildewed clothing making it difficult to breathe. Patience had never been one of Callie’s virtues, and she shifted from one foot to the other and then danced a little jig, much to Paddy’s delight.
How like the twins he was when a smile could be coaxed from him. Poor tyke, so quiet, staring out from behind his wide, solemn eyes. He should be running and chasing with the other children who were playing a rough game of tag. The slight blue tinge around his mouth, along with the spots of vermilion on his cheeks, made Callie say a prayer that the little boy would pass the physical examination.
All about them was talk and gossip of what America was going to be like. The family ahead of them was talking about relatives who had sailed more than a year ago. Patrick strained to hear the glorious details. Callie could catch only brief snatches of the conversation. “My brother and his seven children . . . land of opportunity . . . back-breaking work . . . they do have stoves on board for cooking, but so many have to share them . . . cramped. . . dysentery . . . typhus . . . cholera . . . not to worry, we have our health . . . warm weather will greet us.
“Another hour at the most,” Patrick assured them. “We should be allowed to board the Yorkshire before evening. She came in from anchor and is docked at the Albert pier; they’re loading her now.”
Callie tried to smile appreciatively. She could never be as enthusiastic about leaving, not when it meant being thousands of miles away from Peggy and the children. A pervading sense of loneliness that she had been fighting since boarding that wretched steamer in Dublin threatened to erupt in a spring of tears. Damn Patrick Thatcher and his adventure! Callie bit into her bottom lip. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d never confided why she was emigrating to America; Patrick and Beth could have no idea that she’d been all but exiled by her own mother. They seemed to trust her so; she couldn’t tell them that she’d become a thief and that was why she was being sent away. If they were to know the truth and decide they didn’t want her companionship, she’d be alone again. Alone and frightened.
Paddy continued to sleep against Callie’s shoulder. If Patrick was right, the child would awaken just as it was their turn with the doctor. Poor little thing, he always coughed and hacked when he awoke. Maybe because he was sleeping upright against Callie, he wouldn’t be so congested. She had her own views on Paddy’s condition; still, he wasn’t her child, and it wasn’t her place to voice her beliefs. Surely Beth and Patrick couldn’t really believe Paddy had nothing more than a cold.
The line at the back pressed forward, pushing Callie into almost direct contact with the family just ahead of them. She narrowed her eyes, really noticing them for the first time. Each was more dirty than the next. Callie’s eyes widened still further when she saw a body louse half the size of her little fingernail crawl up the neck of the man in front of her. She backed off a step and bumped into Patrick. She motioned to him to look at the man’s neck. Patrick seemed as disgusted as she and took her back another step. Callie watched in horror as another louse joined the first, crawling between the oily strands of the man’s hair. The man’s wife turned to say something to her husband, and Callie drew a deep breath. She was what mum would call a slattern—filthy and unkempt, dark scabs from where she had picked sores dotted her face. Abhorred by her first real contact with filth, Callie squeezed her eyes shut. Thank the good Lord they wouldn’t be sailing on the Yorkshire. The physician would take one look at them and send them somewhere to clean themselves and get well.
In dumbfounded amazement Callie watched as first one child then the next held out his ticket and the doctor stamped it perfunctorily while asking to see his or her tongue. Obediently each child stuck out his tongue and then laughed and scampered away, waving his ticket for all to see. Callie was aghast. What manner of doctor was this? In Dublin the kindly doctor wore a spotless white apron and had clean hands, unlike this disheveled man whose smock was gray with grime and food stains.
Noticing Callie’s amazement, Beth whispered in her ear, “There’s so many like them.” She indicated the family in question.
“By the time we set foot in America, no doubt we’ll be just like them, scratching the lice till our skin bleeds.” Her tone was so resigned, so listless and forlorn. Callie turned to reassure Beth that as long as there was water and she had a bit of soap, she’d never be that way, but the doctor was calling “next,” and Patrick was jostling Callie ahead of him.
“Stick out your tongue.” Callie obediently did as she was told and watched as her ticket was stamped. This was a certification that she was fit and healthy, carrying no communicable diseases. She jostled the sleeping Paddy a bit and had to resort to pinching his cheek so he would stick out his tongue for the doctor. His ticket was stamped, and Patrick had it back in his pocket when the examiner called, “Next!” and Beth stepped forward.
Outside the crowded offices, Patrick put his arms about the three of them, smiling broadly. “I told you we’d pass with flying colors, didn’t I? Now all we have to do is wait for the captain of the Yorkshire to admit passengers. But first we’ll see about getting Callie’s extra provisions, and we’re all going to make a visit to the privy.”
Where did the man get his energy? How could he remain so excited and enthusiastic after all they’d been through? Callie herself felt flattened, deflated, her usual ebullience gone. Beth was feeling the same way, she knew. Callie reached out and took Beth by the arm, helping her skip across wide, muddy puddles. She wondered at this feeling of guardianship, protectorship, she felt for Paddy and his mother. Was it because Patrick was like Thomas in so many ways?
A raw, wet wind was whipping up again, portentous of another storm, sending up cloudy sprays of mist. It was colder than before, a damp cold that went straight through the bones. Callie longed for home and her faded, warm quilt where she would snuggle between the warm, soft bodies of the twins. She noticed the dark circles of exhaustion beneath Beth’s eyes, the drawn lines around her gentle mouth. Only Patrick, with his ruddy cheeks and zest for life, looked hale and hearty.
Several hours later, just as the lamplighters came with their long sticks and lanterns to touch spark to the tall gaslamps lining the wharf, they watched as the longshoremen loading the cargo into the Yorkshire’s great, dark hull began closing hatches and removing empty casks and barrels from the boarding area.
Callie could feel her stomach churn with anxiety. Soon now she would be aboard the Yorkshire, sailing among hundreds, perhaps a thousand strangers. So far from Ireland, a world away from her mother and family. Would she ever see them again? Even amidst the growing commotion, she imagined she could hear Peggy’s voice calling her name. Her feet felt leaden, the weight of the moment crushed down upon her. A prickling of tears burned the back of her eyelids. Her child’s heart cried for her mother and the security of family. “Oh, Mum, you should never have sent me away,” she moaned inwardly, feeling the undeniable need to bury her head in Peggy’s lap and feel the comforting touch of her mother’s hand brush back her hair.
It was not to be, if it was ever to be again. Callie James was about to board the packet ship Yorkshire, her face turned to the west, an autumn storm wind drying her tears upon her cheeks.
Callie sat in the oily glow of the gimbaled lanterns, which were hung from the inner ribs of the Yorkshire’s hull. It was very late, according to the call from the crew’s watchman who patrolled the decks. In the relative silence that was broken only by muffled snores and the occasional whimpering of a child, his voice rang true. “Three bells! Three bells!”
Paddy slept at the far end of her own bunk, the warmth of his feverish little body pressed against her stockinged feet. In another berth, erected against the bulkhead beneath a porthole as Beth had requested, Patrick slept with his wife, his arm thrown over her swollen body. Even in sleep he wedged against her, attempting to steady her from the rolling pitch
