Escape From Home (32 page)

A
t Clarence Basin, Maura, having passed the chilly night in fitful sleep, woke to the sound of a clanging bell. Through the swirling gray fog, she made out other emigrants who—like themselves—had been waiting to board the
Robert Peel
since the day before. They too had passed the night on the cold, wet stone pavement, propped one against another. She sensed immediately that there were more people now. Their clutter of possessions, close to hand, served as pillows or as barriers in the attempt to make some private space for themselves or their families.

Then Maura realized that some passengers were already pressing toward the boat. Only then did she grasp that the bell she was hearing came from the
Robert Peel
, summoning all to board. People were scrambling to their feet.

“Patrick!” Maura called excitedly. “Mr. Drabble! They're boarding the ship!”

Patrick woke at once and snatched up their remaining bundle and the tin can. Mr. Drabble unfolded himself more slowly, stretching and craning his neck, smoothing back his hair.

“We'd better hurry,” Patrick urged.

“I am ready, my boy,” Mr. Drabble assured him. He had his own bag as well as the food provision sack slung over his back. “Miss O'Connell,” he warned, “may I advise you not to take out your tickets until they're asked for.”

She nodded her understanding.

Trying to stay together, the three joined the great wedge of people pressed toward the ship's gangway.

Remembering what had happened when they came off the boat from Ireland, Patrick clung to their bundle with two hands.

Suddenly there was a shout. A man was attempting to board the
Robert Peel
near the stern. Hardly did he make his leap than two other men followed. On the deck of the ship, sailors armed with belaying pins rushed to the railing to meet them. The emigrants on the quay ceased pushing forward as all eyes focused on the drama being played out before them.

When the first man reached the bulwark, a fierce struggle erupted. But the sailors, outnumbering the intruder five to one, easily managed to throw him off. He fell to the quay. As for the two other men, they too were repulsed savagely. No one else tried.

As soon as the disturbance was quelled, the crowd surged toward the gangway again.

“You see,” Mr. Drabble said in a low voice, “how desperate people are to go.”

It was not just passengers who were struggling to get aboard. Crowds of hawkers had appeared. They were crying out their dire predictions as to what might happen if travelers did not purchase their food, their blankets, their medicines.

Despite the great desire of the passengers, movement forward was painfully slow. Only one of the two gangways had been deployed, and at the base of it a police constable was staring intently at each and every young boy who came along. To further hinder progress, the ship's first mate—Mr. Murdock—stood at the top of the gangway, double-checking all the tickets. He was a man of middling height, but menacing with bulging muscles, massive hands, and hard eyes. Upon his stern, swarthy face a scowl seemed fixed. And if he were not imposing enough, two burly sailors stood by his side. Another man entered names in a ledger book.

As Maura watched, she saw the mate turn one passenger away. He'd not had the medical exam. Though the man protested with anger, it was to no avail. Mr. Murdock picked him up bodily, carried him down the ramp, and flung him to the quay.

“Make way for gentlemen! Make way for gentlemen!” came a cry from the back of the crowd. Led by a ship's officer, Mr. Grout and Mr. Clemspool forced their way through the press of people.

“It's your friend,” Patrick informed Mr. Drabble.

“So it is,” the actor acknowledged. “Maura, look who's there. Mr. Grout. And a blessing too, my dear. It's not every man who benefits from employment while crossing the sea.”

“Make way for gentlemen!” the officer cried again. As people gave way, Mr. Grout, reveling at being the center of attention, walked grandly up to the gangway. Behind him crept Mr. Clemspool, his face averted so as to avoid the scrutiny of the constable.

At the foot of the gangway, Mr. Grout lifted his beaver hat in salute and addressed the crowd. “Good riddance to England!” he called to no one in particular. “From this 'ere moment on, Toby Grout can say America is me 'ome!”

“Do move on,” Mr. Clemspool insisted. “I don't like these crowds.” To his enormous relief, the constable was showing not the least bit of interest in him.

At the top of the gangway, Mr. Grout displayed his tickets like a gambler producing his winning hand. Barely checking them, the first mate saluted with elaborate respect, then called upon a sailor to escort the two men across the deck.

They then mounted some steps that in turn led to a small pulpitlike deck before the main mast. Here stood Captain Rickles—the
Robert Peel
's commander—who had posted himself to oversee the proceedings. A large square-chested man with a flamboyant red mustache, he stood proudly in his splendid gray captain's uniform, gloves, and cap.

As Mr. Grout and Mr. Clemspool reached the deck, the captain offered a crisp salute. “Welcome to the
Robert Peel
, gentlemen,” he cried out. Removing his gloves as a gesture of respect, he shook the two men's hands with zest.

On the quay, the boarding of the steerage passengers continued with painful slowness. The crush of people was suffocating. It was a strain just to keep upon one's feet. Maura and Patrick managed to stay close together until they arrived, finally, at the gangway.

“You there!” the constable cried, slapping the flat of his hand hard on Patrick's chest to keep him from moving. “What's your name?” he demanded.

An alarmed Patrick tried to stand firm. “Patrick O'Connell, Your Honor.”

“Where you from?”

“It's Ireland, Your Honor.”

“Kilonny, county Cork,” Maura intervened.

“Let him talk for himself,” the constable insisted.

“Ireland. Kilonny,” Patrick repeated.

“Where's your ticket?”

Maura, straining to hold her own against the shoving of the crowd behind her, struggled to unpin her packet of tickets. These she showed to the constable. He inspected them carefully, looking repeatedly from the name on Patrick's ticket to Patrick himself.

“Let's see your cheek,” the constable ordered, and he twisted Patrick's face about, examining it intently.

“All right then,” he said, clearly disappointed. “You can board.”

Mr. Drabble, next in line, was quickly passed through. So was Maura.

“Faith, Maura, I'm sure that constable was looking for Laurence,” Patrick whispered.

“Shhh!” Maura hissed. “I don't want to know!”

The trio reached the top of the gangway. Once again tickets were asked for, produced, and accepted. “Get to the forecastle deck,” came the order.

Under the watchful eye of several surly faced sailors, the three hastened to the short flight of steps that led to the forecastle deck, already crowded. Under sailors' orders, all passengers were required to leave their piles of sacks, bags, trunks, chests, and mattresses on the main deck. The O'Connells were no exception.

Patrick kept straining to take in the ship. Everything was very much bigger than on the boat from Ireland. But it was much more important to sleuth out some means of getting to Laurence.

“Not so very difficult, was it now?” Mr. Drabble cried, his cheeks red with excitement. “To think I'm really here! And it's to you, my dear Miss O'Connell, I am so deeply indebted for it all.”

“Mr. Drabble,” Maura returned coolly. “We're not yet safe upon the sea.”

“It will happen, my dear,” Mr. Drabble cried. “It will happen!”

More and more people kept crowding upon the forecastle deck. Babies screamed and children cried. Some adults wept openly.

Patrick, leaning over the forecastle rail and looking into the ship's waist, called, “They're closing off the gangway!”

No more passengers were being allowed on board, although some twenty, still on the quay, protested vehemently. Their cries—some screams—went unheeded.

With a helping hand from the first mate, a top-hatted man climbed upon the rail. In his hand he held the ledger book.

“All right! All right,” the man cried to the crowd before him. “You must listen to me now. The ship won't sail until this is done.” He held up the book. “As a representative of Lazarus Brothers Shipping, I have in my hand the names of all passengers who have paid their way. I shall call these names. When you hear your name, step forward. I shall call your berth number too. Remember it. It will not be repeated. You may then go down the steps and wait upon the main deck.

“All those who remain—whose names I do
not
call—will be summarily removed from this ship. There will be no arguments. You will go off! If you do not, you will be thrown overboard.”

Without further fuss, the officer began to read names. “Albertson, Terrence!”

“Aye!” cried a man.

“Berth number one. To the deck!”

With three hundred and fifty names to be called—and many to be mispronounced—the roll took considerable time.

The merchants and hawkers who had managed to slip on board departed without ceremony. But when the roll call was done, five people remained on the forecastle deck. Their names had not been called. The two men, two women, and a boy of nine all insisted with great passion and tears that they had paid their passage money. Two even produced tickets that, they claimed, proved they had a right to be there. It made no difference. Sailors stepped forward and, taking hold of the begging, rejected passengers, forcibly ejected them from the ship.

Captain Rickles looked over the scene with calm amusement. “Raucous, isn't it?” he said, turning to Mr. Grout and Mr. Clemspool, who stood by his side, also looking on.

“Is it always like this?” Mr. Clemspool asked. He was finding the embarkation distasteful.

“Always,” insisted the captain in the mildest of tones. “And often worse.”

“'Ow do yer mean, worse?” Mr. Grout asked.

“Take my word for it, gentlemen, there are those who try to steal their way across.”

“'Ow can they do that?”

“Stowaways,” Captain Rickles replied smugly. “There's not an emigrant ship out of Liverpool that isn't plagued by 'em. You'd be amazed at how they try and hide themselves away.”

“And how do you find them?” Mr. Clemspool inquired.

“Actually, my crew—under the orders of my first mate, Mr. Murdock—enjoys hunting them down. Singular mind, Mr. Murdock's. He watches them board, and from then on he'll remember all their faces. If one appears later who isn't regular, he'll spot him.”

“What 'appens when yer nab 'em?” asked Mr. Grout.

“It all depends on when we find them,” the captain replied with a smile. “If we are still in the river here, we can toss them overboard. They can swim home. A little farther out, we can send them back with the pilot boat. But if we're already upon the seas when they're discovered, we can make them work their passage over. Or, for that matter, tar and feather them.”

“Yer don't!” Mr. Grout cried.

“If they are scurvy enough, sir, I've done so and with pleasure.”

“Serves them right too,” Mr. Clemspool agreed. “Every man should pay his way.”

Mr. Grout turned to look at his companion with irritation.

“Perhaps,” the captain said, “you'd like to go along with Mr. Murdock when he leads the search party. Only a matter of moments now.”

Mr. Grout laughed. “I'm game for it. Bit of sport, yer might say.”

“It is that,” the captain agreed with a laugh. “They take pikes to poke into sacks and barrels, as well as hammers to get into crates. Great sport. I'll have the first mate take you along. What's more, gentlemen, if we catch anyone, I shall let you decide what we do with them.”

“Be some fun in that,” Mr. Grout agreed with a grin.

“Just pitch him overboard,” Mr. Clemspool grumbled.

Sailors were swarming all about the ship, hauling in lines, casting them off. A bell began to sound again. This time, however, the bell came from a steam lighter that was approaching the
Robert Peel
.

Once the lighter took on lines from the ship, she commenced to back up. Trembling, the packet began to move. The passengers, even those with tearstained faces, gave a shout.

Mr. Drabble suddenly leaped upon the bulwark and, holding on to the ratlines with one hand while gesturing with his other, proclaimed, “‘Thus I turn my back. There is a world elsewhere!'
Coriolanus
.”

Under her breath and with eyes closed, Maura began to pray. Impulsively, she reached out, took Patrick's hand, and brought it to her mouth to kiss. She had remembered her mother's words: “It would be better for me to die at home. The earth will know me there.”

“Oh, Patrick,” Maura murmured as much to herself as to her brother, “what earth will know me?”

“Sure, Maura, it doesn't matter what earth,” Patrick replied. “It's where Da will be waiting.”

“Let me have your attention, please,” the first mate cried out from the forecastle deck. “In a short time you'll be allowed to go to your berths below. But first, we'll be making our search for stowaways. Let me warn you people now, if any of you have hidden someone among your possessions, or have assisted a stowaway, both you and he will be returned to Liverpool. There will be no exceptions. What's more, if you know of any stowaways on the boat, you'd best come forward now, and it will go a bit better for them.”

Patrick felt Maura's hand clamp down upon his shoulder and squeeze. He trembled.