Flight of the Earls (17 page)

Sitting up, Clare's head revolted and she paused to regain her balance.

Some women were on their knees around her with buckets of water, scrubbing the floors. Clare hadn't witnessed such a flurry of activity and excitement since their first day when the ship peeled away from the piers of Cork, drunk on hope and trepidation.

“Well, I'll be.” One of the ladies rose from her labor, a dripping cloth held in her hand. Muriel, now a slender woman, was gazing in shock. “Sweet Jesus! She rose from the grave. Goodness, child.”

“Get the boys,” Muriel shouted out as some of the other women gathered around Clare in a flutter of awe and rejoicing.

Overwhelming her with sips of water and nibbles of food, they patted her down with cool cloths and forced her to lie down again.

In a few moments, Seamus and Pierce bullied their way through to Clare, and she was struck by the bliss expressed in their countenances.

“You're back,” Seamus said. His face was splotched with patches of red and his skin was taut on his cheeks. He seemed to have aged several years.

He beamed through his gaunt apparition. “God of miracles. Would you believe I prayed? Your brother Seamus?”

“He did. I saw 'em meself,” Pierce said. “Stranger sight ne'er seen. Hands clasped and knees bent. The whole picture.”

“Here. Take some more of this.” Muriel reached in with a spoon.

“You'll drown her with that.” Seamus nudged the woman's arm away.

“What's happening?” Clare asked.

Seamus laughed. “Well. Mostly. You're alive.”

“No,” she said. “All of the scurrying?”

“We're just a ways out from New York,” Pierce said.

“Can you believe it, Clare?” Seamus asked. “We made it. You made it. A few meals shy. But we're all here.”

“What about all of this?” Clare pointed around her.

“By orders of the first mate,” Muriel said sardonically. “There's some inspection coming in the harbor, and he says if we fail to pass, we don't dock. That was inspiring enough.”

“I should be lending a hand.” Clare started to rise.

“You do nothing of the sort,” Pierce said as Seamus pressed her back down.

“Some fresh air would do her well.” Muriel placed her hand to Clare's forehead. “The fever's all gone.”

“You're the only one,” Seamus said wistfully. “Dozens. Gone.”

“Which is the only way the rations lasted.” Pierce shrugged. “Fewer mouths, I'm afraid.”

“Would you take me up?” Clare said. “I want to see the sky.”

Seamus looked to Muriel for counsel.

“I do think it would do her well,” the woman said. “Besides. If she appears ill, they may not let her pass.”

That was enough for Clare to lift herself to her elbows again.

“Why don't you boys give her some privacy?” Muriel said. “We ladies will primp her and give her a fresh dress.”

Clare put on Seamus's hat, was lifted to her feet and escorted ever so patiently by Muriel and another woman, who commented their surprise at how well she was able to stand on her legs.

Though dizzy, Clare was driven by the desire to reach fresh air, terrified by the thought she would be quarantined or delayed when they arrived to shore. After being imprisoned for so long, she was determined to will her way to freedom on land.

Tenacity wasn't sufficient, and despite her best efforts, she could only wobble and needed to rest every few steps to keep from fainting. Yet as she crawled plank by plank up the ladder, the idea of feeling the sun's rays, hearing the ocean's songs, and breathing in the cool air yielded more strength with each step.

At last, in victory, she surfaced from the womb of death, her eyes searing in the glorious sunlight, and she raised her slender arm as a shield.

“Clare!” Pierce ran over and lifted her up from the stewardship of the ladies and carried her on his hip, and then Seamus was on her other side. They guided her to the ship's edge.

“You're just in time,” her brother said.

She watched in amazement as the passengers were tossing mattresses, buckets, clothing, rags, and assorted belongings over the railing into the sea. The flotsam plunged into the ocean's billows and drifted rapidly out of view.

“Over there.” Pierce pointed in the direction the lumbering vessel was headed.

Clare's eyes were still adjusting to the light, so it took a while, but finally a brown mass was rising from the horizon. “Is it?” she gasped.

“It 'tis,” he said, his face gleaming. “We've made it, Clare. We've made it to America.”

“Look, Pierce,” Seamus said. “It's Lazarus herself, back from the dead.” He lifted his hat from her head and rubbed her hair playfully. It was already a few inches in length.

“Lazarus is a man, you idiot.” Pierce snorted. “Isn't that right, Clare?”

She wrestled the hat from Seamus and put it back on her head. “Are you asking whether Lazarus is a man or if my brother is an idiot?”

Their laughter was doused in relief and anticipation, and as the great city grew larger before them, conversation gave way to contemplation as their thoughts wandered to what might lay before them.

As they drew closer, they also saw a dark line thickening along the breadth of the sky.

Storm clouds roiling ahead.

Chapter 18

The Landing

The snow sputtered erratically down from dark skies in the final retreat of day, while the surviving passengers lined the deck with their bags. They were a battered army, forever refined through the smelting of tragedy, peering out with what hope remained at their hard-earned prize.

They were all family now, nudging each other politely to procure a view. The exhilaration was palpable and growing, restrained only out of respect for those orphaned and widowed by the cruel hands of their bitter voyage. Witnessing a sight few imagined possible, they were awestruck as the
Sea Mist
drifted by Governors Island and headed into Hudson Bay.

The crippled ship was humbled to be in the same waters as the hordes of majestic vessels traversing in all directions, a rag-worn peasant among royalty, wealth, and enterprise. Decorated with colorful, boasting banners, ships of all sizes, some under the power of steam, weaved dangerously past each other, oftentimes resulting in exchanges of angry threats and insults from competing crews.

Clare's hands gripped the wooden rails as Seamus and Pierce stood on either side of her, protecting her space and holding her steady. One of the fever's victims had left behind a small handcart, and the other passengers granted it to Clare to use for transport once they came to shore. And several times, during the ship's slow approach to port, she had nested in it, covering herself in blankets.

But now, Clare's spirits soared as she marveled at the grandeur of Manhattan rising before her. As they neared the great snow-covered docks, the tiny moving dots on the shoreline became people alive with the bursting commerce of an upstart nation.

The inspections they all dreaded came and went without incident. Sharply clad bureaucrats arrived by an oared boat. After a few officious glances and cursory questions, papers were signed and then they left as quietly as they came.

Clare couldn't have been more relieved.

A steam tug edged the
Sea Mist
until it settled in alongside the wooden pier and into the awaiting arms and ropes of the dockworkers. The gangway was lowered, connecting the weary travelers to their new world.

The first-class passengers unloaded first, most seeming to be in good health and well fed, and a long stream of luggage trailed behind them. Finally, ropes lowered and steerage passengers broke ranks, no longer yielding to captain or crew, pouring onto the shoreline with an ardency tempered by their exhaustion and grief.

Clare was embarrassed to be wheeled in the cart as they angled down the plank as part of the motley caravan of immigrants, but she relented because she didn't want to slow the boys and hadn't the strength besides.

“The wind's picking up and snow's coming heavier,” Pierce said.

Seamus pulled out another blanket and wrapped it around Clare. Her illness not only made her weaker but more susceptible to the cold.

The boys shouldered the two bags, which now were considerably lighter than when they boarded the
Sea Mist
more than two and half months ago.

A man with a snow-crusted plug hat stepped in their path. He had a fistful of currency. “Have you your dollars yet?”

“Our what?” Seamus said.

“Your dollars.” The man gave a patronizing smirk. “Irish money is no good here.”

“Of course we know that.” Seamus motioned to Pierce, who extracted what was left from his leather purse and gave it to the stranger.

The man counted what was handed to him and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Then he glanced up as if calculating, before fanning through his dollars and giving several to Pierce as well as a few coins.

“Will you look at this?” Pierce said, proudly. “Yankee cash.”

After a few steps in that direction, they were stopped by another man, this one a wiry fellow with black teeth. “You friends need lodging?”

“We're fine, thank you,” Seamus said. “Friendly folk here, are they not?”

They were joined by Mack and Muriel, who had said some farewells.

“Are we ready to get going?” Mack said.

“We are that.” Seamus nodded.

“Make certain you don't fall prey to the money changers,” Mack said in a fatherly tone. “My cousin warned me they'll skin you as you get off the boats.”

The boys were silent, and Clare didn't say anything either out of pity.

“Is she warm enough?” Muriel looked down at Clare. “Mack says it's a long walk to the Five Points.”

Pierce loaded his pack. “The Five Points?”

“That's where me cousin lives.” Mack put gloves on his hands. “The one you'll be staying with as our guests. The Five Points is where the Irish go. It will be like home, they say. Several from the ship are heading there together. Ah. They're moving now.”

Not wanting to be left behind in the darkness of this strange land, Clare, Seamus, and Pierce joined the ragtag convoy of immigrants as they began their wide-eyed sojourn down the snowy, paved roads of the sprawling city of New York. Clare was awestruck by the brilliance of hundreds of gas lamps, massive works of architecture, and the richness of the citizenry and their modes of transportation, which filled the streets with horses, wagons, sleighs, and hordes of pedestrians.

As they cleared the way for the silk-dressed, top-hatted locals, Clare was keenly aware of the contrast of their own impoverishment, and few friendly faces greeted them as they passed.

It was strange as well to see so many people rushing by them with wrapped gifts and with arms full of vegetables, and breads, and carrying turkeys and chickens into their homes and apartments. There were also red ribbons strung on lampposts, wreaths hung on doors, and a spirit of festivity.

However, it wasn't until they came up to a well-bundled group of carolers on a street corner, cheerfully singing in harmony, that it dawned on Clare. It was Christmas Eve.

This news gave them a lift in their step, but it didn't last for long as the streets began to empty as a result of the rising storm. They had no choice but to press on as the wind lashed at their reddened faces and boots sank deeper into snow as did the wheels of Clare's cart. Children faltered as did the elderly and infirmed and progress ground to a crawl, which only made it more intolerable.

“How much farther?” Seamus shouted above the tempest.

“Don't know for certain,” Mack said. “We must be getting closer.”

A man had overheard the question and he answered. “Less than a mile.”

Even through the cover of snow, it was clear the neighborhoods were shifting, as the great homes and newly erected ornate buildings she first saw gave way to brokenness and dilapidation.