First chapter of latest book...

[meredithgreene]

Yes, this is a no whining zone. (no whining from the author about criticism)
A historical fiction series we've cooked up, after spending several months researching the thing. My husband put quite a bit of his family history in it (Sicily), and some from mine, though I had to switch islands. lol... Ireland just sounded better and the character was clearly Irish, even from the get-go.

The tabs copied here strangely, so please pardon the un-tabbed dialouge. (and there may be a stray apostrophe where it should nae be!)



Chapter One:

Muffled coughing woke Molly from the grasp of slumber. Sitting up, the young girl drew her woolen shawl about her shoulders. She did not dare light a candle; the small stubs of wax on the table were only to be used for emergencies. Woolen stocking kept some of the cold from her feet as she stepped to the bedroom door. Listening, she heard the soft sounds of her grandfather's loom. Shaking her head, Molly smiled a little and pushed open the door.
“What ar' ye doin up this time o' night, lass?” The phrase was spoken even before the door was fully open. Molly smiled at the aging man at the loom.
“I heard you coughing, grandfather.” she explained, softly. Walking to his side, the young woman took off her shawl, lovingly pacing it over his worn jacket. The white-haired man smiled up at his granddaughter, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Thank ye lass.” he said, turning back to his work. “Twas a mite nippy in 'ere.” Molly sat down on a stool by his chair. Still smiling, the aging weaver took up his shuttle once more. The cloth he wove was a fine linen cloth, for a rich woman's table. As her grandfather moved the slender, wooden shuttle back and forth over and between the delicate-looking threads, Molly admired the smooth, even work of the master weaver.
“Beautiful.” Molly said, “Is it going with the others to London?” Her grandfather nodded.
“Aye... 'tis the last of them I'll be making on the Erin shore...” the white-haired weaver's eyes took on a watery appearance as he said the words.
Not able to find words of comfort, Molly covered one wizened hand with her own; the contrast between them was striking; his so pale and shrunken, hers fair and smooth. Patrick Callahan patted the girl's hand. “Twill be alright.” he said, heavily. “'Tis hard 't leave, lass. Tis the thing we must do, but 'tis hard to leave all t' same.” Molly felt grief well in her throat but said nothing. Wiping away a tear, she nodded and swallowed the pain.
Many of her friends had left with their families already, gone to Dublin, England or to New York City. Though the Great Famine was long over, the Emerald Isle had not fully recovered. Work was scarce, food was scarcer and in the cities the poor grew ever the more poor and wretched. A skilled worker of flax, her grandfather earned enough to keep them alive and housed, even setting by a little now and again; Molly aided him in knitting good, woolen stockings scarves and mittens to sell but the earning were meager.
At least it was just the two of them to feed. Many young children and elders had perished from the poor food. Even in summer to see fruit or greens was a luxury. The stronger made for the farms to work or set out on the long journey across the sea... to America.
“Will your cousin's family meet us in America?” Molly asked, after a moment. Her grandfather nodded, slowly.
“Aye.” he said, continuing his work. “My cousin Liam and his family will meet us when we get off Ellis Island; they'll have a place where we can stay for a spell, until we find our own.” Molly watched her grandfather work for a moment.
“So, we’re to drive a cart to the station, take the train down to Dublin, then the ferry to Liverpool?” she said. At this her grandfather nodded. “I heard there are inspectors at the ports that say whether or not ye can get on the boats at all. They say, if you're even a bit sick, you cannot go to America.” Patrick smiled a little at the young woman.
“You're nearly twenty years of age, Molly Callahan.” he told her, with a bit of humor. “'Tis time you learned to take all advice with a grain of salt. Like as not there are inspections, however, we'll buy ‘second-class’ tickets. Nat Connor down at the pub said that his cousin went last year, an' if you ride second-class 'tis a much better place than steerage. He's heard tell of stifling conditions down in the belly of the ship, where all the poor are crammed together, with no curtains for dressing or water for washing.”
“Sounds dreadful...” Molly said, gravely. The white-haired man shot her a grin.
“I've some coin laid away lass.” said he. “Tis enough to get us to America without being robbed and pressed against others. Have ye bundled yer things?” Molly nodded, still watching his hands as they worked the fine, flaxen threads.
“Aye, sir.” she said, sighing. “There is not much to take. I won't complain, grandfather… though I am loath to go. My heart is here, in Ireland.”
The weaving stopped.
“I feel the same as you, lass.” the aging man told her, gently. “But, we must look ahead now and keep the Isle within our hearts.” He patted the top of Molly's red head briefly. “We are Ireland, you know; it goes where we go.” He began working once more. “If you think about it, we're but leaving one island for another. Ellis Island is where we're bound, after that Manhattan Island. Our new home will be what we make of it, lass.”
The white-haired weaver's words comforted his granddaughter a little; Molly watched him finish the pure white cloth. An hour later, she helped him cut it carefully from the loom and finely knot the ends. Together, they folded it with twists of spare cloth in the creases and packed it in the large, wooden crate with many others. The coughing spasms Molly's grandfather was prone to bothered her; perhaps these officials would not let him onto the boat. The aging weaver seemed better as of lat; he coughed less and less, in spite of the cold weather. With care, Molly laid an extra blanket over his tired form as he stretched on his mat.
“Thank ye lass.” he said, in the darkness. “No fretting, now about t' journey. They say America has great promise, even for a poor Irishman. They say there is no sight like that of Lady Liberty, the huge statue in the great harbor of New York; she can be seen miles away, calling those in whom need a but a chance to make something of themselves. That's what we need now. Just a chance for a better life.”
“Aye, sir.” Molly said; the aged man's quiet words gave her heart. “Goodnight, grandfather.”
“Sleep well, lass.” came the tired reply. Molly smiled in the dark, quietly moving back to her own room.
The two occupants of the small weaver's store were up before the neighbor's rooster crowed. With Molly's help, Patrick wheeled out their borrowed cart and pony; on it they hoisted the crate of linen tablecloths, their satchels and a single crate of the Callahan belongings. Casting one longing look at the weaving shop, Molly got up in the front seat beside her grandfather. Patrick flicked the reins and set them going. It seemed even the bumpy road was begging them to turn back… not to go on the long journey away from home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After a long, dirty train ride, crammed tightly in with many other travelers, Molly and her grandfather were both aching and exhausted as they boarded the ferry to Liverpool harbor. Early January weather did little to help matters; it was bitterly cold and the wind cut like a knife.
As heart-wrenching the sight of Ireland's green shores moving farther and farther away, Molly’s sadness was abated by excitement. She was filled with awe and wonderment at the sight of the sprawling, gray, snow-dusted city of Liverpool with its rising smoke and vast harbor crammed with steamships. The mighty sea-going vessels of two, three or even four smokestacks dwarfed the tiny ferry they all rode upon. Well-wrapped against the cold, Molly kept a tight hold of her grandfather's arm as they disembarked onto the loading dock. It was the first time either of them had stepped foot on English soil.
Agents from shipping companies were among the people swarming the docks; these men were sought out by families and travelers who'd bought traveling packages at the railway office. Molly and her grandfather had traveled in the sooty, stench-ridden third-class railway cars and took the cheapest ferry passage over to England. Any temptation to complain about the smell or the cramped quarters was tempered by excitement.
Every passenger seemed to be going to America, to Ellis Island and New York. Along the journey Molly heard whispered rumors of the immigration island.
“It is the Island of Hope.” she overheard from one older woman on the train. “My cousin Mary wrote back, saying they eat like kings there, and they give you a flag and a kiss on the cheek and say you are now an American.” The woman's companion shook her head, sadly.
“My neighbor's daughter and her husband went over last year.” she said, in a hushed voice. “They said the journey was horrible, packed in like fish in a box and the smell was terrible; they were not let out for air in bad weather and she got ill with the boat rocking about so. She says when they got to New York, they had to strip naked and let doctors look at them. Even then, some people were not allowed to go on and were sent back to the ship. Some people there were very afraid and called it the Isle of Tears.”
Though the speakers had no idea they were being overheard, their words made fear well up in the young woman's mind. The journey to America sounded bad enough, but the island of Ellis suddenly changed from a gateway to freedom to a dark and mysterious den of uncertainty and exposure. Patrick did his best to allay her fears.
“Gossip lies nine times, and tells a half-truth the tenth.” he told her. “Even if all of that is true, folk still think 'tis worth the risk to have a chance at a new life. Myself I include in that, lass.” Molly took heart at his words, though she kept the rumors in her mind, just to be prepared.
The harbor docks were like no place Molly had ever seen; the day was mercifully clear, but cold. Steamships were docking and going to and fro, people streaming by the rows of shops to get to line up outside the shipping company offices. Vendors pushed carts of bread and hot soup to sell, calling out above the din. Sitting on the crate of their belongings, Molly waited for her grandfather to come back to her; she could see him just across the way, buying a loaf of bread from a vendor. Many families and travelers sat nearby and all around, all waiting to speak to one of the shipping company officials.
Immense vessels lay moored nearby. Keeping her hands wrapped in her woolen muff, Molly stared up at the closest ship, its metal sides streaked with mineral deposits; black smoke drifted from one of the enormous smokestacks. Above the waterline, little, brown barnacles clung to the hull in dense clusters. The smell of food, fish and smoke whirled in the air on the chilly breeze.
“Well, here’s a pretty lassie...” a strange man nearby her spoke, distracting Molly's eyes from the boat. A man in a fine, fur cap and a well-cut overcoat stood not two feet away from her crate, smiling down at her. Though he smiled widely, Molly felt unsettled by the man's manner; she moved her eyes to her shoes and did not answer. Her grandfather sternly warned her to speak to no one, especially men. “'Tis a lovely sight ye are.” the man continued, leaning a bit closer. “The loveliest girl on the docks that I've laid eyes on all day... is no one with you? Are ye all alone?”
“Nowt she is not.” came a stern voice from behind the man. Molly looked up, relieved.
Patrick Callahan was an old man but the hard look in his eye belied his frailty; in his youth he'd been a boxer and right now he felt capable of wringing the younger usurper's neck with sheer wrath. “You'd best be pushin' off, afore I whip ye for harassin' a young girl and call the constable!” The strange man stepped back, took off his fur cap and nodded in a half-polite fashion; he grinned at Molly again before turning and disappearing into the crowd.
“Cheeky blighter...” the white-haired weaver murmured, glaring as the man.
“I said nothing to him, grandfather.” Molly said, apologetically. Sitting down beside the young woman on the crate, Patrick Callahan nodded.
“Ah know.” he said, heavily. “You're a good girl, Molly. Ye did right looking away and being silent. If I were but a little younger I'd have thrashed him. All brazen-like, too... trying to pick up a young girl under the very eyes of her kin...”
Taking the bread in his hands he broke the loaf with force; he gave one half to Molly. “Eat some, save some.” he said, looking around with narrowed eyes. “'Tis likely all we're to get afore t' morrow.” Molly kissed him on the cheek for thanks and tore off a few bites of the bread. It was fresh and delicious; they'd not had fresh bread in a week. They ate in silence, taking in the sea air mixed with hundreds of other mingling smells.
A newsboy came through up the dock, waving a paper and crying his stories out. The loudest call he made caught Molly's attention.
“Earthquake in Messina! Harbor destroyed! Death toll in the ten thousands! Sicily in uproar.... read all about it!” Patrick shook his head.
“A tragedy that.” he said, sadly.
“Where is Messina?” Molly asked him, quietly. Her grandfather took his pipe from his mouth.
“In the north-eastern part of Sicily.” he told her. “Italy is shaped like boot and the island of Sicily 'tis right at the toe, is if the mainland is kicking it away.” Molly smiled at the imagery.
“Is it a big island?” she inquired, taking a bite of bread. Patrick titled his head a little to one side, his brow creased in thought.
“As I remember from maps an' such.” he told her. “Not as big as Ireland, mind you, but big enough. Messina's likely a large city, with so many dead from one earthquake. A shame, really...” He pointed to a nearby ship with a strange-looking name. “That ship's from Italy, there... perhaps it docked at Messina once. There are all manner of ships here, from all harbors in the world. That ship over there is from Norway.”
“Which ship is ours?” Molly asked, interested. Her grandfather grinned.
“The R.H.M. Cedric came in last night; most likely that will be it.” he said, pointing straight ahead; it was the massive ship closest to them; of the many flags it flew, the topmost was a red flag with a white star. “'Tis almost brand new, built just last year. That and The Celtic are twin ships, and the biggest vessels on the sea. See that line of crewmen? They're re-stocking the boat with supplies, and ‘tis being scrubbed down up top.”
Molly looked on the boat with awe, slowly chewing a bite of bread. “The man at the railway office advised we travel second class.” her grandfather continued. “He says the food's terrible in steerage, and there's no privacy at all. At least we'll have a door on our room and linens, even hot water for bathing.” Molly looked relieved at this information.
“That sounds better than a posh hotel.” she said, smiling. “We'll be traveling on the same boat as the rich folk, and there's nowt they can do about it.” At this Patrick Callahan chuckled and tugged on the brim of Molly's bonnet. He stood up, and gave her the rest of his bread.
“Now, tie that up and save it.” he instructed. “I've to visit those shops for but a moment, and I'll be back.” He glanced around quickly, and spied a constable, standing guard nearby. “You get his attention if anyone bothers ye. Like as not he'll come right away to help a bonny lass.”
Nodding her head, Molly watched him flip up the collar of his thin coat and walk away, towards the harbor stores. Curious as to what he'd be after to buy, Molly contented herself with watching bold gulls dive and land on a nearby bread cart, avoiding the swipes of the owner and his son. The scene made her laugh, quietly; one gull managed to get an entire roll, only to have it stolen from him by another. A half hour later, her grandfather returned, bearing several, large and mysterious parcels, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Molly looked at the white-haired weaver in expectation but he merely took out his pipe and lit it, smoking in the confusion of voices and activity around them.
Due to the strict standards of the Immigration department at Ellis Island, all the shipping companies adhered to a process of cleanliness for all passengers. On the dock, an agent for the White Star Line politely informed Molly and her grandfather that if they wished to journey to America, they would need to be medically examined, their clothing de-loused and they'd given an antiseptic bath. Horrified, Molly looked at the man aghast, holding onto her grandfather's arm; the white haired weaver patted her hand encouragingly.
“They fear contagion, lass.” he told her as they followed the agent into a large building, flying red flags with a white star on them.
“What about our crate and bags?” Molly asked, clutching her grandfather's arm.
“We have them, miss. They will be fumigated and marked for you.” the agent said, giving the pretty young woman a kind smile. “Do not worry... we'll take good care of you.” He wrote down their names, national origin and ages on two, large cards of thick paper and pinned them to their jackets. “'Tis so you don't lose them.” he explained. The agent led them down a narrow corridor to a bustling hallway. Women and men with similar tags pinned to their jackets stood on opposite side of the room, in long lines down the hall. “Women on that side, men on this side. Good afternoon.” The agent nodded and walked back from whence he'd come.
Patrick Callahan squeezed Molly's hand.
“Courage, lass.” he said. “Best to get it over with.” Molly slowly released his arm and swallowed hard as she looked at the line of women, waiting to be 'inspected'. It was an accurate description; after waiting two hours, Molly joined ten other women in a small, private room. The woman working there were not unkind; the moment Molly disrobed, she was ushered into a warm antiseptic bath and given soap to wash her hair and a clean sheet to wrap up in. Sitting on a bench with the others outside the examination room, Molly bit her nails and tried to imagine she was back home, sitting in a green field, where there were no doctors or strange, white rooms.
The doctor and woman nurse glanced her over quickly; they did exams hundred of times each and every day and the young woman, though slightly malnourished, appeared to have no symptoms of any disease whatsoever. The nurses in the room sat Molly down on a chair in her sheet and looking carefully at her head and combing through her damp hair.
“This one washes.” one nurse said, to the other. “No eggs at all.” Molly looked baffled at this; the nurse smiled. “It means there are no lice in your hair, dearie.” she informed the young woman. Molly felt relieved; so far it had not been so bad. Each exam she passed through the doctor or nurse would write something on her card; they looked at her eyes, her teeth and washed her clothing.
An hour later, she sat waiting on another bench for her clothes to dry; she could see them hanging on a line on the other side of the room. Even her worn bonnet had been fumigated. Everything in the room, from the staff uniforms to the floors, was scrubbed clean.
“Can you really be sent back for being ill?” she asked of one white-aproned women whom stood nearby. The woman nodded, gravely.
“Aye.” she said. “It's far less expensive to make certain you're healthy before we ship you over, than have to pay to ship you back as well.” Considering the woman's words, Molly huddled in the sheet, wrapping it about herself a bit more securely.
Dressed and squeaky clean, Molly found her grandfather already waiting in the parlor of an adjacent hotel, owned by the shipping company. They sat down in chairs set up all over the large room, along with several other passengers. He was glad to see her unscathed and joked a bit about the exam.
“Felt like I was back in t' army.” he said, with a shudder. “The doctor said my lungs were weak but not bad enough to detain me. He were an Irishman so I gave him no trouble. I've been told were' to sit here and wait in the parlor. Canna go out lest we catch summat. We've bunks upstairs for sleeping. Boat leaves tomorrow morning, after breakfast.” He packed his pipe as he spoke, nodding to himself. Molly looked at him a moment, then down at her clean fingernails.
“We're really going away.” she said, softly. The ferry to England was one thing; ‘twas but a small distance back to Ireland. New York was weeks away by sea and the journey perilous, if it stormed. Patrick patted her hand; leaning back in his chair, he began thumbing through a worn newspaper laying on a nearby table.
A well-dressed shipping agent in spectacles came in the parlor some minutes later; he sat down with each traveler and family, bringing out a large ledger and writing down answers. Patrick and his granddaughter were last. After checking the numbers on their traveling cards, he found corresponding lines in his ledger and poised his pen to write.
“What's that there?” Patrick asked, interested. The man did not look up form his ledger.
“This is the ship's manifest.” he enlightened them. “You're boarding the Cedric tomorrow morning.” He glanced at their cards. “Patrick Callahan and granddaughter Molly Callahan. Age?”
He asked their marital status, town of origin, the exact amount of money they carried with them and then asked a few very strange questions that Molly had never been asked in her life.
“Are you an anarchist?” the shipping agent inquired; his face was just as calm as if he'd commented on the weather. Molly had no idea what this meant; her grandfather took his pipe from his mouth.
“No, young man.” the white-haired said, scowling a little. “I’m a protestant… and I can speak for my young granddaughter as well.” The agent nodded, writing this down.
“Are either of you polygamists?” the man asked. Patrick snorted.
“No.” the white-haired weaver said. “I suppose one wife would be sufficient.” A small snort of laughter came from the agent but he hid it with a discreet cough.
After the questions Molly's grandfather asked the agent about conditions on the boat. The man took off his spectacles and cleaned them on a cloth; Patrick watched the younger man with a stoic expression, puffing his pipe.
“If you are able...” the man began, glancing at Molly. “You may wish to keep your granddaughter and yourself out of third-class.” The white-haired weaver nodded, slowly.
“Tis as I heard.” he said, slowly.
The be-speckled shipping agent closed his ledger and stood; he extended a hand to Patrick and shook it and took his leave.
“I suppose they've run out of good questions and have turned to the bizarre.” Molly's grandfather muttered, somberly puffing on his pipe. “Oh, aye... the 70 year-old anarchist with seven wives...”

Molly sighed a little, not quite understanding what he meant. She was glad to sit quietly in one place; the day of travel, exams and questions had taken their toll. As tired as she felt, Molly knew sleep would not come easy. Tomorrow, they would board one of the gigantic ships bobbing in the harbor and sail away... to America.

End Chapter One.

Much obliged...

 

[Morgolemtheau]

I C wut U did thur

Anyways, I'll read this later, but right now it looks like a giant wall of text! But I have to say, the first sentence is absolutely gorgeous.

 

[meredithgreene]

I C wut U did thur

Anyways, I'll read this later, but right now it looks like a giant wall of text! But I have to say, the first sentence is absolutely gorgeous.

Why thank you. Just 566 to go. lol... Much obliged.

 

[Morgolemtheau]

I read through it all. Wow. You're one incredible writer. Everything flowed steadily like a metronome and the amount of reality you induce is breathtaking to say the least.

My only critique is format of quotes.

If you're starting a sentence with a quote, followed by "____ said", you should write it like so: "Look at the sky," said Robert. If there are multiple sentences within the quote, punctuate it like a regular sentence, except the last one, so it would be like this: "Look at the sky. It looks great," said Robert. If the quote is at the end, then it's okay to have a period at the end of the quote, because that's the end of the sentence as well.

So, taking part of your text:

“No, young man.” the white-haired [weaver]* said, scowling a little. “I’m a protestant… and I can speak for my young granddaughter as well.”

Instead, that would be:

"No, young man," the white-haired weaver said, scowling a little, "I'm Protestant... and I can speak for my young granddaughter as well."


*make sure to add "weaver" in there as well, I suspect that's just a small typo

 

[meredithgreene]

I read through it all. Wow. You're one incredible writer. Everything flowed steadily like a metronome and the amount of reality you induce is breathtaking to say the least.

My only critique is format of quotes.

If you're starting a sentence with a quote, followed by "____ said", you should write it like so: "Look at the sky," said Robert. If there are multiple sentences within the quote, punctuate it like a regular sentence, except the last one, so it would be like this: "Look at the sky. It looks great," said Robert. If the quote is at the end, then it's okay to have a period at the end of the quote, because that's the end of the sentence as well.

So, taking part of your text:

“No, young man.” the white-haired [weaver]* said, scowling a little. “I’m a protestant… and I can speak for my young granddaughter as well.”

Instead, that would be:

"No, young man," the white-haired weaver said, scowling a little, "I'm Protestant... and I can speak for my young granddaughter as well."


*make sure to add "weaver" in there as well, I suspect that's just a small typo

I thank you for this very constructive advice; having no extra resources to hire an editor I am grateful for any help I can get. I look forward to posting more works on here for critique. I'll put the second chapter below. Much obliged.

 

[meredithgreene]

Second Chapter:

Chapter Two: (pardon the tabs being removed.)

The day of departure dawned clear; after a simple breakfast of warm oatmeal in the crowded dining hall, Patrick and Molly lined up to wait out on the boarding dock. Uniformed shiphands from The Cedric were loading the cargo directly from the dock outside the shipping office. Outside with the other cleaned and de-loused passengers, Molly watched as her grandfather carefully printed their surname across the top and sides of their crate with a piece of coal, then he rubbed a bit of candle wax over the letters. “Seals it against washing off.” he told her. They'd purchased tickets at the shipping company ticketing office soon after breakfast, a two-bunk cabin in second class. Molly was appalled at the cost of the tickets, a whole months earnings for just one; her grandfather assured her it would be worth it to stay out of steerage.
“We'll have a cabin... with a door.” he told her as they moved up the gangplank with drooping, rope railings. “Don't you worry, lass. We'll at least be comfortable and safe from brigands.” Ahead and behind them was a narrow mass of solid people, all moving slowly forward. Molly clung to her grandfather's arm as they shuffled along with the others. “Second class gets better food, too so I'm told.” Patrick continued, smoking his pipe.
At the top of the gangplank two dark-clad crewmen stood by as a white-coated ship's mate looked at their tickets. The sunlight glinted off the shined, brass buttons of his uniform; he wore a spotless white cap with a black, shiny brim. The deck looked clean and scrubbed
“Second class, that door there... take the stairs down one level, turn right at the corridor, make another right, room 312.” he said, without looking at them; he clipped their tickets and waved them onward. They walked down the wide, wooden deck, looking at everything. Shined metal railings edged the deck. Round, white life-preservers hung on the wall opposite the railing, the name R.H. S. Cedric printed on them in bold, red letters. Large lifeboats covered in canvass dotted the edge of the deck, with spaces between so you could stand at the rail. Molly wanted to look over the rail right away but her grandfather shook his head.
“First let's to the cabin, lass.” he told her, smiling at the excited expression on his granddaughter's face. “We'll take a turn afore we set sail.”
The cabin was tiny, but clean; the ceiling was painted a bright white and real wallpaper was on the walls; the floors looked recently scrubbed. It was just wide enough for two narrow berths on one wall, one above the other and a small, porcelain basin attached to the far wall. Two overhead racks hung to store their bags. Their crate was down below in the hull, so they were told. Though the room was close and cramped, it had a small, round window above the basin... one that opened.
“That's called a porthole.” Patrick told his granddaughter. “There's a handle here...” Unfastening the window, the elderly weaver swung it open, allowing a burst of fresh, cool air into the small cabin. Molly closed her eyes and smiled, inhaling the sweet, cool air. Patrick smiled, grateful for the blessing of air. “We'll be happy of it once we're at sea, like as not.” said he.
Examining the beds, another blessing presented itself to the two voyageurs; spring mattresses lay there and a real, feather pillow; newly laundered linens sat folded as well and a bright blue-woolen blanket with the ship's name embroidered upon it in white thread. A little curtain ran along a thin metal pole, above each berth, which one could draw for privacy when sleeping. On the wall opposite the berths hung a small, round mirror, well fastened to the papered paneling. Hooks lined up by the narrow door for hanging up clothes and hats.
Patrick Callahan appeared highly pleased with the beds. Touching the mattress on the bottom berth he tried it and puffed on his pipe a moment.
“Not bad at all.” he said, nodding. “Shall we draw lots for the bunks?” Molly giggled, softly.
“Please take the lower one, grandfather.” she said, smiling. “It is easy for me to get up there and down again.” The white-haired weaver nodded again.
“Aye.” he said. “Like as not I'd break mah neck attempting such a feat.” Carefully, he laid down his precious fiddle in it's tapered, wooden case.
Molly smiled as her grandfather tucked it under the blanket for safekeeping. Music was their one luxury; most nights he played for her the sweet airs of their ancestors, the winding, rhythmic war marches and soulful ballads of long-lost love. He'd taught her to play on the same instrument on which he'd learned, himself; as much as he'd encouraged her to use it, Molly loved nothing more that to hear the white-haired weaver play. No fingers flew over strings as fast as his, nor as skillfully.
They spent a moment looking over the paper brochure they'd received with their tickets. Along one side of the tiny cabin, under the mirror, a fold-out bench could be unlatched and lowered from the wall to sit upon. They unfolded it and sat, looking at the lunch and dinner menus.
“There's a dining 'salon' to eat our meals in.” Patrick said, puffing his pipe. “Photographs, too.” Molly peered over his shoulder at the thick paper he held. In a black and white image, she saw a family seated at a long table with many others, the ladies dressed well and their hair up and fashionable. Real china plates sat on the table and odd-looking wooden chairs attached to the floor by a single, metal post. Potted plats sat nearby and a server in a smart, white jacket held a plate of drinks a folded cloth over his arm.
“Oh my... it looks posh.” she said, quietly. “They look fine ladies.” Unconsciously Molly touched her thin, blue frock, her best dress. It was a handed down to her from a neighbor girl, whom herself was not the original owner. Patrick looked at her a moment, then cleared his throat.
“Bring me them bundles I got earlier, lass.” he said, evenly. “I've some things that should hang up.”
The man's words pricked Molly's curiosity greatly. Going to the lowest berth she gathered the bundles from his satchel, lugging them back over to her grandfather.
“Now, afore ye chastise me for spending money, know that my kin sent over some money for clothes and tickets, for the both of us. They dinnae want us arriving in New York looking threadbare beggars. I've my savings for when we get to America, small that it is. So, no tongue-lashing from you, lass.” The humor in her grandfather's voice made Molly smile very wide.
“New clothes?” she said, smiling. Patrick nodded his white head, his pipe moving along as well. It had been long since they'd had new clothing; several years.
“Well, not new... second hand... but new for us. Clean and better than what we have now. Go on... open them up, lass.” he said, grinning. “We've not all day, now.” Molly drew out folded previously owned or donated clothes, sold to travelers whom had neither the time nor money for tailors; these had once belonged to others but had been cleaned and pressed with steam.“The girl at the counter could see ye through the window.” her grandfather said, smiling. “She thought it would look well on ye.”
The young girl's face was alight with unexpected joy; her fair, slender hands drew out a long woolen skirt, finer than any she'd ever possessed. The last new dress she'd had was made by her mother, just weeks before the woman died, many years ago. The wool was dyed a deep green, the color of a rain-kissed forest, with pressed pewter buttons in two rows down the sides. A matching, warm dress jacket came with it, buttons down its front and on the thick cuffs.
“Oh... 'tis lovely...” she whispered. Patrick Callahan chuckled and handed her another, thicker package. A long, woolen overcoat of brown wool, lined with faded green fabric was put in Molly's hands, a white linen blouse with a real, lace high-collar, a pretty straw bonnet with a green bow and ties, good stockings, brown boots and new gloves.
The white-haired weaver found himself tightly embraced by his granddaughter, her face shining with grateful tears.
“Now, now...” he soothed, patting Molly's red-gold hair. “You'll look right proper at dinner, now won't ye? We both will. I've a new suit as well, and a warm overcoat. We'll look a pair, walking out on deck. No lady on the boat will hold a candle to you, lass. None at all.” Molly wiped her eyes and nodded, calming herself. With care, she hung up the new things on the hook, that the creases may fall from them before dinner. The bonnet, especially she hung by it's ribbon from a hook, that it might not be crushed.
Their luggage stowed away, Molly's grandfather suggest they locate the 'relief closet' as he called it. The whole corridor had just one, way down at the end of the hall. As soon as the door was opened, flies came out in a small cloud, buzzing angrily. The closet contained little more than a metal toilet with a lid; a hole in the middle led down to a pipe, which led somewhere else. A faint, cold breeze blew up through the hole, into the tiny space. The smell was powerful. Molly held her nose and squinted, much to the amusement of her grandfather.
“Jes hold yer breath when you're inside.” Patrick advised, cheerfully. “Twill make ye hurry, for certain. There's like to be a line afore long.”
“I'm glad we don't have to go outside, in the cold.” Molly said, closing the door.
“Aye.” her grandfather put in, nodding. “Be glad they've paper. At least you can use a small piece to lift the lid; don't touch it more than ye have t'.”
A printed card on the wall of the 'closet' told the occupant in dire terms that to avoid the spread of typhus, they must wash their hands with soap after using 'the facility'. Once free of the odoriferous closet, Molly dutifully found the laundry room for a small bucket of water; bringing this back to their cabin she washed her hands in the white basin of their room with a hard, brown cake of soap provided by the steamship. The soap smelled of antiseptic and oil but it foamed as she rubbed it in her hands.
Noise out in the corridor announced the arrival of other passengers; young children's voices, excited by the big, new ship rang out, along with the firm warnings and whispered comforts of mothers and fathers.
“What say we head out to the promenade deck and watch the ship embark?” Patrick suggested, with a grin. Molly smiled, then frowned.
“Is it alright to leave our things in the room untended?” she asked, uncertainly. Her grandfather held up a key, with a white, wooden tag; it had the number of their room carved on it, the number painted blue.
“They've been in the business some time, lass.” the man said, with humor. He led the way out of the room. “They've most things taken care of, methinks.” Adjusting her old bonnet, Molly took her grandfather's arm and walked with him down the bustling corridor.
Directed by a crewman to the second class deck, Molly found herself walking by couples dressed both well and plain, and families holding their children tightly. Most nodded politely as they took a turn out in the fresh air. People lined the rail, waving at those below on the shore or watching the sights with animated faces. Liverpool spread out a bit more before them from the high deck of the huge ship; the darkened slums were grouped around the harbor under dim clouds of smoke. Larger, brighter homes sat beyond, with tall spires of churches and the white, city buildings.
Walking slowly among the milling families and couples, Molly and her grandfather headed towards the back of the huge ship. The second class deck was located below the first class deck; the deck above formed a sort of roof some eight feet overhead with pillars at the rail every so often. Deck chairs lined the wall opposite the rail.
The back part of the deck itself was over sixty feet wide, made of freshly swabbed planks of planed wood. It all looked bright and clean, traversed by people acting courteously and dressed in a respectable fashion. Some women and older folk sat in the deck chairs here in the sun, with blue blankets over their legs.
Molly's heart swelled at the sights around her, looking at everything with bright, wide eyes. The second class back deck had no roof on it; the first class deck sat terraced behind them and sun streamed down onto a larger walking area some sixty feet wide, with benches for seating. Moving forward, Patrick led his granddaughter to the rail, overlooking the third-class deck below. Molly looked over the railing, placing a gloved hand on it's shined surface.
Below appeared another realm altogether. Suddenly. the extra money her grandfather spent on the tickets seemed like a reasonable amount. The steerage deck was cramped, filled with a mass of people, hardly any room for more to stand; babies cried in their mother's arms, men spoke in loud voices, smoke from pipes and cigarettes drifted up in clouds. Not only were there travelers from northern Europe but dark haired Spaniards as well, here and there a Romanian or Jewish family stood, the mothers keeping their children close. The sounds of foreign and English-speaking voices mingling made a deep impression on Molly; never before had she seen so many people from different places all crammed together in one place. She supposed Ellis Island would be much the same, since they were all going there, too.
It seemed nothing but a flock of confusion, at first. The ship's horn let out a long blast, signaling that departure was eminent. Down below the voices grew in volume; some mild pushing causes tempers to flare and angry looks. For a moment, Molly felt uneasy; brawling was a thing men did in taverns or in the streets, late at night, not when children and women were so close by.
All at once, someone in a group of men below brought out a fiddle and began to play. Twas barely audible in the crowd and noise but the man played away in spite of it, a big grin on his ruddy face. The chill breeze could not dampen the musician's spirit and soon the music he played was joined by another fiddle, then a guitar. Soon, an accordion came out and sweet music calmed the crowd below. Looking over her shoulder, Molly could see the music had attracted even the first-class folk on the terrace above. Smiling, she enjoyed the good, clear sound of the lilting Irish tune, humming along as the smoking, immense ship slowly pulled away from the bustling shore.
Cheers went up as the ship eased from the mooring; black smoke surged down from the smokestacks. The ship's horn gave another long blast; a few people tossed their hats up in the air with joy. They seemed happy to be leaving. As exciting the prospect of the journey, of a new home and a new land, Molly felt a vast sadness well up in her. They sat in English waters along with all these others, driven out by necessity and the great fear of starvation and disease. Walking along the deck by her grandfather, Molly let out a tear or two, wiping them away before the white-haired weaver could see them.
A few more tears showed upon her face later, as the great steam ship Cedric steamed past the southern shores of Ireland, on it's way out to the open waters of the Atlantic. Even in winter, green hills and white shores greeted the young woman's eye; they seemed to call out with forlorn laments, pulling on the very heart within her. Looking up, Molly saw a tear fall from her grandfather's eye as well, trailing down his pale cheek. Taking out her handkerchief, she gently wiped it away. Patrick looked down into the young woman's face; her clear green eyes were filled with sadness and worry. Without a word, he patted the fair hand on his arm and set to strolling once more.
The anticipation of a good meal pushed back the throes of homesickness. It had been so long since either of them had eaten anything resembling the dishes described on the menu card, years in fact. A serving woman came by an hour before dinner was to be served, bringing a large, empty bathing tub with her. She offered it's use for a farthing, along with hot water, oils and soaps. Patrick helped to fill the tub and stood outside the cabin's door on guard as Molly washed.
The warm, soapy water felt good against the skin, though there was little time to enjoy it. The young woman washed her hair quickly and oiled it, drying off her damp skin as fast as she could with the rough towel. The air held a decisive chill, even in the cabin. Dressing in the laced blouse and green woolen skirt, Molly quickly fastened her hair back in a linen cloth until it would be able to dry. The warm stockings felt like a luxury to pull on, the new boots buttoned smartly up with real buttons of cloth-covered metal. The dress jacket she pulled on and fastened up; the collar opened and let the lace of her collar show through. Patrick smiled at the sight of her when she came out and quickly went in to bathe. The corridor was almost quiet, save for the white-aproned serving women bringing hot water to and fro from different rooms. Sounds of children splashing in the water and muted laughter reached Molly's ears as she stood, waiting. After a few minutes, her grandfather opened the door and ushered her back in the room.
“I need your help to trim me beard, lass.” the aging man said, smiling. He looked very well in his new, gray suit with it's crisp, white shirt and deep-blue tie. It made his old-fashioned hat look almost distinguished. “No use doing it myself.” he continued. “I'll cut summat I don't want to.” Laughing softly, Molly took the small, metal scissors from his hand.
Leaning over a cloth over his hands Patrick let his granddaughter trim his white whiskers to the neat, cropped appearance which seemed the fashion. With a critical eye, the aging weaver looked over her handiwork in the small mirror.
“Very fine, lass.” he said, smiling. “I look a bit more pleasant on the eye.” He fit on his hat and looked at Molly's wrapped hair. “Best brush out yer locks and braid them up. Twill be the dinner bell soon.” He opened the window and with Molly's help they poured the bathwater out into the dark; Molly could feel cold wind whistling through the porthole onto her damp hair and shivered. Once the cabin was warm again, she quickly brushed out her hair until it dried; clean and oiled, her hair look like burnished copper, the ends of the long tresses curling softly as she braided it into a high, complicated crown; her mother used to wear her hair so. Molly had always thought it beautiful, like an ancient princess would wear it. Her grandfather approved of it with several nods.
“Ye look a young lady like so, Molly Callahan.” he said. “So much like your dear mother.” The white-haired man looked almost sad at these words; he turned to his satchel and looked around a bit. “Your mother left summat... where is it... her silver locket with the milk stones on it. You remember it, don't ye? Used to wear it on high days...” He turned and held out the bit of jewelry; the delicate chain was from a far gone time, when Callahans were a clan of powerful merchants along the banks of the Kinkaid. From it dangled the silver, star-shaped locket. “I hoped I'd not have to sell it and we did not. Here... put it on. 'Tis right ye should wear it.” Her throat tight, Molly could only nod and take the shiny locket in her hand.
Smartly arrayed, Molly felt equal to all on board this grand vessel as the walked towards the dining salon. Rallying an inward hope, she put on a brave face to show the more refined strangers in the dining salon. Her grandfather saw this effort and silently applauded it. They walked into the well-lit salon and were shown to seats at a long, white-covered table. Molly tried hard not to stare. Indeed, she had ever eaten in such a place; the room was paneled in dark wood and looked like a long, fine pub from a rich neighborhood, with the long tables and swiveled chairs just like in the brochure pictures. Molly saw polished silver, pressed linen napkins and real china plates. They were seated near the end of one table, facing each other over the white cloth.
All her life, Molly never forgot the first dinner aboard The Cedric; so many nights she'd gone to bed with only part of her stomach full. Hunger was a thing most people felt all the time in her home town. Charities and churches kept starvation off but most of the time there was not enough food to satisfy all the pangs of want. Yet, here, on this lovely, white table, in the low-ceilinged room of carved wood and lighted lamps servers brought them fresh-baked rolls with real butter on it. Then came wide, flat bowls of soup, smelling as savory as anything. Molly's grandfather especially enjoyed the soup, being made with barley and good bits of beef. They dipped the rolls into the steaming soup, smiling a good deal.
As she ate, Molly strove to remember what deportment and manners her mother and teachers had taught her. The soup gone, servers brought plates with strips of roasted fowl, baked potatoes, steamed greens and afterward a small pie of sweetened, sliced apples. Molly was treated to a cup of tea... with actual cream and a lump of sugar. Her grandfather enjoyed a good cup of coffee, something he'd longed for often. The two said hardly a word throughout dinner. In that long dining room, no one enjoyed the dinner more than the aging weaver and his pretty granddaughter.
Across the table, Molly felt someone staring at her; ignoring it, she ate and exchanged pleasant glances of contentment with her grandfather. Full, the white-haired weaver brought out his pipe and lit it, as did several of the other men in the room. The sweet smoke of the tobacco lingered in the air up by the lamps. Glancing across the table at his young granddaughter, Patrick was mindful of how grown up she appeared; so sweetly did she sit, genteelly sipping her tea. Oft he'd wished to give her nice things and see her well cared for. America must truly the land of hope, if even the voyage there made one's life a little better.
“Pardon my intrusion...” came a man's voice from beside them. “May I join you?” Looking up, Molly saw the well-dressed stranger whom had spoken to her so boldly at the docks the day before; he smiled at her but she did not return it. The man's voice was not unrefined; he was Irish from his brogue but sounded much more educated than a commoner. He appeared a man of twenty nine or thirty years of age, in a tailored suit and polished shoes; his light hair was carefully combed back. He held a lit cigar in one hand, looking down at them with an expectant smile. Molly said nothing, waiting for her grandfather to say something; the white-haired Irishman just sat there, looking narrowly at the man from his seat and smoking.
Patrick Callahan had recognized the man at once; twas the same brazen blaggard from the docks. The fine clothing did not fool him; the wily weaver knew a black-hearted villain when he saw one. He'd observed this man gawking at his granddaughter from across the room, and openly so. To be certain the girl was a lovely sight but such scrutiny was unseemly, even rude. However, the aging weaver did not let his anger show.
“We're just off now, sir.” he said, standing up. “But, good evening to you. Come Molly...” The man stepped aside and let them pass, smiling at the pretty, young woman the entire time as she put on her coat and bonnet.
Taking her grandfather's arm, Molly shivered a little as they left the dining hall. Patrick felt this and cleared his throat.
“Stay away from that one.” he said, quietly. “Take nowt what he offers, even if it be a gift. Some men are not capable of kindness; you remember that.” Molly nodded, silently vowing to do so. Her grandfather sighed, puffing smoke from his pipe. “'Twas a good dinner, that.” he said at last.
“It was.” she agreed, letting her smile return. “The best I ever ate, sir.” They strolled along the dimly-lit deck, breathing deep of the fresh, cold air; in the blackened sky stars twinkled merrily, as if saying that all was well with the world once more.

 

[meredithgreene]

Chapter Three:

Part One of Chapter Three: (due to its length I shall post this in two halves)


The swells were minimal in the calm waters around the Azors. A little more used to the movement of the sea, Molly strolled along the rail of the second-class promenade; her grandfather was still a bit 'green about t' gills', as he put it and urged to her walk out in the air a bit.

“Jes a few minutes and don' talk to anyone but a lady.” he warned her. Putting on her green bonnet and gloves, she walked out in her gray, woolen common dress, with her good shawl about her shoulders.

The wind was warmer here, making it a bit hot for heavy coats. Those whom were able walked the deck, stood along the rail or sat on the deck chairs, recovering. A large steam ship was anchored beside The Cedric; squinting, Molly could just make out the words “Florida” written on the bow; rope ladders hung down it's sides, letting down passengers into lifeboats. These boats were ferried back and forth between the ships.

“Survivors of the earthquake in Messina.” she overhead from two men talking nearby. One shook his head, puffing on a cigar.

“So, we're to be invaded by the dagos, as well.” he said. A little surprised at the rough language, the young girl moved away, out of earshot.

Walking down the promenade, Molly headed for the back of the ship to get a better view of the steerage deck and these people from Messina. If the third-class deck had been crowded before, it was even more so now. A riot of voices, cries and laughter sounded out. Confusion reigned; families called to one another, people greeted and glowered at each other, talking and merriment ensued along with anxious discussions.

Many dark-haired, olive-skinned Italians swarmed the deck, the women in black or dark head-scarves and some with braids in crowns pinned over their heads, white blouses and bright skirts and shawls, clutching small children, or satchels; some carried bags of bread or netted wine bottles over one shoulder. Luggage and crates were being loaded into the cargo bay from one ship to the next with the long, wooden crane, pulleys and rope, the sailors carefully watching each part of the process.

Leaning out over the railing just a little, Molly avidly watched the scene below. A figure caught her eye; the bold, well-dressed stranger from the dining hall was down in steerage, talking sternly with a rather thin-looking Irishman and his family, out for air on the deck. The woman and children looked at the well-dressed man with wide, frightened eyes. The wizened man nodded sadly, putting something in the second-class man's hand; it looked like coins to Molly but the suited man put it out of sight, looking around sharply.

A slight movement at her neck took Molly's attention from the crowd; looking down at her necklace, she saw it fall down upon her shawl. Horrified, she grabbed for it, only to watch it slip right through her fingers. The silver locket and chain fell, right onto the brimmed cap of a man standing below, smoking a cigarette with a few others. Molly froze, her eyes wide. The man below started and looked behind him quickly; the well-dressed stranger from second class was standing there; he found himself face to face with one angered Italian emigrant.

“Why you do that?” the young man demanded, gesturing with one hand. The dining hall stranger appeared mystified and gauged the potential foe in front of him. Burly, tall and younger than he, the Italian appeared to be sizing him up as well.

“Do what?” the stranger said, equally loud. “I've no quarrel with you.” The crowd grew a little quieter, watching the situation with interest.

“You hit my head?” the young man demanded. The youth was no fool, his brown eyes were wary and calculating. Two older emigrant men, familiar in form and face to the young Italian stood nearby, glaring at the well-dressed man from second class. The Irishman snorted.

“I did not touch you.” he spat.

“Please sir... it was me...” called a feminine voice from above. “I'm so sorry, sir....”

Both men looked up, along with the other people nearby. Molly waved and leaned over the railing a little, her face drawn with concern. Her green eyes met those of the young Italian.

Luigi Dimattio felt his anger vanish. A pretty girl in a green bonnet from the deck above him was calling down to him, apologizing. “My necklace dropped...” she continued, in her sweet voice. “... on your hat. It was an accident. I'm so sorry, sir.”

Taking off his cap, Luigi looked at it and smiled; a silver chain hung off it, with a little star-shaped locket. Taking it in hand, he held it up; the silver gleamed in the sunlight. The girl above saw it and smiled; her radiant smile made Luigi feel lighter, somehow. She had green, clear eyes, he noticed. “Oh, thank you!” the young woman said, relieved.

“I can toss it up.” Luigi called up to her. “But it may go over... into the sea.” Molly's smile faded at his words.

Looking around, she saw a staircase leading down, guarded by two crew members. Steerage passengers were not allowed up on the second-class promenade. Leaning over a little again, Molly found the young man's face once more. He was still smiling up at her; his warm brown eyes held a kind look.

“I will come down.” she called to him. “Can you meet me by the stairs?” The two older men standing behind Luigi exchanged a grin at these words. The young Italian nodded, still smiling; he began to make his way through the crowd over to a staircase, some thirty feet away.

Molly had a bit of trouble getting down the stairs, at first.

“Miss... don't go down there.” a uniformed crewman said, holding a hand in front of her. “'Tis no place for a respectable young woman. 'Tis steerage.”

“My necklace fell.” Molly explained. “'Twas my mother's. That man rescued it and he's bringing it to me. I’ll come right back up.” The crewman looked down and nodded.

“Please stay on the stair, miss where I can see you.” he said, letting her pass. Molly held onto the rail and carefully stepped down the white-painted stairs. At the base the young Italian man turned and smiled at her again; he held out the necklace without hesitation.

“Oh, thank you, sir!” Molly said, accepting it into her gloved hands. She turned grateful eyes up to the stranger's, suddenly feeling shy. “It was my mother's... I could not lose it. I don't know how it fell off.”

Luigi kept his cap in his hand, scrutinizing the young woman in front of him. Above, at the head of the stair a crewman eyed him with frank suspicion.

“You should get the clasp fixed.” he told her, in a thick accent. “It has broken.” Molly smiled, looking at her necklace.

“I will.” she said. “Thank you, sir.”

“My name is Luigi... Luigi DiMattio.” Molly looked up at him again.

“Molly Callahan.” she replied, giving a small curtsy. “I see you speak English very well, Mr. DiMattio.” The young man smiled, proudly.

“Sister Mary at... eh...the church, yes?” he explained; his warm smile never faded. “She taught us good English in Messina.” Molly's face fell at the name of the city.

“Oh... I heard about the terrible earthquake. I am so sorry for your city.” she said, her eyes saddened. Luigi nodded, his smile finally disappearing.

“Yes. Many die.” he said, seriously. “We go now to New York. Ellis Island.” Molly smiled at this.

“My grandfather and I are going to New York as well.” she said. “Sister Mary... are you Catholic?” Luigi shook his head, no.

“God has, I think left, with my parents.” he said. “But... He is not done with me, yet.” At this he crossed himself. Molly did not quite understand him but nodded, politely.

“Miss...” came the well-dressed stranger's voice, interrupting. Molly and Luigi turned to look at the man. The man stood nearby in the crowd, looking at Luigi with undisguised disgust. “Allow me to escort you back up to the promenade.” he said, looking at Molly. “It is not safe for you down here.” Molly felt almost nauseous, as if she were sea-sick again.

“I do not know you sir.” she said, politely. “I shall not go anywhere with you.”

Luigi grinned; the girl had spirit. She turned her lovely green eyes to his again and smiled. “Thank you again, Mr.. DiMattio.” she said, shyly. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Her fair skin and green eyes were unusual to the young man but her hair seemed even more so; red-gold curls of it peeked down from under her bonnet.

“A pleasure for me, Miss Calla-han.” Luigi said, haltingly. His English was not perfect but Molly was able to catch every word. Giving the young man one last smile, she turned and went alone back up the steps, holding tightly to the rail. Luigi watched her go, his smile lingering. The young woman's presence was like a warm breeze on this wintery sea.

“What do you think you're after?” the well-dressed man cut in, stepping between Luigi and the base of the stairs. The young woman was gone from view. The Italian man turned his gaze to the pale stranger in the tailored suit, the warmth in his eyes fast draining away. “You'll be sorry if you speak to her again, dago...”

Luigi did not step back; he did not seem to react to the slur.

“What do you do here in third class?” the young Sicilian inquired, after a moment. “You should be up there.” He grinned and pointed up the stairs. “It is not safe for you down here.” People crowded around murmuring; an excited buzz seemed to lift into the air as if they sensed a fight. The well-dressed man's face twisted into a sneer.

“Do not order me about, you filthy ginny.” he spat.

At this, several woman in the crowd gasped; 'ginny' was short for 'guinea negro'. It was a terrible thing to say to a Sicilian, or anyone for that matter. Quick as lightning, the young man had his fist in the stranger's jaw; the well-dressed man staggered back, reeling from the blow. The crowd reacted loudly; some cheered, people pointed and gasped. Crewmen began making their way down the stairs. Ready for a counter-attack, Luigi felt hands grip his shoulders and was forcibly dragged back, into the crowd.

Well away from the skirmish Luigi found himself facing the grim faces of his two uncles.

“What is the matter with you?” barked one of them, in their own language; one of the man's hands was up, gesturing in the younger man's face. “You will get yourself kicked from the boat, before we even embark!”

“He called me a ginny....” Luigi tossed back, both his hands out, the palms up. “He deserved two more just like it.” His other uncle chuckled at this and shook his head.


“The Irishman was up to no good.” the man said, smoking his cigar thoughtfully. “Fancy clothes, but he is down here, collecting money from the poor. We should ask around and find out who he is.” The other uncle nodded, then turned back to Luigi.

“I am your godfather.” he said, the hand back up and moving back and forth in expressive movements. “I am responsible for you! Just because your parents are gone...” he paused and crossed himself, “... does not mean you must pick a fight with the Irish, capice?” His nephew mumbled and shrugged, looking off into the crowd.

A dark-haired woman approached the little group, leading a small girl by the hand.

“Gino.” she said, in her native tongue, looking at one of Luigi's uncles expectantly. “Do we not have second class tickets?” The man nodded, smoking a cigar, still leaning against the wall. “Then... why do we stand here in steerage?! Answer me that!”

“There is enough noise on this deck without you yelling, Donata!” the man returned, loudly; he appeared upset, though his eyes held humor. “Yes, we have tickets for berths upstairs! On the good deck... with good food. So stop the yelling, already!” The woman scowled at him, lifting up the girl in her arms. Gino clucked at his wife's sour expression and launched into conversation with his brother.

Donata Giovanni looked over at her nephew Luigi; he was scanning the railing above them on the second-class deck, apparently looking for someone.

“Are you going up to second class or staying here, Louie?” she asked. Gino's bother Vito chuckled.

“He is looking for the pretty Irish girl that smiled at him.” the man said, amused. Luigi snapped his head down at his uncle.

“I'll stay here in steerage.” Luigi said, to his aunt. “I can save a whole month's pay down here. It is what... a week? Two maybe.” Donata nodded, looking up.

“Well... they will not like us in their fancy dining salon.” she said. “I hope more from Messina have been put up there, or it will be awkward.” The men smiled and nodded at this, looking into the crowd around them.

Molly found her grandfather sitting up in his berth; he appeared much improved.

“There you are lass...” he said, smiling. “I've the inkling to wash up and take a turn on the deck, myself before supper.” Smiling, Molly closed the cabin door; she felt lighter, for some reason.

“You'll be chastising me, sir.” she said, sobering. “I spoke with someone.” A little surprised, Patrick Callahan cleared his throat and pointed to his pipe bag, hanging on a hook on the wall. Molly fetched it without a word and gave it to him; she watched in silence as he packed his pipe and lit it.

“Well...” her grandfather said, indicating the fold-down bench. “Tell me what happened.” When Molly finished her tale, her grandfather looked grim.

“I'm not blaming you, lass.” he said. “But that dandy keeps haunting your steps. And what were he doing down in steerage? Him in his fine clothes, too.”

“He was collecting money from a family down there.” Molly told him. “I saw it. The man's family looked afraid of him.” Patrick puffed on his pipe for a moment, deep in thought. After some minutes he sighed, looking at his granddaughter.

“You told him that he were a stranger and you'd be going nowhere with him, eh? With the Italian boy standing there watching?” Molly nodded, unsure of what to say. Her grandfather surprised her by chuckling. “That's good.” he said, simply. “Well, help me up, if you will. I've been abed far too long.”

Soon, Molly and he walked by the rail of the promenade; the brisk sea air seemed to help Patrick feel a bit stronger and brought some color to his pale cheeks. They walked around at a much slower pace than normal; Patrick kept a sharp eye out for the 'dandy' as he now referred to the stranger in the suit. Towards the staircase Molly had gone down to meet Luigi, there was a slight commotion; two unformed crewmen were arguing with a couple of large, slightly portly men whom appeared to be Italian in origin, with a woman and a child looking on; the men held up tickets and looked rather agitated.

“What do you mean we can't come up?” one of the men said, his brow dark. “We paid good money to be in second class. These tickets say so; we just bought them last week!”

“That was on the Florida.” the crew man said, firmly. “Here, you're in steerage.” The woman looked upset and the little girl in her arms hid her face in her mother's neck.

“Is that how business is done on this ship?” Molly heard her grandfather's voice, sounding unusually brittle. The crewmen turned to look at the white-haired gentleman with his pretty granddaughter on his arm. “I've second class tickets too, laddie. Does this mean you'll chuck me and my granddaughter into steerage as well?” The crew men looked uncomfortable and stammered a little. “Suppose I get the Captain and ask him...” Patrick Callahan continued, leaning forward and fixing he younger man with a glare.

The uniformed crewmen mumbled something and stepped back, allowing the family through. One of the Italian men gave Patrick a respectful nod, hurrying his family and baggage by. Molly smiled at the little girl whom hid her face again; the white-haired weaver and his granddaughter walked on in serene posture.

“Sometimes, Molly... you're best to say nowt and let lie.” Patrick said, after a moment. “However, my father once told me that a man who can right a wrong and does not is the worst kind of coward.” Molly smiled to herself, putting the wise words away in her mind for later use.

All at once the great foghorn let out a long blast, high above by the wheelhouse. Looking up, Molly beheld a large quantity of black smoke pour from the smokestacks. Going to the rail, she looked down at the deep blue water and saw it move slowly by.

“We're underway again.” Patrick said, nodding to himself. He looked critically at the sky and saw nary a cloud. “Perhaps I'll be able t' stomach some food; sure an I hope no storms come in the night.”

“I as well, sir.” Molly agreed. “I could go my whole life without feeling seasick again.” Patrick chuckled and led her onward, towards the dining hall.

The atmosphere of the dining hall had changed with the addition of several newcomers. Steerage had overflowed into second class berths, though some from the Florida had bought the more expensive tickets outright. A town of tradesman and merchants the emigrants from Messina were by no means beggars.

Read next post for part two...

 

[meredithgreene]

Chapter Three - part two

(read prior post for part one)

On one side of the room the Italians sat, adding a boisterous air of louder conversation and occasional laughter. Some had even brought instruments; Molly saw wooden instrument cases leaning against the table legs down by the owners' feet. On the other side of the room the original second-class patrons sat quietly, glaring at the more noisy occupants and whispering among themselves.

Since the room was almost full, Patrick saw chairs open by the Italian 'side' and made his way slowly towards them without hesitation. The group grew a little quieter as they approached, but Patrick did not let on. Molly helped him off with his coat and stood by as he sat down; she could see her grandfather was still weary from his long bout of seasickness and he eased down into his seat with a sigh. The white-haired weaver indicated the chair next to him with his pipe and Molly sat down without a word. The others at the table looked at each other but seemed to accept their presence.

Taking off her bonnet and coat, Molly hung then on the back of her chair; as interested as she was in studying the newcomers, she did not want to stare or be rude. Listening to them talk, Molly decided she liked hearing the strange language of these people of Messina; it was pleasant-sounding and flowed gracefully from the tongues of those whom spoke it, breaking upon the ear like a warm wind. One of the Italian men stood and motioned to a reluctant server.

“I want something with garlic in it, eh?” he said, gesturing with an open hand at the white-coated waiter. “Garlic? Onions? Good, yes?” The server nodded and hurried away. Shaking his head, the man sat back down.

Molly sat watching the new people at the table with interest; the faces were so different than those she'd grown up with. Some of the men had the noble, Roman nose and then others had more pronounced features. Dark brown or black hair was common to all but some heads bore a riot of curls, while other men wore it oiled and combed straight back. The married women wore scarves on their heads or their haired braided up into a crown with no scarf at all. The children were neatly dressed and sat somewhat quietly in the strange, new room.

Sitting still, Molly observed these Italians possessed clothing of good quality and washed; none seemed to be suffering from hunger at all. Indeed, they appeared almost wealthy and robust compared to some of the poor she'd seen wasting away in Dublin and Liverpool. Some of the women wore silver necklaces and ear-rings or the glossy, black beads of a rosary with its silver cross. The eyes of all were brown, but so varied in shade that one word was not sufficient to describe them; these self same eyes flashed with animation when speaking. Words were said with flair and a sort of delight; these were not dull or uninteresting people.

Another new family came in the dining room; the only seats left were by Patrick and his granddaughter. Turning her head, Molly recognized the family from the deck, whom her grandfather had aided. They came forward, greeting a few others in the section heartily, ushering the woman and her little girl forward. The two older men sat down across from Patrick, while the woman and little girl took the seats by Molly. Looking up, the young woman smiled at the older Italian woman and her little girl.

“Good evening, ma'am.” she said, politely. The Italian woman appeared surprised but nodded back and helped her little girl into the chair next to Molly.

Looking across the table, Patrick nodded a the two newcomers and received a nod in return. It was as if no one knew what to say, but the air was not unpleasant with it. The servers brought rolls in baskets, putting them onto the tables with the tiny plates of butter. A pleased murmur spread throughout the Italian group. Though hungry, Molly waited until a nearby basket was passed to her; taking it, she turned and offered it to the little girl next to her. The small girl's brown eyes turned up to her mother, who nodded. Reaching in shyly, the little girl took a roll and smiled, just a little. Molly smiled back and took a roll herself before handing the basket onward.


The white-haired weaver looked up from his pipe and found a basket of bread being handed to him from across the table. Nodding, he took the pipe from his mouth and put a roll on his bread plate.

“Many thanks.” he said, to the man. “Fine weather isn't it?” The Italian man grinned at him and nodded, passing the basket on to his brother.

“Yes.” he said, in a thick accent. “I think no more storms for a little while.” Patrick smiled.

“You've quite the command of English, sir.” he said, matching the younger man's gaze. The man's grin did not fade.

“Not ‘sir’...” he said, shaking his head. “I am Vito Giovanni.”

“Patrick Callahan.” the white-haired man said, standing up with difficulty. “A pleasure to meet ye...” He reached over the table with a welcoming hand. Vito Giovanni stood as well, his face dressed in mild amusement. The men shook hands.

“My brother Gino...” Vito said, indicating the man next to him; the man smoked a cigar and stood to shake the aging Irishman's hand as well. “His wife Donata, his daughter Gina.” Patrick nodded at the woman politely.

“This is my granddaughter, Molly.” he said, smiling down at the young woman at his side. Molly dipped her head and smiled a little at them. Donata nodded at her in a slightly more friendly manner than before.

“We speak very good English...” Vito said, sitting down. “... our father insisted we learn it. He would say it is the language the whole world must speak. So, we learn it.” Patrick nodded, puffing his pipe for a moment.

“Come from Messina then, so ye?” he inquired. “We heard of the earthquake.” The men both nodded and sobered a little.

“Yes.” Vito answered, heavily. “Many dead. Many... thousands. So many the officials say to leave this place. Most of the dead had to be burned. Almost all the buildings are gone. Our butcher shop is standing but there are no people to buy the meat. So, we sell what we have and now we go to New York, eh? To Ellis Island. We will open a shop in Manhattan.” Patrick sat forward a little, at these words.

Molly felt sadness well up in her at the idea of a whole city destroyed; shyly she looked at Donata as the men conversed.

“Is everyone gone from your city?” she asked. The woman nodded, sadly.

“My sister and her family are dead.” she said, soberly. “My husband's sister and her husband as well. Many that I knew are gone now. Some went to Naples but most went on the steam ship, to come to America. Too much death to stay.” Molly nodded.

“We are going to Ellis Island as well.” she said. “It is... hard, in Ireland. Not enough food. Not enough work. Some even starve in the cities, it is so bad.” The Italian woman held her daughter closer and shook her head.

“It will be good in America.” she said, at last. “Better than where we have come from, yes?” Molly nodded, her thoughts blanketing her face with sobriety. Ireland seemed greener now in her memory, in some places but she could not escape the images of the skinny faces of children in Dublin, nor the beggars. Nor the friends she'd lost to disease. Molly felt extraordinarily blessed; her grandfather and she had gone to sleep hungry more than once but they had never had to beg. Never had the earth shaken below them, either... killing an entire city of friends and family.

The food came, effectively dispelling the lingering thoughts of home. The people from Messina admired the bread but found the soup bland.

“Garlic is a gift from God.” Gino Giovanni said, to all those within earshot. “It smells, yes but it is good and cleans the blood.” His brother gave a low laugh.

“It cleans more than the blood.” Vito said, smiling. Molly saw her grandfather cough into his hand to hide a smile; she did not understand the joke but did not ask.

Feeling a slight tugging at her sleeve, Molly looked down into the brown eyes of Gina. The little girl said something to her in a language Molly did not understand. Nearby, Donata smiled at Molly's puzzled face.

“She says your hair, it is so pretty.” the woman informed her, kindly. Molly smiled at her, then down at the little girl.

“Thank you.” she told the little girl. “Your hair is pretty too. My mother used to braid my hair just like that when I was little.” Donata translated this for Gina, whom beamed.

“Your parents are in America already?” the older woman asked, politely. Molly's face fell a little; she shook her head.

“They died many years ago, ma'am.” she told her. “My father of consumption, when I was ten; my mother joined him four years ago from the typhus.” The little girl asked her mother a question and they spoke for a moment in their own language. Donata looked up at Molly.

“She wanted to know what you said and I told her. She asks why did they not go to a doctor?” Molly looked at the little girl, not really knowing how to answer.

“My parents were very poor.” she said, striving to quell inner tears. “It was still bad, from the great famine, even after many years. “We had no money for a doctor. My grandfather did what he could but...” She could not finish the sentence but smiled a little; it hurt to think of them, still. Little Gina reached out and patted Molly's fair hand with her own; the small action brought the young woman much comfort. “Thank you.” she said to the little girl.


“Graze...” Donata said. “It means 'thank you'.” The woman pronounced it like Graht-zee.

“Graze.” Molly repeated, stumbling a little with the word. Gina smiled and nodded, bouncing a little in her seat. Donata smiled as well, leaning forward to finish her dinner.

Molly played a game with little Gina, dressing up the silver spoon like dolls, with cloth napkins for dresses. Now and again she'd glance up at her grandfather when she heard his voice or laughter. He seemed to be having a fine time speaking with the Giovanni men and a few others whom could not stay out of the conversation. In sharp contrast to the white-haired weaver's posture and manner of speaking, the Italian men seemed so much more animated, using their hands frequently in gestures and expressive movements, as if constantly emphasizing their words.

Some at the table did not speak English quite as well as the Giovannis and now and again Vito would break off to translate something to one or two of his fellows. The entire group seemed comfortable listening to, or talking with the aging Irishman; Molly heard no sharp words at all, nor saw any suspicious looks directed towards her or her grandfather.

After dinner was cleared away, a few of the men got out instruments, the like such as Molly had never seen. A small, brightly painted accordion, a diminutive guitar which Donata called a 'mandolin', a larger, glossy black accordion and a burnished, wooden guitar; the musicians lovingly unwrapped these with great care and tuned them with little plunks of strings or wheezes of air. She saw a fond look come into her grandfather's eye.

“Would you like me to fetch your fiddle, grandfather?” she asked, quietly. Patrick took out his pipe and smiled at her.

“I would, lass.” he said, nodding. “But I'll go with ye. Ye should nae walk alone at night.”

“We will go with her.” Donata said, standing up. “I must get my shawl from our room. I will watch her.” Patrick sat back down at this, with a sigh.

“I thank ye madam.” he said, smiling. “I've been in my bunk too long with seasickness, and this chair is mighty comfortable.” Gino nodded at his wife and Molly jumped up, putting on her coat and bonnet. She helped little Gina into hers while Donata tied on the little bonnet on he girl's glossy black hair.

Walking together, the little group found the corridor; Donata's room was just down the hall from the Callahan's; this room, though it had four bunks instead of two. It seemed crowded but Donata seemed grateful for it.

“It is better no, than steerage?” she said, shaking her head. She found her shawl quickly and put it on. “They are packed in like chickens down there. One cannot change clothes or wash in such a place.” She was impressed with Molly's cabin, especially because of the window. Molly located her grandfather's fiddle case and took it carefully with her. She locked the room back up securely, keeping the key in her coat's hidden pocket.

On the way back to the dining hall, they passed a man emerging from his room; it was the 'dandy'. He wore another, fine suit and smiled at Molly as she passed; the young woman did not smile back but hurried on. Donata went with her, keeping Gina close. The man did not speak to them nor follow them, for which Molly was grateful.

“A bidonista...” the Italian woman said, distastefully. “A swindler, him.” Molly nodded, walking a little faster. They reached the dining hall without incident.

Music flowed from the door as they opened it; low, harmonious melody itself wove about the room, emanating from the four Italian musicians. Molly was interested to see that the other dining patrons were enjoying the music as well, even smiling. Walking up to her grandfather, she placed his fiddle case in his hands. The white-haired weaver nodded his thanks and kept listening.

The men of Messina played as if they had been born with instruments in their hands. The music sounded familiar, as if they loved the song itself with fervor and played it merely as an expression of that emotion. Molly sat transfixed, her face a picture of serenity. Donata saw this look and smiled, exchanging a glance with her husband across the table; she yet remembered how the youthful soul felt to be touched by beautiful music. Gino favored her with a rare smile; he sat back in his chair, smoking contentedly.

After the last song had ended, Vito looked across the table at Patrick.

“What do you think of the music of Messina?” he asked, smiling. Patrick nodded, taking his pipe from his mouth.

“'Tis fair, this music.” he said, earnestly. “Breaks well upon the ear. I'd not be averse t' hearin' more of it.” Vito liked this compliment and translated for the musicians; they grinned and nodded copiously. The man with the small accordion pointed to Patrick's fiddle and spoke in his own language.

“He wishes to hear you play.” Vito told the white-haired weaver. “He has never heard any music from your land.” Patrick smiled a little, tapping out his pipe; he nodded to the man and stood to remove his ancient fiddle from its case. The wood glowed reddish-brown in the dim lamplight. The musicians looked at the instrument with keen interest, talking among themselves and nodding.

Sitting back down, Patrick adjusted his jacket a bit and touched the slender bow to the thread-thin strings. Molly let out a sigh as the first note sounded; it was a simple melody but hauntingly beautiful, a song of Ireland; without words it extolled the beauty of the Emerald Isle. She closed her eyes and let the music conjure up the green fields and crisp breezes of her homeland. The wretched slums were forgotten, the hardships, work and hunger laid aside; all that remained were the happy faces of those long gone, of music and dancing, flocks of fleecy-white sheep, valleys of golden grain and green, misty hills.

The others in the room must have felt it as well; the room quieted and listened. Patrick was a skilled weaver but his skill was sorely waylaid from his fiddle. Molly felt pride in the music he played and this feeling swelled when the men from Messina clapped vigorously as the last notes from the fiddle died away. Patrick accepted the praise humbly, asking for the Italian men to play again; they did so with vigor, pleased to be so entreated by a man foreign to their own land and customs.

After an evening of food, conversation and music, Molly felt strangely happy as she walked back to their corridor with her grandfather. The music the aging weaver played made her sad and proud all at once but good company had filled her soul as much as the food filled her stomach. Here, at least, there were good people to speak with; people with families whom loved and lost as much as any in Ireland. Thinking on these things, Molly said little as she went to bed in her lofty bunk.

“Not a bad lot.” her grandfather said from the bottom berth, once the lamp was out. “If they are examples of Italians, then we've been seriously misguided of their character. As fine a people as you'd ever wish to meet, says I.” Molly smiled.

“I liked them very well, sir.” she replied.

One particular individual came to her mind. Fingering her necklace, Molly thought on someone, not of the dining hall... but younger, with warm, brown eyes and dark, curling hair, with a kind, wide smile. “Luigi DiMattio.” she whispered, to herself. Molly wondered if she would ever see the young man again; she found herself hoping she would.

Luigi waited by the base of the stairs, smoking a cigarette. He watched the white smoke from the ship billow against the black sky packed with stars. A figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Vito Giovanni whistled getting his nephew's attention.

“I just go down to talk to my nephew.” Vito said to the crewman on watch; the younger man shrugged a little and nodded. Stepping down to the base of the stairs, Vito clapped Luigi on the back. Bringing forth a little packet, he handed to to his nephew, making certain no one was watching. “A few things from the table.” he said, in his own language. “They eat like kings.” Luigi put out his cigarette and took the packet gratefully, hiding it away in his coat.

“They have nothing but thin broth and a hard biscuit for us here.” the young man said, looking around. “The beggars in Messina ate better... but, it is better than the boat from Naples... it is cleaner. We are packed in like sheep in a corral but they keep things washed and there is soap.” Vito nodded, taking out a partially smoked cigar. Lighting it, he puffed a few rings.

“Eat... give out the rest.” he said. “Make what you can of it. We'll bring more in the morning.”

“Thank you, uncle.” Luigi said, nodding. “It is so crowded that they ran out of beds; families are laying on the floor in the dining hall, staying in their clothes to sleep. You were smart to keep Donata and Gina out of there; there is no privacy.”

The young man began to walk away; his uncle cleared his throat.

“I saw the pretty Irish girl up there.” Vito said after him, grinning into the dark. Luigi halted and turned around, puzzled. “You remember... the one with the necklace...” The older Sicilian hid a smile as his nephew came closer; the young man affected a disinterested air.

“You did, eh?” Luigi replied, absently taking out another cigarette. His uncle grinned at him, which the young man ignored. “Why would I care about that?”

“Maybe you don't.” Vito said, scratching his chin. “Maybe she is just another girl traveling with her grandfather to Ellis Island. Maybe she was polite to your aunt. Maybe her grandfather did us a favor. Maybe we sat with them at dinner... who knows?”

Luigi tried not to look interested but failed. His uncle sobered, recognizing the look on the young man's face.

“Listen to me, Louie.” he said, quietly. “Don't get too attached to her. She is pretty, yes... but she would not understand you. She knows nothing of our traditions. It is better you marry a girl from Sicily.”

Luigi looked at his uncle for a moment, then smiled.

“If I wanted a girl from Sicily, I would have stayed there.” he said. “We go to New York now, Uncle... to America, the land of liberty. Besides, how hard it is to teach a woman how to cook for me?”

Vito snorted and swiped one hand down through the air in a frustrated gesture.

“Eh! minchione.... you are stubborn like your mother.” he said, scowling. “She wanted to marry a Protestant...” Crossing himself, Vito stomped back up the stairs to second-class.

Smoking in silence, Luigi took his packet of food and walked towards the steerage dining hall. He would eat a few bites and distribute the rest among those he knew; the food down in steerage was far from nourishing. Anything extra at all would be appreciated, he knew. He walked back into the third class corridor, thinking on what his uncle told him of the lovely Molly Callahan. The girl was so different, with her red hair and green eyes. None of the women back home looked like that, so fair and with a smile filled with sunshine.

Though he did not know it, Luigi smiled all the way back to his bunk.

 

[Morgolemtheau]

Again, this is excellent work and you are a great, great writer.

My only critique like last time is the incorrect format of quotation punctuation. You definitely will want to change that before you continue writing, as it will be a pain to do if you complete the entire book before doing so.

 

[meredithgreene]

thank you...

Again, this is excellent work and you are a great, great writer.

My only critique like last time is the incorrect format of quotation punctuation. You definitely will want to change that before you continue writing, as it will be a pain to do if you complete the entire book before doing so.

I did correct the comma issue in my dialogue, thank you so much for pointing it out. We've recently put the entire book up on MobiPocket for download to PDA, along with our other novels. You've been so much help, pray allow me to forward you a free PDF copy of this story in its entirety. Just let me know which email to send it to. greene@belatorbooks.com

Much obliged,
Meredith Greene