Band of Sisters (5 page)

The crossing was storm-tossed rough, the bowels of the ship dank and putrid from vomit, urine, unwashed bodies, and voyage upon voyage with nothing but a splashing down for cleaning. The cabin doors bore no locks, and there was no privacy from drunken, leering men or curious boys.

“Here, then, let’s pile our bags in front of the door, so we can at least hear if those ragtags push open in the night,” the oldest of the cabinmates ordered, a stout woman with iron-gray hair greased back into a tight bun.

Maureen was grateful for someone else to take charge, if only for the night. Still, to be sure and safe, she and Katie Rose slept in their dresses and fastened cloaks, leaving them crumpled and dirty.

The next morning, after a too-salty herring and biscuit breakfast they couldn’t keep down, a rousing melody of Irish pipes and drums drew the sisters to the swaying deck.

“How is it,” Katie Rose, half-green, stammered, “that they’re singin’ their hearts out—not the least bit sick. How can they?” She dry heaved over her elbow.

“Riverboat hands, lass.” A knowing voice spoke over the wind behind the girls as the man handed Katie Rose his handkerchief. “Doesn’t matter if they’ve never set foot upon a seagoin’ vessel. They’ve the needed cork in their legs and bellies to keep steadily afloat.” He swatted the air whimsically, dismissing the musicians and the twirling, fancy step dancers. “They’ll be larkin’ about clear to New York, full of their own bravado, singin’ up their courage!” He laughed. “Like as not they’ll need it.”

Maureen and Katie Rose exchanged envious glances and, clutching the back of a ship’s bench for dear life, turned to make their way below deck.

In that moment a new high-stepping couple twirled to the center of the dancing ring. Spinning broad shoulders and a familiar mop of flying black curls caught Maureen’s eye.

“Joshua Keeton!” Katie Rose called.

Joshua looked up, bright-eyed and laughing, and waved at Katie Rose as he spun his fair colleen.

Maureen gritted her teeth against the sudden drop in her stomach and the fury that raced up her neck. She grabbed Katie Rose’s hand, pulling her quickly below deck and back to their cabin.

“Why did you do that?” Katie Rose demanded. “He’s been nothin’ but a friend to us, and you run from him like the plague!”

But Maureen refused to answer. She couldn’t explain how desperately she wanted to leave all of Ireland and its memories behind. She had no reason to believe that Joshua Keeton would keep her secrets from America’s shores—shameful secrets known by the entire village—if he could not curry the favors from her he wanted.
And surely,
she thought,
that’s what he wants. Why else would he be carin’ about me, about us? Why couldn’t he have sailed on a different vessel?

She kept her distance. It wasn’t hard; the seasickness never left either sister, and they were rarely fit to take the sun on deck.

For that reason the simple food ration included in their ship’s fare proved more than ample. What little they’d bought and stowed to supplement their meals was pilfered first by small boys and then by ship rats.

The last day, as the ship sailed through calmer waters nearing the American coast, they were simply too weary to eat.

“Will the pitchin’ never end?” Katie Rose moaned from her bunk.

But by that time the pitching and rolling had truly stopped. All sailing was smooth.

“What is it, Katie Rose?”

“It’s freezin’ in here, and I’m just so weary of the motion. I’ll be grateful to stop.”

Maureen checked her sister’s brow. “You’ve a fever. Eight days at sea and now the fever?” She thought it worse than bad luck.

“It’s nothin’, just a sore throat,” Katie Rose assured her, sniffing, but didn’t open her eyes.

“Keep her turned to the wall,” the gray-haired leader ordered. “We don’t want whatever she’s got.”

“It’s a throat raw from the damp, nothin’ more,” Katie Rose whispered.

“Scarlet fever or influenza or raw throat—no matter. They’ll not allow fever of any kind off Ellis Island. They’ll send her back—and anyone catchin’ it.” The woman ignored Katie Rose but warned her cabinmates, “You’d all fare better on deck than in this tin can.”

“Back?” Maureen could not believe her ears.

“To Ireland—in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and no regrettin’. I’ve heard Americans claim they’re not the world’s hospital, after all—that’s what me brother wrote. You must stay well, strong, to make it through the medical check. They’ll take no public charges on American shores.”

“I’ll not go back,” Katie Rose whispered. “I’ll not. I’ll jump overboard first.”

“Hush! There’ll be no such talk, Katie Rose O’Reilly—never!” Maureen pinched her arm.

Katie Rose grabbed the neck of her sister’s dress. Strong in her desperation, she whispered fiercely, “I heard what Aunt Verna said that night—that last night you both thought me sleepin’. I heard what she said about Gavin Orthbridge. He’ll not touch me. I’ll kill him first. I’ll kill
me
first.”

Maureen’s heart nearly stopped. She had underestimated her sister. No wonder she’d never once complained; no wonder she’d never once challenged leaving everyone they’d known, everything she’d held dear, despite the trouble, the weariness of the journey. Maureen felt she’d been running uphill all night. “You knew, then?”

“I’ve known everythin’, all along. I’m not stupid. I know about Gavin and I know about his father.” Katie Rose struggled for her breath. She spoke so quietly that Maureen could hear only by placing her ear next to her sister’s mouth. “I never would have done it.”

The ship docked at four o’clock Tuesday afternoon. By half past six, first- and second-class passengers had been treated to a medical officer’s cursory glance and walked ashore.

But steerage passengers were held aboard for a trip to Ellis Island, for close questioning and a more thorough going-over. No matter the delay, no matter the sickness, there’d be no more ferries to Ellis Island until the next morning.

Rumors sped through the offended ranks during the wait: no carriers of disease and no vermin would be admitted among the poor, no immigration for anyone who might become a public charge—anyone too poor, too sick, too lame, too elderly, too deaf, too simple—and certainly no women traveling alone.

“Close, just not close enough. Ach, I s’pose the personal ailments of the swells is better than ours—venereal disease and all,” groused a nearby voice at the ship’s rail bright and early Wednesday morning, carrying with his foul humor the smell of sour ale and an accent Maureen did not recognize. “S’pose a bit of loose change in the pocket makes all the difference, no matter what the trouble.” The man stepped closer, removing his tweed cap as if to speak to the sisters directly.

But Maureen, her instincts rising and her heart beating an unnatural rhythm, pulled the collar of her cloak higher. She turned aside with everyone on board to stare at Lady Liberty, fired by the rising autumn sun, and tucked Katie Rose into her embrace. She pointed to the statue and a bit too loudly urged her sister, “She’s that lovely, isn’t she?”

Maureen knew that Katie Rose, her shoulders weak and trembling from fever, was beyond answering.

The man beside Maureen took up the conversation as if it were meant for him. “Aye.” He nodded toward the statue and stepped closer still, until their elbows touched. “Regal and majestic, that’s what she is. Green, like she’s risen straight from the sea to welcome us to her shores.”

Maureen braced Katie Rose against the railing. She hoped with all her heart that the Statue of Liberty was welcoming, that the officials of Ellis Island were welcoming, that they would let them pass. But Katie Rose’s fever had spiked in the night, and scarlet splotches had appeared on her neck and arms that morning. Maureen had covered them as best she could, pulling Katie Rose’s shirtwaist higher round her throat. Still, she knew it would take a miracle for the officials of Ellis Island to let her sister pass. And Maureen had stopped believing in miracles long ago.

She could hardly bear to look at the magnificent skyline opposite the great statue—the skyline behind South Ferry that meant New York and all of America beyond—not if they would never be allowed to see it, to walk among its buildings.

“Are you well, then, Maureen O’Reilly?”

Maureen had not seen Joshua Keeton approach. Hearing her name spoken quietly in the familiar baritone, very near her ear, caught her off guard.

“There’ll be a medical inspection, I’ve heard, and questions against the ship’s manifest.”

She could not let him see Katie Rose’s splotches, could not let him call attention to them in any way. So she turned her back, keeping between them, and did not reply.

“You should have listed as comin’ with me. It would have gone better for you.”

What was that supposed to mean?
Are you pushin’ your last chance with me, or do you mean to help?
She didn’t know, and she couldn’t risk making a mistake, not when they were so close.

A minute later she regretted her high hand and considered that perhaps Joshua would be willing to help them, to help her get Katie Rose off the ship and through the lines that surely awaited.

She turned, opening her mouth to speak. But Joshua was gone. No matter which way she looked, she saw no sign of him. Maureen drew a deep breath. “Well, then,” she whispered, “we’re on our own.”
That’s best. That’s what I want.

At last a strange, flat-bottomed boat—a barge, strong and big enough to carry hundreds at a time—pulled beside their ship.

“You don’t suppose we’re bein’ made to ‘walk the plank,’ do you?” Maureen tried, to no avail, to tease a little life into her sister as they crossed to the barge that would ferry them to Ellis Island. The deck was so tightly packed with bodies and hand luggage that there was no place to sit, no shelter in any form; passengers stood shoulder to shoulder, front to back.

“If one takes a tumble, we’ll all be in that frozen slop,” a woman near Maureen fretted.

Perhaps in the cramped quarters no one will notice if Katie Rose cannot stand alone.

In only minutes they were moored before the grandest building Maureen had ever laid eyes upon. Redbrick with high, arching windows framed in white stone—something akin to towers, but fabulous beyond her imagination. She’d never been to London but doubted if anything there could be so grand.

The thrill was short-lived when they were told they must wait as an earlier barge unloaded its immigrants for processing. More than three hours later, still on their feet, still in the cold and wind, sheltered only by bodies before or behind or beside, they waited. And then it was noon, and men in uniforms streamed out the great doors.

“Where are they going?” a woman screamed, very near the end of her tether.

“They’re leaving! Don’t they see us waiting here?” another called, pulling her wrap tight over her head.

Maureen thought a riot stood in the offing. She didn’t know what she’d do with Katie Rose, how she’d get her to safety, for her sister was sound asleep and only on her feet for being wedged between the railing and Maureen.

“Calm yourselves! Calm yourselves!” a voice with a nasal accent called from the landing, speaking English so foreign that Maureen craned her neck to see what manner of person spoke. “It’s dinner, is all, and we’ve got a bite for you. But you must stand back so we can board! Stand back!”

Maureen dared not leave her post, but a woman nearby pulled a small box from the delivery wagon and handed it over Maureen’s shoulder—a slice of brown bread, more salted herring, an apple. Maureen bit into the red apple. With juice dribbling down her chin, she retrieved the apple chunk and tried to press it between her sister’s lips. But Katie Rose numbly shook her head. Maureen ate the apple herself, though it didn’t sit well on the turbulence in her stomach.

By two o’clock they’d filed ashore to be tagged with their ship and manifest number, to wait yet again in an out-of-doors line. Maureen found a spot on the pavement for herself and Katie Rose; they slept, sitting back-to-back, despite the cold and biting wind. At last they were roused, allowed through the heavy doors of the imposing building, and directed to a long flight of stairs.

Doctors in uniform stood on the top landing, staring down into the maze of immigrants. Maureen felt rather than knew that they assessed each weary immigrant who climbed toward them. She did all she could to rouse Katie Rose, even pinched her to put a spark of life in her step. Ahead, she saw a young man favoring his lame left leg, and then an older woman, short of breath, pulled to the side, where officials chalk-marked large letters on their lapels. The two were pointed away from the group, and Maureen’s heart sank into her shoes. She pinched Katie Rose again. Her sister slapped her hand.

“You there—one moment.” A doctor, chalk in hand, reached for Katie Rose, but Maureen wriggled between them and pushed Katie Rose forward.

“How do you do, sir?” She smiled, not a foot from his face. “It’s more than pleased I am to be makin’ your acquaintance. How good and kind of you to welcome us to America! I’d no idea the doctors in America would be so fine and gracious.” Maureen stroked his cheek in a brazen flirtation that astonished the doctor nearly as much as it astonished her. “I hope I’ll be seein’ you again, sir.” She flashed a smile she knew would dazzle, then demurely lowered her eyes and moved forward with the orderly surge of the crowd.
Please, God, don’t let him call us back,
she prayed—and that prayer was a wonder greater to her than any flirting she’d conceived.