Golden City

world.

Chapter One

Wednesday, October 11th, 1865

Only a week has passed, Kathleen, and already I miss you my dearest cousin. I pray you have recovered your good health and are no longer confined to the house. I feel such guilt that I have had to leave you in your hour of need, Kathleen; I mourn that I cannot step across the lane as I have done every day of my life, to be in your company. Why fate has torn me from you I cannot fathom, I only hope in Faith that there is reason beyond all this.

Despite the careful planning, we find ourselves ill prepared as voyagers. We arrived safely at Gravesend but discovered several parcels of our food had disappeared during the ferry journey from Cork. Michael John accused a fellow passenger of thievery when we landed at Pembroke Dock, however there was no way of proving the crime and Michael John could take the complaint no further. My husband’s temper is that of a nettled ox when he is away from what he knows, and only through the most earnest of pleading was I able to placate him. With great resourcefulness, in the four days we have been waiting to board the Golden City, we have managed to replenish our food through charity and little cost, and again are prepared for our journey.

Things are much different in England. The English people are unfriendly towards strangers. They regard we Irish with side-eyed suspicion and share the countenance of their houses, which are almost black with layers of moisture-laden soot.

We are encamped in Crooked Lane along with hundreds of other Irish migrants and although there is an air of excitement, there is much tension too. We have placed ourselves in the alcove of a decaying storage house and count ourselves lucky; we do not dare both of us leave our space unoccupied for reasons of toilet or exercise as it would quickly be filled by another family. Already we have seen heated discussions and even physical fights for position amongst others. Last night, two women fought each other like street cats… I saw hair floating off in the wind, Kathleen! It unsettles us. It is sheer desperation and frustration, and yet, don’t they realise, we will be together for months on this voyage.

For now the alcove supplies us with a dry place to rest. As evening falls a heavy fog steals in like a villain, creeping through every street and purloining all in its path. Smoke from dozens of cooking fires also chokes the lane. This and the fog combine to create a wet, suffocating cloud that ails everyone… people cough all night and sleep escapes us. It is a contrast to the clear country air we were breathing just days ago.

By midmorning, as if our desperate prayers have finally arrived in Heaven, the fog and smoke clear and a hidden world is revealed for another day. We watch with fascination as the wharf workers on the docks rush about their tasks. From this distance, all seems to be a marvellous mayhem, hundreds of men pushing and pulling carts, dashing about like spring-time squirrels amongst the ropes and tall, tree-like masts. The longer we watch however, we see there is order. To load and unload the dozen or so clippers in port, at once, with so few rail-lines; it is an extraordinary feat.

Today is especially exciting, for they have started loading our ship, the Golden City! Such a beautiful name, filling me with hope that all will be well, and that the sun will shine on us after the hardships we’ve endured. A friendly sailor pointed out our ship for us. From where we sit, we can see her masts, high and grand. Michael John could not contain his curiosity and walked down along the wharf for a closer look. He came back shortly thereafter, his dark eyes troubled and avoiding my gaze.

What’s wrong Michael John? What is it ye seen? I asked.

Don’t ye worry Emily, there’s naught to be frettin’ yourself.

He wouldn’t lighten up and after pressing him he shared his concern. Our ship was in a lowly state, in need of a clean and a paint. He left it at that though there must be more, he normally wouldn’t allow something like this to trouble him. We will find out its condition soon enough, for just now they are calling for us, and everyone is up and hurrying!

Thursday, October 12th, 1865

A night of restless sleep. I’ve promised you a written account of our journey so I write, but honestly Kathleen, I wish only to shut my mind and sleep, where I can dream I’m back in Ireland with you and my family.

We boarded yesterday afternoon. For a short while there was a light drizzle and everything was wet and we made our way with the other passengers, slipping on the slimy docks. We were standing there at the boarding-planks when the fog, low and mysterious, returned to swirl and pull at our damp dark shapes as if giving us a final warning that we should go back home. The wharf workers strode about, yelling at us rudely. Get over here… stand there… put ye’r baggage on this. It was degrading Kathleen the way they spoke to us; we could only put our heads down and do as we were bid. The loading of luggage was laborious and seemed haphazard; we were told there were three hundred and fifty Irish passengers on board. I had hoped we could hold onto our food but it was taken and stowed elsewhere.

The ship itself, although tall and majestic from a distance is, at close quarters, more a livestock-barge than a clipper. I could smell it as soon as I stepped onto the boarding-plank: animals, sickness, something rotting. I dry-retched as we went below the decks and spent at least an hour with my kerchief close over my nose and mouth. In the dimness, Michael John’s face was as cold and hard as castle-stone, he would not talk to me. Anywhere I put my hand, the timbers are splintered; I see ropes rotted and frayed; the sailors themselves look like they’ve come from the poorhouse. I’m nervous Kathleen, I wouldn’t know if a ship is safe or not, but it doesn’t feel sea-worthy. God have mercy and protect us!

We were directed to the steerage by a foul-smelling man with a single lower tooth, whom we later learned was the cook for our section. He is a Welshman, crude of language and manners. I wished I hadn’t seen it but I watched as he unashamedly picked at an open sore on his arm. Lord, Kathleen, I rolled my eyes at Michael John who saw it too, and this man is our cook! His clothes are stained and putrid and so, if possible, I will endeavour to cook what I can myself.

When we came to our berths, there were carpenters still working. They have built the bedsteads to the wall, about three feet wide and six feet long… and that’s for each couple! It is so narrow, and you wouldn’t believe, we have been instructed that our belongings must stay on the beds with us and not on the floor. The lower berths are just above the floor, and the top berths maybe an arm’s length above. Long tables and benches run along the middle of the steerage where we are to eat our meals and entertain ourselves.

From what we’ve been told, the steerage is divided into three sections; single men at the front; we married couples and children in the middle; and the single women at the rear. The carpenters, hammering hard with forearms like horse heads, were finishing off the bulwarks between each section. One of them told us that all was built as simply as possible because all the berths and furnishings would be taken out when we reach Queensland, and the empty steerage area filled with cargo to be exported back to England. They were keen to finish because of the vile smell, which they commented on regularly, and they looked at us with sympathetic eyes when they departed.

There are plenty of spare berths so we hope to store our belongings in the empty ones once the voyage is under way. The other passengers in our section are mostly Irish from the south, which relieves us. We are making the best of things and there was some jocularity as we prepared for our journey. Patrick O’Shea, a young man from Dublin, amused us with his English Captain impersonations, stumbling about, acting the drunk hoighty-toighty. He wore his cap back to front and called out to his mother, Mater…Mater…hide me. Everywhere I look there crouches them evil Irishmen! Ye know they despise me. He had an empty bottle that he pretended to drink from, then dropped on the floor. When he bent to pick it up he banged his head on the table and yelled accusingly at one of the children amongst us, Did ye see that? That Irishman struck me, ye’re all witnesses. Mater! We laughed along with his antics, and this lightened the mood somewhat.

It was later when the sky became dark that all became sombre, for it came to our attention, from across the river, a man screaming as in most terrible misfortune, along with much urgent shouting requesting support. A boat was dispatched from the wharf on our side with a half-dozen men who rowed desperately to assist. Afterwards, we learned that as workmen were demolishing the old Tilbury Fort blockhouse, a mammoth stone slab had collapsed across a mason’s legs, crushing them into the cobblestones.

His torment beneath the stone lasted for hours. The poor man’s screams would pierce the still chill air, and minutes later it would be graveyard quiet. Michael John was almost beside himself, Kathleen, you know how desperately he wants to help those in distress. He even offered to commandeer a small river-punt, with some others, and row across the river to help. But the stewards would not allow it. We had to be ready when the tide was full to leave, so Michael John returned and sat on the edge of our bunk, kneading his hat as if soda-dough.

The rescue continued through the night and we listened with concern as we lay in our cramped berths. As the night wore on, the man’s cries for succour grew weaker. And then they were no more. His fate makes our cares pale in insignificance, and I tried to remember this as we attempted to sleep. I lay with my hand on Michael John’s broad shoulder. Even though the frozen air penetrated everything in the steerage, it was reassuring to feel his fingers entwine mine. In the gloom of early morning the tides beckoned us away from the port. As we make our way downriver far from Tilbury Fort, I still hear that poor man’s screams of pain. They shall haunt me for time to come.

As morning advanced, I listened to the sounds of the crew on the deck above us going through their early chores. I could hear orders bellowed, eager footsteps running across the creaking boards, ropes slipping, buckets being tossed about. In time I suppose I will know what these sounds mean, but for now it is all foreign. The coarseness of the crew’s speech has increased dramatically since leaving Gravesend, as if we have entered a new country and are in company with a different race of people. Every second word is an acclamation of crudity; even the men in the steerage, mostly farmers and labourers, cringe aside when they hear the language of the sailors.

The sun was shining through the fog by midmorning, and we were served our first meal on the Golden City. We are unable to access the food we brought on board but the dried oats from the ship stores were adequate. As we busily ate our porridge, an excited shout went out that we were passing Dover and we took turns standing up at the deck hatches to see the magnificent white cliffs, bright in the sunlight. Everyone was struck by their beauty and as I watched, I felt a glimmer of hope that perhaps this journey might after all be an enjoyable experience.

We sailed by the chalky cliffs capped with emerald green fields, and for a short while we were permitted to walk on the decks. It was lovely to inhale the fresh salty breeze of the Channel, and we listened to the banter between the sailors as they climbed the riggings and cleaned equipment.

Ye climb these ropes like a three-legged dog, a sailor yelled out beside me, so loud it startled me.

Least I aint afraid t’ climb, was the hoarse reply from above us. You muck about down on decks where you weren’t be wettin’ no one.

There seems to be several crewmen climbing up the ropes at any one time and it is exhilarating to stand beneath the full sails watching them, to hear the wind slapping the sails, which fill the sky around us, there are so many. The wind whistles through the ropes and riggings, at times there are flute-like harmonies to sing to. There are a few workers who spend time repairing the ropes and maintaining the decks which does fill me with some confidence that the Golden City is being better prepared for our journey.

We are following the coast of England southward and although the sea is choppy, the ship glides effortlessly through the low lines of waves and the deck is easy to walk on. No one is ill and, apart from being tired, I feel fine. Small fishing boats sail past us, the wind-burnt fishermen waving and shouting greetings. We wave back and call out best wishes for their catch. It is all so new Kathleen, everywhere we look there are new sights to see, new sounds, new smells. And we are still in England!

Chapter Two

Sunday, October 15th, 1865

We entered the Plymouth docks in the night and now it is morning, there is much commotion on the decks of the Golden City. We are confined to the steerage and so can only guess they are loading supplies. We have been told there are some more passengers to come on board, and we are hopeful they are few in number. There is no sign of our food and from what I understand there are many in our same predicament.

The steerage is as dark as day’s end when the hatches are closed, even at noon, and there are but a few lamps hanging and swaying with the motion of the ship. It takes a while to learn their positions and, if people aren’t careful, they knock them as they move around causing large bat-like shadows to dance about the walls. I have gained work in a small area forward of the steerage where the food is prepared. I volunteered to assist the cook when I can, mainly because his cleanliness is wanting. This primitive kitchen has a tiny slide hatch to let in a little fresh air and enough light for me to write when time allows. Through the hatch I can see the wharf workers moving luggage and supplies here and there.

Michael John too has been industrious, and has been learning to repair ropes. He acquired some lengths of narrow hemp, and one of the sailors taught him how to splice the ropes together. This he does over and over and he has become quite masterful at it. He is also learning to tie several knots the crew use, hoping that he may have an opportunity to work on the decks sometimes, rather than being confined to the steerage. It pleases me to see him occupied.

I mentioned earlier a man in our cabin, Patrick O’Shea. He and his wife Tara are bright people and can at times be amusing with their antics. But they take much delight in making snide comments at other people’s expense. Anyone is fair game as far as they are concerned. They have so far left us alone for, as you know Kathleen, Michael John is an imposing person when he wants to be, and he will not abide bullies. Having to listen to their hurtful comments puts my husband on edge. He does not want to get involved in a fracas so presently he stays quiet. Patrick is also outspoken on Republican Brotherhood matters… he tells us his uncle was murdered by the English during the Young Irelander Rebellion. We all have strong feelings about what has happened in those terrible times, and we are proud of the men who fought for Ireland. On the other hand, the Captain and many of the crew of the Golden City are English, and the last thing we want is trouble in the steerage on this journey. Hopefully he will settle down and look forward to this new life we are sailing towards.

I have just noticed a large crowd of people swarming onto the docks in front of our ship, at least a hundred, maybe two hundred. I pray they are not getting on