CHAPTER 15
For a few pence more, the wan-faced proprietress provided them with a proper breakfast of oats and bacon. The woman, with her stringy hair and disheveled brown dress, looked as if she had never been to bed. The pub smelled of stale smoke and an ale-soaked floor, but when the food arrived it was flavorful and well prepared. The woman worked hard, Briana thought, but she was surviving the famine. There would always be men who could find money for a drink.
After breakfast, they fed and watered the horses, and they bathed from pails drawn from the Carrowbeg. They boarded the cart, and Rory prodded the team west toward the harbor. Briana sat on the bench by her husband, while Lucinda took her place next to the bags in the cart bed.
As they passed the imposing stone mansion, Rory said, “I saw the poet last night in the pub.”
“Ungrateful wretch, disappearing like he did after you saved him,” Lucinda chimed in over the rattle.
“He disappeared last night as well, after some disparaging verse about an Englishman.”
“Really?” Briana clutched the railing as the cart jiggled through a shallow puddle. “What did he say?”
“Something about killing an Englishman.”
Lucinda shoved her head between them. “An Englishman!”
“I already thought of it as I lay awake last night,” Rory said. “I’ll notify the Constabulary here in Westport, and I’m sure they’ll pass my suspicion on to Belmullet. At this point I have no proof. It’s my word against his—it could have been anyone, and, despite that, it was my pistol. But it’s important for me to clear my name.” The bag containing the weapon sat at his feet.
Briana slid closer to Rory after Lucinda regained her seat. Tears creeping into her eyes, she clutched his arm. “I don’t want to cry—if only you could come with us.”
Rory loosened his grip on the reins and patted her hand. “I thought about that as well last night. Would it be easy to get onboard?” He lifted his chin and stared at the wharf buildings coming into view. “I’m sure every ship steward has my name, but there’s a better reason for not leaving. Family. I don’t want to leave your father and my brother alone. You and Lucinda should make the voyage. It’s best for everyone . . . including our child.”
She nodded, knowing that he was right, but that didn’t allay her sadness. Someone had to look after their stubborn father. No amount of arguing could convince Brian to leave Ireland, and Rory had always been protective of his brother.
They rolled up to the massive stone buildings that lined the harbor. Black smoke poured from some of the stacks, but the strong west wind pushed the swirling lines of sooty vapor east toward town. A few smaller sailing ships were anchored next to the quay, but a steamship lay farther out, rocking upon the waves of Clew Bay.
A pair of uniformed dragoons leaned on the closed doors of a warehouse, watching the comings and goings of harbor workmen. No starving people loitered at the port—most remained clustered near the edge of the city. Briana wondered if they had been driven from the bay because supplies were heavily guarded and could be obtained only by theft. The dragoons, if necessary, would shoot to kill.
Near a wooden booth large enough to hold one person, they found the ship’s steward. In a few minutes, Briana had purchased two one-way passages with money provided by her father.
Briana gazed at the Atlantic, which ended in a thin, gray line on the horizon. The immensity of the journey hit her with a sudden force, rocking her on her feet. The book of her life was opening up before her and, while frightened, she clung to the hope that this voyage might lead to a better life for her child and, later, her husband and father.
The skiff that would take her and Lucinda to the ship was rocking in swells at the quay. When the steward announced the boarding call, she clutched Rory for as long as she dared without bursting into tears. She wanted to be strong, not only for herself but for her husband. The wind rushed over her, filling her senses with the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves.
“I will miss you as if all my days were without you.” Rory embraced her in a hug that nearly took her breath away. Behind her, Lucinda sniffed and blew her nose in her handkerchief.
Briana touched his face and then caressed his arms, committing his features, the scent of him, to her memory. “You and Father will write us when we find an address?” she asked, knowing that any letters exchanged wouldn’t arrive until spring because there were no winter crossings.
“Yes. I promise.” He stepped back as Briana and Lucinda boarded the skiff with other passengers. “Go. Be safe—and send word when the baby is born.” His face sagged under the sad truth of his words.
The two crewmen pushed off from the wharf, and soon they were cutting across the choppy waves toward the Warton. Rory faded until he was a speck standing with the misty peak of Croagh Patrick behind him. A lump rose in her throat as she turned toward the ship, unable to bear the loss of her husband. Lucinda held on to her hand.
They boarded from a lowered gangplank that was tethered to the skiff and soon found their quarters—a small but comfortable sleeping cabin with twin berths. Briana placed her bag on the floor and patted the stuffed mattress, which seemed like heaven to her compared to the straw pallet at home. However, the close walls and the low ceiling crisscrossed by pipes soon had her craving the open air.
They made their way back to the upper deck. The ship’s bell tolled, and the chain grated against the pulley as the anchor lifted from the sea.
“Look, it’s Rory,” she said with joy to Lucinda. Briana waved as she grasped the railing with one hand. He was there, a small figure among those on the wharf. Could he see her? The ship, with its massive wooden deck and towering stack, dwarfed her, adding to the insignificance she felt, particularly when she looked at the foamy Atlantic waves.
A light rain had begun to fall, and Briana pulled the hood of her cloak over her head while Lucinda wrapped up in her English coat.
“We’re leaving everything behind,” her sister said. “I can’t say more, for if I do I might throw myself overboard.” Her body quivered next to Briana.
“Don’t be silly. Who will help me deliver the baby?” she answered, hoping to inject some slight humor into the conversation.
Lucinda didn’t laugh, but tucked her arm through Briana’s as they stared toward land.
The steam whistle blared, and the ship pivoted west in the harbor, the six masts still furled. Rory, the dock, the line of buildings that lined the wharf, the people who had gathered to see their loved ones off, soon dwindled to specks.
Briana leaned against the railing. I hope he survives and that he takes care of Da. I’ll find a job and send money and food. Will I see him again? Will my baby ever know its father?
A swirl of rain chased them below deck, where they found a window that looked toward Westport. As the ship churned away, Rory and the others disappeared as the sullen sky melded with the somber sea.
* * *
Lucinda was cheered by the grand ambiance of the Warton and the English pedigrees of the other passengers, so much so that she had little time for Briana.
Reading a dreary English novel or staring at the horizon through a portal to stave off sea sickness, Briana often sat alone rather than interact with others. Their berth, near the forward saloon, was close to the engine room. The low rumble of the steam engines, which sometimes lulled her to sleep, was never far from her ears.
Weather permitting, she found herself on the upper deck watching the billowing North Atlantic waves, chilly even in August. The brisk air helped her motion sickness, while the endless surging ridges fascinated her. They appeared in every color of the rainbow: foam green, steel blue, iridescent red and pink at sunrise and sunset. Thoughts about her unborn child often came to mind in those times.
Briana envied her sister, who treated the voyage like an extended garden party, flitting here and there to invitations of luncheon and supper, cards, or gossip while she sat sequestered in the private ladies’ sitting room. Guilt often engulfed her. Why should she dine in opulent luxury when those at home were starving? Her dismal mood, combined with her developing pregnancy, made her too tired and cranky to make conversation with people who didn’t understand how desperate circumstances were in Ireland. She ate many suppers alone in the cabin. Besides, she had few dresses she felt comfortable wearing to the dining room.
“You must climb out of your shell and join me in socializing,” Lucinda scolded her one evening seven days into the voyage. “Two sets of ears are better than one. I expect your help in finding the best place for us to live, since we know so little about Boston.” According to the crew, the ship was nearing the western edge of the North Atlantic, south of Greenland, with at least another six days to go before arriving in America.
That night they dined with two English ladies from Liverpool who seemed to look down upon both of them despite Lucinda’s previous experience as a governess to a wealthy Manchester family. They reminded Briana of the English guests who had visited Lear House, but on the whole not as cordial or sincere. The ladies were destined for a winter stay with “a sister” in Salem, Massachusetts.
“What will you do when you arrive?” one of the women sniffed as she absentmindedly flicked at the white egret feather in her hat.
Before Briana could answer, Lucinda piped up, “Oh, we have people waiting for us.”
“Yes, scads,” Briana replied, giving her sister a sly look.
Lucinda puffed up in her chair. “I shall teach and my sister shall . . .”
“Shall what, dear one?” Briana asked.
After another pause, Lucinda said, “Why, do what you do best.”
The ladies wiggled uncomfortably in their seats, one of them giving Briana a snobbish look. Then they hurried off, their starched gowns rustling against the floor.
“Why didn’t you play along,” Lucinda whispered crossly after the women had gone.
Briana scoffed. “They have no interest in us. They couldn’t care less what we do.” She gazed around the opulent room with its white and gold columns, pilasters of painted oriental flowers and birds, and walls of blue and gold. A few diners still remained in their seats finishing small desserts or sipping tea. “Look at them!” The passengers were mostly well-to-do English men and their wives, along with a few Irish who had enough money for or had managed to scrape together passage. “They have no idea what we’ve gone through. I feel positively embarrassed to be sitting here at a table loaded with food when Rory, Father, and Jarlath have no idea where their next meal is coming from.”
Lucinda pursed her lips, controlling her ire. She fumed underneath the best silk dress she could haul to America while her eyes spat darts. “That attitude won’t get us far in Boston. Those ladies have a point. We’ve discussed what we might do, but we must develop relationships. I can teach, and I suppose you can clean houses until you deliver the baby, but we’ll have better luck if we get recommendations.”
“We’ll do what every Irish immigrant has done before, I suppose,” Briana replied, but she had no idea what that might be. Everything was new, even the experience of traveling by steamship. Nothing in her life had prepared her for what might happen once they set foot on foreign soil.
Lucinda pushed back her chair and closed her eyes in frustration. When she opened them she said with a sharp tongue, “This ship is carrying mail from England. Perhaps we can work for the post when we get there.”
Briana ignored her sister’s jab as the ship lurched over the waves and her stomach rose and dropped. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, and she excused herself from the table. Seeking a breath of fresh air before bed, she climbed the two flights of iron stairs from the dining saloon to the deck. She teetered across the slick wood, grabbing at whatever she could to steady herself. A crewman cautioned her not to go to the railing, but she insisted and he accompanied her.
Billows of clouds, which seemed to touch the ship’s masts, concealed the stars. No rain fell, but the rushing wind brought a pleasant odor she had experienced only a few times in her life, always in late summer or early fall along the coast she knew so well. The warm, moist air brought to mind tales she had heard of the tropics and its exotic blooms, of strange plants and animals that lived in a world ruled by rain and heat. The smell permeated the ocean air like floral perfume.
Below, the ebony breakers crashed against the iron hull. She could just make out the white roil against the ship as it crested with each oncoming wave. The vessel lurched wildly a few times, and the sailor pointed to the stairs leading below deck. It was time to go back to her berth; no one else had foolishly ventured into the evening air.
* * *
The Warton creaked and moaned through the night, rocking and sometimes shuddering sideways as if it might be wrenched in half. Briana sat up clutching the berth’s railing with one hand and her stomach with the other. She fought off waves of nausea as her sister slept above her. Lucinda’s voyages to England had apparently prepared her for the ship’s violent motions.
By noon the next day, the seas had calmed to a gentle roll. Briana was shocked to see the rain-slickened upper deck covered in seaweed and even the stinking bodies of a few fish when she ventured up after luncheon. She stepped around the detritus, sat upon the doors of an elevated cargo hold, and wrapped the neckline of her cloak around her throat.
“May I help you, miss?”
The man’s deep voice startled her. Briana turned to find a tall officer in uniform. His dress-blue cap was positioned on his head, as if it was unassailable in the stiff wind.
“I’m sorry,” the older man said. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, but few passengers venture out in weather like this.” A smile beamed across his weathered face. His lean body and sturdy sea legs attested to a man who loved his job and the open ocean.
He extended his hand. “Captain William Hawthorne,” he said in a formal but pleasant English accent.
She shook his hand and answered in English. “Briana Caulfield. Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. I find that the ocean air and views of the horizon help my sea sickness. It reminds me of the cliffs at home.”
“Ahh,” he said as if he realized she was someone who appreciated the ocean swells. He gripped his hands behind his back, planted his feet firmly on deck, and rocked with the mild motion of the ship, his knees flexing with each wave. “A true lover of the sea. It’s rare to find one in the fairer sex. I admire your fondness for its beauty.” He pointed to the vast, unbroken ocean past the bow. “Last night was rough going, but we should be beyond the effects of the gale in a few hours. After that the winds will shift, and with sails up, we should make excellent time. Where are you headed—Boston or New York?”
“Boston.”
“I see. I detect from your accent that you’re Irish.”
“County Mayo,” she replied. “I don’t suppose you know Carrowteige?”
“No, but I’m familiar with the northwest Irish coast and the hazards it presents to any mariner.” He unclasped his hands and put a finger on his lips. “A legend exists there about children turned into swans—am I correct?”
Briana was amazed that the Captain would know anything about the Children of Lear. “I come from Lear House. It’s owned by Sir Thomas Blakely of Manchester.”
“Blakely . . . Blakely . . . the family name sounds familiar. Perhaps he’s sailed aboard this ship.”
She wanted to go no further in a discussion about the landlord or what the topic might lead to. “How soon until we dock in Boston?”
He cocked his head. “Five days if we’re lucky, more likely six.” His features tightened, and any hint of delight on his face was erased. “We have nothing to worry about, but I’ve received recent reports that Boston has turned away ships.”
Briana pivoted toward him. “What?”
“The Customs House at Long Wharf has turned away ships with Irish passengers who carry disease. Fortunately, the Warton is not in that category—at least no one that we know of is sick—but passengers and immigrants may be held for processing. You can never tell what the Americans might do, but I can’t say that I blame them. Would you let typhus carriers into your country?”
“If the ship was turned away, what would we do?” she asked, cringing inwardly at the thought.
“We’d find another place to dock—Salem has always been a friendly port. I know the harbormaster there.” He stiffened with determination. “Never fear. We’ll get through.” He looked toward the bow. “You must excuse me. Duty calls. If we don’t meet again, enjoy the rest of the voyage.” He glanced at her with a stern, fatherly smile. “Be careful on the deck. We don’t like accidents.”
Briana nodded and gazed at the Captain’s tall, elegant figure as he strode toward the bow. Her mind shifted uneasily to the new life that she and Lucinda would have to make for themselves. What if they couldn’t dock in Boston? Briana had no idea where Salem was or how they would manage there.
* * *
Captain Hawthorne was right in his prediction. The Warton had passed the storm in the Mid-Atlantic and was now sailing in a southerly direction on favorable seas. Briana welcomed the spits of land, the strips of rocky, wooded coastline that slipped by on the northern horizon.
On their last day at sea, Briana returned to the cabin to find Lucinda tossing clothing out of her bag. “What in God’s name are you doing?” she asked her.
Lucinda turned and then tumbled onto Briana’s berth with a horrified gaze. “The letter and the forty-five pounds Rory gave me—I can’t find them!”
Briana’s heart fluttered. Rory had given them to Lucinda for safekeeping. It was all they had to pay for rent, food, and clothing. She jumped in to help her sister, rummaging through Lucinda’s bag and searching every dark corner of the cabin.
“Think,” Briana said, fearing they would have nothing after the search failed. “Where could it be?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know,” her sister replied. “I thought it was in my bag.”
“We need that money!”
“You don’t need to remind me!” Sighing, Lucinda sank down on the lower berth and cradled her head in her hands.
On the upper berth, Briana spotted the novel Lucinda was reading. She lifted the book by its cover and shook it. The pages spread out from the spine like a fan. The money and the folded letter dropped from their hiding place in the center of the book.
Lucinda clutched them to her breast. “Thank God,” she said with a sigh of relief. “I don’t remember using my book as a hiding place.”
“A good idea,” Briana said, examining the book’s cover. “Hardly anyone, except you, would want to read this.”
“Hush. Be grateful we have it.”
They hoped they had enough money to get past the Customs Service, if necessary, but the letter was another matter. Her father had written it explaining his daughters’ need to leave County Mayo because of the famine and the effect it had on the family. Both were to act as companions and aides to each other, according to the testament. If the letter had been lost, a strict Customs official might deny them entry into the country. Her father made no mention of the baby, thinking it might cause Customs to believe that Briana was coming to America only to have a child—to increase the Irish population.
That evening at dinner, they sat by themselves contemplating what their new lives would be like. Lucinda was exceptionally quiet through their meal as if something was troubling her. Briana found herself picking at her food, although she knew she should eat well this last night aboard ship.
“They didn’t welcome us, did they?” Lucinda asked as they neared the end of the meal.
“Who?”
“These English prigs.”
Briana couldn’t believe her ears. “What did you say?”
Lucinda smirked and swept her fork around the dining room. “These fine ladies and gentlemen from England. It was Sir Thomas who invited me into his inner circle . . . but only for the good it did him as one who could deliver an Irish governess to his friends’ children. He never thought of me.
“What will happen to us?” Lucinda continued, her face tightening as if it might crack open from vulnerability. Briana had seen her sister lose her steely resolve more than once since she had returned to Ireland. Before the famine, such emotional displays were rare.
Briana reached across the table and grasped her sister’s hand. “We’ll live in a boarding house until we find a home. I wish Father and Rory—even Father O’Kirwin—had known someone in Boston. Perhaps that would have made things easier for us.”
Lucinda stuck her fork into a piece of chocolate cake. “Many times I dreamed of earning enough money, getting out of Ireland, taking the whole family with me. Wouldn’t it be grand not to worry about money? Like—” She lifted a piece of cake, then put it down, and gazed at the white tablecloth.
“He was a fantasy, dear sister. One you need to forget. Sir Thomas wouldn’t save us if he could.” The repugnant thought crossed her mind that she might have saved her family if she had been willing to abandon Rory and sacrifice herself to the landlord. The idea made her skin crawl.
Lucinda lifted her head and cocked an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”
Briana did not share her sister’s ill-founded optimism and gave up trying to convince her to forget Sir Thomas. They finished dessert and then left the dining saloon. Lucinda retired to the cabin, while Briana took one last look on deck.
The sky was clear and filled with brilliant stars that added to the warmth washing over her in soothing waves. The south wind caressed her as she looked west toward the horizon. Far away, isolated points of light twinkled amid the forests, and campfires burned orange where the land met the sea.
Taking her gaze away from the distant shore and looking at the calm sea ahead, she imagined Boston’s harbor opening to the Warton. Thousands of people who lived in a city bigger than she had ever seen were only a night’s sail away. She clutched the railing as feelings of excitement and apprehension raced through her.
* * *
She and Lucinda hurried to the deck after breakfast to watch the ship sail into port. Land as far as they could see ran in both directions from the harbor banks. Hazy, wooded hills loomed beyond a city lanced with church spires and with smokestacks that spewed pearly ash.
Under a luminous blue sky, she stood by her sister as the ship glided past the harbor islands. The sun warmed her so much that she had to fan herself with her hand. America was already different, and she hadn’t even set foot on it. The harbor air smelled of sewage and dead fish, unlike the pure Atlantic breezes that buffeted the Irish coast. Past the harbor, rows of brick buildings, many taller than she had ever seen, cut into the air. She got the sense that traffic coursed through the city’s vibrant streets, alive with people and horses, goods and money exchanged as businesses began a new day.
The Warton headed for a central wharf that extended far into the harbor. People the size of insects crowded the docks in ever-shifting patterns, like ants scavenging for food. She spotted a crewman waiting near the rail. “Is this Boston?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am . . . we’re docking at Long Wharf.”
She smiled and clutched her sister’s arm. The ship had not been turned away. They would be docking after all!
Her excitement grew as she and Lucinda took one last look at their cabin, gathered their bags, and offered a few quick good-byes to the crew. They joined the hundreds of travelers eager to leave the ship as they congregated near the gangplank exit. The Warton sailed past the eastern end of the wharf, where wagons, crates, bundles, and baskets crowded the stone landing. The ship edged to the left. A group of sailors uncoiled thick ropes at the wooden pilings that rose up from the harbor perpendicular to the wharf.
The ship’s whistle sliced through the air, and the engines throttled back from the power that had propelled them across the Atlantic. The vessel hugged the dock and soon crept to a stop with a soft thump against the pilings. From her point on deck, Briana saw two groups of uniformed men standing next to the lowered gangplank.
“Do you have the money and Father’s letter?” Briana asked her sister.
Lucinda patted her bag. “Are you scared?”
“I’m excited, but nervous too,” Briana said.
They inched down the steps and toward the gangplank, jostling elbows and bumping against bodies in the crowd. Some passengers had already descended.
Uniformed men were questioning those on the wharf—the few Americans aboard, presumably Bostonians, had little trouble passing by with only a brief conversation and a nod. One of the men detained an Irish family with two children. Frowning, the wife sat atop their bags and listened while the man questioned her husband. Their pale, young girl held her hands over her stomach while attempting to hide in the folds of her mother’s dress. Briana suspected that the child, presumably sick, had forced their detention.
Before they reached the bottom of the plank, Briana took off her wedding ring and placed it in her pocket. She didn’t want the Customs officers to know she was waiting for a husband to arrive as well.
When they reached the wharf, another man guided them to a desk where an officious young officer began his questions without a welcome. The dark-haired youth with eager eyes held a pen, which he periodically dipped into an inkwell. “Your names?”
“Briana Caulfield and Lucinda Walsh.” Briana answered for them.
He wrote their names in his log book. “Reason for coming?”
Lucinda presented the letter to the young man.
He read it, passed it back to her, and looked them both over from head to toe.
“Are you ill, or have you been, at any time within the past month?”
They both shook their heads. Briana didn’t mention her sea sickness.
“Do you have money to support yourself?”
Lucinda withdrew the pounds from her bag and showed it to him.
He seemed unimpressed. “You’ll have to change that to bank notes before it’ll do you any good. Go on.” He waved them away from the table, concerned about dealing with the travelers who stood behind them.
They walked a few feet, put their bags down, and then took stock of their surroundings. Gulls soared over the ship in a journey to the outer harbor; others cried from the top of pilings and looked for scraps of food from a passerby. Even the birds looked different here—they were fatter and unafraid of humans.
“Now what do we do?” Lucinda asked with a frown.
“Find a place to—”
“You ladies look lost.” The words, in English, were overly sweet but tinged with a gruff edge.
Briana swiveled to face two portly men with red, cherubic faces stained by the sweat dripping from underneath their caps. They were dressed in heavy work shirts, long pants, and black boots, and they looked as if they might be brothers.
“We’re the Carsons,” the larger of the two confirmed and bent down to grab Lucinda’s bag. She kicked his hand away with a deft blow from her foot.
The man’s hands flew back, shocked by her moxie. Briana was impressed with the physicality Lucinda had developed from working as a governess to three boys. “Here, miss, I was only trying to help. We’re here to take young women like you to the finest lodgings you can afford in Boston.”
“No, thank you,” Briana said. “We can make our own way.”
Lucinda stepped in front of her bag. “Keep your hands off my property,” she ordered in her best English accent.
“Oh, cheeky.” The man mopped the sweat from his forehead. “You won’t find better accommodations than the Coatesworth Arms. That’s what I get for trying to help you young ladies out.”
“I’ll give you cheeky,” Briana said, and then swore at them with Irish curses that would have made her mother blush.
A young man strode up to Briana’s side and asked in Irish, “Are these two giving you trouble?” He was tall like her husband, but instead of Rory’s fairer looks, this man’s hair was thick and shone black like the shell of an Irish mussel. His bright blue eyes took in the two men, who backed away after sensing trouble.
She could tell that the man who had rushed to their aid was from Mayo, but not from Carrowteige. The two large men disappeared into the crowd, and Briana studied her savior. He wore scuffed boots, Irish breeches, a white shirt, and a dark waistcoat. Despite his young age, his hands were chapped and scratched. His thick arms and shoulders swelled under his coat. There was something about him she immediately liked, but she cautioned herself that a handsome man could be dangerous. Still, his kind eyes and gentle smile gave her the confidence that he wouldn’t take advantage of them.
He took off his round cap, held it in his hands, and continued in Irish. “My name is Declan Coleman. I’m from Mulranny. Did you see another pair of young Irish ladies onboard the Warton?”
Briana thought for a moment. She couldn’t recall any other Irish ladies of young age on the ship. She looked to her sister, who had made more acquaintances, but Lucinda shook her head.
Declan shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up the gangplank. “I don’t think they’re here. I was hoping . . .”
His voice trailed off, and his face displayed a sadness that echoed in her soul.
“They might not have been able to travel on such a fancy ship. I’ll wait until everyone’s off.”
“Who were those men?” Lucinda asked in English. “One of them reached for my bag.”
“You speak English?” he asked, somewhat surprised.
Lucinda nodded. “Of course. There’s no need to speak Irish here—in America.”
He smiled, and Briana could tell that he was teetering on the verge of laughter. “Where I live, Irish is all I hear,” he replied in English. “Unless you’re planning to go straight to Beacon Hill, you’ll hear it too.” He paused as if somewhat embarrassed by what he had to say. “Those men are runners—crooks—for boarding houses. Well, that’s putting it politely. They’re houses of prostitution. They steal your money, and then the women are forced to work there to get it back. Of course, the women pay for food and board. An awful scheme that I’ve seen too many women fall prey to. That’s why I check every ship coming in from Ireland—so my sisters don’t end up in a place like that.”
“Thank you for looking out for us,” Briana said. “We’re in need of a boarding house ourselves.”
“Are you here for good?” he asked, still keeping an eye on the travelers who trickled down the gangplank.
Briana shrugged. “I don’t know how long—at least until things get better in Ireland so we can return to Mayo.”
Lucinda pursed her lips. “We’re seeking security and a life outside Ireland—at least I am.”
The sad look crossed his face again. “The stories I’ve heard are terrible. You’re lucky you were able to travel in such luxury. The lumber ships coming to Canada and America from Ireland are floating death traps. Do you have money?”
“What business is it of yours?” Lucinda asked. She exchanged an artful look with Briana that wordlessly suggested caution in their dealings.
“My sisters are coming to live with me and my wife in an extra room we have. But if they don’t come . . . we could use the rent.” He studied the last of the passengers departing the ship. “We live in South Cove. I do woodworking for the new homes on Beacon Hill.”
Lucinda was quick to reply. “If your sisters do come, your offer is a moot point. Thank you, but we should look for a place of our own before accepting. We should like to get to know you better before we partake of your hospitality.”
His face softened. “In that case, I offer some unsolicited advice. Room and board are expensive. The Boston neighborhoods where our countrymen live are places an Irish pig wouldn’t live—but most Irishmen have little money and no choice.” His jaw tightened. “I know because I worked my way out. I hope you don’t end up there. My offer stands if the room is available, which looks likely. Fewer ships will be sailing as fall approaches.”
His description of living conditions alarmed Briana, but Lucinda was right—for the moment they should make their own way. They talked for a few minutes about Ireland and the sea voyage before her sister tugged at her, making clear her desire to leave the wharf.
“Can you recommend a boarding house for us?” Briana asked.
“The Newton on Beacon is decent and takes in young women. It’s near Beacon Hill where I work.” He gave them directions.
They both thanked him after he had finished.
“Remember my name—Declan Coleman—if you need help. Ten Loyal Street in South Cove.” He tipped his hat. “I hope we’ll meet again.”
“I’m sure we will,” Briana said.
They left him at the wharf, still wondering if his sisters might be aboard. Rows of brick buildings as far as they could see stood in front of them. Horse-drawn cabs trotted by as they neared King Street, a busy thoroughfare that merged with the wharf. Street vendors, selling vegetables and flowers, shouted “Ladies” at them and urged them to buy their wares.
Lucinda took a deep breath. “Well, sister, we are here. Shall we visit the Newton on Beacon?”
Briana nodded and thought of the men who had tried to take them to a house of prostitution. “Yes,” she replied, for they had no other recommendation to consider.