Chapter 11

The Shores of Cork

Clare felt a tug. As her eyes opened, she saw the full light of the sun haloed around Pierce’s face peering down at her. She blinked a few times to adjust to the brightness and then lifted her head to catch her bearings.

Seeing Seamus beside her revived the horror of the prior evening, and she leaned over to see how he was faring. He was sleeping deeply with his usual snore. But despite a swollen eye and a cut on his nose, there was little evidence of last night’s tragedy. Although plagued with misfortune, often wrought from his own hands, Seamus was always resilient.

Clare peered around her and discovered the entire camp had vacated without much of a trace.

“You two slept through it all,” Pierce replied to her unspoken question. “Dozens of them, whole families all but trudging on your head.”

“Is that so?” She sat up and stretched her arms.

“Yes. And I think we should go with them.”

“Go with them where?”

“They’re taking passage on a ship leaving this morning and they told me there was room left, but not much to spare.”

“Pierce. We have nothing left. No money. It’s lost.”

“I told you already.” Pierce helped Clare to her feet. “My father gave me plenty for provisions. We’re down a good bit, it’s true, but I have enough to get us on that ship, I believe. We’ve already got supplies.”

“I have no bag. Nothing left. We’re too much of a burden, my brother and me. But you go. For all of us.”

“No,” Pierce said sternly. “I want to do this for you, Clare. For you and your family. More than anything I’ve ever wanted. You can’t refuse me. Not this time.”

Clare felt itching in the back of her scalp. She scratched deeply as her mind spun through her options. What good would it be to limp back to Liam without a penny? The Hanleys would be ruined. She was the family’s hope, as bleak and onerous as that sounded.

“Are you certain?”

“I’ve never been more sure.” Joy filled Pierce’s face and he picked up both his and Seamus’s bags. “We gotta go. We can’t miss that ship.”

“What about him?” She pointed to her brother.

“He’ll have two months to sleep. We just need to get him aboard. That’s all.”

“I don’t think he’s fit.”

“Listen, Clare. You know your brother well enough. As soon as he gathers himself, he’s going to go back to those men to try to get his money back. And he’ll be dead for his efforts.”

There was no denying this logic. Pierce was right. They needed to get Seamus out of Cork and right away wasn’t soon enough.

Pierce bent down and shook Seamus gently. “Hey, old boy. Up with you. There’s a ship full of young ladies calling your name.”

Clare reached down and together they lifted Seamus to his feet, and as he rose, he pushed them away.

“I can carry meself just fine.” He rubbed his temples.

“With haste,” Clare said, surprising herself how quickly she had been persuaded to Pierce’s reasoning.

“Where to?” Seamus yawned.

“We’ve got passage for a ship that may have left,” Pierce said.

“But it’s all gone . . .”

“We’ll explain it all later but we must go.”

Seamus reached to get his bag from Pierce, but Clare interceded. “Let me haul it just until your strength finds you.”

“Where’s your pack?” he asked gruffly, but she chose not to answer.

They trotted and soon turned around a bend of the shore into a burst of activity along the harbor lined with massive piers and hulking timbered vessels. The sun had only newly risen, but the roads spilling up to the docks were already overflowing with droves of people emptying from horse-drawn carriages and pushing hand wagons. They meshed with the longshoremen and sailors unloading and lifting in bulging cargo of barrels and wooden crates and vegetables. Pigs and children engaged in a tapestry of dance on land as did sailors on the rigging and the seagulls, terns, and herons in the sky.

The three stopped and stood in awe of the majestic ships that stood before them. Beautifully crafted wood giants, with masts reaching heavenward and sails prepared to unfurl with full glory. Ropes as thick as a man’s thigh threaded with a seamstress’s touch. Crews pranced from crow’s nest to boom with urgent artistry.

“Come on,” Pierce said, pulling them out of their trance.

“Which one is it?” Clare just stepped out of the way of a woman shoving a cart so full of strange objects it appeared she stacked the full contents of her home.

“The woman from last night . . .” Pierce began.

“Muriel.”

“Yes. Muriel said to go to where the dock ends, and there we’d find them.”

The energy of the shores and the sudden fear they would be left behind hastened their step, and they proceeded through the congestion in full pursuit. Finally, just as Clare thought they had run out of dock, they rounded a corner and a sight sprung up that caused her to slow in dread.

Before them was a creaking, retched mass of ancient wood, held together by moss, barnacles, and frazzled ropes. The hull of the vessel was weathered, waterlogged, and blackened by the battering of salt water, and there were scars where cannonballs had once breached. The sails were yellowed and quilted with patches, and the masts had a bow to them that made them almost smile with sadness. It was a once-proud warrior, tyrannized in its submission to commerce.

On the side of the ship were faded painted letters that read Sea Mist, and Clare quickly spotted Captain James Starkey himself overseeing the clamoring of crew and passengers, in full uniform with his arms folded tightly behind his back.

“Well,” Pierce said. “Should we wait for another ship?”

“I’m afraid if we don’t get on now, we’ll never go,” Clare said.

A woman’s voice railed from the deck, and Muriel waved a red handkerchief. “Hurry,” she shouted, and others beside her were beckoning them as well. Some of the crew were beginning to untie the mooring. They were out of time.

“Let’s go,” Pierce said.

Suddenly, Clare’s apprehension gave way to concern of whether they could force their way through the horde of well-wishers before the ship launched.

Pierce led the way and took the brunt of disgruntled looks and cursing as he shoved people out of the way. Clare tried to apologize to each of them as she followed but soon abandoned it in futility. Finally they arrived at the walkway leading to the ship just as the gate was being closed.

“Wait for us!” Pierce shouted.

The porter at the gate wore a ragged blue shipmate’s uniform that was inadequate in containing his belly. His face looked as if it had been crammed into a glass jar. “All right. Three of you? Thirty pounds.”

“Thirty?” Pierce said with exasperation, and Clare could tell he was calculating what he had. “Fine.” He threw down his bag and fished out his money, fumbled through his bills, and handed it somewhat reluctantly to the outstretched hand.

They lifted their bags, and with both relief and defeat, they started forward when the porter raised his hand.

“The lass. Why is she scratching?”

Clare glanced around in expectation he was speaking to someone else.

“Yes. You. Come here.”

Reluctantly, Clare moved forward and the man with cracked, stubby fingers lifted the back of her hair and leaned in with bulbous eyes to examine her. Clare’s body writhed inside in embarrassment and with a sense of violation.

“Hmmm.” The porter’s brow wrinkled and he pursed his lips.

“What is it?” Pierce asked.

“She needs to shave her head,” the porter said.

“What?” Clare took a step back.

“You’re teeming with head bugs, my dear. Captain’s orders. No one comes on board with lice. The health and safety of our passengers, you know.”

“She’s not shaving a single hair on her head,” Pierce spat out.

The porter handed the money back. “Do you want it all back, or just for the lady’s passage?”

Why this? Why me? Clare resisted the temptation to scratch her hair, but now with the knowledge of her affliction, her scalped burned brighter. Her mind flashed back to her stay at the Wayfarer’s Inn and that mold-specked filthy pillow.

There was a part of Clare that wanted to shave it all off and be rid of the parasites. But the idea of losing her hair? How long would it take to grow back? She fought back a sob. Would this ruin any chance she had of meeting the man she dreamed would share her life?

The tension of the moment gave Clare little time to think, and she began to panic. It was clear the ship would leave without her—and soon if she didn’t make a decision.

She took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Where do I go?” she asked the porter in a wavering voice.

He pointed to a short distance down the dock where a man was sweeping up hair. She left without delay.

“Clare, no!” Pierce shouted behind her.

“You don’t need to do this,” Seamus said. Clare wasn’t expecting to hear from her brother.

She worked her way along the edge of the pier, and the barber greeted her with a nod as she slunk into his chair, streams of tears coursing down her face.

Without a word he came around behind her and started with scissors, grinding as close to her scalp as possible, presumably to preserve the length of her hair to sell at its highest value. Then he lathered up her stubble and skillfully drew a blade from one end to the other.

Clare closed her eyes and tried to imagine the faces of Caitlin, Ronan, and Davin to keep her mind off of the agony and shame of the moment. Not only was she pained by the idea of being stripped of her dignity in such a public fashion, but with each cut, Clare felt the barber was taking away much of who she was. How could she feel that way? She had always believed herself to be above the shackles of vanity.

Then she felt warm water, the patting of a towel, and it was done.

“Did you want to see, child?” the barber asked gently, with a looking glass in his hand.

“No,” she whispered. She reached her hand to the top of her head and felt the smoothness of flesh, still warm from the washing. Wiping away her tears, she saw a familiar face peering at her.

“How much did they pay for your hair, Miss Clare?”

“Pence.” She laughed and cried at the same time, glad to see the boy.

He tilted his head. “Pence preferred you with less skin.”

He made her smile, which she was in desperate need of. “I’m afraid we owe you money we haven’t to pay.”

“No matter, Miss Clare.”

“I wish you were coming with us.”

“Maybe Pence will go next time.”

She gave him a hug as if he were her own Davin, her own Ronan. “Be well, Pence. You are a fine, young gentleman.”

Clare felt an arm on her shoulder. She turned to see Seamus with an expression of gratitude and compassion she had never seen from him before. He took off his hat and placed it on her head.

“Are you ready for a new journey?” His eyes were beginning to show life again. “I know I am.”

In a matter of moments they were on board. The ship was lurching away from the slip, and with seeming complaints from every plank of wood, the old vessel pressed away from shore as passengers and those they were leaving behind waved tearfully and exchanged hearty cheers and whistles.

As the ship drifted beyond the vision of their loved ones and the island they called home began to diminish against the horizon, somberness came over the passengers. A remnant of elation remained about the idea of seeking out a place unknown, a better life, and world of opportunity. But also sinking in was the permanence of a decision to surrender to the arms of the ocean and the fates before them, and that their lives would never be the same.

A man with a fiddle began to play tunes of Ireland, tunes of joy and the unshakable resolution of its people. They sang and some danced, lifting their skirts, locking arms, and spinning as the crew trimmed the sails and looked down from above.

A small girl dragged her grandmother by the hand and began to dance with the others. The girl spun and hopped with a face so full of bliss, she charmed all of those around her, who smiled and clapped as much for the gray-haired woman who labored to keep up with her grandchild’s mirth.

Not comprehending why, Clare felt a sense of relief in the expression of joyful anticipation of the journey ahead. There was power in the idea there would be no turning back, and it helped erase the pain she faced in getting here today.

But before long, the only music being requested were the sad songs of a broken people with a history of shattered dreams in a world of cruelty and disappointment, and the melancholy returned.

In earshot of the music but out of sight of the others, Clare leaned up against the rails and peered into the infinite sea before her, as the wind lapped against her face, drying the tears of remorse from her eyes.

She mourned the fleeting Emerald Isle that was now but a thin, black strip barely above the water’s edge. Clare blinked, and the ocean swallowed up what remained of the land and life behind her.

They were off to America.