GUEST AUTHOR, ALICE MITCHELL, SHARES AN EXCERPT FROM HER NOVEL, 'THE GOLDEN DOOR'

PART ONE: THE EMIGRANTS

CHAPTER ONE

HARTLEY

The wind is gusting in strong from the sea, bringing a light rain before it. All the creeping fog and dismal darkness of last night is gone. The ship creaks and strains to be off now that the tide is nearly full. Our sails should fill out and belly forth something grand when we pass the Mersey bar. Oh Mother, I am sure you will not believe me when I tell you that the name of this packer is The Yorkshire! I think that a fine omen.

I wish I could tell you all the strange sights and sounds I have seen since reaching Liverpool, but it has all crowded in so fast that I hardly know where to begin.

Last night in the boarding house, which was but a filthy hole (and not one I would have chosen myself), it came close to overwhelming me. A rogue who called himself an ‘agent’ dragged my boxes off the train and insisted I go there. I thought him helpful enough when he took me to the broker’s office to book my passage, but when he began talking of exchanging my sovereigns for American dollars, I knew at once I could not trust him. I am ashamed to tell you how much I had to pay the scoundrel to regain my own baggage and have done with him. Then, when I saw this boarding house, I own I wished I was back in Bradford with only the prospect of another day’s work at the draper’s shop before me. I was not alone in being downcast. Indeed, there was a wretched German family down in the cellar, unaccustomed to such privation, I would say. They had spent several nights in the dark amongst the rats without even my bare boards to sleep on. Suffice it to say, the father of this family, who looked nervous and far from strong, was in tears and loath to get on the carrier’s dray when it came rumbling over the wet cobbles of Great Howard Street this morning. The horses’ breath was steaming in the raw dawn air. They champed and worried at their bits, tossed their noble heads, and shuffled their hooves whilst the carrier fingered his whip.

But the unfortunate man could not get on. I never felt so sorry for any man before. If it were not for his wife, they would be there yet, I fancy, for it was she who, though heavy with child, shepherded their two boys aboard, comforting them all the while. It was she who chivvied the man about seeing to their boxes and spoke firmly, though with great kindness, to her husband.

She was a sturdy figure of a woman with a plain, dark and strongly featured face. Her cheeks still had a bloom on them, though she was well into her thirties. I could not tell what she said to him for they spoke in German. I wish I had gone forward and taken his arm on the other side, addressing him as ‘Sir’ and entreating him to be calm, but something held me back. In the end, she took his hand, and he allowed her to lead him upwards. I have not seen them since we reached the dock – they are lost in the milling hordes, but I have no doubt she got him aboard the vessel. She had that stamp about her.

The quayside was packed with people and I had all ado to keep my wits and my baggage about me, though I am only a single man with nothing but my own affairs to contend with. I wonder if the families managed to keep together at all, especially the Irish, with their children. There are hundreds of them and a dreadful, emaciated set of paupers they are. Only there was one girl, Mother, in a long cloak and a bonnet with red ties. Most of them had only ragged shawls which were poor protection against the unseasonable weather.

But this girl was better dressed than most, though just as bedraggled and wet as all the rest. She sat, weary unto death, on her trunk with a little one asleep in her arms, though she was scarcely more than a child herself. Of a husband, there was sign of none, and, in truth, there was a general air of desertion about her. Now, you will think me fanciful, I know, my poor head addled with the oddness of the scene, but I half reckoned she was the Madonna.

Her dress was soiled and brown, not blue. But there was something singular about the way the grey, hooded cloak draped her head and shoulders. Such beauty she had, like the Virginin religious works of art. Her hair (what I could see of it) was long and dark, and the wind blew tendrils of it round her face.

Such a face! Young and soft as a child's with skin like pale porcelain and brilliant blue eyes. All the others jostled and pushed round her in the mad scramble to get on the boat. I wanted to help her but there was no way of getting through the crush. Her, too, I have not seen again, though I cannot put her out of my mind. Nor have I seen the wild, Welsh fellow – a little dark runt in my opinion, with a curiously hoarse voice and breath that stank from the night before. The fellow kept on asking me about the arrangements on board, in particular, if there would be food and where we would sleep, as if he knew not what to expect in steerage. Perhaps he doesn’t. The bulk of people here seem to be ill-prepared. I showed him my ‘Emigrant Voyagers Manual’, the same one I purchased in Leeds last month, but made sure I kept a tight hold on it. He had no baggage and claimed it had been stolen, but I do not believe he has a ticket, and I suspect he intends to stow away.

People! Never in my life have I seen such people teeming and crying on that spray-sodden quayside. The noise and the smell of them are all around me and are most unpleasant, You may well question, Mother (as I know you do) if I am right to go, despite all I have read about America in my library books. But if only half of it is true, this hardship will be worth it. I am convinced it is a land of opportunity where even a humble man may advance himself through merit. The others feel it too, for not everyone is a-weeping and a-wailing. Far from it! There is great excitement, and we are glad to get on the ship.

Some did not make the gangplank, so they swarmed up the ropes and the sides even as The Yorkshire pulled away. There is obviously some danger in this, and there were those who inevitably fell off into the water. However, the captain ordered a boat to follow for the express purpose of picking them up. (I am told this demonstrates he is a good man, for others would have left them to drown.)

This is the beginning of our new life! In the middle of it all, a band is playing stirring music, and those friends and relatives left behind on the quayside cheer and wave and throw their hats in the air.

We waited our turn to pass through the dock-gates into the wider river. These docks are thick with masts for mile after mile. Vast stone warehouses line the sea-front, massive as cathedrals, and like unto them too, with wonderful arches and colonnades. This port must surely be the greatest in all the world, though my common-sense tells me New York must be bigger and better by far. Nor will there be such an ill assortment of vagabonds and rogues in attendance there, I trust.

I, for one, will not let my eyes mist up as we slip down the river. Not even for thee, Mother, for I know you are in good hands now that Jeremiah has his living as our dear, departed father intended, and I, as his second son, intend to make my way in the world. If ever a city could spur one on to do better, it is Liverpool. For much evil walks the streets, and there is squalor beyond belief despite the sea breezes and fine municipal buildings. Every kind of vermin and criminal is here; it is full of whorehouses and gin-shops, and I imagine a murder is committed somewhere every night with no end of robberies. I cannot think how the Madonna survived untouched. (Do not judge me blasphemous for naming her such –my weak brain is fairly turned.)

But enough! We are aboard, and the Blue Peter is flying. We sail on the old Black Ball line from Liverpool, and the steam tugs are pulling us out into the river. The open sea beckons and with it, the United States of America. God bless you, Mother, and keep you in good health!

I hope this letter reaches you, for I have my doubts on the matter, having entrusted it to a scurvy young fellow, who blithely followed us aboard, selling razors and tobacco, sweetmeats, medicines, soap and mirrors. There are many like him, all anxious to ply their wares till the last possible moment. He seems confident of being put ashore with the orange girls when we drop anchor awhile in the river for some account of passengers to be given. I fear, however, that he may only pocket the shilling I unwisely gave him and dispose of the letter. This is my first and last missive from this shore. My next will, I trust to God, come from a fairer and richer soil should we escape shipwreck. I remain your loving and affectionate son.

    Hartley Shawcross

AUTHOR’S NOTE: All the characters mentioned will reappear (with their backstories also told), and they, and Hartley, have a very long way to go, when they encounter disillusionment and challenges in their new land .