New York gleamed bright on the horizon, it's snow covered buildings gleaming like something out of a fairytale, as the sun raced behind thick snow clouds to wake the sleeping city. After ten days on the rough winter sea they were arriving in what Tom hoped could be a permanent home for his little girl. She slept beside him in the last comfortable bed she'd know for a long while and the way her dark hair fell over her cheek couldn't help but him reminded of the ferry ride from Liverpool when he first took her darling mother to Ireland. How his sweet Sybil had rested her head on his lap as they crossed the roughest patches of the Irish Sea. Unlike his last voyage from England, Robert had refused to let him pay his own way, this time, and take Sybbie in steerage, 'In Boston she'll be Irish, Tom' he had said, 'Let her be English one last time'. So he had taken his father-in-law's money and kindness for what he certainly hoped would be the last time, but he had refused to emigrate first class on principle. So here he was, in his last compromise with the Crawleys, in second class.
He lifted his daughter still sleeping from their bed and walked to the top deck as he could see the ship slowing down from window. Kieran had told him in every letter he had sent, you have to see it, be sure you see it, I will never forgive you if you don't see it, and even as a fully grown man his big brothers opinion meant a great deal to him and he could hardly meet him at the island and say he hadn't seen it. As a boy who had spent every free minute of his childhood on the Wicklow shoreline the salty winds and bitter cold of New York Harbour had been comfort in the change, at least the sea stays the same. And from the top deck with his darling little girl in his arms he could see her, the image, the promise that his people had flocked to for nearly a century never to be seen by their family or friends again, but seemingly never regretting their exodus. She rose green and glowing from the seam, torch guiding them safely to the country they would soon call home.
"Sybbie, wake up a stórín," Tom gently rock his daughter awake, her eyes flickered adjusting to the rising light, "We promised Granny we'd take a picture of you with the statue."
"Granny!" The four year old squirmed out of his arms and look groggily out towards the statue, "But we aren't there yet?"
"We aren't going there, you see that red building behind her, with the shiny domes," he pointed out into the bay towards Ellis Island and Sybbie nodded, "That's where we're going. Now, pose darling we're almost there."
He got to quick photos of her standing, mostly still, in front of the Statue of Liberty, when he was told to return to his cabin for the quick check.
They had been waiting in their room for about a half hour before their turn finally came and there was a knock at the door which Tom gladly opened for him.
"Good morning sir, just a routine check second and first class usually don't have any issues. So it'll just be a few questions." The officer softly chuckled at Sybbie, who was gazing, starry-eyed at his uniform, "Where did you depart from Mr. Branson."
"Liverpool, sir." The officer's gazed hardened.
"Excuse me?" He looked confused at his paperwork and then looked glaringly back up at Tom.
"Has there been some kind of mistake?" Tom's worry was fast turning to alarm.
"I don't know, paddy, has there?" The officer growled, "'Cause I don't know how Irishman afforded second class and I don't much like any of the ideas popping in my head."
"Sir, it was a gift from my…"
"Sure it was, you'll go through the line like all the other micks and I won't hear squawk out of you about it."
The door slammed behind the officer as he left. This wasn't at all what Tom had expected he was a good man, he had had a good job, he could have payed for that ticket if he had wanted to and so could many other Irishmen and women. Were they all treated like this? Had he done something wrong? Only another ten minutes passed before there was another knock on the door, a younger, if heftier, officer telling them to go down to steerage with the rest. The two dutifully walked down to the lower levels of the ship, which was hugely overcrowded with men, women and children each anxiously awaiting their next step. It was filled with shouts of Spanish, Italian, Yiddish, German and Russian and most comforting of all many, many Irish brogues. Sybbie Branson did look quite the thing in her buttons and bows among the rags of the other steerage children and got many a pointed glare mothers holding their children close to their chests. She didn't seem to mind, she talked excitedly with all the other children as the ship docked and first and second class were let out. By the time steerage was being flocked from the ship to the ferry that would take them to Ellis Island she had made a whole new circle of friends. Some of whom, she excitedly told her father were going to Boston too.
By the time they made it to the ferry it had started snowing, hard, it was worse than anything Tom had seen in England or even in Ireland. It pounded the ferry which gave them so little protection from the elements that every snowflake that hit their bare skin felt like a bee sting. Tom quickly took a page from the books of the Eastern Europeans around him and held Sybil close to him, wrapping his over coat around them both to at least protect her from the ferocious storm. Huddled together on the deck they watched as the Laconia slowly drifted from view and the red bricks of Ellis island came closer as the tiny ferry slowly waded through the icy waters of New York Harbour.