The Breton: chapter 6 – New Horizons

Acknowledgements: http://www.greatoceanliners.net/index2.html, a mine of information about transatlantic liners. And http://www.ellisisland.com, on immigration into the States. Interesting stuff, actually.



"July 18th, 1898

Mon cher Angelus,

Paris is beginning to bore me. The novelty of being here alone, master of my own will, has long worn off and I find myself constantly wandering past your old house and remembering my first weeks with you. They seem a long time ago now, those halcyon days when I was young and learning to hunt.

I went to a salon held by the writer Rachilde yesterday. She is a strange woman; her novels do not get much respect in many quarters but I find them interesting. A fascinating scene of death in 'Monsieur Vénus' which she wrote fourteen years ago particularly attracted me. Her salon is frequented by the most outgoing minds Paris has to offer at this time.

I was wondering if you would visit soon, or whether I should come to London? It is time Spike and I patched up our grievances, after all, and now he is nearly twenty perhaps he has matured somewhat? I am longing to see you. Please pass on my greetings to Darla.

I must go, there is a performance of 'Tartuffe' at the Palais Royale tonight that I do not want to miss.

Yours, in deepest affection,

Luc."

* * *

"August 29th, 1898

Mon cher Angelus,

I have had no reply from my last letter – are you even in London at present? I beg you, please write and let me know.

Luc."

* * *

"November 5th, 1898

Sire,

The year goes on and I have had no word since May. Have I done something to displease you? Please write.

Your Luc."

* * *

"January 13th, 1899, London

Luc,

Do not send any more letters. He is gone, he is never coming back. Forget him. And pray do not visit us in London.

Darla."

Luc let the paper flutter to the desktop, and sat staring at the wall in front of him. Gone? His brain tried to process the information, and failed. Gone? Dead? Dusted?

He sat in motionless silence for ten minutes, and then stood up and methodically started to clear the desk. Once everything was packed away into his writing-case, he turned to the rest of the apartment, pulling a trunk out from a cupboard and starting to pack it.

He arrived in Le Havre the next evening, and before dawn had booked a second-class passage on 'La Touraine,' the liner due to depart at noon. His cabin was small and claustrophobic, but dark, and Luc lay down gratefully and went to sleep, rocked as the great ship set out from the harbour.

His dreams were tormented by memories of times past – nothing specific, but a mixture dominated by the laughing face of his sire. He woke ravenous, the ship not rocking gently from side to side.

Outside it proved to be dark. Walking along the deck, Luc tipped his head back and let the wind blow in his hair, left loose, and breathed in the sea air before letting it out again from his dead lungs. Around him a few other brave passengers strolled, arm-in-arm and dressed for dinner. Luc licked his lips and eyed them before deciding that at this early stage in the voyage, killing passengers or crew would probably be a bad move. He turned and headed for the stairs below deck.

The voyage passed slowly. He fed off the rats inhabiting the lower decks, their blood tasting more metallic and rancid than usual, and spent little time with the other passengers. These were a mixture of upper-class socialites and businessmen, obviously crossing the Atlantic for a holiday or for work; and a much greater number of immigrants. Poor, thin, badly clothed, and from all corners of Europe, these were cheerful and talked of America as a land of opportunity. Luc, lurking and looking for blood, listened to their talk and hoped that he would also find a new life – or unlife, he thought to himself – in the New World.

They docked in New York a week after leaving Le Havre. The first-class passengers were let off first, and Luc waited with his baggage amongst the second-class passengers, gazing at the lights of the great city and the bustling halls of Ellis Island. Eventually they crossed the gangplank and joined the queues leading into the baggage room.

Luc let his mind wander as the line meandered slowly up the stairs. Around him was a buzz of excited chatter and the cool, clinical gaze of inspectors, who occasionally came and spoke to someone, or chalked a mark on their clothing, or pinned a label to their coat. Passing through a door at the top of the stairs, Luc was accosted by a doctor who briefly held his head still and pulled back his eyelid before nodding, marking him with a piece of white chalk, and going on to the next person.

The new room was enormous, a vast, echoing hall with a roar of voices in a hundred different languages. Flags and signs pointed immigrants to a rough line, and Luc pushed through the crowds to the one which had a French flag amongst others, and waited his turn. The stench of humanity around him was making him hungry as well as making him feel slightly sick.

It seemed to take hours to reach the desk of inspectors, and they fired questions at Luc which he fielded as best he could; fabricating a date of birth and profession. They gave him a passage from the Bible in French to read and asked him to add numbers up, and after a short while stamped a card and passed it to him.

"Bienvenue en Amérique," the inspector said, briefly, and waved Luc past.