Coming To America by Ligeia

February 7th, 1902 – aboard the S. S. Celtic bound for New York.

It was the start of the third week of the voyage from Liverpool and although the nights were bitterly cold, the immigrants travelling below decks made the most of the opportunity to come up for a few hours to take in the brisk sea air. Discouraged from fraternising with the 'better' classes, most spent the day below in the crowded and unsanitary confines of steerage, lounging on narrow bunks with little to do but sew or share their dreams with other hopefuls seeking to improve their circumstances or make their fortunes in that almost fabled land of the free – America. So, each evening while the First and Second Class passengers were in their cabins or at dinner, a colourful, garrulous river of humanity streamed upwards into the comparative freshness and openness of the rear decks.

Tonight the weather was even more inclement than usual, the decks frosty and slippery with ice and spindrift, but Angelus welcomed the cold. At least it was something he could feel – something physical – to divert his mind from its continual cycle of optimism and depression. Most evenings he shunned the company of the other First Class travellers. Here, among the steerage folk, no one approached him and he was free to take up his sketch pad or just to sit on one of the heavy wooden deck chairs and think. The night had begun clear and many of the immigrants had lain on their backs, bundled warmly, looking up into the starry sky, perhaps wondering if those they had left behind were doing the same, but towards midnight a storm came up, washing the decks with stinging spray and foam.

Suddenly, a child standing by the rail was swept overboard, his father's desperate cries alerting crew members standing about twenty metres away who hurried to lower one of the lifeboats into the swell. Another ran to the bridge to have the ship's progress halted while a rescue was attempted. Passengers who had remained above to brave the weather crowded to the rail, watching helplessly as the boy's white face blurred into the darkness as the ship ploughed on through the choppy seas. The ship's wash began to buffet the boy and it became apparent that he was failing fast; each time he was submerged by the frothy wake, it took longer and longer before he was able to struggle to the surface.

Angelus threw off his overcoat and dived into the water. Letting the wash of the ship's passing carry him away from the stern, it still took him long moments to reach the boy, now limp and floating just under the surface.

The lifeboat hit the water heavily, almost capsizing, then righted itself. The crew, augmented by the boy's frantic father, quickly came alongside and Angelus was able to hoist the child up to their waiting arms. As he climbed aboard he saw, with relief, that the boy was now lying on his side in the bottom of the boat, coughing and gasping as the salty water drained from his lungs.

Back on deck someone threw a blanket around Angelus's shoulders. Many hands patted him on the back amid a jumble of murmured thanks. Gathering up his coat, and without a single word, he shoved his way through the pressing crowd and quickly walked away.

The following evening found the Celtic on the final leg of the journey. Less than a week out of New York and spirits were high amongst poor and wealthy alike. Angelus came to the aft deck as always, but stood a little further off than usual, knowing he would be recognised because of the events of the previous night but not wanting to appear too accessible.

Maggie had noticed the tall, quiet figure many times; he often came and stood by one group of migrants or another, silently sketching, but never initiated conversation. She thought he looked lonely but, as he was obviously a gentleman, the flame-haired Irish lass had never dared speak to him.

Tonight, however, she had good reason.

Wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders, fortifying herself as much against her natural self-consciousness as against the cold, she left her small group of friends to stand beside him at the rail. When, after several minutes, he did not acknowledge her, Maggie screwed up the last of her courage and put out her hand.

'My name's Maggie Gormly,' she said boldly, 'what's yours?'

Unable to ignore so direct an approach, Angelus turned and took her small hand in his. Bowing courteously, he gave the name on his passport.

'I saw what you did last night,' the girl continued. 'It was very brave.'

He shrugged but said nothing.

'The Tibaldi's are friends of mine. At least, I've made a friend of their niece during the voyage. They're very grateful.'

'Is the boy recovered?'

'Yes. Or at least he will be by the time we get to New York. He has a chill but we don't think that will stop the family from being accepted, given the circumstances.'

One of the worst fears for the immigrants on board was that they might be turned away because of illness or infirmity, before even setting foot in their new homeland. Angelus said he hoped that would not be the case for the little Italian boy and his family.

'Oh, and I have something of yours.' Maggie reached under her shawl and withdrew a slightly battered sketch pad. 'You dropped it when you dived overboard to save the boy.'

'Thank you.' Angelus put out his hand but Maggie seemed reluctant to hand over the book.

'I hope you will excuse me,' she began, blushing slightly. 'But I couldn't resist taking a look inside. It's just that they are such lovely pictures.' She opened the book at one of the many portraits featuring a beautiful woman, apparently not much older than herself, with upswept blonde hair and an unreadable expression. 'She's lovely. Your wife?'

He laughed, a little sadly she thought, and said, 'No.'

'Sweetheart, then?'

His smile faded slowly and he shook his head. Maggie turned to the top page. There was the drawing Angelus has been working on. Ghislaine.

'Why, she's an angel! Not yours though,' the Irish girl remarked, taking in his strong, dark features. 'There's nothing of you in her.'

'God, I hope not!' He said it so vehemently that they both began to laugh. 'Ghislaine's my god-daughter.'

'Back in Ireland?'

Puzzled, Angelus answered, 'No. In France. Why did you think she was in Ireland?'

'Your accent.'

'I thought I'd lost that long ago.'

He looked so surprised, Maggie started to laugh again, then added, 'There's a trace. And you wear the claddagh.'

He twisted the white gold ring on his finger. Heart, hands, crown. Symbols of a life – and a love - long lost to him.

They talked a while longer, Angelus sketching as Maggie chattered about her new life to come; she was seventeen years old and on her way to meet her fiancé in New Jersey. As unmarried women were not permitted to leave the immigration station unless accompanied by a relative, Maggie and her young man expected to be made to marry by the Kissing Post before they left Ellis Island.

'Not very romantic!' she laughed. 'But we hope to make up for that later.' A hand flew to her mouth and she blushed wildly as she realised the implication of her words. She noted her companion's wry smile.

'All done,' he said, holding up the completed sketch, gratified to see her face light up as she saw herself though his eyes.

'Oh, but you've made me much too pretty!' she protested.

'Well then,' he grinned, 'I'd better do another.' He tore out the first portrait and rolled it up for her to take.

'I've seen you up here most nights,' Maggie remarked. 'But tonight is the first time I've seen you smile. You remind me of my father in that way. He was stoic, too. Never showed his pain. Not because he didn't feel anything, but because he felt things too deeply.'

To be continued...

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