Autumn, 1898
The chill of early autumn hung in the air as the RMS Teutonic made its way towards land, parting the choppy waters on its way to America.
The Teutonic had come all the way across the Atlantic first from Liverpool, in England, where it picked up part of its cargo, a hundred or so Swedes and Norwegians, with the odd Englishman here and there. After Liverpool, the immigrant ship made its way to Queenstown, on the southern tip of Ireland, where it picked up the rest of its human cargo, men and women who knew the port not as Queenstown, but as the beautiful town of Cobh.
The crossing had been long, and everyone on board knew the risks they were taking, leaving their homes and lives and families behind. They huddled together below the deck, packed like cattle in the rocking underbelly of a ship, strangers in the poorly-lit, poorly-kept living quarters (if they could be called that) of the vessel.
Along the way, a child was born to a young mother, only to die in the stinking dark. Not long after, another child was born. He lived- you could hear the men and women of his mother's country saying prayers in their language for the babe every night- but his mother died not long after, leaving her husband to care for the child, while the woman who had lost her son offered to nurse the child. A few passengers fell ill, too.
Some died, while others lived, and that was how it was for the men, women, and children bound for America.
Though the coast of New York was in sight- the budding city, nearing the turn of the century- there was still one more stop before those who survived the crossing would be allowed into the new Promised Land- Ellis Island.
Every day, thousands of feet tread the floorboards of the barn-like structure that housed officials and doctors, who inspected everything from papers to the heartbeats of those who had come this far. Here, men had the power to allow you in, or turn you out, depending on what they saw or heard. Here, a new life had the potential to begin, if only you passed the expectations of the men who took down your name in their big ledgers, recorded your weight and height and pulse to decide if you were too sickly to be considered American, or if you were tough enough to make it in the Land of Dreams, if you could possibly fuel the country's need for workers and people to mind the land.
A young woman, seventeen as recently as March, made her way through the throngs of immigrants, one hand gripping her pasteboard suitcase, while another held on to the hand of a man in his twenties- her brother, or perhaps an older cousin. She kept her eyes ahead of her, careful not to bump into anyone and cause a disturbance that could put her entry into America at risk. When she did happen to collide with someone, she spoke quietly, eyes lowered, a quick "pardon me," and then she and the man continued on their way.
She thanked God that she hadn't gotten sick on the journey over (well, the seasickness after they left Cobh had been horrific, but that only lasted a week or so, and, according to one of the boys who had a pallet next to hers, no one'd died of seasickness yet), and was already praying that she would be able to meet the doctors' standards.
As she waited her turn, she wondered if she would be turned away, or if the man traveling with her would be, and she would be left on her own.
Dear God, don't let them separate us, she prayed, finding her rosary in the pocket of her skirt (she was wearing her cleanest dress, in an effort to make a good impression- she had learned, a long time ago, the importance of good impressions) and running her fingers over the beads. We've come so far. You've been so good to us. Please, let us get through.
God must've been listening, because both made it through, and soon they were walking away from the official and his ledger, having given their names and waited for them to be taken down.
We're here, thought the girl as they left the buildings of Ellis Island, as they left the doctors and officials, the cramped quarters of the RMS Tuetonic. It was all behind them now, and what lay before them- the sprawling skyline of a city that she had only ever heard about in stories- that was their future.
A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading!
A few notes:
1. I do not own Newsies. I do not own the stories of the boys and girls of the 1899 newsies strike, upon which the story of Newsies is based, nor do I own the stories of the countless immigrants who came through Ellis Island to New York. I am simply a product of their stories, and I am hoping to do them justice in this piece.
2. The RMS Teutonic was in fact a real vessel, but instead of sailing n 1898, as I have it here, the real Teutonic sailed from Liverpool, England and Queenstown (Cobh), Ireland in May of 1891.