“Father dropped his head into me mother’s lap and said, ‘Oh, Judith, our prayers have been answered! The heavenly Father has softened the wretch’s heart to the point that he has bought all of us passage to Canada! In four days, we’re off to Belfast, then on to Liverpool, and we’ll leave this forsaken land behind! We’ll be boarding a ship called the Shenandoah! Saints be praised! Canada!’
“Mother said, ‘’Tis this is but a cruel joke? It c’not be true!’
“She handed me the papers and told me to read them.
“ ’Twas true indeed. In four days, we had to leave for Belfast to board a ship.”
Grandmother O’Toole whispered, “ ’Twas four days too long for me older siblings, Sheila and Daniel, though.
“Aye. Bitter did we weep only three days later as we kissed and shrouded the poor souls farewell and set them out, but we should’ve saved our tears. They were the lucky ones. The dream of escaping had burned in them for three days and they never knew the pain of having that dream snuffed out. I was now the oldest living child and knew what that meant.”
Grandmother O’Toole laced her fingers and kept staring at them.
“To this day, I’ve not had much to be grateful for. But I am forever thankful for the joy and hope Sheila and Daniel had in their eyes when they slept that final time. I’m grateful indeed for the lovely stories about Canada we told each other that filled those precious angels’ final three days.
“Alas, ’twould’ve been wise if we’d held on to our tears. Those of us who got on that ship were the ones who should’ve been wept over.”
I’d been so transfixed that Father’s voice startled me.
“Hullo! Another day’s work is done and I’m back in the loving embrace of home.”
Grandmother O’Toole sprang from the divan, her cane bell jingling softly.
“Oh, Chester, welcome home. Your supper’s but a minute away.”
I felt so cheated.
Of course I was happy that Father was home, but why couldn’t this have been one of those evenings when business at the courthouse kept him until nine or ten o’clock? Who knew the next time Grandmother O’Toole would be in such a talkative mood?
Before she went into the kitchen, Grandmother O’Toole had one more surprise for me. She turned and said, “Chester’s right, as usual. ’Tis important ye know this. Ye’re getting to the age where your smartness might not interfere with you learning something. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Well before your father comes home.”
Though a sense of dread filled me, I began counting the hours.
It was going to be my first day of work, and the train to Chatham didn’t leave until after three, but I knew something was suspicious when Mother told us we had to be ready to walk to the station by noon.
Right before we left home, Mother held my shoulders, kissed my cheek, and said, “The apron and the cap and the boots and the pencil behind your ear are fine, Benji, but don’t you think wearing the gloves on a beautiful day like today is a bit much?”
Maybe she was right. I took the gloves off and hung them from one of the snaps on my apron.
Stubby said, “Momma, why’s Benji’s name wrote out upside down like that?”
Mother said, “Have you got matching socks on, Timothy?”
Stubby quit asking embarrassing questions and went to our room. He had no socks on.
Patience said, “I know why it’s upside down. It’s because it’s not there for other people to read; it’s there for Benji. Mother was very kind because this way if Benji forgets who he is again and starts wandering around lost, all he has to do is look down to read his name and he’ll be able to remember!”
Only Father and Pay thought that was funny.
Even with an upside-down name, I felt great!
Father always tells about how proud he had been to put on his uniform when he enlisted in the United States Colored Troops in Detroit, but there wasn’t any possibility that he felt prouder than I did in my uniform. I couldn’t help standing tall, with my shoulders back and my chest poked out. I felt like a soldier too.
We left home, and on the way to the station, there wasn’t one single person to say hello or ask how we were doing. That was very suspicious. That could only mean one thing.
It was no surprise at all when we got to the station and all our neighbours and friends and half of Buxton was sitting in the park by the station on blankets, waiting with dishes and wishes to see me off.
Father said to Mother, “I ain’t complaining, but it sure don’t take much for you Buxton folk to turn something as simple as a ‘fare thee well’ into a excuse to have a big potluck picnic.”
A great cheer went up when we walked into the crowd.
I don’t know how it’s possible to feel embarrassed and happy at the same time, but after a few minutes of being the centre of attention, I was.
Everyone wanted to pat my back and shake my hand.
Mother whispered to me, “Benjamin Alston, quit standing so stiff!”
Mrs. Stanley said, “My, my, my, Benjamin! Aren’t you something? Standing like a soldier going off to fight the war. You sure do look handsome in that get-up, sweetheart. Look like a full-grown man! Congratulations on your new job. I know you’ll do us all proud.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
I was tempted to give her a salute, but didn’t.
Mr. Wesley said to Father, “Timothy, the boy’s the spit and image of you.”
He slapped my back and said, “We’re all behind you, Benji. You take care of business in Chatham for us.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”
Mr. Craig the carpenter shook my hand and said, “If you do half as good as your siblings, Miss Cary’s hired herself a good worker.”
Pay and Stubby smiled and thanked him along with me.
All of the food looked great, but I had no appetite. I wasn’t even interested in the singing and dancing that started.
When I finally got on the train and it started to pull away from Buxton, I stuck my head out the window and waved at our beautiful friends and neighbours.
People cheered and called out as many “Good lucks” as “Make us prouds!”
I couldn’t help it; it seemed like the right thing to do. I felt so much like a hero that I stopped waving and started saluting.
About a minute and a half outside of Buxton, I ignored Mother’s advice about my gloves.
I’d pulled them off for her, but now that I was on the train, I unsnapped them and put them back on.
Now I was complete! Today’s headline was going to read:
CHATHAM ATWITTER AS GENUINE NEWSPAPERMAN SPOTTED ON TRAIN FROM BUXTON!!!
The next day, after Father left for the courthouse, Grandmother O’Toole was on the divan again and I took the chair across from her. I sat on the edge of the seat and was stunned when she shook her head and patted a spot on the divan for me to sit at her side.
I cautiously moved next to her and prayed to any saint who would listen that her newly discovered friendliness wouldn’t lead to a hug. I wasn’t sure how I’d react to that if it happened now, but I was positive there would be nightmares later.
But not to worry. Apparently, I sat too close; with a shooing motion, she let me know I should slide a bit farther away.
“What was I talking of the last time?”
“The ship, Grandmother O’Toole.”
“Aye, the Shenandoah. She was a grand ship. We were told the crossing of the Atlantic would take anywhere from six weeks to two months, depending on the winds. But thirty-two days? The sailors had never seen the likes of it before.
“They had no idea ’twas the prayers of all those good Irish souls and the hopes we carried that kept those sails full and the Shenandoah cutting through the waves like a sharp plow tilling dry soil. And though the sailors apologized for what they called tight rations, ’twas more than we’d had back home. After three and a half weeks, they saw how far ahead of schedule we were and the captain order
ed that the stores be opened and we were allowed to eat as much as we could.
“He was a good man, God rest his soul. He told us, ‘By thunder, they were a scrawny, scabby lot when they boarded my ship, but I’ll not have anyone think Captain John Valentich doesn’t feed his passengers.’
“By the time we finally saw land-birds and leaves in the water and knew we were close, we were heavier and happier than we’d been in years. No one else in the family had died. ’Tis amazing how quickly we began taking things for granted. Things like food and water; things like when we’d awaken, we all would still be alive. Things we had no business clinging to so quickly.
“A day before we sighted land, the sailors called everyone on deck and told us to breathe deep.
“Ah! ’Twas the sweetest perfume! I’d never smelt anything in Eire to match the green and brown and blue smell of Canada. It appeared all the stories were true. If it smelled this rich and alive a full day out, imagine what the smell would be on shore.
“No one slept that last night. We came upon Canada in the dark. Sailed into the Saint Lawrence River toward an island called Grosse Ile near Montreal.
“In the middle of the night, the beautiful scent of trees and fresh water and life began to fade. My younger brother, Kyle, and I were on deck that night when another smell rode in on the coattails of the glorious scent of green.
“Kyle grabbed me, raised my arm over my head, leaned in to sniff me armpit, raised his own arm, sniffed again, and said, ‘ ’Tis neither me nor ye, Sinead, but something’s rotted bad.’
“The farther we went up the river, the stronger the smell became until finally it drove every one belowdecks.
“Some of the sailors told us they’d sailed the world over and never smelt the likes of this before. ’Twas a total mystery to them.
“Captain Valentich shook his head. Said he knew the smell from when he was a cabin boy. Said he’d worked a slave ship and this was as close to that foul odour as he’d ever smelt.
“The next day, like a warning, the first body floated by our ship. The captain sent a crew out to retrieve it for proper burial, but before it could be dragged to land, three more appeared. Then five on top of that. Then another three. The captain ordered the men to let the first body go.
“He weighed anchor and a great debate raged. Oh, did those English officers quarrel! Some wanted to land a scouting party to travel up the river to find out what the trouble was; some wanted to abandon Canada and head to Philadelphia or another port in America.
“Captain Valentich finally decided we must sail on, something that cost him his ship and so many of us passengers our lives. But almost as soon as he gave that order, the winds shifted and the breeze sweetened again.
“We all took it as a sign he’d done the right thing.
“The farther inland we went, though, bodies began appearing again. The odour returned with even more fierceness, and I knew the heavens were showing me that I’d been wrong about the fields being the worst smell ever. I knew this river in Canada had no place to compare for its stench.”
She smiled.
“Sixteen days. That’s how long it took ere I was shown to be wrong again.”
Grandmother O’Toole stopped talking. Rather, she stopped talking in the manner she usually does.
She became very still and the grating monotone from yesterday returned.
“We knew there had been people onboard who were sick. They were moved away from us, but the smell of their sickness still hung in the ship’s hold. Stories were told that there was a cabin stacked with the dead, waiting to be given a proper burial on land.
“We ignored the stories. Everyone in our family was doing better than we’d done in years; everyone was too lifted by full bellies and the dream of Canada to have much fear.
“The first clue we had that something was wrong was the man-o’-war ship that sat in the river. They hailed the captain to and sent a small skiff over to us. The captain dropped a rope for them to board and they refused. Shouted to the captain that we were to sail on until we came to a ship that was docked in the river. Said we should drop anchor behind that ship and await orders.
“Captain Valentich said no, that rather than go ahead, he was going to turn the ship around and head to America.
“The man in the rowboat said if he did, they had orders to commandeer the ship, and if the captain resisted, they were to sink him. Told the captain there was no turning back, that all the ships from Ireland were carrying typhus and were ordered to fall into the quarantine line ahead.
“ ‘Line?’ the captain asked, but the man in the skiff d’not answer; he ordered the rowboat back to the man-o’-war.
“There were soldiers along the shore, posted every hundred feet or so and looking out at the river. The captain followed orders and we turned a bend in the strait and saw we’d sailed into the divil’s own home.
“There was a line of ships as far as the eye could behold. Each one anchored in place and each one flying a blue flag. We soon learned why they, and now the Shenandoah, were called the coffin ships.”
Grandmother O’Toole’s eyes fell upon her folded hands.
“We also learned whence the horrible odour came. The river ran thick with the foulness of those ships, with the stench of diarrhea and fever and death. By this time, I knew better than to think there c’not be a smell anywhere worse on God’s green earth, for if there was, I d’not want to be so arrogant to say that and have the heavenly Father prove me wrong again.
“The Canadians told us we c’not leave the ship for fifteen days since there were cases of typhus aboard. Quarantine, they called it. All it did was make certain that those who hadn’t arrived with typhus soon got it. They killed Father and most of the rest of me siblings in that fifteen days. Only Mother, me, Kyle, and your great-aunt Margaret lived.
“ ’Twasn’t long ere the food and fresh water were gone. And an Gorta Mór found us ten thousand miles from home on a boat in the middle of the Saint Lawrence River.”
I said, “Grandmother O’Toole, no one brought you food? They made you stay on the boat and didn’t feed you?”
“Of course they d’not feed us. There were too many of us. We found out that the line of ships stretched over two miles up the river. And the farther you went up the line, the worse shape the people were in. That’s why the ships were called coffin ships. The ones up front held nothing but bodies. Those who d’not die of typhus or starvation died of dehydration.”
I said, “Dehydration? You were in a river! Couldn’t they lower buckets?”
“I told ye this wasn’t something ye could imagine. The river was too fouled with bodies and death to drink the water.”
She was right. I couldn’t imagine what that would have been like.
Grandmother O’Toole’s right hand scratched her left arm as she said, “And the fleas and lice! Ye’d move the little rag of a cloth pallet you slept on and it looked as if the underneath was painted black afore the fleas scattered.
“After we sat in the water for a week, we noticed there were no more rats. The fleas had plagued them so divilishly that they’d jumped into the water and swam for shore.
“But I believe ’twas that which kept us alive. With the little bit of gruel the ship provided, Mother would mix a paste and I believe that made all the difference.”
“A paste?”
“Kyle and I figured it out later. When you’re tired and hungry and sick and disgusted, ye don’t ask questions, or maybe ’tis that ye know but don’t want to believe. We were just grateful for the paste. It didn’t have much flavour, but it did add something to the near-water those detestable Canadians gave us.”
“What was it, Grandmother O’Toole?”
“While we slept, Mother was busy going throughout the ship with her pot and lid. ’Twas the fleas and lice and maggots. She’d catch a half a pot full, then grind them into a paste and add it to the gruel.”
I gagged.
She said, “D’ye see? D
’ye now understand what it means to twirl the cat?”
Being a set-up boy at a print shop is a lot dirtier than it seems it should be. And it’s nowhere as easy or fun as it looks.
I’d been working for Miss Cary for nearly a month, and I was still trying to learn the strange new language of printers’ speak.
Mr. Withers, the manager of the shop, spent the weeks teaching me how to set print, what a forme is, and how it fit into a coffin, how to ink sheep’s wool and put it on text, how to get the paper we were printing on damp but not wet before we used it, what a tympan and frisket do, how to use a windlass to get a bed under a platen, how to rotate the rounce, and when to use the devil’s tail.
I was most grateful to him because when Miss Cary introduced us on my first day, he took me to a closet where three or four aprons hung and said, “Choose yourself one.”
I said, “But, sir, I’ve already got an apron.”
He said, “First off, don’t never call me sir ever again. Call me Wimpy. And second off, did your ma make that apron for you?”
“She didn’t make it; she just embroidered my name.”
“She’s a kind lady. Do her a favour and take it off and put one of these on. By the end of the day, your whole apron’s gonna be black and won’t no one be able to see your ma’s hard work. Unusual as it is.”
And he was right. Ink got to be everywhere and if I had to wear a dirty apron, people might think I was just a dirty kid and not a newspaperman when I rode the train home.
I hung the John Deere of aprons in the closet and picked a dirty one.
I would wear Mother’s apron to and from work just so people wouldn’t mistake me for not being a newspaperman.
* * *
I’d swept the entire shop and was preparing to clean the printer when Miss Cary’s voice came barreling at me like a thunderclap.
“Ooh, Ben-jamin.”
I put the broom down and tapped on her office door.
“Come in.”