Читать книгу 47 Sorrows - Janet Kellough - Страница 7

After an overnight stop in the town of Norval, where Luke spent an uncomfortable night in the open woodshed behind the stagecoach inn, he and his travelling companions finally reached Toronto. Luke located the wharves without difficulty; most of the traffic in the city was headed either to or away from the waterfront. A burly man waiting with a wagonload of tanned hides directed him to a wooden building where he was told he could arrange for his steamer passage, but the agent who manned it was flustered and abrupt, and after he had sold Luke his ticket, he went rushing out the door.

Luke followed him down toward the water. There were numerous wharves along the front, protected by the long arching peninsula of land that kept the swells and winds of Lake Ontario from reaching ships anchored in the harbour. Each of these wharves was bustling with arrivals or departures or transfer of goods. He watched for a time before he realized that there were three hours yet before his own vessel was due to leave, and now that he had his ticket in hand, he was free to explore at least a portion of the city.

It was by far the largest he had ever seen, and as he walked along the margins of the lake, he marvelled at the number of three- and even four-storey buildings of solid brick and stone beyond the jumble of wooden sheds and storehouses. As he turned to look north, he could see church spires thrusting skyward through a dense cluster of commercial buildings, manufactories, offices, and houses.

He wandered along the lakefront, unwilling to stray too far lest he become lost. As long as he could see the lake, he decided, he would know where he was. Farther along the shore there were more wharves, and as he walked a sailing steamer chugged into one of these and tied up.

Luke was a little taken aback when he saw the number of passengers that had been crammed onto the deck of this ship. He had been looking forward to his voyage down the lake. He had never ridden on one of these steamers before. Now he wondered if he had made a mistake and should have gone by coach instead, for this steamer carried far more bodies than he expected and it looked as though each was allotted little more than a couple of square feet.

As he drew closer, he was appalled at the state of these bodies, as well. Many of them were dressed in rags, and all of their faces were thin and pinched, their arms bony, their eyes glazed, but whether with exhaustion or hunger or disease, he had no way of telling. They must be emigrants, he realized, ferried up the lake to look for work, like the haggard groups he had seen on the Guelph Road.

A man in uniform boarded the vessel, evidently to direct the disembarkation of the passengers. Only a few at a time were allowed onto the pier, and these were shepherded to an area that had been cordoned off.

They stood, confused and blinking, while a fussy-looking man with a bushy moustache bustled over to the group and, assisted by a woman in a nurse’s uniform, began peering into their eyes and feeling their foreheads, directing them to open their mouths wide as he looked for evidence of disease. When he had finished, he would send each person to either the right or the left, depending on what he felt about their condition. Judging from the cries that greeted each culling, husbands were being separated from wives, fathers from sons, mothers from daughters.

Several of the women were waiting with ragged bundles in their arms, and it was only when one of these began to wail that Luke realized they were carrying infants. The women were required to unwrap the bundles for inspection. When Luke saw how small some of the babies were, he realized that they must have been born during the long journey across the ocean, or after their mothers had arrived in Canada. He didn’t give much odds for their survival under the circumstances.

The group that had been shuffled to the doctor’s right were herded away and loaded into carts. The wailing increased as the carts drove away.

“Now, now, there’s no need to carry on like that,” one of the uniformed men said. “They’re being taken to hospital where they’ll be looked after. If you’ve friends or family in Toronto that you can go to, you’re free to leave now. The rest of you will be fed directly and you can stay in the city for twenty-four hours. After that, you’ll have to move on to another port.”

Here and there groups of people detached themselves from the crowd and began to walk north along Simcoe Street.

Those who were left muttered their disapproval, but there appeared to be little real resistance to the directive. Constables walked up and down on the periphery of the mob, truncheons in hand, and this was enough to quell any protest.

Then Luke saw another man in uniform, although he didn’t appear to be a constable, begin zigzagging though the crowd. Twice Luke saw him stop to speak to someone, and then he emerged with two young women in tow. He led them down a side street, little more than an alley, really. Curious, Luke followed them.

Tucked around a corner, where the alley intersected another street, a wagon was waiting. At first, Luke thought that a monkey had been given the task of holding the reins, but then he realized that the driver was a remarkably odd-looking man. He was very short and slight, with a great deal of coarse black hair and low-set pointed ears that framed a peculiarly wrinkled face.

The officer directed the women to board the wagon. “I’ve two more for you, Flea,” he said to the waiting driver. “Go on then.” He gave one of the women a little push toward the wagon. “You’ll be looked after.”

Luke was so bemused by the novelty of the man’s name and appearance that he watched the scene for a minute or so before it occurred to him to wonder what was going on. It was possible, he supposed, that some benevolent organization, perhaps one of the churches, had organized some sort of relief system for young emigrant women separated from their families. Or maybe employment had been arranged for them at a factory or in domestic service. He hoped that this was the case, but the fact that the wagon had been waiting around the corner, hidden almost, lent a sinister air to the scene.

“Hans says he’s a little short this week, but he’ll make it up to you next,” said the man called Flea. And he handed a package to the officer.

“Tell him he’d better. One more short week and the arrangement is off.”

“Come on now, Badger, and who would you be dealing with if you don’t deal with Hans?” Flea replied. “Ye’ll take what he gives you.”

“Irish bastard,” the officer muttered under his breath, but he turned away as he said it. It was then that he noticed Luke. “And what do you want?” He pulled a truncheon from a loop at his waist and held it at the ready.

Luke had been curious, that was all, but realized that an excuse for his presence might be a provident thing to provide. He seized upon the first thing that occurred to him.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “I just wondered if any of these young ladies might know him.” He turned to the women sitting sullenly in the wagon. “Do you know anyone named Charley Gallagher?”

At the mention of the name, the man called Flea spat and fixed him with a glare.

“What do you want with Gallagher?” he asked.

Luke shrugged. “I don’t want anything with him. I was just asked to make inquiries about him. Apparently he was expected some time ago by a neighbour of mine.”

Flea’s eyes narrowed. “And where does this neighbour of yours live?”

“A long way from here,” Luke said. “You won’t ever have heard of it.”

He could see that the officer was puzzled by this exchange. Whatever the name Gallagher meant to Flea, it was apparently nothing to do with the man called Badger. “You’ll have to move along,” he said. “There’s no loitering here.”

Luke hesitated. Should he demand an explanation of what was going on? He had no real objection to make — only an uneasy feeling that the driver looked suspicious and that the women were vulnerable. Besides, Badger was evidently acting in some official capacity and he carried a very heavy truncheon.

“Thank you for your time,” he said politely and turned away. He hoped he was doing the right thing. He headed back to the wharf, with the distinct impression that he had somehow narrowly avoided some serious trouble. Perhaps his imagination had run away with him. He hoped so.

The encounter did, however, remind him of the promise he had given. He would see if there was anyone at the wharves who kept a list of the emigrants who had arrived. With some difficulty, and a great deal of misdirection from the labourers who worked the docks, he was eventually directed to the emigration office.

There was a counter inside, behind which a clerk was scratching away at a sheaf of papers.

“I’m wondering if you could help me,” Luke said. “I’m looking for someone.”

“You and the whole rest of the world,” the clerk said without looking up. “What’s the name?”

“Gallagher.”

The clerk sighed, and grabbed a pile of papers to his right, again without looking up. Quickly he scanned his lists.

“No Gallaghers today,” he said.

“He was expected some time ago.”

“He’s probably been held back. You’d have to check at the other ports.”

“Held back? Why?”

The clerk looked at him as though he was being deliberately obtuse.

“Because of the fever,” he said. “Sick emigrants are held in quarantine. Where have you been that you haven’t heard? The whole province is in an uproar about it.”

Of course. The scene he had just witnessed at Toronto’s harbour must be happening at other ports as well. “I’m sorry,” Luke said. “I’ve just arrived from Huron. Do you keep lists of those who were kept back?”

“No. I have lists of those who have arrived here. I have no lists for those who didn’t.” The clerk finally raised his head to look at Luke. “The records are in a shambles anyway. There are hundreds of emigrants on every ship. Some of them die on the way over, some of them die in quarantine, the rest of them are piled on steamers and brought up the lake. We do our best to keep track of them all, but chances are nobody will find anybody until the season ends and the dust settles. Sorry.” And with that he went back to his paperwork.

Luke wandered back outside, stunned by the notion of hundreds of people aboard each ship. Even in the backcountry, they had heard that there would be a lot of emigration this year, but hundreds multiplied by what? How many ships crossed the Atlantic in a season? Another hundred? The sheer number of people on the move was staggering, and what on earth were they all supposed to do when they finally got here?

At the wharf outside the emigration office, the steamer that had just deposited its load of passengers was being swabbed down, buckets of water thrown haphazardly over the decks, followed by a cursory mopping. Luke hoped that this was not the vessel he would be boarding shortly. This boat had just dumped a number of very sick people on shore, and he doubted that the random sloshing of water around the decks would do anything to disinfect the craft. He resolved to spend his coming journey outside, on the deck of the ship, and to avoid entering the cabin or going below decks. He wasn’t entirely sure where malignant fever came from, but surely fresh air would do much to blow it away.

When it came time to board, he realized with relief that it was a different vessel entirely — one of the packet ships that offered regular passenger service around the lake. He should have realized this, he supposed. If there was fear of the malignant fever spreading, the packet steamers would lose a great deal of business if their passengers were made to sit in the same seats as infected newcomers. The overloaded ship he had seen must have been hired especially to handle the emigrant traffic.

Even so, once he boarded, he discovered that the passenger cabin was airless and fusty-smelling, so he held to his original resolve and found a place at the bow of the boat, where he could lean against the railing and watch the passing sights. He almost changed his mind once the steamer had left the shelter of Toronto’s harbour and entered Lake Ontario, where the swell caused a steady thump beneath him. But then he became engrossed in watching the passing shore, marvelling at the number of settlements that lined the lake.

As they pulled in to the pier at Port Darlington Harbour, Luke could see that there were wooden sheds here as well, but not so many as at Toronto, which, after all, was a major town with nearly twenty thousand residents. That would be the preferred destination for anyone looking for work, and a natural way station for those who hoped to travel west into the farther reaches of the province.

He needed to stretch his legs and walk on solid ground for a few minutes. The constant pitch of the ship against the waves had made his legs stiff and sore. He wasn’t used to being on the water. Perhaps he could also find something to eat while he was ashore. He found the purser and asked when the steamer would be leaving again. The man assured him that they would stay in port for at least a half-hour, and that he had plenty of time to find a bite at one of the shops near the wharf.

He walked down the gangplank and picked his way past the huge piles of cordwood stacked on and near the docks, waiting to be loaded onto the steamers in order to feed their insatiable boilers. He wandered down the road that led away from the water, hoping he would find someone selling pies or some other portable fare. He didn’t want to stray too far in case the steamer left earlier than the porter had indicated — although he had been told that the captain would blow the whistle several times before departure.

Off in the distance he could see a gaggle of people trudging toward the harbour. As they drew nearer, the group resolved itself into twenty or so ragged, exhausted-looking creatures who moaned and grumbled as they walked. When they reached the wharf, two women and a frail old man collapsed beside a shabby pile of trunks, boxes, and carpet bags. Some of the luggage looked as though it would surely disintegrate in the light rain that had begun to fall.

Luke walked over to them. “Are you waiting to board a steamer?” he asked a man who was fingering a gaping hole in one of his boots.

“That’s what they told us.” The man had a thick accent that made Luke strain to understand what he was saying. “They put us off further along because they left our trunks here by mistake. We’ve had to walk back ten miles or more to get ’em.”

“Why couldn’t you have come back on a steamer?” Luke asked. “There are plenty of them going back down the lake.”

The man shrugged. “They’re willin’ to take us one way, but not the other. And none of us have any money to pay for it anyway. They’re grumbling enough as it is, because they’re having to take us twice.”

“Where is it that you you’re headed?”

“Anywhere there’s work. They say Toronto might be good. Or the area beyond.” He looked up, his brow furrowed with worry. “There are farms to the west, aren’t there? A man might get work there.”

Luke thought of the bush farms he had left, where few could afford help, even when there was a crop to sell; and now that there was no market for wheat, even the successful farmers were too worried about the future to spend good money on a hired hand. It was true that the Canada Company offered land on easy terms, but even if these poor people could manage to get their hands on a lot of their own, he knew they could never manage the hardscrabble tasks of cutting and chopping. These poor souls were so rickety they looked likely to expire just from the thought of it.

“What’s your name?” he asked, but it was apparently a touchy topic, for the Irishman grew wary.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m looking for someone. My neighbour asked me to try to find him. Just anxious, that’s all, because he’s late. The name is Gallagher.”

“Gallagher?” The man shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to be a Gallagher, I don’t think.”

Luke was taken aback. “Why not?”

“There was some trouble with Gallaghers, as I recall.” The man wrinkled his brow in thought. “No, I can’t remember what it was exactly, just that there was some trouble over in the next county. Gallaghers and the law, you see.”

Luke didn’t really, but perhaps that explained the strange reaction of the carter in Toronto, who had spat at the mention of the name.

“Mind you, I’ll be anybody you want for a day if there’s a bed at the end of it.” He cackled as he said this, as though it was some great joke.

“But you aren’t, in fact.”

“Well, no, not really. But you can’t blame a man for trying it on.”

“Well, never mind,” Luke said. “I’ll find him sooner or later.” He fingered the coppers he had in his pocket. Just as the purser had indicated, there was a market of sorts near the wharf, not large, just a few stalls that offered bread, cheese, and meat pies, but he suddenly felt uncomfortable about purchasing a meal in front of this emaciated group. And yet, he had not enough money to feed them all. Finally, he pulled three coins from his pocket.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s all I can do at the moment.”

The man practically snatched the money out of his hand. “Go mbeannai Dia duit. Bless you, sir,” he said, and to Luke’s astonishment he tugged at his forelock.