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One HOME AT LAST

“Between 1870 and the depression of the 1930s, more than 80,000 children from the British Isles journeyed to Canada in an extraordinary but almost forgotten odyssey. They were known as the “home children,” but beneath that benign description was a story of lonely and forlorn youngsters to whom a new life in Canada meant only hardship and abuse.” ³

November, 1889

THE LONDON Fields Hackney Home was a government-run Christian Juvenile Home-for-the-Homeless that looked after children from infancy to age fourteen. The home was always short of money and operated on a minimal budget, subsidized by grants and charitable organizations. Needless to say, the overworked and underpaid staff were not likely to be overly sympathetic and kind to their young charges. This was not a happy place for anyone. Abruptly removed from their childhood home and still grieving for their mother, the Janeway children suddenly found themselves among strangers in a grimly austere and dingy building on a narrow crowded street. They had never been in a city before.

Within four weeks of the Janeways' arrival at the orphanage in November 1889, Will ran away, telling absolutely no one of his plans. Mary was devastated. With no idea where he had gone, she tearfully wondered if she would ever see him again. Valiantly, the three remaining Janeways tried to protect one another, but there was more to come.

Taken from an original broadsheet advertising Mrs. Birt's Sheltering Home. Courtesy National Archives of Canada, C-4690Vol. 32 File 724 Part 1.

In early January and without any warning, Mary and John were separated from Emma and sent to the “Sheltering Home” on Myrtle Street in Liverpool. Their days were filled with routines that never varied, the regimentation unfortunately too common in institutional settings. A Protestant-run home for orphans, fatherless, motherless and destitute children, the Sheltering Home was entirely supported by voluntary contributions. Here again, there was barely enough to provide food and shelter, another bleak and dreary existence for the remaining siblings. Everything at the home was run according to very strict rules. Even the visiting hours were clearly defined and adhered to with absolute strictness. All the orphans were under Mrs. Birt's care. Her goal was simple—to find homes for them in Canada. Both Mary and John, but Mary especially, fretted over the forced separation from their baby sister. It was not until Emma turned four, almost two years later that the little family was reunited.

Interesting editorial copy of the late 1880s extolling the virtues of the Sheltering Home and its program. Financial security was considered to be of the utmost importance. Courtesy National Archives of Canada, C-4690 Vol. 32 File 24 Part 1.

Almost two and a half years after her arrival at the Sheltering Home, Mary filled her battered little red valise once again. All three of them, plus others at the Sheltering Home, had been lined up one day and herded through a physical check-up given by a doctor from the Liverpool Hospital for Consumption and Diseases of the Chest. Vaccinated, pronounced in good health and free from all disease and defects, the Janeway children were about to become little immigrants. It was a frail, hesitant seven-year-old child that boarded the S.S. Carthaginian bound for Canada along with her brother and younger sister that cold, dreary day in March of 1892.

Two hundred and twenty-nine souls were on board that steamship—one hundred and eighty-six adults, thirty-seven children and six infants. Only twenty-seven were cabin passengers; the rest were to be put in steerage, the dark, unventilated bowels of the ship. There they would spend their journey across the ocean, crowded together beneath the deck of the ship. All of the orphans, including Mary and her siblings, were steerage passengers, packed below along with the other poor less fortunate emigrants, a total of 202 people about to embark on a grim journey to the New World.

A sketch to represent the S.S. Carthaginian, based on the ocean liner city of New York by James G. Taylor (New york History Society). This ship was launched in the late 1880s. Sketch by John Duncan.

A search of passenger lists located William Janeway, Mary's older brother. The rest of the Janeway children were not indexed and could not be found. It is speculated that Mary and her siblings left England in 1892. List courtesy National Archives of Canada C-4538.

As was the standard of the day, living conditions in steerage only just met the government requirements, and no more. Each passenger was to have sufficient drinking water and food. The food was plain: potatoes, fresh bread and meat for as long as stores lasted, and tea. On Sundays there was a treat—pudding.

Women, appointed by the authorities in England, were there to provide some support for the women and children, and the captain was expected to visit daily. While there were to be provisions made for the disposing of human waste, the only toilets in steerage were open buckets, with no privacy. These were carried up and emptied overboard daily. Sanitary conditions were deplorable and without enough water for personal washing. To make matters worse, the children, along with many of the others, were seasick a great deal of the time. With each passing day, the stench below deck grew steadily more foul.

Rarely did the sun shine, but when it did, the children who were well enough were allowed to go up on the deck. Their innocence helped them set aside their sorry plight long enough to invent a form of tag which could be played in the open air on the wooden deck of the massive five-hundred-foot-long ship. More commonplace, however, was bad weather, frigid temperatures and fierce winds. Then the hatches would be battened down as the huge vessel heaved from side to side, the movement creating fearsome creaks and moans. These eerie sounds alone, especially in the darkness of steerage, were sufficient to terrify even the most brave, but the fear of fire prevented their lighting candles during most of the voyage. Often the children clung to each other for support and comfort in the darkness.

Soon they learned ways to help each other and pass the time. The older children helped feed the younger ones. With imagination and memories of childhood games, they fashioned splinters of wood and fragments of rope into hours of fascination. Tremendous pressure was put on the older ones to protect the “young…uns.” Many nights Mary would fall asleep in the arms of her older brother, while she, herself, cuddled Emma.

After some twenty-three treacherous days at sea, the S.S. Carthaginian docked in the Montreal harbour one morning in mid-April. Photographers were standing by on the dock as the steamer was secured and its dirty and bedraggled steerage occupants were herded off like cattle. Both the ship and its travellers appeared anxious for a well-deserved rest. Those who had survived the journey, two hundred and twenty-seven to be exact, plus a newly-born infant, a little boy, born prematurely to a mother of four travelling in steerage, moved slowly down the gangplank.

The young children exuded anxiety and trepidation. Their wide-eyed stares and thin, haggard faces spoke eloquently of their strenuous ocean crossing, and made a compelling picture. Their tragic story could be told over and over again in hopes of finding homes for these orphans.

Four-year-old curly-headed Emma was in John's arms. Mary followed close behind, clutching his coat tail. They stood almost rooted to the spot when their feet touched dry land. A newspaper photographer snapped their picture in that instant before they were caught up in the crush of the crowd. It was to be their last family photo.

A small group of government officials awaited their arrival. An older gentleman with a dark handle-bar mustache took charge. With an officious sounding voice, he cleared his throat and read aloud; “Those under five years of age will go with Mrs. Raynor and be in her charge.”

A small, plump lady standing at his side raised her hand as a way to identify herself and, along with several young women, she proceeded to pluck the youngsters from the crowd. John gave Emma a quick hug, kissed her on the forehead and handed her to one of the women. Emma, clutching the scruffy little rag doll that Mary had given her, began to cry. Mary stood motionless and watched in quiet desperation. She had no idea that they were to be separated once again. As tears began to roll down her cheeks, Mary's shoulders began to slump in despair. With that, John protectively took her by the hand.

“The following girls will be sent to Stratford under Mr. Murray's charge.”

Mr. Murray, a tall serious-looking gentlemen in his forties, was an inspector from the agency office in England, sent to Canada to run the “Distributing Home” in Stratford. He stepped forward while the names were read aloud. Mary was in a daze but quickly realized her name must have been called because John clenched her hand even tighter and started to move toward the group of girls that was forming.

“No, John, please don't leave me. I want to be with you. I'll be good as long as I can stay with you. Please, John! Please!” Mary begged him as she gripped his hand tighter.

John's blue eyes, the same cobalt blue as Mary's, filled with tears as he pried her fingers loose and literally handed her over to Mr. Murray who grasped her hand firmly. John bent down, grabbed his sister by both shoulders and whispered, “I have to, Mary. I ain't got no choosing in the matter. Pa said.” He bit his lower lip, got up and turned away. John never looked back at the sobbing child, for he was crying himself. This memory stayed with Mary for years, often recurring in nightmares that would awaken her from a fitful sleep. She would play out the scene in her mind time and time again, re-experiencing the empty feeling the parting left inside.

Along with a handful of girls approximately her age, Mary was taken to Stratford, Ontario. Here she would stay at the Strathcona Home for Girls, and for some time be under the care of Mr. Murray, until a suitable placement could be found. A temporary shelter for girls between the ages of five and eighteen, the home endeavored to place girls with families in need of a domestic.

Less than two months after her arrival, Mary was summoned to the parlour. She had never been in this room before. While somewhat frightened for fear the directive should mean she was in trouble, she was also excited. It could mean that, finally, she would have a home. Little did Mary realize that the following scene would affect her for the rest of her life.

She entered the room cautiously. The parlour had a dark, red carpet, and was furnished with several large wing chairs and a pretty floral settee. Her eyes widened as she tried to take in all she could. Never had she seen such a beautiful room. She saw lots of fancy trinkets and photographs, a fireplace and a smoker placed near a very comfortable looking maroon armchair. A vase of yellow flowers had been set in the middle of a little table. Standing near the fireplace was Mr. Murray, and beside him a stranger.

The stranger was almost six feet tall, with a reddish-brown scruffy beard and mustache. Wearing somewhat shabby grey pants and a coat, the man had his hands crossed in front of him. He was holding a black hat. Awed by the sight, Mary stopped and looked up.

Mr. Murray broke the silence. “Come in, Mary. Don't be shy. This is Mr. Jacques. He has a farm nearby and needs a girl. You will be going to live with him and his family.” He paused for a moment, and then continued with a smile. “You're lucky to find a home so quickly. Now run upstairs and collect your belongings. Mr. Jacques would like to leave right away.”

Mary said nothing and neither did Mr. Jacques. Silently turning away, she left the room and went upstairs. Mr. Murray held up the letter he had written which authorized Mr. Jacques to take Mary into his custody. A signature was required. The farmer looked at the letter for a moment and handed it back.

“I never had much schooling, just three days. Didn't care for it and never went back.”

Mr. Murray did not react to this news in any way. His job was to place the children, not be judgemental. So he proceeded to read the letter to Mr. Jacques:

“I, Daniel Jacques do hereby and herewith, God being my helper, take in Mary Janeway, an orphan with no family. I promise to provide a good Christian home and to feed, clothe and shelter her to the best of my ability. I also promise that she will be sent to school, weather permitting, until the age of sixteen. In return I expect the child to work diligently, be respectful and obedient. An inspector from the federal government will visit once a year and talk to the child in private, at which time he must be satisfied the child has been obedient, been given enough food and clothing and an adequate place to sleep. In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand, on the sixth day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ninety-two. Signed, Sealed and Delivered in the presence of us.“ ⁴

Mr. Murray set the document on the table, handed Mr. Jacques a quill pen and put his index finger on a blank spot on the paper, Mr. Jacques marked it with an “X.”

Mary threw what little she owned into her old and battered red suitcase, now held together by a thick leather strap. Besides her best dress, the little pink and yellow flowered pinafore which she put on, she owned two dresses she had inherited at the orphanage. One was a faded grey colour and far too long on Mary. She had already been told numerous times, “You'll grow into it.” Why would she want to? She hated it. The other one was brown and white and although she didn't like the colour much, at least it fit her. Her winter coat, long since outgrown, had been left behind before her voyage to Canada. She had three pair of underwear, three undershirts, a pair of socks, shoes that were almost too short and one and a half flannel nighties. The half nightie which was too small for Mary now, had only one arm in it and the flannel was worn paper-thin. But it was her favourite. It had been a Christmas present from her parents a few years ago, the last Christmas they had together. Other than a now much-worn photograph, the nightgown was the only reminder that once she had been part of a family.

Mary held the dog-eared picture in her hand. She sat and looked at it a long time before carefully placing it underneath her clothes in the suitcase. A photograph, taken by a visiting friend, showed a tall, skinny dark-haired boy holding a chubby toddler on his lap. Of course, Mary had been too young at the time to remember any of the circumstances. Ma had told her about it much later. She could remember as though it were yesterday.

Mary climbed on Mama's lap when Emma finally fell asleep. It meant that she could spend a few minutes with her alone. Mama affectionately wrapped her arms around her daughter and squeezed her tightly.

“Mary, when you were born, John was so happy.” She let out a big sigh. “You were real tiny. Most were afraid to touch you, never mind hold you. Not John. He acted as if he knew you were special right from the beginning. And he was right. Why, he helped to care for you. It was almost as if you were his baby. Now you'll understand that picture better,” she said, kissing the top of her curly head tenderly. Mama loved telling that story over and over again as much as Mary loved to hear it.

Finally Mary packed a small rubber ball. Each child at the orphanage had been given one last Christmas and cautioned not to lose it. It was her only toy. She thought about the cloth rag doll she had treasured as a baby, and had given to her little sister Emma the day they parted company in the Montreal harbour. Despite her young age, she knew she must not dwell on painful reminders.

Mary shut her suitcase carefully. One latch worked and the strap helped close the other side. She always insisted on carrying it, even if someone offered to help her, for fear it would spill open. She picked the case up with ease; it was light. Mary walked gingerly down the stairs, as prepared as could be, speculating on what new venture might be in store for her.

What kind of person was Mr. Jacques? He had scarcely said a word. What was his family like? How long would it take to get there? Where would she be sleeping tonight?

By now some of the girls had quietly clustered around the hallway. Mary said goodbye to her friends. No-one cried. They were used to farewells by now. As she shook Mr. Murray's hand, he said, “I'll visit you next spring to see that things are working out. Goodbye, Mary.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Murray,” she replied politely and headed for the horse and buggy where Mr. Jacques was waiting. A man of few words, he did not say anything as he helped her into her seat. As they headed down the road, it was an interesting sight they made—horse and buggy and the silhouettes of two figures: one a tall, lean man wearing a hat and the other, a frail curly-headed little child.

As they drove out of Stratford, Mary sat bolt upright. Her mind began to race as her apprehension grew. What will this place look like? Will there be children? Will I share a room? How long will I stay? And most important, will they like me?

The two hour buggy ride to the Jacques farm on the outskirts of Innerkip seemed endless, with only one brief stop made to rest the horse. Mr. Jacques had been silent for the entire trip, speaking only to the horse as necessary. When they finally arrived, Mary was tired and anxious. It was nightfall and difficult to see what the place looked like. Except for a small lamp in the front window, the whole house was in darkness. No-one was there to greet her. One can imagine—a little fair-haired girl with the large frightened eyes, clutching her suitcase and climbing the narrow staircase in a strange house, following the tall silent man, not knowing what would happen next.

Mr. Jacques took Mary directly to her room, said it was time for bed and left abruptly. The room was a small alcove directly above the kitchen. There was a cot, a straw tick mattress, one thin grey blanket, a pillow and a tiny cupboard for her clothes. The sparseness was not a problem. Mary owned so little.

She undressed quickly and climbed into bed. She wasn't hungry even though all she had eaten that day was a bun and a piece of cheese that Mr. Jacques had given her during the trip. She was tired, her legs ached and she had a feeling of uneasiness. Just to be on the safe side, Mary got out of bed and knelt beside her cot. The only light coming into the room was from a slice of the faraway moon and it cast a foreboding yellow glow on the young child's profile.

Mary's voice was shaky. “Dear God,—I hope they will like me. I promise to be good. I want to go to school and have a real teacher.” She got up and started to get in bed, then faltered and dropped down on her knees again. “Amen,” she whispered. Mary had been taught not only to say her prayers but to say them properly, or they didn't really count.