CHAPTER ONE Caitlin 15 Dec 1907 New York, NY Dearest Mary, Just a short note to tell you I''ve arrived. The crossing started horribly enough, as leaving Cork we sailed straight into a right blower of a storm. All day and all night we were tossed about. You''ve never seen folks so sick. Or perhaps you have, I don''t know. Belowdecks was like one of those plagues in old Egypt. First one fella vomits. Then another fella vomits.
Then another. Then everyone''s heaving their guts out like some kind of vomiting symphony. Also, I stabbed one of the sailors. Now, before you go jumping to conclusions, Mary, this fella''s idea of a good time was to hide himself outside the loo in the middle of the night, waiting for young girls stumbling along, all queasy from the rocking and the swaying and desperate not to spew in their cabins. Then he''d leap on them from the shadows and have himself a good ole grope. Well, he tried his game with the wrong lass as I had Da''s old bone-handled clasp knife and when he came I was ready. I heard he might lose a finger. Only serves the bastard right, I say.
Anyways, the weather did finally clear and then every day it was just water water water water. Why anyone would choose a seafaring life is beyond me. Perhaps if you were at war so you could be blasting at folks to break up the monotony, but otherwise, no thank you. It was this morning that we at last hailed New York, and all us poor souls pressed in tight at the railing, all hoping to get a glimpse of old Lady Liberty and the Promised Land before we froze to death. What a cold! The harbor was choked and gray with ice, and the wind cut right through our huddled bodies. None of which stopped the eejits around me from cheering themselves hoarse. It took us forever and a day to dock, and we did so beside a ship so big it dwarfed our own--I believe it''s called the Juno --and right away we were herded onto a ferry which took us to that little island off the coast, you know the one, where they funnel you through like cattle before they let you into their wonderful country, and I was standing in line with my bag like everyone else, stamping my feet to try and keep the blood flowing, when these two gorillas with badges come up-- "Caitlin Quinn?" "Aye." And without another word one of the gorillas takes me by the arm, the other grabs my bag, and they drag me off to a little room where they dump everything willy-nilly onto a table.
I was having none of that, as you can imagine, and told them so plainly, but they bade me shut my bog-stinking, potato-eating hole unless I wanted a smack. A very fine welcome to America. Then they dragged me into another room, where this puffed-up whelp with a uniform and a pencil was sitting behind a desk and beside a little coal stove that kept him all nice and toasty warm. You should''ve seen how proud this fella was, Mary. Honestly, the airs that a uniform and a government job will give some folk. You would''ve thought he was personally responsible for the safety of each and every soul in the entire United States of America. You know who he looked like? Tommy O''Neill from back home. You remember Tommy, how he was the baby Jesus in the Christmas play every year, all on account of his ma owning the bakery and providing rolls for the meal after.
Toward the end, he was bigger than bloody Joseph. Well, this fella could''ve been his brother. And he looked just as pleased as Tommy used to, with his legs poking out the end of the manger. A great pink baby playing at dress-up. One of the gorillas pushed me down into the seat across from him. The other gorilla handed the whelp Da''s old clasp knife, which he''d already relieved me of, and near half the contents of me bag, including the letter from Father McDonagh, the letter you sent, and the thick stack of letters I''d written you but never posted for reasons you well know. That was the last straw. I was on my feet-- "Those are my private letters!" Oh, I could have killed them all then and there, Mary, I swear I could''ve.
"You return them this instant!" The government whelp didn''t even glance up. "You have no say in the matter." And he gave a little wave and one of the gorillas shoved me back down. Now, of course the only letters I cared about were the ones I''d written you. I would have no one else read them. I wasn''t even sure I wanted you to read them. But what could I do? I bit my tongue and sat there cursing the whelp and both his gorillas. And George Washington and Abraham Lincoln for good measure.
The whelp then asked my name--Caitlin Agnes Quinn--how old I was--seventeen--where I was from--Ballykelly, Ireland--writing everything down on his little piece of paper. "Why have you come to America?" I must''ve thought about that for a second, for he said, "Do you understand the question?" He was all efficiency, this fella. I wanted to tell him I understood the question perfectly well, but I was not in the habit of sharing my business with complete strangers, especially not ones who looked like puffed-up baby-men. But what I said instead, after taking a deep, calming breath-- "Sure anyone with half a brain knows America''s the greatest country in the world," which is all any of them want to hear, Mary. "We Irish could learn a thing or two from you. Not least how you kicked out the bloody English." Our man stopped writing and looked up, an ugly scowl creasing his soft pink forehead. "I''m from England.
" I saw I''d been maybe a bit too smart. Only how was I to know? Where was his bleeding accent? Still, there was nothing for it. I forged on, "I don''t mean any insult to England, mind. There wouldn''t be an America it weren''t for England. Well, there would, only it''d still belong to those Indian fellas you took it from. And they wouldn''t call it America, would they? My point is, the whole world looks to America. It''s the land of opportunity." Then I added, "Except for those Indian fellas.
" The whelp said nothing. I gave him a smile. I was determined to get past him and his pencil, and a smile didn''t cost me anything. It wasn''t much different from smiling at Queen Margaret when we used to bring her oats in the morning. I had to stop myself from reaching over and patting him on the head. "It is my job," he said finally, "to keep the criminal element from entering the United States. We have a report of you attacking and wounding a crew member aboard your ship." So that was it.
Someone--if not the gropey sailor himself then one of his mates--had blabbed to the immigration rozzers to try and keep me out of the country. I suppose I must''ve laughed because the whelp asked if I thought this was funny. No, I said. And I told him about the sailor''s game of hiding near the loo at night to snatch himself a feel from the young girl passengers and how I''d simply been defending myself. The fella said, "That''s your story." "It''s the God''s truth. Just ask the other girls. Half had his nasty hands all over them.
I don''t suppose you can take fingerprints off breasts and bums, can you?" He said, "No." Then he said, "You still haven''t told me why you''ve come to America." Then I said, "To be honest, I don''t see how it''s any of your fucking business." I know, Mary, I know. But it was him asking it the way he was asking it, and me thinking how far I''d come and how if I could only get past this smug bastard I would get to see you again. Hold you tight in my arms. Added to which, I will say, the heat in that close little room after the cold outside was making me lightheaded. The words just spilled out.
He told one of the gorillas to take me to the other room. And I stewed there awhile, plotting my revenge and how if necessary I would topple the entire government of the United States if that was required to get through to you. I even--and this is how desperate I was--contemplated telling the truth, that my sister, the only person I loved in this entire stinking pisspot of a world--despite her lacking the sense God gave a goose, I''m sorry, Mary, but it''s true--and who had run off without any sort of proper goodbye, that after having heard nothing from her for more than a year (fourteen months, two weeks and a day, to be exact, but who''s counting) I had received a letter, forwarded from this Father McDonagh in New York, and in this letter my only beloved sister asks forgiveness for running off (unnecessary, I forgave you the moment you left, you stupid sow) and says that she is in trouble. What''s more, she is afraid. Though of what, she dare not say. And I would tell this whelp how I straightaway sold Queen Margaret to Padraig Thomas to pay for the passage--and yes, I know we''ve had her our whole lives, but she is a horse, Mary--and now I am here. Your Cait is here. And if that failed, my plan was that I would cause such a scene of bedlam they would throw me in the bughouse.
At least, I reasoned, it would be a bughouse in America. But none of this was necessary, for people will surprise you, Mary. Usually for the worse, but every now and then for the better. Here is what happened: After pacing back and forth in this little room and hatching my schemes, I.