Time is what you take

Time is what you take

As I went outside, my day continued to be greeted by the stench of burned wood and smoke. There was no relief, and we all had to endure the devastation. This warm day, however, brought an end to the season of wet snow and windy times with a promise of hopeful new beginnings. Spring was a welcome moment in the village as each one had suffered the ruins of the winter months. I stepped back, put on my well-worn layers of cotton clothing and pulled a weighted shawl over my shoulders. Looking out the bright transparent window, I could only envision pots of geraniums and the gardens of my favorite daisies blooming all along the pathway of this mill building. I didn't pay attention to the obvious rubble in the distance of the homes that had been destroyed by fire in the dead of winter. The topic of the day was who was responsible for the chaos and why. In addition to the weather cursing our means of subsistence, the thieves were seeking to seize what was not theirs. It was an unforeseen moment in time when the heavy hand of fate came by fire. At the midnight hour, the barn was fully engulfed in flames. We were not prepared. I heard the heavy sound of footsteps and a door slam. It was my father, and he shouted, “Liz, help your mother!” My words were screams as I saw him leave the house and attempt to pull a cart away from the inferno, but his sleeve caught fire. He smashed his arm on the ground attempting to put it out. It was horrifying when I saw him, but I turned and helped my mother escape the burning horror. As the smoke billowed around us, each one screaming for help, a thug reached his arm across my waist, pulling me over and I lost my balance. His face was obscured by the darkness as the fire burned in the distance. I did not hesitate, reached down, grabbed a brick and smacked him in the chin on his way to pinning me down. I sprang up and whacked him again. He fell and groaned, but did not see that I had grabbed my Brown Bess and was now pointing it at him. Screaming and shouting with abandon, I told him to “Leave! NOW!” He held his hands up knowing that I was in charge. I fired a shot at his feet, and he turned and ran.

Looking back during the late winter in mid-February at the catastrophe from the snow encased windows, I am afraid for the life I once knew. It was the horrific targeted burning of my family’s homestead and their way of life. They had to leave the village to find some place to hide from the evil lurking behind. I opted to not go with them, and they were extremely saddened and worried for me as a single woman. I told them I am here for the greater good and until I find a better path. Rapscallions, as they are now known, were said to have put them in the fire pit. These bad eggs were from families too poor to fix their ways. It was known that they helped themselves to the many also struggling to get by.

I had to keep myself occupied as the people in the village were up in arms and there were soon to be consequences for them and that they would pay the price. Living in a small mill building was where the Jacquard loom used for creating fabric laid dormant. My last finished bolt of patterned textile was nestled in the corner. It was at this moment that my inner voice called out a plan a destination.

“I NEED TO GO!”

My mind was made up. The time was here to this point in life. Everywhere I looked there was failure. I am the only child of a wheelwright family who lost all their supplies in the barns that held the tools, wooden spokes, and many finished farm carts.

I had heard that good promises could be found across the ocean into the new land of America. As I shared this with my best friend and neighbor, my energy was high. She and I had a love for textiles. “I will miss you very much. Please come back to see me.” We bonded over our love for textiles, of making linen fabric from flax, weaving on the loom and using wool from sheep.”

“Take my Jenny Lind!” I shook my head, but she insisted that that would be our sisterly connection. I took her in for a hug and we parted ways.

Several village folks, wainwrights by trade, were walking by as I stepped up to the mill stairway. They called out a greeting and I paused. We shared moments of the recent tragedy as they were also affected by the rapscallions raiding the church. I hesitated for a moment but asked, “Would you know where to find a small cart?” I mentioned the need to get to the shipyard in Liverpool. “We will take you there with our horse and carriage – no question!” They were genuine and I thoroughly thanked them. “Let us go before the weather makes a decision we may regret.” The younger gentleman caught my eye and smiled. I knew him and I could share more if I were to stay. He took my hand, I smiled back. “Thank you.”

I quickly packed as much as my Jenny Lind suitcase bag could hold inside the mill. Knitted garments and family heirlooms, some worn by three generations, had to come. A treasured letter from my grandmother had heartfelt reminders of what was lost in the fire. My mother’s keepsake lapel pin and pieces of woven fabric were tightly packed. One last look about and I waved goodbye to my old life. The wainwright gentlemen were kind and helped me up to the wagon. I tried my best to straighten my peplos. It was what my best friend gave me to wear. It was a long dress made of full-length garment cloth that had been slightly folded in half. Inside it was a belt with a buckle that held a number of knives, amulets, and weaving tools. As soon as we got to Liverpool, the steamship, which was in the distance, arrived. I had a ticket in hand and watched as my new life was ahead of me. They wished me a safe trip. A few tears fell as I waved goodbye to the one, I had feelings for. Soon others surrounded me and pushed their way as I struggled to find a place aboard. Each person on board was required to respond to questions based on the captain's itinerary. Trachoma testing took place, and several were taken off as they failed to pass as they had this deadly disease. We shared their agony as they screamed in horror. “Everyone, find a place. We will be sailing.” The ship was full in short order and the captain called the crew to shove off.

I looked at the others as we sailed from the port, and suddenly felt the wind and the cold air attack us. It was late afternoon and the journey had begun. The ocean was mighty wide. The open water was a sign that spoke to each one. The days led into weeks and my enthusiasm drifted along with the weak food we had to get by on. No one complained as that was not what one needed to survive. Sleep was limited as many tidal waves kept me nauseous. An older gentlemen yelled mightily as he heaved overboard struggling to hold on and not fall into the drink. Two young men grabbed him to help. “Whew! My innards thank you lads!” All men and women struggled to escape extreme poverty and a lack of work, but they were certain to survive whatever came their way. There was inner strength giving me hope in the ongoing dark days. Conversations in random British dialects were keeping peace amongst our daily struggles in the unknown.

The sun was up, the clothes I wore were damp and musty. The Jenny Lind tucked under my arm was my saving grace as I reflected on the decision. The only blanket I had needed the sun and air. Soon, I was warm and happy. Suddenly, screams and shouts brought everyone out. She was in the distance, America the beautiful! It was chaotic as the captain and crew kept everyone from causing the ship to take on water and sink as they climbed up and jumped the rails. “Keep your eyes to the front!” They wrestled some to the ground and tied them to posts. Anger spewed from the lot.

The Red Line Steamship arrived at Washington Avenue's Pier 53 wharf as its final destination. I was inspired as I looked around. There was a train station right here with a busy crowd. It was nice to see the activity and hopefully this was a sign to bring each of us to a good life. The ship pulled up and the crew anchored the lines. But as each of us saw our way to disembark, the captain shouted out to line up as health inspection would once again begin. “Oh. No. I am feeling sick, and my stomach is fighting.” A few others said the same and a few cried out in pain not knowing if they would be sent back. We followed one another and waited for our turn to be inspected. “I feel as if we are cattle. Hopefully, the process will not be the same. I do feel that I have eaten enough grain to match those beasts.” The few of us near this Brit laughed at his ability to be humorous at this dire time.

I was given a slight nod and walked off the wharf. The swirling mass of people mingling with each other had me confused. I did not know anyone. I was alone. Why am I here? Was this decision my best choice? As I wandered, tearfully making my way along the walkway, several men in front of me, suddenly started shouting, shoving and hitting each other. “Get your slimy ars out of my way, you sniveling wreck!” One of them shoved another, who slipped and fell on top of me. The man pushed me aside and screamed at my face as I struggled to get up. To my horror the Jenny Lind suitcase bag was kicked away and trampled. “You wench needs to pay your way!” I could not get my peplos knife as he grabbed my arm, pulled me up, forcing me to go with him. I screamed and told him to stop but he laughed, looked me up and down and said, “You have a job, now!” No one came to help or saw my struggles as each had their own misery to deal with at this time. Suddenly, I heard a voice in the crowd. “Stop! Right where you are!” A young man came shoving his way through the chaos. He quickly reached us and the one who had me, held on tight, turned, and shouted, “Back off or it is done!” The young man raised his arms as a sign of peace seeing the knife. Another fighting altercation nearby distracted the moment, and the young man used this time to punch the one holding me, in the face. The knife fell from him as he fell backwards. I dropped to my knees and grabbed the knife and rolled over. More yelling and the sound of a body dropped heavily nearby. I screamed, turned over pointing the knife to whomever stood over me as I feared for my life. The young man raised his hands to reassure me that everything was fine. “Please, let me help.” He extended his hand, and I dropped the knife. He kicked it away, then I reached up as he helped me stand. I stood, wiping tears, and thanked him profusely for his help.

He made sure that I suffered no harm. But then he turned and kindly requested that I follow. With slight hesitation I paused but without question I stepped up and put my trust in this kind man. Pushed against a post was my Jenny Lind suitcase bag! My hands went to my face, and I sobbed for a moment. Then, I did not hesitate and took his hand and placed it right to my heart.

“You have no idea how thankful I am. My family. My life. It is all I have in that small bag.”

We talked about family as I needed him to know the livelihood, I sought in coming to America, then he asked if I had a place to stay. I shook my head, no. He smiled and pointed to a two-story building near the train station. It was a designated respite for immigrants coming from abroad through the railway or by sea. He offered to escort me over and assist in my entry.

As we crossed over and stood by the door, this stranger humbled me. Finally, I paused, gave my name, and extended my hand. He graciously took it, “I am pleased to meet you Elizabeth Hardy.” He smiled and responded with, “I am Robert Briggs and a fourth generation Wainwright. The expression on my face spoke volumes. "I think we have more to talk about, and I could use someone with a flair for color and design," We knew there was more to our relationship in the way we met.

Destiny is believed to be the noble reason we were meant to find one another.

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