The Long Passage

The quay in Dublin was always wet. It didn't matter if it was raining or sunny; there was always moisture coating the surface. Stone blocks were darkened permanently by salt and water, the original colour long forgotten. Ropes were wound around iron posts, stiff and strained from the beating they received from the salt water and wind. The smell of fish permeated the air, overwhelming all other senses.

Thomas Gallagher arrived before sunrise, as instructed. He stood near the edge of the quay, his bundle slung over his shoulder. It was wrapped in coarse cloth and bound with twine, all of his belongings fitting in one small bundle. That was just how it was during the famine. There was little left to own anymore.

He didn't sit; the stone was too cold and wet. He preferred standing anyway; it was easier to stay still and move when needed. Sitting meant you had to rise to your feet every time you were needed. That was a waste of energy in a starving body.

Although the sun was still hidden, the dock was already active. Carts moved back and forth, their wheels rattling along the uneven planks. Men lifted crates and barrels, boots slipping slightly on the damp boards. A cart creaked as sacks were dropped onto it, the horse neighing as it pulled away. Barrels were being put in the hold of the ship moored nearby, ropes groaning as the heavy supplies were hoisted up.

A narrow desk sat just by the ship, holding a thick ledger weighted at the corners by iron paperweights. A clerk stood behind it, his coat buttoned, hair pristine, and fingers stained with ink. Beside him, another man turned pages in a smaller book, calling out names with a loud voice that cut through the noise of the busy dock.

Thomas watched from afar, noting the rhythm of the process: a pause before a name was called out, the person coming forward, a brief inspection of papers and then direction given with a short word. Each name was written down in the large ledger by the clerk, carefully keeping track of every person boarding the ship.

Once they were given the go-ahead, each person made their way to the ship moored bow-first. Her hull was darkened by age and patchwork repair. Her three sails mended and then mended again, furled and creased. The name Earl Grey was painted on the stern in uneven white letters, already flaking away.

More passengers gathered near the desk. Some held bundles like Thomas', others carried small trucks, and a few stood empty-handed. They had nothing left to take with them on this journey, not unusual given the famine.

"Gallagher. Thomas!" called the clerk, eyes scanning the crowd.

Thomas moved forward and placed his paper flat on the desk. One small piece of paper was his lifeline out of Ireland.

"Age?"

"Twenty-four."

"Occupation?"

"Labourer."

The clerk nodded, running a finger down a column. He spotted the name and gave another nod, the clerk beside him scratching another name into the ledger.

"Paper indicated your sponsor?"

"Yes."

The clerk's eyes scanned the piece of paper, and he nodded again. "Keep to your assigned berth. No switching. Follow the ship's rules." He handed Thomas a paper and nodded towards the ship. "You can board. We'll depart as soon as the last person boards."

Thomas took the paper and stepped aside. The next name was already being called.

At the gangplank, a sailor waved him on. Thomas gripped his bundle and mounted the plank. The wood bowed slightly beneath his weight as he boarded.

"Single man. Bunk starboard," said a Sailor on the deck.

He moved forward as instructed. The deck was cluttered with coils of rope, buckets and belaying pins. The smell of salt water was strong, and the wind whipped around his head. A hatch stood open, revealing a dim space below deck. He headed down below deck without a word.

The ladder was steep and narrow. He placed each foot carefully, cautiously moving so that he wouldn't fall. He kept a hand tight on his bundle, the other on the rung as he headed below deck. The air was warmer here, away from the salty wind and spray of the water. The scent shifted - he could no longer smell salt or fish; rather, it was filled with the smell of bodies and stored provisions.

Bunks lined both sides of the hill, stacked two high. Thin mattresses lay on wooden frames, uneven and compressed from previous use. A few lanterns hung from the beams, shining dull light across the cabin.

A man at the bottom of the ladder checked Thomas' name against a list. "Fourteen," he said gruffly.

Thomas found his berth and stowed his bundle beneath it. He stood for a moment, eyes assessing the space that would be his home for several weeks. Bodies filled the small space, each designated to a bunk. Crowded and hot, he decided to head above deck again.

Barrels rolled down planks, and crates were lowered carefully into the hold. The last of the supplies for the trip were carefully stored. Sailors moved with practised efficiency, calling out orders and adjustments over the sea breeze.

Thomas stood at the rail, looking toward the city. Smoke drifted above the buildings from chimneys, each home dark with soot. Rain drizzled over the city, as it always did. Even the city looked like famine.

A bell rang out.

Shouts came from every directions as the ropes were hauled aboard. The ship lurched, and slowly moved forward, heading into deeper water. The river widened to the bay and then, finally, out to sea.

Routine established itself quickly aboard the ship.

Deck hours were assigned and enforced. If you were caught above deck outside of your window, there was trouble. Food was issued at strict intervals and portioned precisely. Bread that was stale, salted meat cut into small portions and broth thin enough to show the bottom of the tin cup. Water was rationed carefully, they couldn't risk running out.

Thomas went above deck when allowed. He ate when food was issued. He slept when the ship’s motion allowed. He avoided unnecessary speech.

He learned the ship movements and was able to identify others by habits, names forgotten as soon as he was told. One man slept with his boots on, another counted the rungs of the ladder every time he ascended. A young boy always held his sack of belongings close, while his father never left his side.

The air below deck was stale, the only reprieve being when the hatch opened. Heat built rapidly when it was closed, the air stifling. Above deck was ideal, but time was rationed. There were too many bodies to all be on deck at the same time.

Thomas was occasionally summoned to assist with tasks. He helped move cargo, carry water and scrub the deck. He always said yes to helping; it gave him more time on deck. He followed instructions without complaint and simply returned to his berth when he was done.

The sea gradually changed. Swells lengthened, and the horizon flattened. The ship fell into a steady rhythm, bound for Australia.

In the second week, the weather abruptly changed.

Wind roared through the deck, whipping the sails with force. The ship lurched and groaned, and loose items slid across the deck. A barrel broke free and struck a post, splitting and spilling the contents across the boards.

Orders were shouted, sailors ran, and passengers were driven below. The hatch was shut, cutting off daylight and leaving the dim lanterns to illuminate the space. People huddled into their bunks, some prayed and some just sat there, unsure of what to do.

Objects slid as the ship moved heavily, and a few people heaved due to the rough movements. Thomas braced himself against a beam, adjusting his stance to remain steady. His eyes focused on the hatch, and he remained still throughout the night, only sitting when his legs were weak.

By morning, the sounds calmed, and the ship returned to a gentle sway. The hatch opened, light and air returned below.

The deck showed damage. A sail was torn, ropes had been retied, and a post was missing. The sailors worked without comment. A storm was nothing new to them.

Routine resumed. The weeks continued without delay.

The sun started to rise higher, and the air grew warmer. Sickness appeared in isolated cases. Bunks would go quiet, a sailor would come down with vinegar and cloth, and the ledger gained new marks.

The ocean started to shift again, birds appearing more frequently before land could be seen on the horizon.

When the lookout called land, passengers crowded the rails. They watched as the coast slowly emerged: sand, trees and bush. The sun was harsher, and the greenery was browner.

The harbour opened wide, and smaller ships dotted the water. The settlement came into view as the ship headed to port: buildings clustered near the shore, smoke rising in thin columns.

The ship slowed, orders were exchanged, and lines were prepared.

Officials boarded once the ship was secured. They moved methodically, checking papers, inspecting faces and bodies for signs of illness, and directly passangers into lines.

Thomas waited until his name was called, then he stopped forward. His papers were examined, questions were asked, and a stamp came down.

He was directed to the sponsor line. Names were matched to destinations and instructions given.

"Gallagher, Thomas. Railroad Labour. Two-year term."

Thomas nodded. He climbed into a cart with other men, his bundle between his feet.

The cart moved off, wheels rattling over the boards and onto dirt.

Thomas looked back once.

The ship remained at the wharf, tethered as the passangers continued to disembark. The settlement was loud with construction.

He looked forward. The road stretched far, trees grew in unfamiliar shapes, and the sky was vast above.

Thomas adjusted his bundle to keep it from shifting. He noted the road’s condition, the distance between water sources, and the position of the sun.

No one spoke.

The cart rolled on, wheels turning and rope creaking. Dust drifted back over the men seated in silence.

The land extended ahead, ready for the next challenge. Patrick was ready to get to work.