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82 pages

English

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Golden City is a historical-fiction novel. It is a woman's journal of hope and enlightenment during a time of extreme hardship and conflict, and is based on the voyage of the sailing ship "Golden City" that transported Irish immigrants to Queensland, Australia in 1865.

Emily is convinced by her husband to leave her home and family and join other steerage passengers on a journey to a promising new land. She soon realizes this may have been a mistake when she discovers the poor conditions on the over-crowded ship. Her worst fears are realized as they sail into fierce storms and mountainous seas.

She must also endure the deterioration of relationships within the cramped steerage, and the behavior of an increasingly undisciplined crew. As events quickly spiral beyond her control, Emily discovers a different perspective of the Golden City, but will it be enough to save her from the dangers to be encountered across the vast oceans yet to sail?

Sujets

Historical

Fiction

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Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	10 avril 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781456628321
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0400€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

GOLDEN CITY
by
Joseph V. McCarthy

Copyright 2017 Joseph V McCarthy
All rights reserved
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2832-1
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Contents.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Correspondence sent from Finbarr Purcell of Castletounroche
Acknowledgements

To my great, great grandparents, who had the courage to start a new life on the other side of the world.
Chapter One
Wednesday, October 11th, 1865
Only a week has passed, Kathleen, and already I miss you my dearest cousin. I pray you have recovered your good health and are no longer confined to the house. I feel such guilt that I have had to leave you in your hour of need, Kathleen; I mourn that I cannot step across the lane as I have done every day of my life, to be in your company. Why fate has torn me from you I cannot fathom, I only hope in Faith that there is reason beyond all this.
Despite the careful planning, we find ourselves ill prepared as voyagers. We arrived safely at Gravesend but discovered several parcels of our food had disappeared during the ferry journey from Cork. Michael John accused a fellow passenger of thievery when we landed at Pembroke Dock, however there was no way of proving the crime and Michael John could take the complaint no further. My husband’s temper is that of a nettled ox when he is away from what he knows, and only through the most earnest of pleading was I able to placate him. With great resourcefulness, in the four days we have been waiting to board the Golden City, we have managed to replenish our food through charity and little cost, and again are prepared for our journey.
Things are much different in England. The English people are unfriendly towards strangers. They regard we Irish with side-eyed suspicion and share the countenance of their houses, which are almost black with layers of moisture-laden soot.
We are encamped in Crooked Lane along with hundreds of other Irish migrants and although there is an air of excitement, there is much tension too. We have placed ourselves in the alcove of a decaying storage house and count ourselves lucky; we do not dare both of us leave our space unoccupied for reasons of toilet or exercise as it would quickly be filled by another family. Already we have seen heated discussions and even physical fights for position amongst others. Last night, two women fought each other like street cats… I saw hair floating off in the wind, Kathleen! It unsettles us. It is sheer desperation and frustration, and yet, don’t they realise, we will be together for months on this voyage.
For now the alcove supplies us with a dry place to rest. As evening falls a heavy fog steals in like a villain, creeping through every street and purloining all in its path. Smoke from dozens of cooking fires also chokes the lane. This and the fog combine to create a wet, suffocating cloud that ails everyone… people cough all night and sleep escapes us. It is a contrast to the clear country air we were breathing just days ago.
By midmorning, as if our desperate prayers have finally arrived in Heaven, the fog and smoke clear and a hidden world is revealed for another day. We watch with fascination as the wharf workers on the docks rush about their tasks. From this distance, all seems to be a marvellous mayhem, hundreds of men pushing and pulling carts, dashing about like spring-time squirrels amongst the ropes and tall, tree-like masts. The longer we watch however, we see there is order. To load and unload the dozen or so clippers in port, at once, with so few rail-lines; it is an extraordinary feat.
Today is especially exciting, for they have started loading our ship, the Golden City! Such a beautiful name, filling me with hope that all will be well, and that the sun will shine on us after the hardships we’ve endured. A friendly sailor pointed out our ship for us. From where we sit, we can see her masts, high and grand. Michael John could not contain his curiosity and walked down along the wharf for a closer look. He came back shortly thereafter, his dark eyes troubled and avoiding my gaze.
“What’s wrong Michael John? What is it ye seen?” I asked.
“Don’t ye worry Emily, there’s naught to be frettin’ yourself.”
He wouldn’t lighten up and after pressing him he shared his concern. Our ship was in a lowly state, in need of a clean and a paint. He left it at that though there must be more, he normally wouldn’t allow something like this to trouble him. We will find out its condition soon enough, for just now they are calling for us, and everyone is up and hurrying!
Thursday, October 12th, 1865
A night of restless sleep. I’ve promised you a written account of our journey so I write, but honestly Kathleen, I wish only to shut my mind and sleep, where I can dream I’m back in Ireland with you and my family.
We boarded yesterday afternoon. For a short while there was a light drizzle and everything was wet and we made our way with the other passengers, slipping on the slimy docks. We were standing there at the boarding-planks when the fog, low and mysterious, returned to swirl and pull at our damp dark shapes as if giving us a final warning that we should go back home. The wharf workers strode about, yelling at us rudely. “Get over here… stand there… put ye’r baggage on this”. It was degrading Kathleen the way they spoke to us; we could only put our heads down and do as we were bid. The loading of luggage was laborious and seemed haphazard; we were told there were three hundred and fifty Irish passengers on board. I had hoped we could hold onto our food but it was taken and stowed elsewhere.
The ship itself, although tall and majestic from a distance is, at close quarters, more a livestock-barge than a clipper. I could smell it as soon as I stepped onto the boarding-plank: animals, sickness, something rotting. I dry-retched as we went below the decks and spent at least an hour with my kerchief close over my nose and mouth. In the dimness, Michael John’s face was as cold and hard as castle-stone, he would not talk to me. Anywhere I put my hand, the timbers are splintered; I see ropes rotted and frayed; the sailors themselves look like they’ve come from the poorhouse. I’m nervous Kathleen, I wouldn’t know if a ship is safe or not, but it doesn’t feel sea-worthy. God have mercy and protect us!
We were directed to the steerage by a foul-smelling man with a single lower tooth, whom we later learned was the cook for our section. He is a Welshman, crude of language and manners. I wished I hadn’t seen it but I watched as he unashamedly picked at an open sore on his arm. Lord, Kathleen, I rolled my eyes at Michael John who saw it too, and this man is our cook! His clothes are stained and putrid and so, if possible, I will endeavour to cook what I can myself.
When we came to our berths, there were carpenters still working. They have built the bedsteads to the wall, about three feet wide and six feet long… and that’s for each couple! It is so narrow, and you wouldn’t believe, we have been instructed that our belongings must stay on the beds with us and not on the floor. The lower berths are just above the floor, and the top berths maybe an arm’s length above. Long tables and benches run along the middle of the steerage where we are to eat our meals and entertain ourselves.
From what we’ve been told, the steerage is divided into three sections; single men at the front; we married couples and children in the middle; and the single women at the rear. The carpenters, hammering hard with forearms like horse heads, were finishing off the bulwarks between each section. One of them told us that all was built as simply as possible because all the berths and furnishings would be taken out when we reach Queensland, and the empty steerage area filled with cargo to be exported back to England. They were keen to finish because of the vile smell, which they commented on regularly, and they looked at us with sympathetic eyes when they departed.
There are plenty of spare berths so we hope to store our belongings in the empty ones once the voyage is under way. The other passengers in our section are mostly Irish from the south, which relieves us. We are making the best of things and there was some jocularity as we prepared for our journey. Patrick O’Shea, a young man from Dublin, amused us with his English Captain impersonations, stumbling about, acting the drunk hoighty-toighty. He wore his cap back to front and called out to his mother, “Mater…Mater…hide me. Everywhere I look there crouches them evil Irishmen! Ye know they despise me.” He had an empty bottle that he pretended to drink from, then dropped on the floor. When he bent to pick it up he banged his head on the table and yelled accusingly at one of the children amongst us, “Did ye see that? That Irishman struck me, ye’re all witnesses. Mater!” We laughed along with his antics, and this lightened the mood somewhat.
It was later when the sky became dark that all became sombre, for it came to our attention, from across the river, a man screaming as in most terrible misfortune, along with much urgent shouting requesting support. A boat was dispatched from the wharf on our side with a half-dozen men who rowed desperately to assist. Afterwards, we learned that as workmen were demolishing the old Tilbury Fort blockhouse, a mammoth stone sl