By Mical Schneider
To flee the Irish potato famine of the 1840s, twelve-year-old Annie and her brother to migrate to manhattan urban the place they sign up for their older sister as servants, getting cash to convey the remainder of their kinfolk to the US, the place they detect that either foodstuff and hardships abound.
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The pale scrape on the heel of her hand became a crosshatch of red, and streaks of rust smeared the crumpled card that Finnbarr had given her. “I’ll get my fiddle back,” she vowed out loud. “You haven’t seen the last of me, Mr. ” a voice called. A young woman, tall and slim in a dark green jacket and long skirt, hurried toward her with Thomas in tow. The hair inside her bonnet had deepened from straw gold to a sun-flecked brown, but the blue eyes and the gap-toothed grin were still the same. ” Annie cried.
She tucked herself between cargo boxes on deck 31 and listened for hours. The wind sang in the rigging, hummed through the chains, and snapped the sails. Waves slapped the sides of the boat, and high on the crossbars, the seamen chanted, trimmed, and hauled. If it were just staying on deck, Annie decided, the trip wouldn’t be so bad. But fair weather never lasted. At the first sign of a storm, Captain Woodward ordered everyone belowdecks, and the sailors bolted the hatches so that the passengers rode out the storm in suf focating darkness.
39 The sailor looked blankly at Annie and then at the cook. “A cup of water was all, and foul and bitter at that,” Annie said, her voice rising. “And he wouldn’t give it until I paid four shillings. ” She turned to the women in line behind her. ” The crowd shifted uneasily. ” Without waiting for an answer, she thrust her pail closer, and the sailor hurried to fill it. The cook scowled, took a look at the restless crowd, and stepped away. Afterward when Annie went for water or for a walk on the deck, William or Ellen came with her.