~ Chapter Three ~

The swells were minimal in the calm waters around the Azors. A little more used to the movement of the sea, Molly strolled along the rail of the second-class promenade; her grandfather was still a bit 'green about t' gills', as he put it and urged to her walk out in the air a bit.

“Jes a few minutes and don' talk to anyone but a lady,” he warned her. Putting on her green bonnet and gloves, she walked out in her gray common dress with her good shawl about her shoulders.

The wind was warmer here, making heavy coats unnecessary. Those able strolled the deck, stood along the rail or sat on the deck chairs, recovering. A large steam ship was anchored beside the Cedric; squinting, Molly could just make out the words “Florida” written on the bow; rope ladders hung down its sides, letting down passengers into lifeboats. These boats were ferried back and forth between the ships.

“Survivors of the earthquake in Messina.”

Molly overhead two men talking nearby. One shook his head, puffing on a cigar.

“So, we're to be invaded by the dagos, as well,” he said. A little surprised at the rough language the young girl moved away, out of earshot. Walking down the promenade, Molly headed for the back of the ship; she wanted to get a better view of the steerage deck and of these people from Messina. If the third-class deck had been crowded before, it was even more so now. A riot of voices, cries and laughter sounded out. Confusion reigned; families called to one another, people greeted and glowered at each other, talking and merriment ensued along with anxious discussions.

Many dark-haired, olive-skinned Italians swarmed the deck, the women in black or dark headscarves and some with braids in crowns pinned over their heads, white blouses, bright skirts and shawls, clutching small children, or satchels; some carried bags of bread or netted wine bottles over one shoulder.

Luggage and crates were being loaded into the cargo bay from one ship to the next with the long, wooden crane, pulleys and rope, the sailors carefully watching each part of the process.

Leaning out over the railing just a little, Molly avidly watched the scene below. A figure caught her eye; the bold, well-dressed stranger from the dining hall was down in steerage, talking sternly with a rather thin-looking Irishman and his family, out for air on the deck. The woman and children looked at the well-dressed man with wide, frightened eyes. The wizened man nodded sadly, putting something in the second class man's hand; it looked like coins to Molly but the suited man put it out of sight, looking around sharply.

A slight movement at her neck took Molly's attention from the crowd; looking down at her necklace, she saw it fall down upon her shawl. Horrified, she grabbed for it, only to watch it slip right through her fingers. The silver locket and chain fell, right onto the brimmed cap of a man standing below, smoking a cigarette with a few others. Molly froze, her eyes wide with shock. The man in the cap below started and looked behind him quickly; the well-dressed stranger from second class was standing there.

The man found himself suddenly face to face with one angered Italian emigrant.

“Why you do that?” the young man demanded, gesturing with one hand. The posh stranger appeared mystified and gauged the potential foe in front of him. Burly, tall and younger than he, the Sicilian appeared to be sizing him up as well.

“Do what?” the stranger said, equally loud. “I've no quarrel with you.” The crowd around them grew a little quieter, watching the situation with interest.

“You hit my head?” the young man hazarded; the youth was no fool… his brown eyes were wary and calculating. Two older emigrant men, familiar in form and face to the young Italian stood nearby, glaring at the well-dressed man from second class. The Irishman snorted.

“I did not touch you,” he spat.

“Please sir... it was me...” called a feminine voice from above. “I'm so sorry, sir....” Both men looked up, along with the other people standing nearby. Molly waved and leaned over the railing a little, her face drawn with concern. Her green eyes met those of the young Sicilian.

Luigi Dimattio felt his anger vanish. A pretty girl in a green bonnet was calling down to him from the upper deck, apologizing.

“My necklace dropped...” she continued, “... on your hat. It was an accident. I'm so sorry, sir.” Taking off his cap, Luigi looked at it and smiled; a silver chain hung off it, with a little star-shaped locket. Taking it in hand, he held it up; the silver gleamed in the sunlight. The girl above saw it and smiled; her radiant smile made Luigi feel lighter, somehow; she had green, clear eyes.

“Oh, thank you!” the young woman said, looking relieved.

“I can toss it up,” Luigi called up to her. “But it may go over... into the sea.” Molly's smile faded at his words.

Looking around, she saw a staircase leading down, guarded by two crew members. Steerage passengers were not allowed up on the second-class promenade. Leaning over a little again, Molly found the young man's face once more. He was still smiling up at her; his warm brown eyes held a kind look.

“I will come down,” she called to him. “Can you meet me by the stairs?” The two older men standing behind Luigi exchanged a grin at these words. The young Italian nodded, still smiling; he began to make his way through the crowd over to a staircase, some thirty feet away.

Molly had a bit of trouble getting down the stairs, at first.

“Miss... don't go down there,” a uniformed crewman said, holding a hand in front of her. “'Tis no place for a respectable young woman. 'Tis steerage.”

“My necklace fell,” Molly explained. “'Twas my mother's. That man rescued it and he's bringing it to me. I’ll come right back up.” The crewman looked down and nodded.

“Please stay on the stair, miss where I can see you,” he said, letting her pass. Molly held onto the rail and carefully stepped down the white-painted stairs.

At the base of them the young Italian man turned and smiled at her again; he held out the necklace without hesitation.

“Oh… thank you, sir!” Molly said, accepting it into her gloved hands. She turned grateful eyes up to the stranger's, suddenly feeling shy. “It was my mother's... I could not lose it. I do not know how it fell off.” The young Sicilian man kept his cap in his hand, scrutinizing the girl in front of him. At the head of the stair a crewman eyed him with frank suspicion.

“You should get the…eh, clasp fixed,” he told her, in a thick accent. “It has broken.” Molly smiled, looking at her necklace.

“I will,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”

“My name is Luigi... Luigi DiMattio.” Molly looked up at him again.

“Molly Callahan,” she replied, giving a small curtsy. “I see you speak English very well, Mr. DiMattio.”

The young man smiled, proudly.

“Sister Mary at... eh...the church, yes?” he explained; his warm smile never faded. “She taught us good English, in Messina.” Molly's face fell at the name of the city.

“Oh... I heard about the terrible earthquake. I am so sorry for your city,” she said, her eyes saddened. Luigi nodded, his smile finally disappearing.

“Yes. Many die,” he said, seriously. “We go now to New York. Ellis Island.” Molly smiled at this.

“My grandfather and I are going to New York as well,” she said. “You said Sister Mary... are you Catholic?” Luigi shook his head, no.

“God has, I think left, with my parents,” he said. “But... He is not done with me, yet.” At this he crossed himself. Molly did not quite understand him but nodded, politely.

“Miss...” came the well-dressed Irishman’s voice, interrupting. Molly and Luigi turned to look at the man. The man stood nearby in the crowd, looking at Luigi with undisguised disgust. “Allow me to escort you back up to the promenade,” he said, looking over at the young red-haired girl. “It is not safe for you down here.”

Molly felt almost nauseous, as if she were sea-sick again.

“I do not know you sir,” she said, politely. “I shall not go anywhere with you.” Luigi grinned; the girl had spirit. She turned her lovely green eyes to his again and smiled. “Thank you again, Mr. DiMattio,” she said, shyly. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Her fair skin and green eyes were unusual to the young man but her hair seemed even more so; red-gold curls of it peeked down from under her bonnet.

“A pleasure for me, Miss Callahan,” Luigi said, haltingly. His English was not perfect but Molly was able to catch every word. Giving the young man one last smile, she turned and went alone back up the steps, holding tightly to the rail. Luigi watched her go, his smile lingering. The young woman's presence felt like a warm breeze on this wintery sea.

“What do you think you're after?” the well-dressed man cut in, stepping between Luigi and the base of the stairs. The young woman was gone from view.

The Sicilian turned his gaze to the pale stranger in the tailored suit, the warmth in his eyes fast draining away. “You'll be sorry if you speak to her again, dago...” Luigi did not step back; he did not seem to react to the slur.

“What do you do here in third class?” he inquired, after a moment. “You should be up there.” He grinned and pointed up the stairs. “It is not safe for you down here.” People crowded around murmuring; an excited buzz seemed to lift into the air as if they sensed a fight. The well-dressed man's face twisted into a sneer.

“Do not order me about, you filthy ginny,” he spat.

At this, several woman in the crowd gasped; 'ginny' was short for 'guinea negro'. It was a terrible thing to say to a Sicilian, or anyone for that matter. Quick as lightning, the young man had his fist in the stranger's jaw; the well-dressed man staggered back, reeling from the blow. The crowd reacted loudly; some cheered, people pointed and gasped. Crewmen began making their way down the stairs. Ready for a counter-attack, Luigi felt hands grip his shoulders and was forcibly dragged back, into the crowd.

Well away from the skirmish Luigi found himself facing the grim faces of his two uncles.

“What is the matter with you?” barked one of them, in their own language; one of the man's hands was up, gesturing in the younger man's face. “You will get yourself kicked from the boat, before we even embark!”

“He called me a ginny....” Luigi tossed back, both his hands out, the palms up. “He deserved two more just like it.” His other uncle chuckled at this and shook his head.

“The Irishman was up to no good,” the man said, smoking his cigar thoughtfully. “Fancy clothes, but he is down here, collecting money from the poor. We should ask around and find out who he is.” The other uncle nodded, and then turned back to Luigi.

“I am your godfather,” he said, the hand back up and moving back and forth in expressive movements. “I am responsible for you! Just because your parents are gone...” he paused and crossed himself, “... does not mean you must pick a fight with the Irish, capisci?” His nephew mumbled and shrugged, looking off into the crowd.

A dark-haired woman in a rich, red shawl approached the little group, leading a small girl by the hand.

“Gino,” she said in her native tongue, looking at one of Luigi's uncles expectantly. “Do we not have second class tickets?” The man nodded, smoking a cigar, still leaning against the wall. “Then... why do we stand here in steerage?! Answer me that!”

“There is enough noise on this deck without you yelling, Donata!” the man returned, loudly; he appeared upset, though his eyes held humor. “Yes, we have tickets for berths upstairs! On the good deck... with the good food. So stop the yelling, already!” The woman scowled at him, lifting up the girl in her arms.

Gino clucked at his wife's sour expression and launched into conversation with his brother.

Donata Giovanni looked over at her nephew, Luigi; he was scanning the railing above them on the second-class deck, apparently looking for someone.

“Are you going up to second class or staying here, Louie?” she asked. Gino's brother Vito chuckled.

“He is looking for the pretty Irish girl that smiled at him,” the man said, amused. Luigi snapped his gaze down at his uncle.

“I'll stay here in steerage,” the young man said, to his aunt. “I can save a whole month's pay down here. It is what... a week? Two maybe.” Donata nodded, looking up.

“Well... this boat is better than the other. They will not like us in their fancy dining salon,” she said.

“I hope more from Messina have been put up there, or it will be awkward.” The men smiled and nodded at this, looking into the crowd around them.

Molly found her grandfather sitting up in his berth; he appeared much improved.

“There you are lass...” he said, smiling. “I've the inkling to wash up and take a turn on the deck, myself before supper.” Smiling, Molly closed the cabin door; she felt lighter, for some reason.

“You'll be chastising me, sir,” she said, sobering. “I spoke with someone.” A little surprised, Patrick Callahan cleared his throat and pointed to his pipe bag, hanging on a hook on the wall. Molly fetched it without a word and gave it to him; she watched in silence as he packed his pipe and lit it.

“Well...” her grandfather said, indicating the fold-down bench. “Tell me what happened.”

When Molly finished her tale, her grandfather looked grim.

“I'm not blaming you, lass,” he said, “… but that bold dandy keeps haunting your steps. And what were he doing down in steerage? Him in his fine clothes, too.”

“He was collecting money from a family down there,” Molly told him. “I saw it. The man's family looked afraid of him.” Patrick puffed on his pipe for a moment, deep in thought. After some minutes he sighed, looking at his granddaughter.

“You told him that he were a stranger and you'd be going nowhere with him, eh? With the Sicilian boy standing there, watching?” Molly nodded, unsure of what to say. Her grandfather surprised her by chuckling. “That's good,” he said, simply. “Well, help me up. I've been abed far too long.”

Soon, Molly and he walked by the rail of the promenade; the brisk sea air seemed to help Patrick feel a bit stronger and brought some color to his pale cheeks. They walked around at a much slower pace than normal; Patrick kept a sharp eye out for the 'dandy' as he now referred to the stranger in the suit.

Towards the staircase Molly had gone down to meet Luigi, there was a slight commotion; two unformed crewmen were arguing with a couple of large, slightly portly men whom appeared to be Italian in origin, with a woman and a child looking on; the men held up tickets and looked rather agitated.

“What do you mean we can't come up?” one of the men said, his brow dark. “We paid good money to be in second class. These tickets say so; we just bought them last week!”

“That was on the Florida,” the crew man said, firmly. “Here, you're in steerage.” The woman looked upset and the little girl in her arms hid her face in her mother's neck.

“Is that how business is done on this ship?” Molly heard her grandfather's voice, sounding unusually brittle. The crewmen turned to look at the white-haired gentleman with his pretty granddaughter on his arm. “I've second class tickets too, laddie. Does this mean you'll chuck me and my granddaughter into steerage as well?” The crew men looked uncomfortable and stammered a little. “Suppose I get the Captain and ask him...” Patrick Callahan continued, leaning forward and fixing the younger man with a glare.

The uniformed crewmen mumbled something and stepped back, allowing the family through. One of the Sicilian men gave Patrick a respectful nod, hurrying his family and baggage by. Molly smiled at the little girl who hid her face again; the white-haired weaver and his granddaughter walked on in serene posture.

“Sometimes, Molly... you're best to say nowt and let lie,” Patrick said, after a moment. “However, my father once told me that a man who can right a wrong and does not is the worst kind of coward.” Molly smiled to herself, putting the wise words away in her mind for later use.

All at once the great foghorn let out a long blast, high above by the wheelhouse. Looking up, Molly beheld a large quantity of black smoke pour from the smokestacks. Going to the rail, she looked down at the deep, blue water and saw it move slowly by.

“We're underway again,” Patrick said, nodding to himself. He looked critically at the sky and saw nary a cloud. “Perhaps I'll be able t' stomach some food; sure an I hope no storms come in the night.”

“I as well, sir,” Molly agreed. “I could go my whole life without feeling seasick again.” Patrick chuckled and led her onward, towards the dining hall.

The atmosphere of the dining hall had changed with the addition of several newcomers. Steerage had overflowed into second class berths, though some from the Florida had bought the more expensive tickets outright. A town of tradesman and merchants the emigrants from Messina were by no means beggars. On one side of the room the Italians sat, adding a boisterous air of louder conversation and occasional laughter. Some had even brought music with them; Molly saw wooden instrument cases leaning against the table legs down by the owners' feet. On the other side of the room the original second-class patrons sat quietly, glaring at the more noisy occupants and whispering among themselves.

Since the room was almost full, Patrick saw chairs open by the Sicilian 'side' and made his way slowly towards them without hesitation. The group grew a little quieter as they approached, but Patrick did not let on. Molly helped him off with his coat and stood by as he sat down; she could see her grandfather was still weary from his long bout of seasickness and he eased down into his seat with a sigh. The white-haired weaver indicated the chair next to him with his pipe and Molly sat down without a word. The others at the table looked at each other but seemed to accept their presence.

Taking off her bonnet and coat, Molly hung then on the back of her chair; as interested as she was in studying the newcomers, she did not want to stare or be rude. Listening to them talk, Molly decided she liked hearing the strange language of these people of Messina; it was pleasant-sounding and flowed gracefully from the tongues of those whom spoke it. One of the Sicilian men stood and motioned to a reluctant server.

“I want something with garlic in it, eh?” he said, gesturing with an open hand at the white-coated waiter. “Garlic? Onions? Good, yes?” The server nodded and hurried away. Shaking his head, the man sat back down. Molly sat watching the new people at the table with interest; the faces were so different than those she'd grown up with. Some of the men had the noble, Roman nose and then others had more pronounced features. Dark brown or black hair was common to all but some heads bore a riot of curls, while other men wore it oiled and combed straight back. The married women wore scarves on their heads or their haired braided up into a crown with no scarf at all. The children were neatly dressed and sat somewhat quietly in the strange, new room.

Sitting still, Molly observed these Italians possessed clothing of good quality and washed; none seemed to be suffering from hunger at all. Indeed, they appeared almost wealthy and robust compared to some of the poor she'd seen wasting away in Dublin and Liverpool. Some of the women wore silver necklaces and ear-rings or the glossy, black beads of a rosary with its silver cross. The eyes of all were brown but so varied in shade that one word was not sufficient to describe them; these self same eyes flashed with animation when speaking. Words were said with flair and a sort of delight; these were not dull or uninteresting people.

Another new family came in the dining room; the only seats left were by Patrick and his granddaughter. Turning her head, Molly recognized the family from the deck, whom her grandfather had aided. They came forward, greeting a few others in the section heartily, ushering the woman and her little girl forward. The two older men sat down across from Patrick, while the woman and little girl took the seats by Molly. Looking up, the young woman smiled at the older Italian woman and her little girl.

“Good evening, ma'am,” she said, politely.

The Sicilian woman appeared surprised but nodded back and helped her little girl into the chair next to Molly. Looking across the table, Patrick nodded at the two newcomers and received a nod in return. It was as if no one knew what to say, but the air was not unpleasant with it. The servers brought rolls in baskets, putting them onto the tables with the tiny plates of butter. A pleased murmur spread throughout the Italian group. Though hungry, Molly waited until a nearby basket was passed to her; taking it, she turned and offered it to the little girl next to her. The small girl's brown eyes turned up to her mother, who nodded. Reaching in shyly, the little girl took a roll and smiled, just a little. Molly smiled back and took a roll herself before handing the basket onward.

The white-haired weaver looked up from his pipe and found a basket of bread being handed to him from across the table. Nodding, he took the pipe from his mouth and put a roll on his bread plate.

“Many thanks,” he said, to the man. “Fine weather isn't it?” The Italian man grinned at him and nodded, passing the basket on to his brother.

“Yes,” he said, in a thick accent. “I think no more storms for a little while.” Patrick smiled.

“You've quite the command of English, sir,” he said, matching the younger man's gaze. The Sicilian’s man's grin did not fade.

“Not ‘sir’...” he said, shaking his head. “I am Vito Giovanni.”

“Patrick Callahan,” the white-haired man said, standing up with difficulty. “A pleasure to meet ye...” He reached over the table with a welcoming hand. Vito Giovanni stood as well, his face dressed in mild amusement. The men shook hands.

“My brother Gino...” Vito said, indicating the man next to him; the man smoked a cigar and stood to shake the aging Irishman's hand as well. “His wife Donata, his daughter Gina.” Patrick nodded at the woman politely.

“This is my granddaughter, Molly,” he said, smiling down at the young woman at his side. Molly dipped her head and smiled a little at them. Donata nodded at her in a slightly friendlier manner than before.

“We speak very good English...” Vito said, sitting down. “... our father insisted we learn it. He would say it is the language the whole world must speak. So, we learn it.” Patrick nodded, puffing his pipe for a moment.

“Come from Messina then, so ye?” he inquired. “We heard of the earthquake.” The men across the table both nodded and sobered a little.

“Yes,” Vito answered, heavily. “Many dead. Many... thousands are dead. So many the officials say to leave this place. Most of the dead had to be burned. None were left to bury them all. Almost all the buildings are gone. Our butcher shop is standing but there are no people to buy the meat. So, we sell what we have and now we go to New York, eh? To Ellis Island. We will open a shop in Manhattan.”

Patrick sat forward a little, at these words. Molly felt a great sadness well up in her at the idea of a whole city destroyed; she looked at Donata as the men conversed.

“Is everyone gone from your city?” she asked. The woman nodded, sadly.

“My sister and her family are dead,” she said, soberly. “My husband's sister and her husband as well. Many that I knew are gone now. Some went to Naples but most went on the steam ship, to come to America. Too much death to stay.” Molly nodded.

“We are going to Ellis Island as well,” she said. “It is... hard, in Ireland. Not enough food. Not enough work. Some even starve in the cities, it is so bad.” The Sicilian woman held her daughter closer and shook her head.

“It will be good in America,” she said, at last. “Better than where we have come from, yes?” Molly nodded, her thoughts blanketing her face with sobriety. Ireland seemed greener now in her memory, in some places but she could not escape the images of the skinny faces of children in Dublin, nor the beggars.

Nor the friends she'd lost to disease. Molly felt extraordinarily blessed; her grandfather and she had gone to sleep hungry more than once but they had never had to beg. Never had the earth shaken below them, either... killing an entire city of friends and family.

The food came, effectively dispelling the lingering thoughts of home. The people from Messina admired the bread but found the soup bland.

“Garlic is a gift from God,” Gino Giovanni said, to all those within earshot. “It smells, yes but it is good and cleans the blood.” His brother gave a low laugh.

“It cleans more than the blood,” Vito returned with a board smile. Molly saw her grandfather cough into his hand to hide a laugh; she did not understand the joke but did not ask. Feeling a slight tugging at her sleeve, Molly looked down into the brown eyes of Gina. The little girl said something to her in a language Molly did not understand. Nearby, Donata smiled at Molly's puzzled face.

“She says your hair, it is so pretty,” the woman informed her, kindly. Molly smiled at her, then down at the little girl.

“Thank you,” she told the little girl. “Your hair is pretty too. My mother used to braid my hair just like that when I was little.” Donata translated this for Gina, whom beamed.

“You parents are in America already?” the older woman asked, politely. Molly's face fell a little; she shook her head.

“They died many years ago, ma'am,” she told her. “My father of consumption, when I was ten; my mother joined him four years ago, from the typhus.” The little girl asked her mother a question and they spoke for a moment in their own language.

Donata looked up at Molly.

“She wants to know what you said and I tell her. She asks why did they not go to a doctor, your parents?” Molly looked at the little girl, not really knowing how to answer.

“My parents were very poor,” she said, striving to quell inner tears. “It was still bad, from the great famine, even after many years. “We had no money for a doctor. My grandfather did what he could but...” She could not finish the sentence but smiled a little; it hurt to think of them, still. Little Gina reached out and patted Molly's fair hand with her own; the small action brought the young woman much comfort. “Thank you,” she said to the little girl.

“Graze...” Donata said. “It means the same.” The woman pronounced the word as graht-see.

“Graze,” Molly repeated, stumbling a little with the word. Gina smiled and nodded, bouncing a little in her seat. Donata smiled as well, leaning forward to finish her dinner.

Molly played a game with little Gina, dressing up the silver spoon like dolls, with cloth napkins for dresses. Now and again she'd glance up at her grandfather when she heard his voice or laughter. He seemed to be having a fine time speaking with the Giovanni men and a few others whom could not stay out of the conversation. In sharp contrast to the white-haired weaver's posture and manner of speaking, the Italian men seemed so much more animated, using their hands frequently in gestures and expressive movements, as if constantly emphasizing their words. Some at the table did not speak English quite as well as the Giovannis and now and again Vito would break off to translate something to one or two of his fellows. The entire group seemed comfortable listening to, or talking with the aging Irishman; Molly heard no sharp words at all, nor saw any suspicious looks directed towards her or her grandfather.

After dinner was cleared away, a few of the men got out instruments, the like such as Molly had never seen. A small, brightly painted accordion, a diminutive guitar which Donata called a 'mandolin', a larger, glossy black accordion and a burnished, wooden guitar; the musicians lovingly unwrapped these with great care and tuned them with little plunks of strings or wheezes of air. She saw a fond look come into her grandfather's eye.

“Would you like me to fetch your fiddle, grandfather?” she asked, quietly. Patrick took out his pipe and smiled at her.

“I would, lass,” he said, nodding. “But I'll go with ye. Ye should nae walk alone at night.”

“We will go with her,” Donata said, standing up. “I must get my shawl from our room. I will watch her.” Patrick sat back down at this, with a sigh.

“I thank ye madam,” he said, smiling. “I've been in my bunk too long with seasickness, and this chair is mighty comfortable.” Gino nodded at his wife and Molly jumped up, putting on her coat and bonnet. She helped little Gina into hers while Donata tied on the little bonnet on he girl's glossy black hair.

Walking together, the little group found the corridor; Donata's room was just down the hall from the Callahan's; this room, though it had four bunks instead of two. It seemed crowded but Donata seemed grateful for it.

“It is better no, than steerage?” she said, shaking her head. She found her shawl quickly and put it on. “They are packed in like chickens down there. One cannot change clothes or wash in such a place.” She was impressed with Molly's cabin, especially because of the window. Molly located her grandfather's fiddle case and took it carefully with her. She locked the room back up securely, keeping the key in her coat's hidden pocket.

On the way back to the dining hall, they passed a man emerging from his room; it was the 'dandy'. He wore another, fine suit and smiled at Molly as she passed; the young woman did not smile back but hurried on. Donata went with her, keeping Gina close. The man did not speak to them nor follow them, for which Molly was grateful.

“Bidonista...” the Sicilian woman said, distastefully. “A swindler, him.” Molly nodded, walking a little faster.

They reached the dining hall without incident. Music flowed from the door as they opened it; low, harmonious melody itself wove about the room, emanating from the four Italian musicians. Molly was interested to see that the other dining patrons were enjoying the music as well, even smiling. Walking up to her grandfather, she placed his fiddle case in his hands. The white-haired weaver nodded his thanks and kept listening.

The men of Messina played as if they had been born with instruments in their hands. The music sounded familiar, as if they loved the song itself with fervor and played it merely as an expression of that emotion. Molly sat transfixed, her face a picture of serenity. Donata saw this look and smiled, exchanging a glance with her husband across the table; she yet remembered how the youthful soul felt to be touched by beautiful music. Gino favored his wife with a rare smile; he sat back in his chair, smoking contentedly.

After the last song had ended, Vito looked across the table at Patrick.

“What do you think of the music of Messina?” he asked, smiling. Patrick nodded, taking his pipe from his mouth.

“'Tis fair, this music,” he said, earnestly. “Breaks well upon the ear, it does. I'd not be averse t' hearin' more of it.” Vito liked this compliment and translated for the musicians; they grinned and nodded copiously. The man with the small accordion pointed to Patrick's fiddle and spoke in his own language.

“He wishes to hear you play,” Vito told the white-haired weaver. “He has never heard any music from your land.”

Patrick smiled a little, tapping out his pipe; he nodded to the man and stood to remove his ancient fiddle from its case. The wood glowed reddish-brown in the dim lamplight. The musicians looked at the instrument with keen interest, talking among themselves and nodding. Sitting back down, Patrick adjusted his jacket a bit and touched the slender bow to the thread-thin strings. Molly let out a sigh as the first note sounded; it was a simple melody but hauntingly beautiful, a song of Ireland; without words it extolled the beauty of the Emerald Isle. She closed her eyes and let the music conjure up the green fields and crisp breezes of her homeland. The wretched slums were forgotten, the hardships, work and hunger laid aside; all that remained were the happy faces of those long gone, of music and dancing, flocks of fleecy-white sheep, valleys of golden grain and green, misty hills.

The others in the room must have felt it as well; the room quieted and listened. Patrick was a skilled weaver but his skill was sorely waylaid from his fiddle. Molly felt pride in the music he played and this feeling swelled when the men from Messina clapped vigorously as the last notes from the fiddle died away. Patrick accepted the praise humbly, asking for the Italian men to play again; they did so with vigor, pleased to be so entreated by a man foreign to their own land and customs.

After an evening of food, conversation and music, Molly felt strangely happy as she walked back to their corridor with her grandfather. The music the aging weaver played made her sad and proud all at once but good company had filled her soul as much as the food filled her stomach. Here at least there were good people to speak with, people with families whom loved and lost as much as any in Ireland. Thinking on these things, Molly said little as she went to bed in her lofty bunk.

“Not a bad lot,” her grandfather said from the bottom berth, once the lamp was out. “If they are examples of Sicilians, then we've been seriously misguided of their character. As fine a people as you'd ever wish to meet, says I.” Molly smiled.

“I liked them very well, sir,” she replied. One particular individual came to her mind. Fingering her necklace, Molly thought on someone, not of the dining hall... but younger, with warm, brown eyes and dark, curling hair, with a kind, wide smile. “Luigi DiMattio,” she whispered, to herself. Molly wondered if she would ever see the young man again; she found herself hoping that she would.

Luigi waited by the base of the stairs, smoking a cigarette. He watched the white smoke from the ship billow against a black sky packed with stars. A figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Vito Giovanni whistled, getting his nephew's attention.

“I just go down to talk to my nephew,” Vito said to the crewman on watch; the younger man shrugged a little and nodded. Stepping down to the base of the stairs, Vito clapped Luigi on the back.

Bringing forth a little packet, he handed to his nephew, making certain no one was watching. “A few things from the table,” he said, in his own language. “They eat like kings.” Luigi put out his cigarette and took the packet gratefully, hiding it away in his coat.

“They have nothing but thin broth and a hard biscuit for us here,” the young man said, looking around. “The beggars in Messina ate better... but, it is better than the boat from Naples... it is cleaner. We are packed in like sheep in a corral but they keep things washed and there is soap.” Vito nodded, taking out a partially-smoked cigar. Lighting it, he puffed a few white rings into the dark night air.

“Eat... give out the rest,” he said, after a moment. “Make what you can of it. We'll bring more in the morning.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Luigi said, nodding. “It is crowded down here; they ran out of beds; families are lying on the floor in the dining hall, staying in their clothes to sleep. You were smart to keep Donata and Gina out of there; there is no privacy.”

The young man nodded and began to walk away; his uncle cleared his throat.

“I saw the pretty Irish girl up there,” Vito said after him, grinning into the dark. Luigi halted and turned around, puzzled. “You remember... the one with the necklace...” The older Sicilian hid a smile as his nephew came closer; the young man affected a disinterested air.

“You did, eh?” Luigi replied, absently taking out another cigarette. His uncle grinned at him, which the young man ignored. “Why would I care about that?”

“Maybe you don't,” Vito said, scratching his chin. “Maybe she is just another girl traveling with her grandfather to Ellis Island. Maybe she was polite to your aunt. Maybe her grandfather did us a favor. Maybe we talked with them at dinner... who knows?”

Luigi tried not to look interested but failed. His uncle sobered, recognizing the look on the young man's face.

“Listen to me, Louie,” he said, quietly. “Don't get too attached to her. She is pretty, yes... but she would not understand you. She knows nothing of our culture. It is better you marry a girl from Sicily.” Luigi looked at his uncle for a moment, and then smiled.

“If I wanted a girl from Sicily, I would have stayed there,” he said. “We go to New York now, Uncle... to America, the land of liberty. The melting pot. Besides, how hard would it be to teach a woman how to cook for me?” At this, Vito snorted and swiped one hand down through the air in a frustrated gesture.

“Eh! minchione.... you are stubborn like your mother,” he said, scowling. “She wanted to marry a Protestant...” Crossing himself, Vito stomped back up the stairs to second-class.

Smoking in silence, Luigi took his packet of food and walked towards the steerage dining hall. He would eat a few bites and distribute the rest among those he knew; the food down in steerage was far from nourishing. Anything extra at all would be appreciated, he knew. He walked back into the third class corridor, thinking on what his uncle told him of the lovely Molly Callahan. The girl was so different, with her red hair and green eyes. None of the women back home looked like that. She was sweet and fair, with a smile filled with sunshine. Though he did not know it, Luigi smiled all the way back to his bunk.