On the Move – Part Three

For Liam Sheridan the S.S. Baltic moved off at last, and the two banks, lined with English military barracks, the English naval depot, and the English powder magazine on Rocky Island, slipped past like two wide ribbons being unwound as the ship passed by St. Colman’s Gothic Cathedral along the seaport, navigated past the two English forts on Roche’s Point and entered the St. George Channel for the voyage to America.  There was a sharp bracing air; the sea was crisp and clear; the sun diffused an abundance of light; and everything was fresh and lively.  Many of the first-class passengers read the latest penny edition of the Cork Examiner, the daily newspaper for the Cork Harbor.

Soon the S.S. Baltic was launched upon the deep; for a week it seemed lost in its unshored harborless immensities.  Eight days later, on a Friday, far down in the lower bay of New York City, Liam Sheridan crowded to the rail of the S.S. Baltic to glimpse his first sight of America in the clean summer air.  The day was June 24, 1906.  Ships at anchor choked the harbor.  Amid the trunks and suitcases, Liam Sheridan and Delia Flynn stood pressed to each other, enraptured by the sight of the Statue of Liberty.  Their bodies leaned forward, and their hands gripped the railing of the ship as they waited to land.

In the early 1900s there could be as many as 15,000 immigrants arriving in one day, and the ships had to drop anchor and wait.  Yet there, on the horizon, stood Manhattan. Closer, it grew into a cluster of pinnacles known as skyscrapers.  And then the midtown skyscrapers topped the ones first seen.  To most Europeans, New York was unlike any other city in the world.

Until 1892, European immigrants were cleared for entry at Castle Garden, once a fort, then a theater and a public amusement place down at the Battery.  However, the volume of immigrants grew so great, and so many of them managed to disappear into Manhattan before being “processed,” that a larger and more isolated sorting point was necessary. So, from 1892 on, once immigrants were tagged with numbers they were shipped aboard a ferry or a barge to Ellis Island.

After being inspected and receiving permission to leave the island, Delia Flynn made travel arrangements to St. Louis.  Like so many immigrants, they were given tags to pin to their hats or coats.  The tags showed the railroad conductors what lines the immigrants were traveling and what connections to make to reach their destinations.  For Liam Sheridan, this was the time to relinquish all his sovereigns – the shillings, sixpences, half crowns and crowns – for American currency: pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, half-dollars and dollars.

Waiting in St. Louis was Brendan Sheridan and his wife of two years, the 43-year-old Kate.  Brendan was already 54-years-old, and had not seen his son in more than six years.

Like thousands of Irish in St. Louis, Brendan Sheridan and his sisters, Bridget Harrington and Annie O’Malley, originally lived near Kerry Patch, commonly known as “the Irish ghetto.”  Located in Old North St. Louis, Kerry Patch deteriorated into slums immediately after the Civil War.  According to convention, the “shanty” Irish of Kerry Patch specialized in drinking, fighting, politics and religion.  Some of the other nicknames for specific neighborhoods within Kerry Patch included Clabber Alley, Thunder Alley and Wild Cat chute.

Brendan Sheridan benefited greatly from pre-existing kinship networks in the “urban village” of Kerry Patch.  He began his American experience with comforts and advantages which his three sisters had lacked originally.  Brendan Sheridan could also rely on the O’Malley brothers to help him find steady work.  John O’Malley, an acquaintance in Balla, was now family through marriage to Annie Sheridan.

Before Brendan Sheridan’s marriage to Kate Callahan, he already lived near the western edge of Kerry Patch.  Shortly after their marriage, Brendan and Kate Sheridan purchased property two blocks west of Grand Avenue at 2519 North Spring Avenue, in the St. Teresa of Avila parish.  The Sheridan house was a detached, two-story structure standing on its own lot in the company of other freestanding houses on the west side of the street.  The house, built in 1887, was purchased in late 1904.

At the turn of the 20th century, North Spring Avenue was regarded as a sedate and respectable neighborhood, solidly middle class and not at all as shabby as what is left of it today.  In 1906, it was a typical St. Louis street, and the red bricks absorbed the sun.  Over the southeastern horizon of the row houses and flats opposite the house at 2519 North Spring Avenue was the steeple of St. Teresa’s Church.

The new Sheridan house was Late Victorian (1880-1900), and did not depend for its effect on fancy landscaping and a large lot.  Instead, the house favored a two-story shape on a small lot set back from the street; it had a token front yard, and a modest backyard.  The house had a predominance of red brick for the body of the building, with an entablature resting above the white cornice, supported by stone brackets.  The single-family dwelling featured a flat roof, with stone exterior windowsills of limestone, some contemporary plumbing, and two back porches.  The foundation was native stone or Carthage stone from Carthage, Missouri.

From the sidewalk, two limestone steps led directly across a small walkway to four more limestone steps to the protruding front entrance.  Once inside the main door, there was a small vestibule, with another door into the house, common in cold weather towns like St. Louis.  A staircase, just beyond the front door, ran along the north wall for access to the bedrooms on the second floor.  At the top of the stairs there was a window for cross ventilation, from east-to-west.  The layout of the house, on both floors, followed a “side-hall plan.”  A typical floor plan had double-parlors with the support spaces behind this.

However, the house had no electricity; gas lamps provided illumination.

To Brendan Sheridan, his American home must have felt like an extravagant domestic setting, in its spaciousness and the specialized uses of its several rooms.  The cabins of Western Ireland were, by comparison, small, cramped quarters.  The freestanding house itself was a rarity in Dublin and other European cities.  Europeans at the beginning of the 20th century were dwellers of flats and row houses.  And for the occupancy of two-to-four people, the Sheridan house was very big – enormous, in fact, by Irish standards.  Yet there at 2519 North Spring Avenue, Brendan Sheridan dined with his wife, Kate, surrounded by simple furniture that still lent him dignity and probably expressed the values he held dear.  In these rooms he relaxed and slept and eventually enjoyed the intimacy of his immediate family.

In St. Louis, the big news toward the end of June, 1906 was how Frank Shaw rescued Mathilda Strassberger, when their small boat capsized in fifteen-feet of water on Creve Coeur Lake.  In Illinois, the mayor of Springfield led a posse that pursued a bandit for 18 miles, after the gunman fatally wounded the police chief in a shoot-out.

The approach of the train from New York City was made more and more evident by a bustle of preparation in Union Station, the rush of porters, the appearance of attendants, and the arrival of people meeting the train.  Through the steamy vapor could be seen workmen crossing the network of rails.  The whistle of an engine and the rumble of something heavy could be heard in the distance.

At last the passenger coaches jolted to a standstill.  An attendant jumped out, blowing his whistle as he did so, and then one by one the impatient passengers began to get down.

After so many years, Liam finally saw his father and stepmother.  Brendan Sheridan looked at his 10-year-old son, as he used to look at him years before.  And he grasped him by both arms, and would not let him go.

– I am so overjoyed to see you.

Liam brushed away the tears that his utmost resolution had not been able to keep back.

– Would you like to go home?
– I would.  What sort of place is it?
– Oh, a fine place.

Liam approached his new stepmother bashfully, yet Kate’s smile of quiet affection quickly reassured him.  A dull hum of movement came from the waiting room of the station, as from a beehive.  Kate gave Liam her hand and they set off side by side across the length of Union Station and walked up the great flight of stairs to Market Street.

The Sheridan family, reunited after six years, left Union Station with numerous suitcases.

Everyone stood together on Market Street, opposite Union Station, and waited patiently for a westbound electric streetcar.  Delia Flynn, with all her luggage, looked like a female Robinson Crusoe.  After a transfer at Grand Avenue, just north of Olive Street, the group boarded a northbound streetcar.  They traveled as far as Cass Avenue, and then walked a few blocks to the Sheridan house on North Spring Avenue.

Liam entered the two-story house, pausing in the hallway, which was ablaze with a gaslight, only long enough to see his face for an instant in the mirror.  Later that first night in St. Louis, Liam dozed lightly in his chair, no longer aware of what his father was saying. There was a discrete murmur of voices, and shoes could be heard squeaking across the wooden floor.  Liam began to dream.  It was towards 10 p.m., the time Brendan Sheridan generally said goodnight.  He pulled out a wisp of straw and gently tickled his son’s ear.  Brendan burst out laughing when he saw the young boy sit up straight.

– Ah, Liam, a bouchal dhas (my handsome boy), you are beaten by the sleep at last. Leave the chair and go to bed.

Liam looked at the clock.  He had not felt the time passing.  At that moment, the stillness of the humid St. Louis night overwhelmed the household.  It was a hot June night.  On Sunday, the temperature had all ready reached 88 degrees by 7 a.m.  Luckily, the forecast called for showers and cooler temperatures by Monday night.  Cooler weather was predicted over the next 24 hours.  Holding onto the banister, Liam pulled himself up the stairs and then into his room.  He looked at nothing, but fell face down on his own bed.  For the first time in six years, he was home with his father.

© Dancing at My Wake 2011-2012

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