Award Winner: Part Four (The Stapletons of Liverpool)
According to Roger Stapleton (born in 1845), the Stapleton men helped build the original wet docks in Liverpool. The story of the dock-building wasn’t glamorous. Roger simply told his children, “We’ve been dockers and stevedores since the beginning. Built the bloody thing!” Then Roger would wrap his knuckles on the wooden table for emphasis.
When Harvey heard this family story, he checked the records, those original Liverpool wet docks were finished in 1715, built on the site of a tidal basin. If Roger’s family story was true, his twin sons Simon and Henry Stapleton would’ve been fifth or sixth generation dockers. By the 1870s, Liverpool was booming, becoming a global shipping hub. The work was plentiful and plenty terrible. At least stevedores had some authority. Despite the family connections, the Stapletons hadn’t become wealthy, but were stable. Had enough food and clothes. Some had even learned to read and write, but they’d remained laborers throughout these generations. Unloading, loading, unloading loading. Those with seniority like Roger managed the cargo trains, carrying goods south to London or Bristol, east to Manchester or York, or north to Edinburgh or Glasgow. The Stapleton men showed signs of dock work all over their bodies. Red, sunburned faces in the summer, broken, crooked fingers, aching knees and shoulders, hunched backs. They medicated their bodies with pints of ale. Winter rain and icy snow. On the lovely spring days, after the rains. On those humid late-summer afternoons. Sunrises and sunsets. The work always overtaking the natural beauty of the shoreline.
For Simon and Henry, the prospect of this drudgery didn’t leave room for ambition or even mild hope of advancement. Their father had worked the docks since he was 14. They rarely saw him smile. There was the story of an uncle who was crushed to death in a crane accident. When Simon and Henry were teenagers, they joined their father at the dock. By the time the two boys turned 18, Simon had secretly saved enough money for two boat passages. An older cousin, James, who was notorious for bare-knuckle boxing, had taken off for America a few years earlier, to the chagrin of the family.
James was now in Worcester, Massachusetts. He sent a letter, letting Simon know he’d become an assistant supervisor in a factory. He had jobs waiting for them if they could make their way to Boston. James not only promised jobs, he promised adventure and American girls. James explained that he’d met one himself, named Alice. She wore something called “lipstick.” Alice’s mother had family in France. James was about to ask Alice to marry him.
Simon read the letter and couldn’t stop imagining that new life. He dreamed of the boat voyage. All those days at the docks, but barely any time on the water. A few weeks later, Simon hatched a scheme to get them out. Henry needed persuading. Simon laid out their lives. Asked Henry to paint a best-case scenario. Henry had wished to write plays. To act on a stage in London. When Henry’s best-case scenario included nothing of playwriting or theater, Simon urged him to consider a life in America. Nobody telling him he couldn’t. Jobs. Progress. Time to read and write.
Finally, Henry agreed. They’d leave the next morning. Henry bought the tickets after their shift. The boat departed at 8:30 a.m. The shift began at six. It was a typical foggy Liverpool morning. Simon and Henry left their bags at an older friend’s home and went off to work. Around 7:00, Simon pretended to feel weak. He suddenly fell to the ground, feigned illness, and was told to go home and rest for the day. Simon wobbled off, walked directly to the friend’s house, and took a carriage back to the departure area. Henry had snuck away and met his brother. Off they went. Leaving Liverpool and England behind, their blood pulsing with liberation and opportunity.
An eight-day voyage. After two days of seasickness, Simon and Henry began to recognize what they’d done. Old life gone. New life awaiting them. When Henry began to doubt their decision, considering their mother’s expectedly devastated response to their absence, Simon reassured him. “New life, Mate! Save our backs! New life!”
When the passengers above finally spotted land, Simon and Henry raced up to the deck to catch a glimpse. The sun glinted brilliantly off the ocean. The wind stole a cap from an old man nearby. There was an excited chattering buzz from the crowd of arrivals. As the boat entered Boston Harbor, the boys, arm in arm, vowed to stick together, always look out for each other, and create lives they could be proud of.
They stood in a winding line and eventually gave their papers to the port agent, who stamped their entrance into the United States. The boys followed the crowd, ate hot dogs from a roadside cart, and lugged their belongings to North Station, an epicenter of trains, smoke and general cacophony. The boys found a ticket booth, were greeted by a serious chap who announced the price of the two tickets. Simon found the few bills left in his pocket, paid their fares and then tried not to hyper-ventilate, as their supply of cash was nearly gone. They boarded the train heading west to Albany. A few stops later, they met James in Worcester.