The Girl Who Came Home

by Hazel Gaynor

  Before I left the hospital, I walked around to the beds of the other survivors who are still there—there are not many now, most having recovered well enough to move on or return home. I will never forget those people—their sad, empty faces and weak smiles of a vague hope for the future. We shared an understanding as we held hands and looked into each other’s eyes.

  So I am finally leaving New York, the city I had heard so much about and thought I would see for the first time from the bow of Titanic as we sailed gracefully into the dock. I’d imagined we would be greeted by all the well-wishers and ragtime bands and fluttering flags. Who could have ever known that we would arrive on a different ship altogether? I never even saw the Statue of Liberty and doubt I ever will. This place will always hold dark memories for me now. I think I am best to leave those memories among the echoing corridors and starched bedsheets of the hospital.

  I still feel very unsteady on my feet and am sure my hands will never function right again. The nurses told me that I am still suffering from shock and exposure and that it could take months for me to recover fully.

  I am huddled into a seat on the train, hoping that nobody will pay me any attention at all, although I can feel them looking at me and whispering and guessing my story. Sometimes I catch their eyes and they look sympathetically at me, trying to show me with their tilted heads, furrowed eyebrows, and bland smiles that they understand, that they know of the suffering I have endured. I stare back. They can never know of the suffering I have endured.

  It is odd to think that I had never been on a train until just over a week ago—I thought I felt an aching sadness in my heart then as we puffed out of Claremorris station. How could I ever have known that there was a far greater sadness awaiting me?

  I am grateful for the borrowed coat and the donated clothes, but how I wish I had my own coat and the packet of letters. How I would love to read them now as I sit here all alone. How I would love to see Séamus’s writing and touch the paper his hands have touched.

  I wondered today about my message to Séamus and whether it was ever sent by that Marconi boy—whether it ever reached him. I hope so. He must be worried to death if he has heard any of the news about Titanic. My message might lift his spirits, and maybe, after hearing of what has happened, and knowing that I am all alone, he might be able to come to America himself soon.

  I find it all too upsetting to think about. I will stop writing now and try to sleep until I reach my destination. I can barely stand the thought of seeing Aunt Mary; she will be so sad about her dear sister, and I wish I could be arriving here with her as we had planned.

  It is almost impossible to rest with the rocking and thumping of the train carriages and with people needing to inspect my ticket and step past me to get on or off at a station. I’m so exhausted I barely said thank you to the lady from the Catholic Women’s League who gave me two hundred dollars and a few more donated clothes. She’s moving through the train making sure that all the Titanic survivors are being met by relatives at the other end. I hadn’t even noticed there were any other Titanic survivors on the train. I have hardly looked up from my feet, I am so sad and so ashamed to be traveling like this.

  Dear God almighty, how did it ever come to this? How did that bright spring morning when we left Ballysheen turn into this—a train journey with not a soul I know for company and with all those I traveled with, bar one, dead and lost forever in the sea?

  I wish I had never left my home, wish I had never left Séamus. At this moment I wish I had never been rescued. I think it is easier for those who perished and will never have to face their future alone—like I do. I wish I was back under the cherry blossom tree watching the petals fall around me. I doubt I will ever know such happiness again as I knew in those months I spent with Séamus in Ballysheen. I think my heart is actually broken and may never be mended again.

  CHAPTER 32

  Ballysheen, Ireland

  April 17, 1912

  The day Séamus Doyle buried his father, nature unleashed an almighty storm across County Mayo and blew down all but two of the cherry blossom trees that lined the road through Ballysheen. It was an awful sight to behold, their thin trunks cracked and split by the force of the wind.

  “Snapped like matchsticks,” an old woman muttered as Séamus surveyed the scene of devastation. “And yet would ye look at those two, standing strong as iron, as if there was never a breath of wind at all.”

  He was relieved to see that the sixth blossom tree was one of the two still standing—he knew it because the initials MM SD for himself and Maggie were still there, scratched into the bark by his own whittling knife.

  The howling wind and lashing rain fell across the parish relentlessly that day, echoing the despair and solemnity of the occasion. The priest stood at the graveside and tried to make sure his prayers for Séamus’s father could be heard over the din of the weather. Later in his life, Séamus would speak about that raging storm, the worst in the history of the parish, and how he had felt his day couldn’t possibly get any worse, until he’d received a telegram from the RMS Titanic.

  The postmaster’s wagon rumbled down the lane toward the small stone cottage. Séamus hadn’t long returned from the graveside Mass and stood, absentmindedly, in the doorway, his cap in his hand and his shoes smeared with the freshly dug earth that the rain had quickly turned into rivers of flowing mud.

  “Afternoon to ye,” the postmaster shouted in an attempt to make himself heard over the howling wind as he pulled his dappled horse to a standstill on the rutted pathway. “By God it’s a wild day to be sure. Never seen weather like it, I haven’t, and I’m forty years living here.” He jumped down from the wagon and stepped around the front. “You should be gettin’ inside with a fire burnin’, lad, never mind standing around in the doorway.” Séamus didn’t respond. “Anyway,” the postmaster continued, “here’s a thing ye don’t see every day—a message from the Marconi radio operator on the Titanic, no less!”

  Séamus’s attention was caught instantly. “From the Titanic? How?”

  “The wonders of technology, eh? Sure, how would I know how it gets here from a ship in the middle of the ocean”—he laughed, rubbing away the drops of rain that had collected in his eyebrows—“but it has, and it’s addressed to ye.”

  “To me?” Séamus reached out to take the small envelope, turning it over in his hand.

  “That’s what it says. Well, cheer up then. It’s not every day a fella gets a message from the biggest ocean liner ever built!”

  Séamus didn’t reply, but stared blankly at the postmaster before walking inside the cottage and closing the door behind him.

  “Well, there’s manners for ye,” the postmaster muttered to himself, climbing back into the sodden wagon and pulling sharply on the reins. His horse skittered to attention, shaking its mane, sending water flying into his face and a stream of curses gushing from his mouth.

  With a clatter of hooves on the slippery stones, Séamus heard the postmaster ride off. Relieved to be on his own, he settled himself into the threadbare chair next to the empty fireplace, taking a second to survey his home. His home, as it was now; his walls, his possessions, sparse and tattered though they were. He was a nineteen-year-old man, and what he saw before him now was the sum total of his life so far. How he hoped that what he held in his hands would be a turning point, would be the answer he had been praying for every night since Maggie left.

  Rubbing the edges of the thick cream card, he studied the various postal markings. He’d never seen a telegram before, let alone one from such a prestigious ship. He could only assume it was from Maggie, although how she had been able to send it he had no idea.

  He thought again about the letters he had written to her. Was this her reply? Had she read them all, read his final question? His hands trembling with excitement at what she might say, he read the words:

  Séamus sat motionless, reading the few words again and again. Don’t wait for me. Had she given up on him, o
n their future? Had she read his letters? Was this a rejection of his proposal?

  “No,” he whispered. “No, Maggie. Not this. Please, not this.”

  Letting the piece of paper fall to his lap, he leaned his head back against the chair and gave in to the despair he’d suppressed since he watched the traps bearing Maggie and the others rumble off down the road. He gave in to the grief he’d denied himself since discovering his father’s lifeless body in the bed after returning from his nighttime walk, his sleep having been disturbed by dreams of Maggie crying for help. An aching loneliness flooded his soul, a consuming emptiness he hadn’t felt even when he watched his father’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

  As the wind continued to rampage across the landscape he so loved, tearing centuries-old trees from their roots and sending chimneys crashing down onto the roofs of the houses they had stood proudly upon for decades, Séamus sank to his knees and sobbed with despair, his cries exceeded only by the howling wind, his tears surpassed only by the heavy raindrops that streamed down the small windowpanes.

  Sometime later, around dusk, he was roused by a knock at the door. Forgetting where he was momentarily, Séamus sat upright and looked around the room for his da, rubbing his swollen eyes. Then he remembered; his da was dead in the ground and his sweetheart had declined his offer of marriage.

  He got up wearily and trudged to the door, barely able to face the prospect of speaking to anyone else that day.

  “Who is it?” he sighed, rubbing his hands through his sandy hair, which had curled in the damp.

  “Father Mullins” came the reply through the door.

  “Right so, Father.” Séamus smoothed his clothes, which were crumpled and misshapen, and opened the door. “Come inside, Father. Please excuse the mess—and myself,” he added, looking self-consciously at the floor. “A drop of porter, Father?”

  “No, Séamus, not for me, son.”

  The priest stepped inside, brushing the rain from his coat and hat, his cheeks flushed from the force of the wind, his eyes blazing with intensity, as they always did. He took a quick measure of his surroundings.

  “You’ve no fire lit yet, Séamus—I hope you’ll be seeing to that next. It won’t do to be sitting about in this place all alone and cold, y’know.” There was a stern, purposeful edge to his voice. It was a voice Séamus had been listening to at Sunday Mass for as long as he could remember, and he took notice when this man spoke. “Your da wouldn’t like that at all now, would he?”

  “No, Father, he wouldn’t. He liked his warmth. Whatever little else we had, he would always see that there was turf burning in the grate. I’ll see to it right away. I was just having a little nap, y’know, after the business of the burial an’ all.”

  The priest nodded and stepped toward the small window. “He was a great man indeed. Hard worker—and very proud of his boys.” He nodded at Séamus to impress this upon him before sitting down at the table in the center of the room. “I’m afraid I’m visiting many homes in the parish tonight, Séamus. I’ve received some rather unfortunate news.”

  Séamus noticed then, for the first time, the strain etched across Father Mullins’s usually peaceful-looking face.

  “Oh? What is it, Father?”

  “I hate to bring this news to you tonight of all nights, with you having just buried your father, God rest his soul.” The two men paused for a second then to cross themselves in respect to the dead man. “Inspector O’Brien was in contact with me earlier today,” he continued. “He had himself been alerted by a Mr. Thomas Durcan in Castlebar. He’s the local shipping agent for the White Star Line. I’m sorry to say, Séamus, that he reports Titanic has foundered in the Atlantic.”

  “Foundered! What d’ye mean, foundered?”

  “It is understood that she struck an iceberg two days before she was due to arrive in New York, and according to the White Star Line office in Liverpool, she sank to the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Séamus couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “But it was such a big ship, Father—all the papers spoke of it being unsinkable and being made of triple screws, or something. I remember seein’ it in the papers with my own eyes—the pictures an’ all. It can’t have sunk—surely to God it didn’t sink.”

  “There are reports of around seven hundred survivors, mainly women and children, although we do not yet know whether those who left from this parish are among the fortunate ones.” Father Mullins paused then, looking down at the floor, shuffling his feet as a pool of water gathered around them on the flagstones, the raindrops falling steadily from his overcoat. “It is a truly terrible business. A terrible business indeed. It was Peggy Madden’s sister who suggested I come and speak to you. I understand you are friendly with Maggie Murphy, who was traveling with her aunt Kathleen Dolan.”

  “Yes, yes—I am. That’s right.” Séamus remembered then the telegram message that had been delivered to him just a few hours earlier. “But I just received a message from Maggie,” he said, rushing over to the chair and picking up the telegram, showing it to the priest as if he wouldn’t otherwise believe him. “Look. Here, see. It’s from the RMS Titanic. It’s franked and everything.”

  Father Mullins studied it for a moment before placing it carefully on the table and speaking in an almost whisper.

  “Yes, Séamus, I see. A very unfortunate coincidence. You see it shows us here that the message was transmitted on the night of April fourteenth. That was the night, we believe, the incident occurred.”

  Unable to comprehend what he was being told, Séamus leaned against the table, pressing his palms hard to the cool, solid surface as if he were clinging to it for his life. He stayed like this for some time, his mind reeling, as Father Mullins relayed all the information he had himself been given. It was now a case of waiting for further confirmation and for news of any survivors. They were to prepare themselves for the worst, the priest warned before leading them both in prayer.

  For seven days, Séamus and the other villagers of Ballysheen wandered around in a daze, unsure what to think or what to believe. Rumors skirted the town about reports in the local newspapers that all of the females had been saved. Others suggested that everyone had been lost. A farm laborer reported that he had seen Maggie Murphy’s name among a list of survivors printed in the Western People that was being passed around at the market. It was impossible for Séamus to allow himself to believe anything until he heard from Maggie or saw her dead body.

  There was a strange numbness about the village; people wouldn’t look one another in the eye, afraid to suggest either hope or despair, not knowing which emotion to express from among the many they were feeling.

  It was Thomas Durcan, the White Star Line agent, who finally arrived with the tragic news. Families watched anxiously, hidden in the dark interiors of their homes, as he walked with Father Mullins, knocking firmly on door after door to convey the news of what had become of their loved ones.

  The two men walked, ashen faced, from home to home, the wailing and crying from within telling anyone passing what the fate of their family members was. Mothers were inconsolable, fathers wept for their lost sons and daughters. The grief and suffering were unbearable to behold.

  Everywhere he went, Séamus overheard hushed conversations, secret, almost forbidden exchanges between neighbors about how individuals had reacted to the news.

  “Poor Ellen Joyce’s father was sellin’ a cow at market when he got the news. Trying to get back the money he’d paid for her passage, so he was,” one woman whispered to another.

  “Young Michael Kelly’s grandmother can’t sleep for nightmares, thinking that the sharks have his poor, dead body,” another said.

  It chilled Séamus’s heart, and through it all he recalled his dream from the night his da died and reflected on Maggie’s telegram.

  Some families were left hoping, with names so similar to their loved ones’ showing on the lists of survivors, only to be devastated when it was esta
blished that there had been confusion and, in fact, their relatives had been lost. So far it was known, or assumed, that all of the fourteen travelers had been lost except Peggy Madden, who had survived by clinging to a capsized lifeboat.

  Séamus was at the lake throwing stones into the water when he felt Father Mullins’s hand on his shoulder. He’d been dreading the moment the man would speak with him, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight, hoping to block out the reality of the news he was about to receive. He barely heard the priest when he spoke, the words seeming to flutter and drift around him like damselflies.

  “She lives, Séamus,” was all the man said. “Maggie survived. She is recovering in a New York hospital.” He tightened his grip on Séamus’s shoulder and then turned and walked away to allow Séamus to process this news in private.

  He only nodded and let the tears fall as he continued to sit in silence. The girl he loved with all his heart was alive, had survived the most terrible tragedy. He wished he could feel joy, elation, but those elusive emotions were stifled by the overbearing knowledge that she did not want him to be in her life anymore. Don’t wait for me, she’d said. Don’t wait for me.

  He sat watching the clouds gathering on the horizon, watched as each solitary one drifted lazily across the sun, casting everything into shade before moving off to let the warmth and brilliant light of the sun settle on him momentarily again. As the rhythms of nature moved constantly between light and shadow, so, it seemed, did the young man’s heart.

  The next few weeks were taken up with grieving and comforting those who had lost their loved ones. Séamus tried his best to help where he could, feeling a terrible guilt at receiving the news he had prayed for every night, while others had had their worst fears confirmed. With only a few hundred bodies of the fifteen hundred lost souls recovered, there were no funerals to be held, so it was without the bodies of their loved ones that the grieving families held their wakes.