by Rhys Bowen
The afternoon concluded with the famous Irish tenor, Edward Monagan. He sang “Tis the Last Rose of Summer,” and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Irish mothers and fathers sobbing into each other’s arms, children crying because their parents were. Me? I just wished he’d get on with it and leave. I’ve never been much of a one for sentimental songs.
After the song had ended the mayor’s party began to move away. I thought they were leaving and breathed a sigh of relief.
“When do we get the cake?” Seamus whispered in my ear.
“Any time now, I should think,” I started to say when there was a commotion on the stairs and I saw that the mayor and some of his party were coming down, into the registry room. A couple of men with cameras ran ahead of him. He stopped to pose on the steps and flashes went off, filling the air with a bitter, burning smell. Then the mayor came down the aisle toward us, shaking hands and patting babies.
“He’s acting more Irish than the Irish,” I overhead a guard behind us mutter.
“Yes, well he’s only here because of Tammany. He knows he’s in Tammany’s pocket,” his fellow guard responded. I didn’t know what that meant at the time.
The mayor came closer. More handshakes. More pictures. We happened to be close to the aisle and the mayor’s eyes fell upon Bridie, snuggled sleepily upon my lap.
“Here’s a little Irish miss if ever I saw one,” he said, attempting to pick her up. “And what’s your name, darling?”
“Tell the gentleman it’s Bridie O’Connor,” I prompted, but of course she hung her head shyly and tried to squirm away from him.
“Bridie Connor—what a lovely name for a lovely child,” he said. He tried to set her on his knee and motioned to the photographers to take his picture with her. “Welcome to America, Bridie,” he said.
Bridie started to cry again, but before I could do anything, the Irish comedian, Billy Brady popped up behind the mayor and made such funny faces that the child actually started laughing. It was the first time I’d heard her laugh. People around us joined in, and soon half of Ellis Island was laughing.
The mayor patted her head and handed her back to me. “Lovely child. Take good care of her,” he said. “Gee, but I could do with a whiskey and soda,” I heard him mutter to Billy Brady as they made their way out of the hall.
Seven
After they had gone, little paper boxes of cake, like you get for weddings, were passed around among us. They had “Souvenir of the official dedication of Ellis Island, February 27, 1901” printed on them and a picture of the mayor. Most of us were hungry enough to eat the cake without noticing the picture. We’d just finished when Mr. McSweeney, the administrator, addressed us through the megaphone again.
“I’m sorry but the mayor’s visit has made it too late to be able to process everyone tonight. Those of you in the back rows of the room, you’ll be served supper and then you’ll spend the night in the new dormitories, here on the island. But don’t worry, we’ll try and get you through as quickly as possible in the morning.” This message was repeated in other languages. I saw people on other benches turning to mutter to each other, but they didn’t make a fuss about the news, like the Irish and English people around me were doing. I suppose in their countries they were used to things going wrong and not being able to do a thing about it.
“Right, come on. Get a move on. Off to chow,” the guard barked as soon as the dignitaries had disappeared. I gathered up the children, staggering after the official in a daze. I had managed so well this far but asking me to wait and worry another whole night was just too much. I felt as if I might cry at any moment. I pressed my lips tightly together and shuffled behind the other immigrants as we were led into a dining room full of long tables. Stewed meat and potatoes were served, along with white bread and milk. Some of the foreigners fell upon the white bread as if they’d never tasted such a delicacy before.
After we had eaten, the women were told to follow one guard while the men followed another. We were led through to another building and then upstairs to a dormitory full of iron beds.
“If there’s not enough beds, you’ll have to make do with the floor,” the guard said, looking unconcerned. “There’s extra blankets you can sleep on.”
Luckily we got a bed. Bridie had held up so well until now, but the sight of this large room, full of strange women, was too much for her. She burst out crying. “I want to go home. I don’t like it here.” I pressed her to me before she wailed out, “I want my mammy” for the whole world to hear. I rocked her, I held her, I sang to her until at last she fell into an exhausted sleep. Seamus curled up and went to sleep, too. I lay beside them, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. The place was full of strange and uncomfortable noises—the hiss and knocking of the pipes in the central heating system kept jarring me awake. I’d never been in a place with heating before and found it uncomfortably hot. Then there was the sigh of the wind, the mournful bleating of foghorns and the slap of waves, mingled with the snores and coughs of a hundred other women.
One more day and I’d be free. If I could just keep going one more day . . . if O’Malley didn’t betray me . . . if the children didn’t give me away . . . if the English police hadn’t put out a bulletin on me. I very seldom prayed but I prayed now. Holy Mother, let it soon be over. Get me out of here safely and I’ll say Hail Marys every day for the rest of my life.
I drifted into uneasy sleep, then woke with a start in the middle of the night. One dim light cast long shadows across the sleeping room. Sounds of sleep whispered around me. I reached out my arm and touched the coolness of the sheet. Bridie was not in the bed beside me. I leaped up and looked around. Seamus still lay curled up like a small animal, sound asleep. Nothing moved on the neighboring cots. There was no sign of Bridie.
I felt my heart hammering in panic as I moved between the rows of beds, whispering her name, bending to search under each bed, carefully stepping over each sleeping body, until I had covered the entire dormitory. She wasn’t there. I ran out into hallway. One dim light glowed at the far end. Where could she have gone? What would have made a child like her, frightened of her own shadow, go off into the terrifying unknown shadows of a strange building?
There were a couple of lavatories just down the hall from the dormitory. I tried them both but she wasn’t there, either. I must wake someone, I decided. I must get help. I started to run, blindly, my footsteps echoing back from newly painted walls and stone floors. Someone must be awake in the eerie silence of this sleeping building. I came around a corner and there she was, heading for an open doorway.
“Bridie,” I called. She didn’t respond. I ran up to her and went to grab her before she entered the room. “Bridie, what on earth were you thinking to . . .” Then I saw that her eyes were wide open and staring, like a person possessed. It took me a moment to realize that she was sleepwalking. Poor little mite, after all the shocks of that day, no wonder her sleep was unsettled. I remembered that it can be harmful to wake sleepwalkers too abruptly. I moved ahead of her and was about to kneel to wake her as gently as possible when a figure loomed out of the dark room ahead of us.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” a big voice bellowed.
I swept up the terrified child and looked up to see a big man in the peaked cap and braided uniform of a guard.
“This is the men’s dormitory,” he said, coming up to us in such a threatening way that I backed hastily. “What are you doing hanging around here?”
“I’m sorry, but the little girl was sleepwalking,” I said. “There’s no need to shout at us. We’re going back to the women’s dormitory this minute.”
“And make sure you stay there,” he thundered, “Or you’ll be sent back where you came from.”
I could feel him watching us as I carried the sobbing child back to the safety of the women’s dormitory. When I went to sleep again, it was with my arm tightly around Bridie. I wasn’t taking any chances.
Women were stir
ring around me. It was hardly light and the room was distinctly chilly. Surely there was no need to get us up before dawn, was there? But there were lights on in the hallway outside and I could hear alarmed voices shouting and running feet. Something was wrong. A fire? Maybe this grand new building wasn’t as fireproof as they thought. But I couldn’t smell smoke, and it certainly wasn’t what you could describe as warm.
At that moment the electric light was turned on in our room and a guard stood in the doorway. “Everybody up and downstairs to the dining room now,” the guard commanded. “There’s coffee down there. Wait until you’re told what to do next.”
He hurried us out and down the stairs to the dining hall. Men from our ship were already sitting at one of the long tables. Wives went to join husbands. I could hear the whisper running from table to table like wildfire. “Yes, in our very room. I saw it myself. Horrible, it was . . . poor man . . .”
I glimpsed Michael Larkin sitting among the men. He usually looked pale but today he looked positively ashen. I hurried up to him. “I’m so glad to see you’re still here,” I said. “Do you know what happened?”
A woman leaned across him. “A man was killed,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“An accident?” I asked.
A man farther down the table leaned toward us. “No accident. The fellow had his throat slit from ear to ear.”
“A fight?”
The man shook his head. “In his sleep, it must have been. Someone who knew what he was doing, that’s for sure—and a powerful sharp knife. I was only three beds away and I heard nothing. None of us heard a thing.”
“The poor man,” the woman beside me said, crossing herself. “To come all this way and then that. Still, he did ask for trouble, didn’t he?”
“Who was it?” I asked. “Someone we knew?” Before Michael could answer, the woman spoke again. “Why, it was that man O’Malley,” she said. “The one you slapped across the face.”
I have to admit that my first reaction was one of relief. O’Malley was dead. He wouldn’t be stirring up any trouble for me with the immigration inspectors. He wouldn’t be waiting to make things hard for me in New York. He wouldn’t be making trouble for anyone. He was gone. I knew that any good Catholic would be praying for his immortal soul at this moment, but I had never been a good Catholic. I was glad he was gone. Now I was one step closer to being home free.
I squeezed myself and the children onto the bench beside Michael.
“In your dormitory, was it?” I asked. He still looked shocked and ashen.
“I was the first person to discover him,” Michael said. “His throat . . . he was wearing that red neck scarf . . . bright red . . . and all that blood . . .” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I wished him ill, but not like that. No human should be butchered like that. . . .”
I put my hand on his arm. “Here, drink a cup of coffee. You’ll feel better.”
After about an hour of sitting, waiting, and speculating we were led through into the great hall they call the registry room. There were only enough of us to fill the front few benches and the hall echoed to the clatter of our feet. They obviously hadn’t allowed any more ships to land. The big room was cold and drafty without the benefit of all those bodies. I found myself shivering and wrapped my shawl close around me.
Bridie, completely unaware of the horrors of the night, was full of beans and wanted to run around. She squirmed and fussed on my lap until I let Seamus take her off into a corner where the other children were playing. It was then I noticed that men were guarding the doorways—they weren’t dressed in the braid and peaked caps of the island guards, but in blue uniforms and tall helmets. Instantly recognizable as policemen. They stood, motionless, watching us.
A group of men came into the room. Some of them were uniformed, too, but the administrator who addressed us yesterday was with them, deep in conversation with a young man wearing a derby and the sort of tweed jacket you might see in Ireland. I wondered if they had already detained a suspect, but then the young man looked up, nodded, and laughed. Clearly not a suspect, then.
Mr. McSweeney stepped out in front of us and held up his hand for silence, although we had been sitting in close to silence since we got there. “As some of you have heard, there has been a terrible tragedy. A man has been killed. You will all be asked to make a statement to the police. Interpreters will be provided for those who don’t speak English. Please remain in your seats until you are called.”
Then the young man in the tweed jacket stepped out in front of us. “We’d like to thank you all for your patience. I’m Captain Daniel Sullivan of the New York City Police. I’m running this investigation.” He was brawny, well built, and looked far too young to be a captain of anything. “If any of you have anything at all that might help us solve this vicious crime, anything you know about the man who was killed, anything you saw or heard last night, then please come and tell me or one of my men. Even if you think it’s something very small or unimportant, tell us. The last boat left the island at six o’clock last night, which means, as I’m sure you can figure out, that the crime was committed by someone who was among us last night and is still among us. None of you will be leaving this island until we’ve got this matter solved.”
Interpreters got up and presumably translated what had been said. There were moans of anguish as the foreigners understood. One by one we were directed to stations where policemen and inspectors checked off lists. I went up when it was my turn. They asked my name and a clerk checked me against a master list.
“Traveling alone?” the policeman asked.
“With my children, Seamus and Bridie. My husband will be meeting us when you let me out of this place.” I was surprised how easily the words came out.
The policeman leaned over the desk and glanced at the master list. “You came on the Majestic. I see you’re from the same part of Ireland as the man who died. Did you know him?”
“I’d never set eyes on him before I got on that ship.” At least I didn’t have to lie.
“But you did talk to him on the ship?”
“I talked to a lot of people. We were cooped up together there for seven days. Someone pointed him out to me and told me his name. That’s how I knew who he was. He was a loud kind of individual. You couldn’t help but notice him.”
“When you say loud, do you mean aggressive? Did he pick fights? Did you notice him having an argument with anyone in particular?”
I could hardly say, yes, with me.
“No, I just meant that he laughed loudly when the men played cards. He had a loud voice.”
The men exchanged a glance, then the policeman nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Connor. That will be all.”
Eight
It was over. As easy as that. I went back to my seat. The children were still playing in the corner. I sat down and smiled at my neighbor. Suddenly I felt very hungry. Porridge with real cream, the way I used to make it at home, would have gone down a treat. But nobody brought around refreshments. The questioning must have taken an hour or more. Then the young man in the tweed jacket stepped out in front of us again.
“Sorry to have to detain you like this, when I know you’re all itching to get ashore.” He had an Irish name but the accent was very different from the brogue I was used to. “Some of you are now free to go. Interpreters, would you please tell those people who came on the Graf Bismark that they may now proceed to the usual immigration clearance. The following passengers from the Majestic are also free to leave.” He read out a list of names. Mine was not among them. “Some of you have been asked to remain for further questioning. You may have information which can be of help to us. I don’t anticipate you should be kept much longer—most of you.”
The addition of those innocent words made alarm shoot through me. The more I was questioned, and maybe the children, too, the easier a slip would be. I had been so strong, so alert all this time. Now I just wanted it to be over and done with. We sat on the benches and wa
ited. I looked around, trying to spot Michael, but I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t remember hearing his name called, but then I’d been listening so intently to hear my own name that I might have missed it. But he couldn’t have gone, could he? Not when I had his five pounds in my pocket.
I jumped when someone prodded me in the back. “They’re calling for you, Mrs. O’Connor.” A policeman was beckoning me into a side room.
“Can you watch the children for me?” I asked one of the Irish women who was sitting beside me. The last thing I wanted was the children questioned.
“Don’t worry, my dear, they’ll be safe with me.” She patted me on the hand, as if she was sorry for me.
I was led through to a little room with a desk and chair in it. The young New York detective was sitting at the desk, scribbling notes on a pad. He looked up when I came in.
“Mrs. O’Connor? Mrs. Kathleen O’Connor?”
There was something in the way he was looking at me—I could sense the heightened interest. He knows, I thought. He’s been in touch with the English police and he recognizes me.
“That’s right, sir.” I sat on the chair indicated.
“From Stabane, county Derry. Sailed here on the Majestic to join husband, Seamus O’Connor, of Twenty-eight Cherry Street, New York City?”
“That’s right, sir.” I was determined to keep my answers as short as possible. If he was Irish-born, or even if he mixed in Irish circles, he’d spot instantly that my accent was not from county Derry.