The Whitest Flower

by Brendan Graham

  She walked between the rows of bunk-beds. The smell was foul. They had washed the bedding and put it out to air, but then the rains had come. Now, some had no bedding, only the thinness of a blanket between their naked bones and the hardness of the wooden bunks. As ever, the moans of the sick and dying, and the grief and ullagoning of those bereaved, filled the Lazaretto. Yet – and it seemed a miracle to her – still they bore their suffering with great dignity and forbearance. She had witnessed the same thing at home, among the famished and the starving. As if this earth had nothing more to offer them, nothing worse it could do to them. And death and heaven was their only hope.

  She heard someone retch at the far end of the Lazaretto and grabbed a water can and a cloth. If it was in a top bunk, then the vomit would drip through the boards, or slide down the sides of the bunk on to the unfortunate person below. Not an uncommon problem for her to deal with. With the advances of the disease some of its victims seemed to lose all control over bodily functions. At first she had found this work nauseating and had to turn away, couldn’t look at what she was doing – and so didn’t do it properly. ‘It’s not meant to be easy,’ she had told herself. And, inspired by the devotion of others, she had trained herself to control the impulse to look away. Now this work bothered her not. Weren’t they a lot worse off than she was?

  She was returning the water can to its place, having finished her chore, when first she heard it through the din that always filled the fever sheds. Then the sound stopped. She couldn’t identify it, but there was something familiar about it. Then the doctor called her to the other end, and she hurried away, forgetting the sound she had heard. Later she heard the sound again. She stood alert, listening. To begin with it was almost a whispering, then a low murmuring, not strung together as it should be. Then, as it grew in strength, the other noise subsided, as those suffering seemed comforted by the sound, soothed by it. Ellen traced it to one of the bunks in the far corner. Slowly she walked towards it, disbelieving what she was hearing.

  She stepped closer. The sound stopped for a moment as if sensing her closeness. When she moved again, it restarted.

  Oh my fair-haired boy, no more I’ll see You walk the meadows green …

  It was her song – and sung in her way!

  She moved forward quickly now, sure of the sound, sure of where it was coming from.

  She moved out of the light into the shadow of the corner where the sound was coming from and approached the bunks. It was the top one.

  ‘… my fair-haired boy to see …’

  She felt the hair rise at the back of her neck. It was like a signal from the past, a message from the dead. It was her song for Michael. But who was the singer?

  ‘Roberteen? Roberteen Bawn! What …’

  The words flew out of her mouth. Confused, stunned, she could only gape as the pale yellow hair and the pale yellow face of the boy-man who had been singing turned fully to her.

  ‘Ellen! Ellen Rua! I knew I’d find you!’

  She clasped his hand in hers. Its flesh was shrivelled and shrunken – cold to the touch.

  ‘Roberteen! Oh, Roberteen! I’m so glad to see you, a stór!’ she tumbled out the words. ‘So glad!’

  He smiled back, the light for her in his eyes, brighter than ever she had seen it before. Brightened by the sickness.

  ‘How … how did you get here?’ she gasped, settling the blanket around him. ‘Here, let me get you some water first,’ she broke off.

  When she returned, she held the water to him and he reached for the touch of her hands.

  ‘Oh, Ellen,’ he said, brokenly, ‘it’s all gone back home, all gone!’

  ‘What’s gone? Roberteen, tell me!’

  ‘The houses are all thrown down, the people destroyed with the hunger …’ he told her, a far-away look in his eyes. ‘Things was that bad we even had to keep in the dog for fear he’d be eaten!’ He gave a little laugh.

  ‘And the people?’ she pressed him, hoping for something, some little bitteen of news of life in her valley.

  He looked at her, and slowly shook his head. ‘No, Ellen, not a fire, not a wisp of smoke. Them that’s not lying dead up on the Crucán is in the workhouse, as good as dead – or like me.’

  ‘How did you get away, Roberteen?’

  ‘Pakenham and that divil’s melt Beecham evicted whoever they could and the crowbar brigade battered down the houses. They even went after the scailpeens on the side of the mountains, and drove the people off Pakenham’s land and back along the road towards Westport and Castlebar. But the workhouses couldn’t take them all – these days, they’re closed, more often than not, for want of money. Then Pakenham said he’d put the rest of us on a ship, if we left peaceably … and, sure, what could we do? We had no choice, Ellen …’ The tears filled his eyes.

  ‘I know, Roberteen, I know. You didn’t run away – none of us did – we were forced out!’ she said, trying to console him. ‘And Martin and Biddy?’

  His grip on her hands tightened.

  ‘They wouldn’t come with me, Ellen – said they was too old to be uprooting themselves. I didn’t want to go then either …’ He started to cry again with the memory.

  ‘Sshh now, Roberteen. They were right to make you go. And, sure, maybe things have improved for them since,’ she said, knowing in her heart that this was not the case.

  At last the question she had put off asking him – dreading what the answer might be – came out. ‘Roberteen, the children …?’ she asked, trying to steady her hands.

  ‘I told the Shanafaraghaun man what you told me, Ellen – I did,’ he replied, his mind set off by her question.

  ‘Yes, Roberteen, but Patrick and Katie and Mary – is there … is there any news of them?’

  ‘We put him in the lake – me and the Shanafaraghaun man … We put Beecham in a big sack with stones – dropped him into Lough Nafooey …’ He laughed. ‘And he yelling and kicking to get out.’

  His mind was altered, she knew. She waited till he was finished, then asked him again. He looked at her. Her heart sank as he shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t hear no news, Ellen – only that you went off on them to Australia … Where’s Annie?’ he asked of a sudden, as if his memory had been shaken.

  Ellen didn’t know what to think. He had told her nothing … That was probably good. If anything had happened to them, then Bridget would somehow have got news back to the valley … But he was rambling … mightn’t know …

  She answered his question about Annie. ‘No, Roberteen. Annie is in Australia – a fever …’

  ‘A fever,’ he repeated. ‘And what happened to your fine dos of red hair?’ His fevered mind leapt on to the next question, not grasping what she was telling him.

  ‘Oh’ – she put her hand back to the red tresses that hung just below her neck – ‘I lost that, too, in Australia,’ she said, not thinking of it, only wondering whether her children were still with Pakenham. Whether they were still alive …

  ‘And O’Connell is lost too. The Liberator is dead,’ Roberteen was on to something else again. ‘The Shanafaraghaun man’ll be busy now.’

  She thought of the man who had been with Michael when he was shot – the shadowy figure who was the only guarantee of her children’s safety. What would happen now, with O’Connell dead? Would the Shanafaraghaun man and his Young Irelanders cause a revolution?

  Roberteen’s hand twitched in hers. She looked at him closely. He was very ill. Dying. No sign of the intensity he always had when he talked to her. She put her hand to his forehead, and he moved into her touch.

  ‘Ellen, d’you remember the summer mornings, before the hunger came? You’d be at the lake … And I’d … I’d be watching you …’ he asked, his face brightening.

  She smiled down at him, brought back to the needs of the moment.

  ‘Yes, Roberteen, indeed I do – you rascaleen!’ She brushed back his hair with her hand.

  ‘And the day the lumpers were lifted, you bolted t
he door on me?’ He gave a little laugh, his mind focused now for a moment – on her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, letting his memories bring back her own. Wasn’t she badly off that day doing that on him, and he only a love-struck gasúr.

  ‘And the céilí and Pakenham,’ he went on – all the memories he had stored of her coming out now in a torrent. ‘I near knocked him sideways off the horse.’ He stopped, as if wondering whether to go on.

  ‘Yes, Roberteen, I do. You were very brave that day – for me.’

  ‘Oh, I was … I was. I wouldn’t let Pakenham or no man put upon you. And …’ he paused again, and she wondered what it was he wanted to get out. ‘And … you sang the song for me, Ellen.’

  For a moment it almost escaped her. Then she realized – remembered the evening. The priest, Father O’Brien, had wanted her to dance, but she wouldn’t. Then he had laid it on her to sing instead, and to keep him from asking questions about her condition, she had agreed. She had sung ‘The Fair-Haired Boy’ for Michael, but remembered seeing Roberteen’s face through the crowd as she sang. The boy had thought she was singing it for him – Roberteen Bawn. Fair-haired Roberteen! Oh, the poor gasúr … She was so stupid. He had kept the song with him all this time.

  ‘I did, Roberteen,’ she lied, as his features crinkled with delight. ‘Would you like me to sing it for you again, a stóirín?’ she asked him, softly, in the voice she would have used to one of the children.

  ‘I would, faith, Ellen!’ he said, all excited. ‘But first, do the Mayo Moon with me … And put me sitting up here till I see out the window!’ he went on, pleased with himself that she was taking notice of him, treating him like a man.

  She had to smile at him. However far gone he was, he didn’t forget anything – not a thing that had happened between them. She propped him up against the wall of the Lazaretto. God, he was no heavier than a child, all skin and bone!

  ‘Roberteen, will I get the priest for you?’ she asked, thinking he wouldn’t last long now. ‘There’s a nice young priest here from the County Sligo.’

  ‘No! No!’ he said, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No priest! Don’t go away, I want you to stay with me, Ellen. I’ll be all right – no priest!’

  And, sure, he’ll be all right, she thought. Wasn’t he, this boy-man, not yet twenty-one years, only a duine le Dhia, an angelito. ’Twas few and far between his simple sins were.

  ‘I won’t go,’ she assured him.

  He peered out of the window. ‘Is there a moon at all in this place?’ he asked, emboldened by all that had passed between them.

  ‘Look out there, across the river,’ she directed him. ‘See the lights? That’s Montmagny. Now, look up over Montmagny … See it?’

  ‘I do! I do!’ he said, excitedly. ‘But it can’t be a Montma …’ he stumbled over the strange-sounding word. ‘It has to be a Mayo Moon or it won’t work!’

  And so, the two of them transformed the Quebec moon over Montmagny into the Mayo Moon over Maamtrasna. The mighty St Lawrence River became Lough Mask, as together, they recited the old lovers’ folk-rhyme:

  New moon, new moon, new moon high

  Show to me my true love nigh

  Show her face, her skin so fair

  Show the colour of her hair

  Light my dreams this night so she

  May in your light appear to me

  New moon, new moon, let me see

  If one day we will married be.

  When they had finished, both fell into silence. Each with their own memories of that night of the Mayo moon when she had crept up on him, caught him with the handful of earth behind his back – part of the ritual of making the wish come true.

  ‘She’s here now,’ he said, looking straight at her.

  ‘I know, Roberteen, I know,’ she smiled at him, squeezing his hand. Remembering, from before, this exact moment – the awful awkwardness of it. He had wanted to kiss her, but she had broken the moment. ‘The last time, Ellen, I … I wanted to …’ he faltered, not so sure of himself now.

  She kept looking at him, her heart going out to this fair-haired boy who loved her with unswerving loyalty and devotion. She knew he was about to speak, about to ask her. But she would not let him, would not cause him to do it – to beg. Instead she reached her fingers to his lips. ‘Sshh,’ she said. ‘You’ll break the spell.’ And then she leaned over him, drawing her fingers away, replacing them with her lips. And she kissed him tenderly on his almost lifeless mouth. As she let her lips linger there for a moment, she felt his arm reach up past her shoulder – to her hair.

  ‘Ellen … Ellen Rua,’ he said, his fingers feeling out the redness of it. ‘Buíochas,’ he thanked her. ‘Buíochas do phóg an dorais.’

  She drew back from him. What was he saying? Thanking her for ‘the kiss for the road’ – a kiss for dying.

  ‘Ah, shush now, Roberteen – no talking like that. You’re not ready to go yet – you have to wait here a little while with me,’ she said, knowing his moment was soon.

  He looked at her – the old smile on his face – serenely happy to be with his Ellen Rua.

  ‘Now sing the song, Ellen,’ he asked of her, all the awkwardness gone out of his voice, all the boyishness vanished. Ready to go now – like a man. Everything he had always wanted, settled at last. It was beyond words between them, so she took his hand and sang for him.

  There, in the fever sheds of Grosse Île, the woman and the man were framed in the window of the Lazaretto. He looking out across the wide Saint Lawrence, at the moon hung low over Montmagny; she singing out of the shadows, out of the darkness of death all around her, singing him into the light.

  ‘Oh my fair-haired boy, no more I’ll see

  You walk the meadows green …

  Your ship waits on the western shore

  To bear you o’er from me

  But wait I will e’en to heaven’s door

  My fair-haired boy to see.’

  She felt the squeeze on her hand – knew he was gone then – but never opened her eyes; sang out the song to the end. When she did open them, his were closed.

  Roberteen Bawn, the fair-haired boy, was at last at peace.

  46

  A week later she fell ill.

  At first it seemed as if she had simply been overtaken by lassitude, she was so weak, so listless. But Dr Douglas’ examination confirmed the worst: ‘She is stricken with the fever.’

  Ellen could hear them talking about her.

  ‘Rest, fresh water, plenty of food – gruel or soup,’ the doctor ordered. ‘And change the straw on her bedding. It’s probably from that source the contagion came!’

  Her own view as to the source of the contagion was different, but she was not saying.

  ‘She was so desirous to help the afflicted that she put herself at risk,’ said Reverend Bonney.

  Lavelle was angry. ‘She can’t be left here, in the fever sheds,’ he challenged them. ‘The place is foul and reeking with disease. She’ll not survive in these circumstances – she’ll have to be moved!’

  ‘Mr Coogan is correct.’ It was the young priest from Sligo. ‘When I was so afflicted, it was only my removal away from here to Quebec that allowed my recovery. We must do no less for Mrs Coogan – she deserves better than we can offer here,’ Fr McGauran said.

  ‘I emphatically concur!’ the Reverend Bonney chimed in.

  Dr Douglas therefore arranged for Ellen to be transferred to the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital, 32 Rue Charlevoix – the place where Father McGauran himself had been sent to recover from his bout of what was variously known as an fiabhras dubh, ship fever, the malignant fever, and the Irish ague: typhus.

  ‘Will she come out of it, Doctor?’ Lavelle pressed the Medical Superintendent, worried for her.

  ‘If we have caught it early enough, then … with the more individual attention she will get in Hôtel-Dieu, she may well be saved. But if the ague persists, then I am afraid, Mr Coogan, that her heart, weakened so, will fail.’

>   Within days, her lassitude had turned into fever. Ellen’s chest and abdomen had also begun to exhibit the spotted rash characteristic of typhus. As the fever mounted, her mind began to wander where it would, beyond her control. Spectres from the past rose up before her: Pakenham; Sheela-na-Sheeoga; Annie – her tiny hands reaching out, the small voice calling – ‘a Mhamaí, a Mhamaí!’ Then Ellen had a knife in her hand – she was painted and wild, running towards somebody. Somebody who had his back to her. As she raised her hand to deliver the death-blow, he turned, arm raised in protection, terrified, calling on her to stop.

  It was Michael! She tried to stop herself but it was too late – the knife sank deep into his neck. She had murdered Michael!

  Sometimes, she was aware of the comings and goings of people as they tended to her, trying to force food and water into her unwilling mouth. She fought them, believing they were poisoning her, punishing her for Michael’s death.

  Someone sat beside her most of the time – she wasn’t sure who. But in the in-between moments of non-delirium, she was aware of a presence.

  Then, somebody was burying her. Praying over her. Putting the sign of the cross on her forehead and on her eyes and mouth. Anointing her with the oils of the dead.

  Only she wasn’t dead.

  But the voice continued to mumble over her, consigning her to Lavelle’s wheelbarrow, to be transported to the Dead House. There, she was put into a wooden box. She shouted at them, but they couldn’t hear her. The Reverend Bonney and Father McGauran looked solemn and mumbled faster and faster in the strange tongues. Then they whispered to each other about her, as if she were already in the ground, saying things like, ‘Mrs Coogan … dedicated woman … So sad for poor Mr Coogan. Requiescat in pace.’

  They stopped mumbling then, and there was silence and she felt herself being lifted. She was going to be buried under the shallow earth of the lazy beds in the Irish Cemetery!

  ‘No! No! No!’ she banged and kicked at the sides and top of the wooden box.