The storm came upon us like an army of banshees. The wind howled as it tore at the vessel. The hatches were closed, and all went dark. We were not allowed to have even one candle for fear of fire. With the dark came silence from every man, woman and child, and that seemed to encourage the wind, whose howls became battle cries as it first rocked and then shook the vessel.
At first everyone made a grand effort. Somewhere a woman sang a soft lullaby to a whimpering baby. I heard Ma murmuring prayers beside me. I whispered one myself, for even though I was determined to be as brave as Da, the truth was that I was in terror. What if the ship did not hold? What if it were overwhelmed by waves? There was no land in sight and no one to come to our rescue.
After a long time of being tossed about and shrieked at by the wind, I heard a crash, like a shelf full of crockery smashing onto a flagstone floor. Then I heard screaming. Had a wave broken through the side of the ship? Had falling boxes crushed someone? It was impossible to tell in the dark.
Over the wailing of passengers and the wind, I heard Da call for help. Chests and boxes had cascaded to the floor of the hold and had to be secured so that they did not smash or, worse, damage the hull. Michael scrambled from our berth to lend his hand to the task.
I lay in my place, curled like a frightened lamb and clutching the edge of the plank so as not to be tossed below.
How the storm went on. There was no way of knowing the true passage of time for we could not see the sun or the moon or the stars. There was only darkness quickly followed by the stench of sick and waste as buckets toppled and the awful shaking and shuddering roiled our stomachs.
I thought of Noah and the great flood he had endured with his wee ark packed tight with all the creatures of the world. Did he feel as sick and frightened as I did? Or did his faith give him strength?
The hold grew so rank with sick and foul air that someone — I do not know who — proposed to break open the hatch to get some air. Others took up the cry, and Da had to argue mightily to get them to see that this would put the ship in danger of foundering.
At long last the storm abated. I had fallen asleep and was woken by the calm and silence. The hatch had been opened, and a shaft of moonlight falling into the foul hold illuminated a standing figure. ’Twas Da, his head was uplifted, and his eyes were closed. I cannot be sure, but I think he was giving thanks.
May 20, 1847
There has been much cleanup and repair to do, but everyone is in good spirits. The captain told Da that the storm was as bad as any he has ever seen, and it must be a good omen that no one was lost in it. Some men, Da among them, have been helping the crew mend the rigging and the masts. All the women and the children who are able have been cleaning below. Many were sick during the storm, and none of the waste could be emptied. Most of it slopped onto the floor, which we scrubbed now as best as our arms and backs would allow. We washed and aired the bedding and disposed of the waste.
Connor had to stay below and clean even though he would rather go above. Most of the passengers know by now that he is a boy. But there are none who will betray him. When he goes above, which is rarely, he covers his head with a shawl and stays behind his mother like a great shy hulk of a girl.
May 21, 1847
The captain himself came to inspect the hold. It is whispered that fear of ship’s fever fills his mind. Many are grumbling that the absence of illness is a miracle, so poor is the food that the shipping company has provided. And to think that some of these grumblers were starving little more than a fortnight ago!
May 22, 1847
This morning as I made my way above deck to cook the breakfast, I heard Mrs. Tattersall whisper to Ma that Mr. Tattersall is feeling poorly. He lay awake all night with aches in his arms and legs. Ma says she must tell the captain, for he has a medicine chest and may be able to help. Mrs. Tattersall agreed even though Mr. Tattersall said it was nothing. The captain came and dosed Mr. Tattersall with a purgative. He remained in his berth all day.
May 23, 1847
Mr. Tattersall was up and about this morning and came to services on deck. His face was pale, but he whistled a fine tune for his babies while Mrs. Tattersall was above deck making stirabout. But by midday, he was back in his berth, trembling like a nestling in a gale. Soon he was fevered and moaning. The captain came again with his medicine. When he turned to climb above, he motioned for Da to follow him. Da returned, his face sombre as a judge’s, but he forced a smile when Ma asked him if anything was amiss. She did not press the matter, but I could not stop wondering what the captain had said to him.
May 24, 1847
Mr. Tattersall is in a stupor. He lies motionless in his berth, barely drawing breath and mewling like an infant. Mrs. Tattersall is beside herself.
Mrs. Donnell has aches and fever. So do some of the other passengers.
May 27, 1847
I have been so busy the past few days. Ma has been helping with all the little Tattersalls so that Mrs. Tattersall could nurse Mr. Tattersall. I am left in charge of Patrick, who does nothing but fuss.
May 28, 1847
Sad news. Mr. Tattersall has died. His passing was discovered this morning when Mrs. Tattersall woke to find him cold beside her. How she wailed. The little Tattersalls did likewise. Ma did her best to calm them all while Da went above to tell the captain, who was down below in a trice with two crewmen to take Mr. Tattersall aloft. The captain and Da went through the hold and spoke to each family. When the captain left, Da looked troubled.
Within the hour, the crewmen had sown Mr. Tattersall into a shroud and weighted the shroud with a stone. The captain read a passage from the Scriptures, and Mr. Tattersall was laid to his rest in the ocean while Mrs. Tattersall wept. Her terrible dream had come true after all, except that it is Mr. Tattersall, not her babies, who has sunk below the waves.
May 30, 1847
Two more passengers have been sent to their rest in the sea. While we stood above deck after the service, someone spotted a shark. Someone else muttered about being flung into the brine like rotten sheep into a pit.
More people are ill.
June 1847
June 1, 1847
Mr. Keenan, Connor’s da, is ill with the fever. So is Connor’s sister Colleen. Mrs. Keenan is nursing them as best she can. Connor has been charged with looking after his brothers: Kerry, Kevin and wee Daniel. Michael and I are helping him. I have been telling them stories about what awaits us in Canada. I have Uncle Liam and his letters to thank for that. Kevin keeps asking me to describe a moose to him. I do the best I can: Uncle Liam says a moose is taller than a man, with antlers that are broader than the full span of a grown man’s arms. He says one moose will feed a family for the whole winter.
Kerry wants to know about bears and wolves and other wild things with claws and fangs. He boasts that he will learn to hunt when he gets to Canada and that no wild beast will be safe when he is about. Daniel, who is only three, buries his head in Connor’s chest every time Kerry growls like a bear.
Ma is worried about Patrick, who has been whining and crying all day. Da says it is most likely a tooth coming in, but Ma refuses to believe this. She is terrified that he will get the fever.
June 3, 1847
Eileen Cairns, eight, and Thomas Kelleher, ten, died during the night. Their mothers wept bitterly. Mrs. Kelleher would not relinquish her grip on Thomas. Da had to get Ma and some of the other women to hold her so that Thomas could be taken above for burial. When his body was finally put into the ocean, Mrs. Kelleher rushed to the side of the ship to follow him. It was only the quick action of the first mate that saved her. He grabbed at her skirts and let out a shout. Two sailors rushed to his aid, but even so the three of them had a struggle on their hands to stop her from plunging into the deep. Mr. Kelleher finally grasped her around the waist and clung tightly to her. He was weeping.
“The poor man,” Da said, shaking his head. Ma held Patrick tightly. I heard her whisper to Da that he has lost his appetite and fee
ls hot to the touch.
Later, Connor told me that he heard Mr. Kelleher say that he was sorry he ever left Ireland. He said it would have been better if Thomas had died at home where he could be buried in the ground with a priest to say words over him, instead of being tossed into the ocean like so much refuse.
Michael argued that if the Kellehers had stayed home, they would likely be dead from starvation by now. “At least we have food on the ship, however poor it is,” he said.
Connor agreed. But he also said that when you are buried in the ocean, it is as good as being forgotten. Your family can never visit you where you lie or point out your resting place to those who come after you. He shuddered when he said it. Michael teased that a spirit must have walked over his grave. I jabbed him hard with my elbow. Too many are ill for such a ghoulish joke.
June 5, 1847
Connor says that Colleen is covered from head to toe with blotches and that his da sleeps fitfully. Kevin and Kerry are also feeling poorly. Mrs. Keenan is wearing herself out tending to them all.
Patrick was fretful all day when he wasn’t sleeping. Ma tends to him constantly, cooling his brow with water and trying to get him to drink a little.
Last night as I lay wedged between Ma and Michael, I had an awful worry. What if there was a fever on Anna’s ship? What if she had fallen ill? What if …
I don’t even want to write the words. I decided to say a special prayer for her every night.
Connor and Michael and I seem to have become the keepers of the children. We gather them above deck where the air is fresh and good, and do our best to amuse them so that their mothers can tend to their chores and, increasingly, their patients. I have gone through every tale, riddle and song that I know and all the games that may be played in a small space.
June 8, 1847
I have been too busy to write. Connor’s father died two days ago. Colleen followed him. Kevin is poorly. Mrs. Keenan is beside herself with grief. On top of that, our Patrick is worse. Ma will not relinquish him for even one moment, even though Da offers to take him so that she can rest. She cradles him and sings to him and tries to get him to swallow a little food to keep up his strength.
To make matters worse, a storm started to blow just as the service was being read for the dead — four in all, including Connor’s da and sister. Immediately afterward, the hatches were battened again. For two long days and nights, the wind howled and the ocean tossed our ship as if it were no more than a twig on the waters. Mrs. Kelleher wailed that the storm was brought on by the restless dead, lashing out in anger because they were not laid to rest in consecrated ground. She moaned as loud as the gale all night. Then she fell silent. I heard Mr. Kelleher tell Ma that she is feverish.
I wish this voyage would end. I wish we were in Canada. Uncle Liam says the air is clean and clear there. He says there are trees for as far as a man can walk in a week, maybe even farther, and that the forests are filled with the music of birds, some of which he had never seen in Ireland.
June 9, 1847
Our Patrick is gone.
He died so quietly, poor wee thing. Ma is inconsolable. She blames herself. “If I had listened to you,” she says over and over to Da. “If only we had left last year, when Liam sent money to pay for decent passage. If only we had not been reduced to this.”
Da says “if only” is easy to say but difficult to predict. He tells Ma that no one could have foretold how bad things would become. But Ma doesn’t seem to hear him. Over and over again she mumbles to herself, “If only … if only.”
Da had to coax Patrick from her arms. He held Ma all through the funeral. I think he was remembering Mrs. Kelleher.
June 10, 1847
I never noticed how much space Patrick took up in our lives. He was such a small thing and so sweet and quick to smile. But now that he is gone, our berth seems so quiet and empty, and Ma does not seem to know what to do with herself. Da comforts her, but he has a faraway look in his eyes, and I imagine he is remembering Patrick.
June 11, 1847
Mrs. Kelleher has died, and I am worried about Ma. She did not get out of the berth today. She refused to eat the porridge I brought her. I hope she does not fall ill. I don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to her or if we had to leave her in the sea.
The weather seems to have caught the mood of the ship. It has been raining since last night. Da organized a few men to catch some of the soft rainwater to drink, as the ship’s water smells and tastes foul. As well, people continue to complain about the food. The biscuit has so much horse bran in it that it is hard to digest and is making people ill. I dream about the potatoes Ma used to pull from the fire. So soft and fluffy they were, and so delicious with a little milk and a pinch of salt — my heart aches for home when times were good.
June 12, 1847
Ma is up and about today. She does not speak, but goes silently about her chores. Annie Malone in the berth below us shivers under her shawl despite the sweltering heat in the hold.
June 13, 1847
Ma stayed in the berth all day with her face to the wall and did not even attend services. Da lay beside her and held her hand. He says her heart is broken because of Patrick. He says she loves Michael and me both, but that she has weathered the passing of four babes now and that she loved each one of them too. He says the hardest thing for a mother is to lose a babe.
Word came below late in the day that one of the sailors had died of the fever and was sent into the sea. Michael says that sailors are accustomed to such fates.
June 14, 1847
Three more have died, Kevin Keenan among them. Still more are ill.
June 15, 1847
Da shook Michael and me awake this morning. I sat up with such a start that I banged my head on the ceiling. My thoughts went to Ma, and I touched her hand. It was warm and she stirred.
“Come above,” Da said.
Michael and I climbed the ladder after him. He pointed to something in the distance.
“Canada?” Michael asked, seeming dazed to see land at last.
“That is called Cape Breton,” Da said, “from when the French were here. We have come far, and the journey has been hard. But it is almost done.”
We stood beside Da for a long time. We passed another island, which the captain called St. Paul Island. There was a lighthouse on it. Da said that means there is a lighthouse keeper as well. But if there is anyone else living on the island, they stayed well hidden.
Later we passed into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, where we saw whales! There were five of them, and massive they were.
June 16, 1847
The ship is moving so slowly that a man ashore could surely make faster progress. But we are in Canada, and from the ship can see hills and woods and neat little farmhouses at the river’s edge.
June 17, 1847
I was on deck again admiring the billowy clouds above, the rich green of the fields and forests, and the deep blue of the water when I had a terrible fright. I looked down and saw a body floating in the water. A terror went through me for it had no shroud, and I thought of all those we had buried at sea. I whispered a prayer and turned away, but I think the sight will haunt me.
June 18, 1847
We have reached Quebec City, which is on the north shore of the St. Lawrence River, and the captain has ordered a general cleanup. He says that the government of Canada will send an inspector to the ship. Because we have had the fever on board, those who are unwell will be sent to a hospital on the island called Grosse Isle, which lies just off Quebec. Those who are well will be quarantined. The captain could not say how long the quarantine will last.
For my part, I cannot wait to get off this ship. We are fewer than when we boarded, but Da says that those of us who are still standing must carry on.
June 21, 1847
Da’s da always used to say, “Be careful what you wish for.” I used to think it an odd thing to say. After all, if it is something your heart yearns for, what is th
ere to be careful of? Now I know. We spent two days wishing for the doctor to come and inspect us, and all the while I was impatient to get off the ship. But when he arrived, things did not turn out as I had imagined.
The captain had us all line up in rows. The doctor was a tall dour man who never once allowed himself to smile. I saw his head over top of the people in front of me. He paused before he had gone five paces, and a wail went up. I couldn’t see what had happened, but Michael soon had it whispered to him from Connor, who was ahead of him. A woman was ordered to the hospital, but her children who are declared healthy may not go with her. As her husband was buried at sea, the children have no one to look after them, and she worries what will become of them. In the end, Da did what he could to assure her that they would be cared for.
Before the doctor passed the end of the first row, two more were plucked from our ranks to be sent to the hospital. One was a single man who had no one to protest his going. Another was a child whose mother was determined to go with him. The doctor was just as determined that she would not.
By the time the inspector reached our bedraggled little row, fully one third of the passengers in front of us had been taken aside for transport to the hospital. I tried to hold myself stiff so as not to betray any trembling, but I breathed such a huge sigh of relief when the doctor passed me by that he turned to look at me again. His eyes were small and muddy behind his spectacles, and he stared so hard at me that I thought he was giving me the evil eye. Finally he turned and moved on to Michael, who was also passed, and then to Ma. As he peered at her I noticed, as if for the first time, how thin and frail she was in contrast to the sturdy doctor. I saw patches of pink on her cheeks. The doctor signalled her to step aside. She did not move.
A Sea of Sorrows Page 2