The doctor repeated his words sharply this time, as if Ma was wasting his time by not obeying him immediately. Still Ma did not move. The doctor turned to the captain for help. The captain turned to Da. The two had come to respect each other. Da had remarked more than once on the captain’s skill and his concern for his passengers, which, Da said, was not shown by every sea captain. The captain, for his part, always addressed Da as Mr. Leary and never condescended to him. Whenever there was a problem with the passengers, he sent for Da and listened when Da advised him on how to proceed. So when I saw a look in the captain’s eyes that seemed to me to be one of deep concern for Da, I felt a tremble go through me.
Da and the captain looked at each other for what seemed like ages. Then Da said, “Come, Eileen,” and helped Ma from the ranks. He spoke into her ear and kissed her and held her for a moment before she was led away.
Mrs. Keenan was among those who were to be taken away. The doctor looked long and hard at Connor, his head covered as usual with his shawl. I was afraid he would be sent away too. Michael was afraid he would be discovered. Connor swears the doctor knew him for a boy, but for some reason let him be. Connor is grateful. There is no one else to look after Kerry and Daniel.
June 22, 1847
I was so worried about Ma and afraid of what might happen to her that I cried until Michael lost patience and told me I must be strong. He says they have taken Ma to the hospital on Grosse Isle (it means “large island” in French), and that there are nurses and doctors there to care for the ill. For his part, Michael has done nothing but grumble. He had thought that once the ill were removed from the ship, the rest of us would be free to go ashore. But we are not. We must stay on board for six more days so that the authorities can be sure that no one else falls ill.
June 23, 1847
Rumours are flying from passenger to passenger. Some say that there are two dozen ships and more waiting for medical inspection and to send their ill ashore. Some say they will keep us on the ship for weeks. Some say we will be ashore sooner. On our ship, those who are well have divided into two groups. First there are those who have family members in the hospital. Many of these, especially the women, are in despair that they will never see their loved ones again. Then there are those who have no loved ones in hospital and who deem themselves healthy. They demand to be put ashore. If that cannot happen, then they demand food and fresh water.
This is proving difficult to obtain. The captain says it is because there are so many ships and so many ill. As well, the people who live in Quebec want little to do with those of us on ships. They see us as bringing disease to their towns. Michael says that he heard the captain tell one of the mates that the newspapers are filled with editorials about the Irish lords shovelling their garbage into Canada. Meanwhile, people continue to fall ill, which causes more unrest and panic.
Several of the men went to the captain and angrily demanded to know if the government of Quebec planned to keep us anchored in the St. Lawrence River until we all die of either ship’s fever or starvation and thirst. No one is happy.
I think about Ma all the time and pray she will get well.
June 24, 1847
Nine more passengers have fallen ill and are being taken ashore. Everyone is in poor spirits, especially as news has come back to us that three children, two women and two men from the ship have died in hospital. Ma is not among them, for which I am thankful. But there is some confusion about the other names and so Connor is worried. He does not know if his ma is alive or dead.
June 25, 1847
Another rumour is flying about. Because there are so many ships waiting in the river, we will be allowed to leave a few days early and will be transported to Montreal. Many people are excited to hear this, but I am not. We have had no news about Ma. The captain has told Da he will do his best to find out how she is, but he warns that this may not be easy. There are more than one thousand ill on the island, and the nurses and doctors are worked to the bone.
June 26, 1847
I woke in the night to whispering. It was Michael. I did not see who he was whispering to, but ’twas easy enough to guess because a moment later wee Daniel, sound asleep, was handed into our berth and settled next to me. Da, beside me, did not stir. Michael slipped into the Keenan berth, saying that he was going to keep an eye on Kerry. I began to ask why Connor wasn’t watching both of his brothers, but Michael silenced me. I didn’t find out until hours later what had happened.
I tried my best to stay awake but dozed off. When next I opened my eyes, Michael was lifting Daniel down into Connor’s arms. Connor was soaking wet. He didn’t say a word. Only later, at breakfast, did Michael tell me that Ma was still alive, but that Connor said she was so feverish that she was not in her right mind. He glanced up at our berth where Da was still sleeping. “I do not think you should tell Da.”
“How does Connor —?” I began before remembering him dripping on the floor of the hold.
Connor had gone ashore to look for his ma. While he was there, he looked for ours as well. I asked Michael how Mrs. Keenan was. The sombre look in my face told me that she had passed.
“But what are we going to do?” I asked. “We can’t leave without Ma.”
“Da will talk to the captain,” Michael said. “There must be some way we can find her if she gets well.”
“You mean when she gets well,” I said sharply.
Michael did not correct himself. He did not say another word.
June 28, 1847
Kerry Keenan has been taken ashore to the hospital. Or, rather, I should say that he was wrenched from Connor’s arms, for Connor did not want to let him go, saying that he would die in that hospital for certain.
“He will die if he is not attended to,” the captain said. “And others who are healthy will fall ill. You will fall ill.”
In the end, four of the captain’s men had to hold Connor, who fought like a wild thing to get free, while Kerry was taken from the ship. At first they seemed astonished to see so much fight in a girl. Then one cried out in dismay, “She’s a lad, not a lass.” Still Connor punched and kicked until finally one of the mates hit him from behind and he crumpled onto the deck of the ship. The captain has ordered him locked up until we leave the ship tomorrow.
Da spoke to the captain, who agreed not to have Connor arrested and handed over to the authorities, even though his girl’s disguise clearly marked him as wanted. He told Da that he does this only out of pity for so many losses in Connor’s family and only on the condition that Connor give no more trouble.
Michael and I are minding Daniel.
July 1847
July 3, 1847
I am writing this in Montreal, and my heart still aches with a greater sadness than I have ever known.
I tried to get it down before, but I wasn’t able to. I will try again now.
When we were finally allowed off the ship three days ago, it was to board a steamer for Montreal, which is said to be two days’ journey upstream. Connor, dressed now in boys’ clothes, was grateful for what the captain had done, and thanked him before he left the ship. But when we set down on Grosse Isle and the first mate denied him permission to visit Kerry in the hospital, Connor tried to break free again.
What a commotion that caused! I cannot say what came over me, but while everyone else was distracted by Connor, I fled to the hospital myself. I can no more imagine leaving Ma than Connor can imagine leaving Kerry, and I wanted to tell her that we will find her again when she is well and strong.
I slowed as I approached the first rough building, which was ringed with tents. Never have I seen so many people so ill and so crowded together. I stood with my mouth agape as I gazed at the rows of wretched patients lying cramped and filthy in beds. More than once I saw two poor souls side by side on the same cot. Many were mere skin and bone. Some moaned in agony or for release. I decided that I must be in the shed for the sickest patients for whom there is no hope. Thank goodness I did not see Ma among t
hem.
I turned to leave when I heard a weak cry for water. I am ashamed to say that I could not tell whether the person crying out was a man or a woman, so dirty was the face, so matted the hair, and so wasted the figure. I looked about, but saw no nurse or doctor or indeed anyone who might answer the cry. But I saw a barrel and made for it. A dipper hung from its side. I plunged it into the water and carried it to the person who had cried out. He — when I got close enough, I saw from the fuzz on his face that it was a young man — could not raise his head to drink. I had to slide my hand beneath him to help raise him up. And, oh, the stench from the mouldering straw beneath him! I know it is wrong for me to say this, but he smelled of death. As he gulped at the water, others around him cried out. They were thirsty too. I went back and forth to the barrel of water to help as many as I could. But then I began to worry that the steamer would sail without me, carrying Da and Michael away to Montreal where I would never find them. So I left those poor people crying out and ran to another shed in search of Ma.
When I first saw her, my heart soared. Her eyes were open so I smiled and waved. She did not smile back or lift a hand to wave.
As I ran to her, I saw that she was lying on the ground with not even a sheet under her. I fell to my knees in the muck beside her. Her eyes stared up at the plank ceiling. My fingers trembled as I reached to touch her face. It felt cold to my fingertips. I let out a howl. Just then, two hands seized me from behind and pulled me to my feet.
It was Michael. “Johanna, you must come,” he said. “The ship is leaving.”
Then his eyes went to the sad figure on the ground before me, and a gasp escaped his lips. He reached out and touched Ma’s face. For a moment he seemed unable to move, just stared at her. Then with a trembling hand he closed her eyes.
“Da is waiting,” he managed to say, pulling me away.
I was blinded by tears and stumbled as he pulled me along like a wagon. When we reached the ship I could not make myself look at Da. I left it to Michael to tell him what we had seen.
Poor Da. Tears sprang to his eyes when he heard Michael’s news, and his fingers went to the St. Joseph medal around his neck as he mouthed a prayer for Ma. He closed his eyes and did not speak for a few minutes. I don’t know for certain what was in his mind, but his stillness made he think that he was remembering Ma the way she was when times were good, or perhaps when they had first courted. He had often boasted that she was the prettiest girl he had ever met and how clever he had been to steal her heart. When he finally opened his eyes again, he put one arm around me and the other around Michael and held us close. We were all he had now.
We were all each of us had.
The journey up the river took two long days and nights, with all of us jammed together on the deck of a steamship like so many pieces of wood. There was so little room that anyone who sat was in great danger of being trampled — not that I cared. All I could think about was Ma dying alone in that terrible place. Da and Michael must have been thinking the same thing, for they never spoke. We clung to each other, while Connor cradled Daniel.
One whole day it rained, drenching us to our skins. All that night we shivered. Despite the discomfort, I fell asleep on my feet and did not wake until someone jostled me. It was a crew member who, with one of his mates, was removing a passenger who had died in the night.
When at last we arrived at our destination, we pressed forward to get off the ship. No sooner had we set foot on land than Da collapsed. Michael bent to him and laid a hand on his forehead. His face was grim when he looked up at me. “He is fevered,” he said.
Da was taken from us. A man said he would be at the immigrant sheds, where there was a hospital. Michael, Connor, Daniel and I were herded to another area where nuns and other women were waiting to gather the orphaned children. One of the women scooped up Daniel. Connor was on her in an instant, yelling as he pulled his brother away. Two men appeared and grabbed Connor. I tried to hear what was happening, but someone was talking to me, asking if I had parents yet alive. It was a nun. She said if I would come with her, she would see me washed and dressed and fed. I turned to Michael.
“Go,” he said. “They will look after you. I’ll see to Connor, and then I will find you.”
A man wrestled Daniel from Connor and handed him to the same sister who had approached me. He was about to call for help to restrain Connor. But when I promised Connor that I would take care of Daniel, he left off his struggle.
“I’ll come and get you,” Connor promised his brother.
The sisters took us girls and small boys to a large house where they fed and bathed us and gave us clean clothes to wear. All the girls are to sleep in one large room. The boys are to sleep in another. Everyone is quiet. Now that we are clean and clothed, I can see how hollow-eyed and pale everyone else is. I wonder if I look so deathly.
July 4, 1847
Only a few of the sisters speak English. The sister in charge of the house, Sister Marie-France, told us that the archbishop has called on parishioners to open their homes and their hearts to Irish orphans. She says we must not worry, for she is sure of a good response. The people of Montreal can see with their own eyes how many orphans are in need of a home and a good Catholic upbringing. I feel glad for the little ones who are truly on their own. But what will become of me? I am not an orphan.
July 7, 1847
Disaster has struck! A family has taken Daniel for their own. It was only by chance that I happened to find out. I was sweeping the upstairs hall (we have all been given chores) when I heard a child cry. I looked down and saw that it was Daniel. A woman had his hand, but he was tugging to get away from her. He almost managed. But a man who was with the woman scooped him up into his arms. I called for them to stop. Daniel, for his part, was kicking against the man as hard as he could, but he is so small and weak that he was no more threatening than a squirming kitten.
I ran for the stairs. In my haste, I collided with a nun who appeared as if from nowhere, carrying a huge pile of fresh linen. I apologized as I skirted around her, but she grabbed my wrist and pressed her face close to mine. “You must pick up the linen,” she said sharply. I promised that I would, but said I had something important to do first. She would not let me go. Finally, I scooped up all the linen in a great armful and thrust it at her, almost bowling her over. Then I raced down the stairs, but too late. Too late. Daniel had been loaded into a wagon and was disappearing around a distant corner.
I could not believe my eyes! I promised to care for him, and now he is gone. I have let Connor down and feel terrible because of it. I will ask Sister Marie-France who has taken Daniel, so that Connor can get him back.
July 10, 1847
Someone has offered to take me in, but I have refused. My da is alive. Michael is alive. Uncle Liam awaits news of us and we of him. I am not an orphan. Sister Marie-France says that she will write to Uncle Liam, but she warns that she will not be able to keep me forever. She was very kind when she said it, and for that I am grateful.
July 12, 1847
I have asked many times for permission to visit the hospital sheds, but Sister Marie-France denies me. So today I did what my head tells me was wrong but that my heart insists was right. I slipped away while I was supposed to have been at chores.
I had no idea how to get to the sheds, so I asked a man selling fruit on the street. He gave me a sharp look but pointed out the direction I should take. I promptly lost my way in the bustling city and was forced to stop a gentleman in the street to ask again for directions. He turned up his nose at me and walked away without a word. In the end, it was a lad no older than myself who told me the route. He also said that when I got close enough, I had only to follow the masses. When I asked what masses, he shook his head and told me that I would see.
I repeated his directions to myself as I walked so that I would not forget them. It was not long before I saw a crowd of people headed in the same direction. I hurried to catch up with them and was astonished to fin
d out that although they appeared to be going to the same place I was, they were not Irish. I soon discovered that they had come to gawk and to chatter idly about my poor countrymen. A brother from one of the orders tried to shoo them off, but they persisted. I went round the farthest edges of the crowd and slipped into a shed. Oh, what a sight!
Along the outer walls of the shed were row upon row of rough-made beds, each containing two souls. In the middle, more rough beds had been scattered and, between them, heaps of straw on the floor, with people lying atop them. I stopped before I had gone two paces and held my hand to my nose, so foul was the stench. A glance at the poor wretches closest to me showed me that they lay in their own waste. Tears filled my eyes as I walked up one row, peering into hollowed eyes and waxen faces, praying that I would find no one I knew. I was shocked and saddened to see that some lay dead and had not yet been removed from their bedmates who, in all truth, seemed indifferent. One young lad called out for food. Another wanted water. But nowhere in their midst did I find Da.
That, at least, was a small blessing.
One of the sisters noticed my absence and reported it to Sister Marie-France. She was kind but stern when she told me I must not wander off on my own. I did not tell her where I had gone.
July 13, 1847
This morning while I was outside hanging clothes with another girl, I heard my name. When I turned I could scarcely believe my eyes, for there was Michael, clean-scrubbed and jumping down from a wagon driven by an older man. I ran to him and threw myself at him, never minding the fence that stood as high as my waist between us. He hugged me close for a moment and then held me at arm’s length and laughed as he said he could not remember when he had seen me so well-dressed. I laughed, for I was wearing a patched and faded dress that had been donated to the sisters and cut down to fit me. I asked if he’d had word from Da, but he had not, although he said that he’d tried, much as I had.
A Sea of Sorrows Page 3