But Sister Marie-France has already thought of that. She sent word to the postmaster to be on the lookout for Michael and to tell him that his sister is alive and in Montreal. She says that she will write to Uncle Liam to tell him where I am as soon as she hears from the postmaster in Bytown. She is so kind that I hugged her. Then, embarrassed, I pulled away from her. But she only smiled and said that she understood, for she had seven brothers of her own and were she in my place, she would worry too.
I thought to ask about Connor as well. Sister Marie-France had received word from the couple who adopted Daniel — they said they would be pleased to have a visit from Connor.
August 8, 1847
I passed the evening with two other girls who were put out to service but had been sent back by their mistresses. Eileen, who is thirteen, was sent back because she kept breaking things, for which she was beaten. Mary Catherine, fifteen, was sent back when she fell ill. She is a thin little thing, all eyes and bones, and easily looks younger than her true age. She is better now that she is back with the sisters, but not strong enough to work yet. She has been told some charitable family will take her in but wishes to stay with the sisters. She says she wants to take her orders.
It was so nice to have someone to talk to for a change. That is one good thing about this house. But no one stays for long. You get to know a girl one day, and the next she is off to a new home or a new position. There is no chance of becoming dear and close friends who know each other like sisters, the way Anna and I did.
I wonder if Anna has made new friends. I wonder if she has forgotten me.
August 9, 1847
Today would have been Patrick’s first birthday. Ma would have fussed over him. Da would have danced him around the room. Da danced on everyone’s birthday. I smiled as I pictured them and then — I could not help myself — I cried.
I asked permission to go to the nearby square where Connor had said that he and Michael used to meet. I thought I might find Connor or someone who knew him. Sister Marie-France let me go for a brief time after I helped with the laundry, but I might as well have stayed back. Half the people I approached had no English, and the other half knew nothing. I started to cry again, right there in the square.
How I wish that Ma and Da and Michael and Patrick and I were all together. How I wish we were back home, well-fed and happy, among our friends. How I wish things had never changed. Change brings nothing but heartbreak and sorrow.
August 10, 1847
New children arrive almost daily and are in need of good food and clean clothes, so there is always much to do. I spent the day ironing and thinking about what Sister Marie-France had said. From now on, I will take her advice and try to use my book for reflection. My first reflection is this: I must pay far more attention to the task at hand when I am ironing, for heated irons are dangerous things. It is easy to burn a hand or the side of an arm out of carelessness when picking up a heated iron. It is easier still to drop a heated iron onto the ground, where it could fall upon (or, in my case, narrowly miss) the foot of some good sister who is going about her business. Also, it is astonishingly easy to let a hot iron linger a little too long upon an article of clothing or a crisp white sheet when the ironer (me) gets caught up in relating a story to another girl, and thus to leave a scald mark or even to burn the article right the way through. The sister in charge of the laundry said that we all learn best from our mistakes, but I can tell she does not relish having to report the loss of an otherwise perfectly good piece of linen.
Also, I am sure I do not know how the sisters bear the heat of the fire, the irons and the oppressive summer day in their woollen habits and wimples. God must truly love them.
August 11, 1847
No news of Michael. I am beside myself with wanting to know.
Two of the sisters go each day to the fever sheds to care for the sick and the dying. I reflected a great deal on this and on what I saw when I went there looking for Da. I decided to ask Sister Marie-France if I might accompany them, even though she had turned down my request in the past. She wasted no time in saying no once more, but she was surprisingly gentle about it. She told me that many of those who are nursing the ill have sickened and died.
I reflected on that too and reminded her that I had not fallen ill on the ship or afterward, even when I visited the sheds against her wishes. I said that perhaps God had protected me because he meant for me to help the less fortunate of my countrymen. Then I told her what I had heard at the Johnsons and that Claire had heard Mr. Johnson say — that the newspaper reported every day the number who had died in the sheds.
“I want to help,” I said.
She peered at me for a very long time and asked me if I understood the danger I might be in. I said I did. In the end, she said that I might go.
August 12, 1847
Today I went to the emigrant sheds and worked side by side with the sisters. We did our best to give water and broth, when we had it, to the patients who are able to take them and, when we could, to move some of the worst-off patients onto clean bedding. But it was like trying to build a very long wall one small pebble at a time. I heard one gentleman tell another that there are more than fifteen hundred men, women and children in the sheds, and that some twenty or more die every day and must be disposed of. The same gentleman said that he will be glad when the new sheds are completed at Windmill Point and the sick are moved there, so that the plague which is carrying off so many of the city’s “valuable citizens” may be checked and public confidence restored.
I did not understand what he meant by that, so I asked one of the sisters. She did not know either, but a doctor who overheard my question said that because of the sickness, business and travel about the city have suffered, and the city’s merchants, save the coffin makers, are complaining that something must be done or the city will be ruined. The doctor spoke with a tone of disdain. He added that there are some people in the city who would like to ship all the Irish back to their landlords and would do it in a trice if there were a way that would not cost them anything.
August 13, 1847
Da had always supposed that everything would be different across the ocean. But I am beginning to think that things are a misery for the least fortunate no matter where they may find themselves. Everywhere I go, I hear someone speak of the Irish as lazy and the makers of their own misfortune. But most who find themselves here are either ill or destitute through no fault of their own and have been reduced to beggary.
On my way to the sheds this morning, I saw a woman begging on the street corner. She told everyone who passed that she had two small children and that her husband and her third child had perished, one on the passage, the other in the sheds. A policeman came by, grabbed her by the arm and told her that begging was not tolerated on the streets and that if she was in need of something to eat, she should take herself to the sheds, where there was food to be had for the likes of her. She had no choice but to leave where she was, carrying one babe in her arms and tugging the other along behind her. I felt so sorry for her that I asked Sister if I could help her.
I picked up her little child and walked beside the woman, who was thin and haggard and looked as old as my ma, although she told me she was not yet twenty-four. She said that she did not know what was to become of her and her children. She had tried to find employment, but there was nothing save the prospect of going into service. She had considered that, even though it would mean giving up her children, but without any references and with no one to guarantee her as the sisters did me, she has had no luck. It does not help her case that she looks so ragged. I am sure many think she is diseased. I have heard that people are afraid to hire those from the ships for fear of contagion. At the same time, the city fathers worry that the many destitute will become a burden on the public purse. It seems an awful contradiction. People will not hire them even though they are in need of workers, and then they condemn the poor wretches for begging or for threatening to become a drain on the
city’s resources. It is as if people think the only way to solve the problem is to turn back time so that the Irish had not come in the first place. But that is not the way of the world.
I left the poor woman at the sheds, where she was told that there was no food to be had at the moment. The last I saw of her, she was sitting on the ground, both children gathered to her, her head bowed.
August 14, 1847
I went to the sheds again. I make myself useful there, and it reminds me that there are many in this world who are worse off than I.
August 16, 1847
Nothing much to write. I am so tired at the end of each day. Despite the sisters’ best efforts, people continue to arrive ill and many die each day.
August 19, 1847
When I am not at the sheds, I help the sisters with new young arrivals from the ships who either reach Montreal as orphans or whose parents are too ill to care for them. I help the little ones out of their rags and into a bath and fresh clothes. The older children seem glad to have someone from home to tell them about this new country. I also busy myself with laundry and scrubbing. In the evening, I help to settle the little ones. If they fuss, I tell them fairy stories in a whisper — the sisters do not approve of fairies — so that they will fall asleep. All the while I ache for news of Michael. I ache for my family — what little is left of it. I ache to be where I belong. And sometimes, late in the night, I awaken with an ache in my heart for Ma and Da.
August 20, 1847
The new arrivals continue to be adopted by generous families. I see some of the men and women who come to take the youngest ones into their homes. Almost without exception, the women’s hearts seem to soften as they bend down to look into blue eyes or brown eyes so close to the ground. Mother Superior insists that the babies be clean at all times so as to reassure those who are charitable enough to take them that they are not ill and carry no infection.
Older girls like me must earn their keep, of course. It seems that we are regarded with more critical eyes and are quizzed as to what chores we did at home. I heard two women talking this morning as they waited to be admitted to the house. One said that Irish girls are little savages who are hopeless with housework and have to be watched every moment. “They are almost more trouble than they are worth,” she said. And yet she had come to get a girl. The second declared that she would not take a girl unless she was satisfied that the girl would be of immediate assistance. “I have no time to teach an ignorant girl,” she said.
August 21, 1847
This morning I was sent to Sister Marie-France. My heart raced as I made my way to her door. Perhaps she had word about Michael. Or Uncle. My hand trembled as I rapped at her door. But when she called softly for me to enter and I let myself inside, my spirits sank, for she was not alone. There was a woman with her, a Mrs. Hall. She is English and, hearing of so many orphans advertised for service, had come to look for a girl. She has a gentle smile, clear blue eyes and a voice that sounds like a fine melody. She and her husband have been in the country only three years. They have two small children and need help about the house. She asked me about myself and my family, seemed pleased to learn that I can both read and write, and, even though she is English, was sad to hear that all of my family save Michael perished with the fever. She seemed much nicer than the two women I overheard yesterday, and I was glad of the chance to earn my keep while I wait for word from Michael. At least, I was glad right up until she said that she would be leaving in four days’ time to return to a place called Sherbrooke, which is several days’ journey southeast of Montreal. When I heard that, all the gladness flew from my heart. If I leave Montreal, how will I ever find out about Michael and my uncle? That is why when Mrs. Hall asked me directly whether I would like to work for her, I hesitated.
Sister Marie-France quickly said that I was grateful for the offer and would be ready to do whatever was required. Mrs. Hall turned to me and asked if that was true.
I didn’t know what to say.
Mrs. Hall said that if I did not want the position, I had only to say so. She said that she had a happy home but that she did not think it would stay happy if she employed someone who did not want to be there.
Sister Marie-France assured her that I had a good disposition and was a hard worker, but Mrs. Hall looked at me and waited for me to answer. I looked down at the floor and mumbled that I was happy to be offered a position.
There was a long silence. Finally Mrs. Hall said that she would return in two days and that if I was willing to go with her, the position was mine. If not, then she would interview another girl.
August 22, 1847
I have thought of nothing but my uncertain future all last night and all of today. Tomorrow I have to give Mrs. Hall my answer. Sister Marie-France has said nothing, but I know she thinks I should take the position. But how can I? If I leave, how will Michael or my uncle find me? I do not know what to do.
August 23, 1847
I made my decision last night. First thing this morning, I spoke to Sister Marie-France and asked her to write one more letter for me. Then, when Mrs. Hall returned and looked deep into my eyes and asked me if I was sure I wanted the position in her household, I said yes.
Mrs. Hall was not satisfied and asked Sister Marie-France if she might have a moment alone with me.
“Now then,” she said when we were alone, “tell me what reservations you have.”
I told her I had none.
“Two days ago when I made my offer, I was sure you would refuse,” she said. “Why have you now decided to accept?”
I felt I had no choice then but to explain why I had been torn between going with her and staying in Montreal. She listened to me without interruption. When I had finished, she said, “And now you are sure?”
I explained that Sister Marie-France had promised to write again to the postmaster in Bytown to tell him where I could be found. Mrs. Hall surprised me by suggesting I put a notice in the newspaper asking that anyone looking for me should inquire at the newspaper office, where Mrs. Hall would leave information about where I might be found. I said that this was a good idea but that I could not afford to pay for such a notice. Mrs. Hall said that she would pay and then deduct the amount from my wages.
She is so different from Mrs. Johnson that I can scarcely believe it. She knows nothing about me, but still she cares about my happiness and well-being. I mean to work hard for her and to be especially careful not to drop anything. I do not want her ever to be sorry for the effort she has made to help me.
August 25, 1847
I went one last time to the fever sheds with the sisters. I put my arm around a girl no older than myself to help her drink some water. The straw upon which she lay was damp and putrid, but there was nothing to be done about that. Her gown, little more than a rag, was equally smelly, and she lay without so much as a piece of sheet to cover her.
“You are an angel,” she managed to say after she had drunk her fill.
When I assured her that ’twas nothing but Christian charity, her eyes widened.
“You are Irish,” she said.
I said that I was and that I had come to Canada for the same reason she had. She sank back against the filthy straw and said that she had imagined mountains of butter and rivers of milk. She had been told, as I had, that everyone in Canada eats meat every day and that honey flows in abundance. She asked if I had tasted these things.
I told her that I had had meat, milk and butter, but that I had not yet tasted the honey. She smiled and closed her eyes. I imagined that she was thinking of how sweet the butter would taste. A few moments passed, and the weight of her frail body grew heavy against my arm. I realized then that she had slipped away. I laid her down and went to tell one of the sisters, who sent me to put out fresh straw that had been delivered to the sheds that afternoon.
Along with some brothers, I began to remove some of the foul old stuff and replace it with the new. It was heavy work. I was pushing a cart laden with damp an
d heavy straw across the cobbles when I came to a jarring halt. One of the wheels had caught on a cobble that had worked its way up above the others. I pulled the cart back and tried to guide the wheel around, but succeeded only in coming up against another crooked stone.
“Let me do that,” said a soft voice behind me. I stood back gratefully to let a lad guide the cart around the snag. Then, still holding the cart handles, he asked where I was taking the straw. When I told him, he pushed on. I trotted after him, grateful for the assistance. Only when I drew even with him did I see who he was.
“You’re the thief,” I said.
He did not seem in the least bothered by the accusation.
“I’ve a mind to call for a constable,” I said.
He laughed and said that no constable would help me as he was doing, unless there was a profit to be made from foul and diseased straw, in which case, I would be relieved of both my load and my cart, and that would be the last I saw of either.
“So you justify your own thievery by accusing everyone of being a thief,” I said.
“Not everyone,” he answered. “Only those who deserve it.” He grinned at me again, sassy lad. As we walked, he told me his own story. His name is Tommy Ryan.
After the potatoes had blackened, his da went to work at road building in exchange for barely enough food for one person. He gave the food to his family, but it wasn’t enough. Two little sisters died of hunger and fever. His da kept working until at last he, too, died from want of food. The landlord then drove the rest of the family from their home and put them on a leaky ship bound for Canada. Tommy’s ma died of the fever on the ship, and he had made up his mind to rely only on himself when he finally landed, alone.
I felt sorry for him, for, like me, he had lost his family. “Still, it’s no excuse to take what doesn’t belong to you,” I said.
“Like that medal?” he asked. “It was lying on the ground, I swear it. The man it belonged to had already passed.”
A Sea of Sorrows Page 6