Katie snuggled closer and hid her face in his rough, handmade sweater. Brit’s dark head bent above her. How would such a mite fare on the long journey? He lifted his gaze to the scowling sky. His Irish blue eyes with their thick black lashes took on a gray cast. “Irish eyes set in with a sooty finger”—tradition described them well.
“Coffin boats, that’s what they are,” someone next to them spat. “They pack us in like animals; furnish bad food for our good money. Only by the grace of God will any of us be alive even if the vessel isn’t lost at sea.”
Brit whipped around, angry color filling his smooth face. “Then why are you going, man?”
The speaker stared at him and said sourly, “Are you an Irishman asking such a question?”
Brit’s wide shoulders sagged. His six-foot frame trembled. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard the words coffin boats. Reports from those who had immigrated before came back. Everything the sallow-faced man had said was true. Ships such as the Promised Land pledged hope but too often ended in death, especially for the sick and weak.
Suddenly Brit wished he could flee from the peril ahead. He glanced despairingly at his parents and the two little brothers whose wide-eyed gazes showed understanding beyond what children should have. God, help us, he silently prayed. He looked at his once-strong father, his patient and loving mother, and wanted to cry out, “Why are we here? Wouldn’t we be better to have stayed in County Cork?”
The words behind his lips died aborning. Whatever lay before them couldn’t be worse than their remaining in Ireland in 1850. The O’Donnell family, along with hundreds of thousands of others, had been brought to their knees by the terrible potato famine. Unlike the 750,000 who perished between 1845 and 1847 while the potatoes rotted in the ground, the O’Donnells had hung on somehow. Through starvation and disease, the agony of Ireland’s cry, Tha shein uchrais, which means “I am hungry,” faith in God and grim determination kept the wolf a few feet from the O’Donnells’ door. Neighbors not so fortunate huddled in dark cabins, wore rags, and starved to death in smoke-filled rooms. The old folks in cities begged in whispers, crowded in tenements. Many Irish poor could not pay rent and were evicted. Cities burned to rubble. Dead lay in the streets.
Brit thought of the rich landowners who lived elsewhere, and familiar rage rose within him. Instead of helping their tenants by raising other food crops for the poor, they turned to cattle, hogs, and grain, shipping them to England from the major Irish ports at great profit—while the poor continued to die.
Although the government halfheartedly worked to stem the tide by establishing workhouses that offered scant shelter and food, Brit had heard again and again that those who ran them labeled poverty as a “disease” rather than a product of the times. The O’Donnells vowed to die together rather than claim a place in a workhouse and be separated, subject to all manner of disease and to have body and soul held together through small servings of porridge or thin soup.
Brit blinked involuntary tears, thickened by the drizzle of rain that had begun. He noted the new silver in his mother’s hair beneath the crocheted cap. In spite of his anger and dread, his heart warmed within him, remembering the day Father burst into their thatched cottage with news.
“The Ursuline nuns at the Blackrock convent have received ninety pounds for a single piece of crochet made by the poor children of the lacemaking school,” he told them.
“Ninety pounds!” Never had Brit dreamed of such an amount. His eyes gleamed. “Father, we must learn to crochet.”
“Aye. ’Twill be the saving of Ireland. Thanks be to God.”
In the days and weeks that followed, even the little boys’ fingers grew proficient at making lace. Every bit of money not needed to keep the family fed was carefully hoarded. For, as Father said, “We have no hope here. We must save and sail for America. ’Tis a new land with new hope.” Tears sometimes glistened in his eyes, and Brit knew how hard the rending apart from the rolling green hills and sparkling rivers would be for them all. Yet, deep in his heart, the yearning to be free from the misery that kept Ireland under a black cloud grew until 1850 when passage money had been secured for the O’Donnells.
“Father was right,” Brit murmured to himself and shifted Katie a little higher before closing the gap between himself and the person just ahead of him in line. “Crocheting made the difference to the O’Donnells and thousands of others.” He thought of how the world clamored for Irish lace. So many different kinds, so many names. Nun’s lace. Poor man’s lace. Shepherd’s knitting, that heavier crochet work that formed caps and sweaters from wool strands homespun from sheep, even from strands caught in bushes. Commissions from export firms kept fingers flying between farm chores—outdoors to utilize the last ray of sunlight, on hillsides, by peat fires—and Irish crochet lace became regarded as a harvest.
“Da.” The smallest boy who hung from Mr. O’Donnell’s hand tugged. “I want to go home. I don’t like it here.”
The other lad chimed in and clutched his father’s coat tails. “We’ll work hard and make more lace.”
If Brit lived to be a hundred he would never forget the pain in his father’s eyes when the tall man so like his oldest son quietly said, “Home is when we’re together. Come now, lads, it’s our turn to board.”
On reluctant feet, the O’Donnells passively stepped onto the ill-named Promised Land, but Brit’s rebellious heart held no passiveness. Before being herded with the others down into an abyss far from the fresh air and comfort of the wealthy, he set his lips in a straight line. The O’Donnells would endure whatever it took to be free from their poverty-stricken native land. But, when they reached America, things would be different.
Surrounded by moans and tears, fetid air, and the stench of too many people in too small a space, Brit O’Donnell vowed, God, I will never let my family have to go through anything like this again. I will accept any honorable work, no matter how mean or low, so long as it will not offend Thee. One day Father, Mother, Katie, and the lads will know comfort again. Protect us by Thy might on this terrible trip. Help us to care for those less fortunate for the sake of Thy Son, Amen.
Brit soon lost track of the weak ones who sickened and died. The man who had braved the dangers in spite of his own prophecy about unbearable conditions lasted only a week. Others followed. The food given them because coarser and less nourishing—soup, thinner than the heaving seas the Promised Land sailed, with bits of meat the O’Donnells didn’t dare identify, brackish water, and precious little of that.
“How can anyone treat others so?” Brit cried out in desperation when, during a raging storm, the miserable occupants of the ship’s hold were securely locked in. “If the ship goes down we have no hope of survival.” He pounded on the door at the top of the companionway and kicked it with heavy shoes.
“The captain knows well the rabble, as he calls us, is ready to mutiny,” a fiery-eyed man muttered.
A thrill of horror went through Brit. He had heard of crews and passengers who took a ship into their own hands although the punishment for mutineers was death. Yet for a time his tired, troubled heart wondered if anything could be worse than the conditions surrounding him. So far he and his family had managed to escape the ever-present sickness, the threat of being robbed in their sleep. How long could they endure? Fellow travelers, if such a wretched mass could be called so, scorned the O’Donnells’ quiet nightly prayers. They had been cursed and spat at by those who openly declared that if a God existed, He had forsaken them.
Did Brit’s mother suspect his thought as she had so many times in their quiet country life that felt like eons before? She leaned close and whispered for his ears alone from chapter ten of Matthew, “ ‘And ye shall be hated of all men for my name’s sake; but he that endureth to the end shall be saved.’ ”
Brit drew in a deep breath of the foul air, choked, and clung to the verse. The storm grew more violent. The Promised Land shrieked and groaned in harmony with is pitiful occupants until with
every plunge Brit knew the death angel sat on the mast waiting. Flickering light from wicks dipped in grease showed naked fear in the faces around him.
“Come close,” Mr. O’Donnell ordered. “Remember, whatever happens, we’re together. We will live in the Lord or die in the Lord, but it will be together.”
Home is when we’re together. Brit took Katie in his lap, bowed his head, and waited. Nausea hit him and he thrust her away none too soon. Around them the sounds and smell of others vomiting increased the awfulness.
Sometime later, the ship’s motion lessened to a gentle roll. Brit opened his eyes, amazed that he’d slept. He looked from face to face of the scores of those who had weathered this last storm. Something tore free inside of him. He would stand it no longer.
He leaped to his feet and up the companionway. “Listen to me!”
His clear, ringing voice dragged weary, apathetic eyes open. A few strong men, including the one who had spoken of mutiny, sat up and stared. A low mumble of protest against anyone who ordered them to do anything began.
Brit cut it short. “We paid our passage money in good faith. We’ve been herded and starved and treated like animals. If the ship had gone down last night, we’d have been trapped. We must never let it happen again!”
A feeble cheer rose. A man stood and climbed to the step beneath Brit. Then another and another. “What can we do?” someone cried.
“This.” Brit turned and assaulted the door, but the sturdy outside bar held firm. “Let us out,” he bellowed.
A hundred throats took up the cry. Louder and louder the din grew until the heavy footsteps outside the barricaded door were barely audible.
“Stand back,” came a roar from the other side of the heavy door.
Brit and his comrades backed down the companionway and stood waiting.
The scrape of wood against wood then the creak of the door to the deck opening preceded the entrance of a Goliath and a dozen sailors, who catapulted down the companionway until they faced Brit. “What’s going on down here?”
“You will not be for barring us in again.” Brit’s deadly voice and Irish blue eyes that changed to slate gray with emotion stopped the giant.
“Who says?”
“I do.” Brit didn’t move, even when the fellow’s foul breath hit him full in the face.
“And I.”
“And I.” A wall of driven men edged forward.
The jailer stepped back but howled, “What will you do, you Irish scum?” The flicker of fear in the beefy face and ox eyes encouraged Brit, even when the man added, “You’ve caused enough trouble with your shrieking and disturbing the other passengers.”
His unfortunate choice of words completed the transformation of those he ruled from debilitated men to an army seeking justice.
“Kill him!” someone screamed. “Kill them all, the rotten landowners who threw us from our homes and let our children starve!”
Aghast, Brit stared. Never in his wildest anger had he planned anything like this. “Stop!” He seized control of the rapidly growing violence. “Will we be no better than those who persecute us?”
His sheer daring won him a little time. His mind invented and rejected a dozen solutions.
“Feed us proper, keep the door unlocked, or we’ll fire the ship,” a man called from behind Brit.
The jailer’s face turned to parchment, but he gathered his contempt and sneered, “Liar. You’d be the first to burn.”
Brit noticed a slight tremble in the man’s lips even while he spoke. Could they bluff him? God, help.
A dozen others staunchly agreed they would set the Promised Land on fire rather than be submitted to what they had gone through the previous night.
“You, boy. Would you willingly see your family burn?”
The wisdom of Solomon fell on Brit. Instead of answering yea or nay, he lowered his voice until those behind him had to strain to catch his answer. “Is it any worse to burn than to die trapped in a sinking ship?”
The jailer’s jaw dropped. He backed away into a group of sailors behind him. “Get the captain,” he barked, then froze in position.
The captain arrived panting and furious. “Are you mad?” he hissed into Brit’s face, who still held the lead position. “Mutiny is punishable by death!”
Brit felt a restraining spirit that warned him to weigh each word. “Sir, no one has threatened mutiny—so far.”
A rumble of approval behind him brought even more rage into the captain’s heavily featured face. “Then what’s this all about?”
“They say they’ll burn the ship, sir,” the jailer spit out.
“You are mad. Clap this man in irons,” the captain ordered.
Before the sailors behind him could move, several of the largest Irishmen jerked Brit back and stood in front of him, arms crossed, a living barricade. “You’ll not be taking the lad. He made no threat—I did. All O’Donnell did was ask if ’twas any worse to burn than to die trapped and locked in should the ship go down.”
“I can put you all in the brig,” the captain fumed. Yet, when he observed the way the fighting Irish had rallied behind their leaders, his lips set in an upside-down tilt. Even the children and all who weren’t too sick to rise stood accusing him with their eyes. Gone were prejudices and differences of opinion, lost in the common cause: the need to survive.
“What do you want?” the captain finally asked.
Brit thrust through to the forefront. “Decent food—and don’t say you haven’t any. We know how your other passengers eat. More water. Medicine for our sick. . .a doctor if there’s one aboard. And your word as captain of this ship that before God Almighty there will be no more locking of us in this pesthole.”
For a moment he thought he’d gone too far. Blue hate filled the captain’s eyes. Brit’s fingers curled into fists and his nails cut into the palms of his hands.
Even in defeat the captain clutched at his dignity. “I make no promises about. . .the medicine.” He started away then turned on his heel. “Jailer, see about food and water. And don’t—” he broke off. “O’Donnell, is it?”
Brit nodded.
“Do I have your word before God Almighty there will be no taking advantage, no roaming of the Promised Land and stealing should the locks be unturned?”
“You have.”
“So be it. Jailer, there is no need to lock them up for the remainder of the journey.” He gathered the remnants of his authority and marched up the companionway, ramrod stiff in spite of a delayed cheer.
“Weren’t you ’fraid?” Brit’s little brother asked when he worked his way back to the family.
“I guess I was too angry to be afraid.” Brit tousled the lad’s hair. “Besides, I felt God’s spirit inside me.”
“Did God tell you what to say?” the little boy persisted.
“I believe He did. I couldn’t lie, and He’s promised to direct us in danger if we turn to Him.”
True to his word, the captain saw to it that more palatable food reached his poorest passengers—and extra water.
A sour-looking doctor who obviously considered himself above tending “Irish scum” came a few times for a cursory examination of those in steerage and doled out inadequate amounts of medicine to a few. “No sense wasting it on those who are almost gone,” he callously pronounced.
Part of Brit wanted to shake the charlatan until he rattled, but a selfish part rejoiced that Katie received the drops to help her get well. He thanked God the rest of the family hadn’t been stricken and prayed for those who had.
Then one glorious day the long-awaited call sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet, thrilling the souls of all on board the Promised Land. “Land, ho!”
“Gather your bundles,” Mrs. O’Donnell told her family. “Britton, you take Katie, please.”
The listless child brightened when they made their way into sunlight so strong those pitiful immigrants who had been so long in the bowels of the Promised Land blinked and stood dazed.
> “Move along, there,” came the order, but Brit paused by the ship’s rail and stared ahead. Somewhere in America lay rolling green hills that resembled those in Ireland. Somewhere rivers and streams ran clear and laughed their way to the sea. Somewhere in this new land he would find a home for his family.
He looked at his father, worn and spent with worry and lack of good food and water and air. His mother, who never let her family end the day without giving thanks. His brothers, frankly round-eyed at the sight of buildings, a bustling harbor, that loomed ahead.
Then Brit held Katie up so she could see over the heads of others transfixed by the knowledge they had actually arrived. “Look, mavourneen. We are together and this will be our new home.”
He shifted her to his shoulder, reached for a worn satchel with his free hand, and followed the long, uneven line of survivors until he set foot on a land of freedom and promise. Hope in his heart, a prayer of praise on his lips to the God who had sustained them, Brit O’Donnell faced his future.
And he didn’t look back.
1 my darling
two
Seven years after the O’Donnells stumbled off the miserable ship Promised Land into the United States of America, twenty-three-year old Brit stepped into the cool spring air of April 1857.
What strange paths they had traveled! First, the tenements of New York City along with so many others from their homeland, huddled together for protection against a new and sometimes unfriendly land.
From the very start, Brit’s strength served him well. He landed a job as a stevedore on the docks, grimly ignored those who called him a black Irish mick, and did his work so well even the meanest hecklers developed a healthy respect for him—and for the fists he used only in the most dire of circumstances. He had prayed about fighting and at last realized that until he proved himself he would never be free.
It took just two quick battles to establish his prowess—the first a thorough drubbing of the biggest bully on the dock; the second, more of the same to the bully’s best friend. Ironically, those two did a complete about-face and became Brit’s guardians! Never could he have found two more loyal protectors, once their blackened eyes reopened.
Veiled Joy Page 2