‘Former tenants of Sir William Wrixon Becher if not entering the Union,’ Hogan announced, ‘may avail themselves of fully paid passage to Liverpool or North America. Tickets for those wishing to travel will be issued at the shipping office in either Baltimore, for those who wish to make the long journey, or Queenstown in the coming days and weeks.’
John said nothing and stared blankly out over the fields.
‘My employer has generously agreed an amount with the shipping agents, who have a complete list of our tenants,’ Hogan continued. ‘My advice, Mr Sullivan, is that you and your wife and family avail yourselves of this good offer, for we will not tolerate tenants remaining on this property or attempting to stay on these lands. You and your children cannot remain here. Is that clear?’
Mary’s breath caught in her throat, but she would not give Hogan and his men the satisfaction of seeing her break down and cry.
‘Is that clear?’ the overseer repeated.
‘Yes,’ John said, meeting his gaze directly. ‘This injustice, this act of putting my family from land that we Sullivans have tended all our lives, will be remembered, Mr Hogan. I promise never will it be forgotten.’
Mary could see an angry purple blush blaze against the overseer’s cheek.
Behind him, a few of the younger men had pulled every last bit of thatch from the cottage roof and broken the roof supports. They had knocked the chimney so that their home now lay ruined, open to the sky and elements.
‘You must leave this place today,’ Hogan ordered. ‘Are you agreed?’
‘There is nothing left for us here,’ John replied bitterly. ‘You have made sure of that.’
‘Is it to be the Union or the road to Cork, or wherever? It is not my concern where you go once you leave this place.’
‘Passage,’ interrupted John. ‘We will take assisted passage for my family to sail to North America.’
‘A sensible decision,’ pronounced Mr Hogan, relieved that his business was done. ‘Passage will be arranged for you and your good wife and children to sail from Baltimore. I believe that I have a list of all your names.’
They watched as he mounted his horse and turned to ride away, the rest of the men following in his wake.
Mary felt like a wet rag as they disappeared. Sarah and Jude looked at her, wide-eyed and scared.
‘You are coming to America with us,’ she reassured them both. ‘You know that we are your family now.’
She ran her eyes over the broken and battered cottage. Her marital home, her children’s home; Sullivans’ Cottage, where John had spent his boyhood. Soon they would be gone from it and rain and wind, weeds and wildlife would claim it. She was heartbroken at the thought of the children never playing in the surrounding fields again.
Slowly, she went around and gathered up the few things they had. The precious vegetable patch had been trampled, her young cabbages and turnips all but destroyed underfoot. She did her best to salvage what she could, for they still had to eat.
A tearful Brigid and Denis came to say goodbye to them with their children.
‘There’s nothing left for us here,’ proclaimed Denis. ‘We are going to my brother’s place in Tipperary. He’s an old bachelor and we are hoping he would not see us on the roads.’
‘God bless you all,’ Mary said, embracing her friend for the last time.
‘We’d best be leaving too, and get on the road to Baltimore,’ John said quietly. ‘We cannot stay here.’
Without a word, Con went up to his father and hugged him, burying his head in his chest. Eight-year-old Tim stood in front of the cottage with his feet apart, taking it all in.
‘I want to remember every stone and every bit of straw and every blade of grass in this place,’ he said solemnly. ‘I want to make a picture of it so I will never ever forget it.’
John went and took a few small bits of stone that had come off the fireplace and doorway and handed him one.
‘Tim, you will always have this place and the memory of it,’ he told him. ‘We all will. No one can take that from us.’
Mary reached for John and held him close. She noticed him wince with pain but he assured her that he was fine.
‘We’d best get on the road,’ he said gently, pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen across her face. ‘My darling girl, ’tis time for us to go …’
At the end of the road, hand in hand, they turned and looked back, knowing full well that they would never see this place again.
Part Three
CHAPTER 72
Baltimore, County Cork
THE HUNGER HAD STALKED AND STARVED THE LAND. THE ONLY SOUND to be heard was the forlorn cry of a lonely corncrake as the Sullivans packed up and made ready to leave.
They took only a few possessions with them: two pots, a knife, spoons and bowls and mugs, and the tin bucket, all items needed for their journey. Mary took her precious scissors and dressmaking tools with her while John carried his shovel and fork in the hope that he might sell them, for he had no use for them now.
With heavy hearts they said a final goodbye to their home place, with its unplanted potato patches and empty cottages with not even a curl of turf smoke in the sky. Scraggy thorn trees, leafy ferns and bushes of gorse and bramble lined the stony road, broken by the shimmer of blue as the broad, curving river Ilen flowed out to meet the wide sea.
As the family walked down the curving hill towards the village of Baltimore, they passed the school, a tavern and Dún na Séad, the once grand castle of the O’Driscolls.
‘Is that the ship?’ Con shouted excitedly, running ahead. They took in the large vessel moored down below in the harbour with its tall mast and rigging, sailors busy scrubbing the deck and checking the thick ropes. ‘Can we go and see it?’
‘Later,’ John promised. ‘First, we need to find the shipping office.’
The office was part of a chandler’s, overlooking the harbour. A few men stood outside, smoking their pipes. A gaunt-looking man with his wife and three boys was ahead of them in line. They were tenants like themselves, booking passage for a ship that was sailing in three days’ time. The wife looked ill and coughed constantly.
Once they were finished, the shipping clerk beckoned the Sullivans forward. John duly gave his full name and the address of their holding, and told him their circumstances and desire to book passage to America for the family.
‘It will be to New York if you sail this week. Otherwise you will have to wait until we have one sailing in twelve or fourteen days.’
‘As we have left our holding, we have no need to wait.’
The man looked down at the pages of names and record numbers from the Becher estate, running his stubby finger along the list.
‘Sullivan, Dan … John …’
‘That’s it. John Sullivan, sir.’
‘Aye, here it is. John Sullivan and wife, Mary, and four children, I see it noted here.’
‘There are six children in our family that will be travelling,’ John informed him calmly.
‘Six? I have only four listed here,’ the clerk looked up, puzzled. ‘There is a Cornelius, Nora, Tim and Annie Sullivan. This is what is entered on the estate record. Have you had more children?’
‘We have two other children who are our family now. They were orphaned and had to come to live with us,’ he explained. ‘Their names are Jude and Sarah Casey.’
‘That may be, Mr Sullivan, but they are not listed as tenants of the estate. As such, they do not qualify for the estate’s assisted passage payment to North America.’
‘They are my wife’s family and will travel with us,’ John told the man firmly. ‘We will not leave them behind.’
‘I have my orders to follow, sir. I can issue boarding tickets for the Lady Jane for you, your wife and four children as former tenants, but I have no authority to issue passes for others travelling with you, be they family members or not.’
‘There must be some way we can bring the children,’ he pleaded, trying t
o gain the man’s sympathy. ‘We cannot leave them behind.’
‘Free passage does not apply to extra family members or friends,’ the clerk responded tetchily. ‘Otherwise we would have half the people of the parish wanting to bring relations on board with them. If they want to travel with you, then you must purchase tickets for them.’
‘How much is the passage for New York?’
‘Seven pounds per passenger is the normal fare.’
‘Seven pounds,’ John repeated, incredulous. There was no possibility they would be able to pay such a vast sum of money.
Mary felt giddy. After all that had happened that day, she could not believe they were facing such a dilemma.
‘Are you telling me that it costs seven pounds to bring a young orphan child across the Atlantic?’
Sarah had begun to sniffle loudly, drawing everyone’s attention.
‘Seven pounds is the adult fare but for children it is less. Given they are travelling as part of a family situation …’ The clerk began to tot up figures on a piece of paper with his pencil. ‘They can both travel for two pounds and five shillings, if you wish to pay passage for them.’
John’s eyes met Mary’s. She had given him all the money she had earned, every penny of it, along with what she had got from Honora Barry. He carefully counted out the coins. Jude and Sarah’s names were added to theirs on the steerage passenger list, and all of them were issued with official boarding tickets.
The clerk gave them details of their ship, the Lady Jane, and its departure time. He also told them what rations of food and water would be provided for passengers.
‘We advise people to purchase extra oatcakes and food supplies for the long journey, and a chamber pot or bucket for their personal needs. We offer all of these items in our small provision store here.’
John was tense and worried by the time they stepped outside, and the children were silent and watchful.
‘We have all got our tickets,’ Mary said, trying to cheer the situation, ‘and will set sail in two days’ time. Until then, we need to find somewhere sheltered and dry to sleep.’
Baltimore harbour looked out over the water and Sherkin Island in the distance. The sea was a mixture of blue and green, shimmering in the sunshine as the waves rushed against the harbour. Further out, beyond the wide curving bay, lay the blue ocean. There was a fine church in the village, and a scattering of houses and fishermen’s cottages dotted along the shore, but few vessels, as many fishermen had sold them in order to feed their families.
It was a place of trade, where boats and ships carrying timber, grain and flax loaded and unloaded their goods to be transported between Cork and Liverpool and Cardiff, and upriver to Skibbereen.
The Sullivans went to look at the large ship that would carry them to the New World. Its mast reached up skywards like a tree, supporting the great folds of heavy white sails, its boom and rigging. Only a few sailors were working on the large wooden deck as the waves lapped gently against the ship’s timbers.
‘Soon we’ll be sailing across the wide Atlantic Ocean in that ship,’ declared Con proudly. ‘Just look at her sails!’
‘I hate big ships,’ said Annie stubbornly, ‘and I’ll not go on one!’
‘You will too,’ encouraged good-hearted Nora, promising to look after her younger sister.
A curious seal bobbed its head up and down, diving in the foam near by and making the children laugh with its antics.
Down by the cove they found a sheltered spot. John lit a fire and Mary cooked up the ends of the food they had brought with them. They were all tired and exhausted.
Lying in the darkness under the moonlight that night, Mary could hear the waves lap against the shore and felt strangely comforted by the familiar childhood sound.
By mid-morning the harbour had come to life rapidly as the sailors began to load the ship and make ready for the long sea voyage. The crew were busy with their preparations, climbing along the rigging, and creeping up the stays and out the yard arm as the heavy sails were readied and raised.
‘They say that the Lady Jane is not regulated or as well-equipped as the bigger ships that leave from Cork and Queenstown,’ John said with worry in his voice.
‘This is the ship we have paid passage on,’ Mary assured him. ‘And for the children’s sake, we must try to make the best of it and put our trust in the Lord.’
John finally managed to sell his shovel and fork to a man from Clear Island.
‘He got the bargain,’ he said ruefully.
Following the advice of the shipping clerk, they purchased two cheap rolled-up ticking mattresses for the hard, slatted wooden bunks, and oatcakes and oats for their journey. Most of their money was gone and they had not even left Cork!
The children played for hours down at the shore, paddling and splashing in the water, and it did Mary’s heart good to hear them laughing.
That night Mary slept fretfully, dreaming of towering waves and crashing seas. She tried not to give in to the terrible fear that engulfed her. What would happen if the ship was wrecked or foundered crossing the vast Atlantic Ocean?
‘Mam, look! Our ship is nearly ready to sail,’ announced Con with delight early on Thursday morning. ‘We’ll be sailing soon, before the tide turns.’
Mary, John and the children hastened to join the line of passengers waiting to board, many of whom were tenants from their district.
The ruddy-faced captain’s mate, Mr Dwyer, examined their tickets and called out names on a passenger roll. Each traveller in turn was checked over to ensure they were well enough to travel before they were directed below deck to the steerage part of the ship.
‘There is one bunk per three or four people,’ Mr Dwyer informed the passengers, which drew groans of protest. ‘Everyone must share.’
Stepping across the gangplank, Con and Jude jumped up and down in excitement at the adventure that lay ahead of them. Mary was glad to be escaping the hunger and sickness. Although she was filled with trepidation about the sea journey, relief coursed through her veins that she, John and all the children, including Kathleen’s two, had somehow survived and were bound for a new life far from this torn land.
As they made their way down into the murky hold, it took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the lack of light. As soon as she could make out her surroundings, she rushed to place their belongings on two bunks. There was no separation of men and women so, acting quickly, Mary decided that she would share with Sarah, Annie and Nora while John and the boys would sleep together in the bunk above them.
She felt the narrow rough slats of the bunks and was mighty glad of their two mattresses as she unrolled them. Though there was such little space to sleep, she was relieved, for at least they were together and not forced to have some stranger lie with them. Already, she could hear people around them fighting and arguing about not wanting to share.
It was horrendously crowded down in steerage, the bunks all on top of each other with only a narrow passage running between them. Some bunks were even worse, with wooden posts between them, and the roof was so low that John, and many of the men and taller boys, tipped their heads against it. There was no privacy or ventilation, and already the air below deck was heavy. The bunks she had chosen for them were near the steps, where there was at least a little more light and fresh air, but Mary worried for the modesty of the women on board, for there was no provision to protect themselves from the prying eyes of the men and boys around them.
‘We all better get used to this,’ a big man called Denis Murphy declared, looking around at them all. ‘We’ll be living here on top of each other like pigs for the next six or eight weeks, so they say. There’s no point in fighting with each other, for it will do us not a bit of good.’
‘Hear, hear,’ added two other men.
The ship’s bell cut through the chatter, signalling the vessel’s departure, and there was a change in mood as everyone pushed and rushed to climb up the steps and back on to deck. The sailors h
ad untied the coiled ropes and hauled in the heavy anchor. The ship was ready to sail as the tide and the wind in her hoisted sails began to lift and move her.
The Lady Jane began to tilt and rock, and every man, woman and child was up on deck as she began to move through the waves, leaving the harbour, the wide cove and the headland behind.
Mary felt immense sadness and grief for the land they were leaving but, as the ship began to cut through the waves and John reached for her hand, she felt a strange rush of hope and excitement that this was a new beginning for them.
They drank in the view of the harbour and shoreline, the cottages, green fields and rolling hills, the woods and gorse and bracken. They savoured their last glimpse of the tall headland as the Lady Jane caught the waves. Within minutes, they had left Baltimore far behind, as they headed out past the sandy beaches of Sherkin Island and Clear Island towards the open sea.
A few women sobbed, and a young woman holding a baby started to pray out loud. The other passengers joined in with her. Tim and Annie clung to Mary nervously, scared by the strange rocking of the wooden deck under their feet. She caught sight of tears in her husband’s eyes and she knew how much leaving their home place grieved him.
‘This is a sad day for all of us, but at least we are going to a country that is no longer shackled by British rule and parliament,’ declared Denis Murphy loudly, to nods and murmurs of approval.
Con and Jude bounded up and down as the wind caught their breaths.
‘America!’ they whooped and hollered at the grand adventure that lay ahead. ‘We are going to America!’
Standing in the sea spray as the rolling waves around them rose and swelled, they took in every last vestige of the rugged coastline that they would never see again. Every rock, stone, hue, tree and field, the sheer beauty and wildness of their beloved land, they seared into their memory.
CHAPTER 73
‘THE SICKNESS WILL SOON PASS,’ MARY PROMISED THE CHILDREN, TRYING to comfort them.
The Hungry Road Page 23