Journey to Me New Home

Dear Mum and Pa, 

I am writing you this letter hoping that I can mail it soon, but I have not seen land in almost three weeks.  The waters have been rough and many of us below is feverish and cold.  I miss both of you more than I can say.

Love, your son,

Patrick

I kept this soggy letter in me trousers back pocket as I went above to get a gander at the gray firmament.  I really don’t know how God can stand such a gloomy place, I don’t.  I have given up with trying to keep solid food down as I toss it over the side of the ship as soon as I have finished eating it. I miss me home and my folks, I do. I pray for them.  Everynight below deck, mum, pa, Erin, Momby, Ian, Quisby, Chester, Gwendolyn, Massey and baby Grace.  We have quite a clan, we do.  It was not easy saying good-bye especially Baby Grace who was wailing as I went up the gangplank.  Her wail still echoes in me ears as I fight the nausea to fall asleep.  

“Alabaster, the landlord is here to collect.” My mum tells my pa. 

“I do not have it, Bridgette.” He bows his head.

“What can we do?” She has tears in her eyes.

“I do not know.” He reaches for her hand as his eyes are now filled with tears.

“What?  No rent?  It’s due farst of the month, ya know.” William Paisley, our landlord shakes his head.  He’s a gentleman from Cornwall who has no patience for his Irish renters.

“Our crop has failed.” My pa tells him.

“Not my problem, sir.” His half smile beneath his mustache is evil, “There is a solution.” 

“What might that be?” My pa questions our English landlord.

“Sell one of your children to indenturement.” He offers a half shrug.

“Ah no, not that.” My mum gasps 

“What then?  Do you have the funds?” His smile grows like a snake beneath his black mustache. 

“Nao, we donn.” He bows his head.

“You have eight young chil’en.  Choose one.” He folds his fingers beneath his chin, “Choose one of them.”

“If I must choose…I choose Patrick, me oldest.” He manages to say.

“Noooo.” My mum wails, taking me hand as she does.

“Wise choice.” William nods, “The oldest has the best chance of survival.  The money will go toward the rent.  Paid in full.” 

“This is barbary.” My mum puts her body between me and Sir Paisley.  He merely laughs at the pathetic sight. 

“Be that as it may, but many of your kind have already been shown the street. Pray that isn’t your fate as well.” He glares at me pa, “Have him to the docks at sunrise in the morning at which time I will mark the rent you owe, paid.” 

He opens the door and shows himself out leaving only his long shadow farewell.  

“You understan’ dontcha, Patrick?” Pa says to me.

I nod, because I don’t know what else to do.  My mum begins to weep at the table where we all gather for dinner. 

Captain Jack Codswell will guide us all to our new home in his schooner HMS Raliabill, a three masted Barque which had a crew of twelve and thirty passengers crammed and cramped below deck.  Before we departed from Dublin Port as the sun rose in the misty sky, Captain Codswell addressed us, “Welcome to the Raliabill which is an old Scottish word for dependable.  And indeed it is just that as I have crossed the Atlantic over fifty times aboard this ship.  As passengers, you are expected to pull your own weight which means you will be assigned duties that you will carry out.  Is that understood?”

Every passenger was in stunned silence from the damp early morning port air to the knowledge that the journey ahead would be trying, but we all nodded like the loyal crew we had become.  

An hour earlier, I watched my pa sign the papers before I stepped up on the gangplank. He kissed me cheek, patted me on the arm and said, “God be with ya, Patrick.” 

Mum did not come as she could not stop crying as Ian told me, because pa did not have the heart to speak it me himself.  Ian was the next oldest of our family, sixteen years.

The dock crew pushed the ship from the moorings and an hour later, me home in Eire was just a memory.  The waves began to splash under the hull giving us a small sampling of what lay ahead of us.  A couple of the older men leaned over the side and heaved out their breakfast into the swirling surf. Captain Codswell took hold of the wheel as we bobbed on the waves.  

“Where are ya from, lad?” A woman asked me as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

“Newbridge.” I answered proudly as the briney air filled my lungs.

“Aye, I’m from Longford.  Still go by missus.  Mrs. McCowen.” She smiled, but it was missing a lot of teeth. “Done alright until me husband died.” 

“Sorry for ya loss.” I bowed my head.

“Well, he loved his whiskey more than he loved me, I’m afrearin’” She laughed, but it sounded more like someone with consumption trying to gasp for their next breath. 

“You two.” Captain Codswell pointed to us, “I need ya to start cleaning out the hold. There are two brooms below deck.”

“Aye, aye.” Mrs. McCowen gave a mock salute as we went below the main deck.  

To be honest, below deck was cramped as there was only about four foot clearance and I stand over five foot ten inches, so I be bumping my head with every wave. Mrs. McCowen was barely five foot tall.  She would laugh every time my forehead made contact with the main beam below deck.  It amused her to no end as we swept up the filth from the hull. 

“Some folks are such an’mals.” She shook her head with each stroke of her broom.  

“Aye.” I would agree just before my head would slam into the beam.  

Sleep was impossible.  I had someone’s foot in my ear and my foot was uncovered as some of the bilge swished around my toes. All I could think about was my family near Newbridge.  Lately dinner had become a bit sparse.  Me pa got a few rabbits, but they did not go far in our family.  When our crops failed, we did not have anything to put in the rabbit stew and the gravy tasted of gruel weak of flavor and sustenance.  

Days turned into weeks as we got used to the rough seas and I became better at not hitting my forehead.  I did notice Mrs. McCowen’s face became grayer as our journey continued. She did not eat at dinner and complained of pains from down below.  

In our second week, she did not rise from her blankets. She wept and called out, “Tucker, Tucker are ye there?” 

“Who is Tucker?” I asked.

“My dearly beloved.” She closed her eyes after stroking me cheek, gently. 

“No, I am Patrick McGunnel.” I told her.

“Save ya breath, lad.” One of the passengers told me, “She’s gone.” 

I looked down, alarmed, but her face bore an expression of eternal rest.  

Later that afternoon, Captain Codswell serving as chaplain read from his Bible as two crewmen deposited her remains over the side of the ship.  Me tears stung me eyes as I watched her disappear from sight. 

The next day, Barry Collins took her place with me below deck, but he had some fermented fruit rines in his pocket which he sucked on as he swept.  Before I had finished, he was laying down passed out from the fermentation.  

“Should have him keel-hauled, I should.” One of the crewmen said before letting a few cuss words fly free from his mouth.  

I had been warned by a few of the other passengers not to get too close to the crew since they liked to pull pranks on the stupidity of the Irish passengers. It got to the point when I could not stand the sight of any of them as the third week fell upon us.   

The storm erupted from the north after a day of clear sailing and blue skies.  At sunset the force of the gods rained down on us with ten foot swells and jagged streaks of lightning flashing across the sky to accompany the fierce winds that threatened to rip the sails from the mizzen mast. 

“You there.” Captain Codswell pointed to me, “Up the rigging and help me crew to put the sails away before they are shredded by this gale wind.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” I did not offer any kind of salute as I began to climb the rigging where two sailors were trying to fold the sail while keeping their perch on the rigging. 

“Are ye here to assist us?” One of the battered sailors asked as the torrential rain flowed from his hair and whiskers. 

“Aye.” I nodded.

“Then grab it there on the sail and pass it this way so we can fasten it to the mast.” He pointed to a place near the edge of the sail.  I grabbed the slick material and hand over hand I passed it up to the crew man. “Thank ye.” 

“What is your name?” Asked the other holding onto a rope that was the only thing between him and the ravenous sea. 

“William.” I answered.

“William, ye are a good man.” He proclaimed as he was silhouetted by a stab of lightning.

“Sails are secure.” The other sailor yelled to his partner.

“Aye, let’s get us on deck.” The second sailor began to scurry down the rope he was holding.  Freezing rain began to pelt us before we could get both feet on the main deck.  

“Got the sails secure, sir.” The first sailor reported.

“Good.  I pray the hull holds out through this battering.” Captain Codswell wiped his dripping brow with his jacket sleeve.  

I was nearly thrown overboard with the next god-like swell.  The water had become pitch black as all light was absorbed by each wave.  

“Eh, there mate.” The second sailor grabbed me as I took a crooked step near the rail. “We need the likes of you if we are gonna make it through this storm.”

Below deck many of the passengers were becoming ill as the ship bumped and swayed with each enormous wave. 

“Where was ya, lad?” One of the passengers asked me.

“Helping secure the sails.” I answered. 

“The hell ya say.” His face dropped. “Ya could get ya-self swept overboard doin’ that.  This crew is made for that, ya know.”

“The crew asked for help.” 

“Ya ever been to sea, lad?” He nodded.

“No.” 

“And yet ya go fooling around with the Devil hisself?” He marveled, “You was one lucky fella, that’s for sure.” 

I had never considered myself lucky, just able bodied as God had made me.  The hull where we had called home for the past three weeks was shaking and sweating sea water so there was not a dry thing among us and bilge water swept over us like a river. 

Ah, what I wouldn’t do to be back in my old bed in Newbridge.  We lived a few miles from town, but the smells of whiskey brewing and pork simmering still managed to reach us anyway.  Whenever pa needed someone to ride with him into town for supplies, I made sure my hand was the first to go up.  

Maggie worked in the bakery with fresh bread and hard rolls.  Her smile was the sweetest one in all of Eire.  With a head full of shiny auburn hair and ruby red lips, I close me eyes, I can still see her standing in the sunlight on a warm summer’s day.  How I will miss that smile and her soft voice welcoming me into the bakery.  If God be pleased with me, he would send me back there one day so I could ask her to be me wife.  She could hold me through this storm and I wouldn’t fear a minute in the jaws of the sea monster. 

The next morning once the seas had calmed a bit, Captain Codswell cornered me, “Lad, I have ya contract and I’d be willin’ to have you as part of me crew, if ever you take a likin’ to the sailor’s life.” 

“I’d have to give it some thought.” I shrugged.

“Do that.  Living on the high seas ain’t such a bad way to go, you know.” He nodded back and tipped his hat. 

A week later the man in the crow’s nest yelled out, “Land Ho!” 

New York Harbor came into view by the early afternoon.  

“Prepare to dock!” Captain Cogswell ordered. His crew appeared on deck, manning their stations in preparation for docking in the harbor.

I could not believe that we had finally arrived.  Through the trials and tribulations, I had made it to New York.  As we pulled into the pier, I did not see anyone there to greet our arrival as I had dreamed.

While the crew was securing the ship to the pier, I heard someone on the dock grumble, “Great more Irish.  When will they stop sendin’ ‘em?” 

And then it hit me, we were not really welcome here as I thought we’d be.  Some of the faces of the stevedores and longshoremen were not welcoming as they all wore expressions of “Here they come to take jobs.” 

When I walked down the gangplank, I was met by Horace McDavin who shook my hand, “Welcome to New York.” 

This would be the closest I would get to a welcoming party.  So, I shook his hand.

“I’m part of the Irish labor force recruitment.” He nodded to three other gentlemen flanking him. “We have your contract.  And the good news is we are digging a canal through New York proper to link the Great Lakes creating a super trade route.  Currently we have several crews digging each day.  Would you like to join them?”

“I guess.” I glanced up at Captain Cogswell who just nodded as he walked the deck of his ship making sure everything that needed to be, was unloaded.  From his place on deck, he rendered me a sharp salute of which I promptly returned it.  

“We can have you out at one of the dig sites by noon tomorrow.” One of the other men stated, “My name is Gregory Cosgrove, by the way. I will be your foreman.” 

“Can’t wait to get started.” I tipped my hat.

“We shall buy you lunch, if that’s alright?” Mr. Cosgrove pointed toward a small diner a block or so away.

“Thank you so much.” I nodded.

I was grateful to finally be at my destination.  I would be sure to write everyone a letter to inform them that I had arrived safely.  

As promised, the next day I had my shovel in hand, digging in the dirt with a few dozen of my fellow countrymen digging what would be known as the Erie Canal.