Letters Across the Atlantic

Sensitive Content - References disease and death.

Dear Mummy,

I’m writing like I promised I would. God knows how many weeks it’ll take for this letter to reach you. It took two months to get here on the boat. It wasn’t what I’d imagined. Did you know they call them Coffin Boats? A fifth of the passengers on board died of Yellow Fever. I was one of the lucky ones, I think. This land of opportunity isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. We didn’t get a glorious fanfare of a welcome when we stepped off the boat. In fact, I could feel the contempt of those that met us as we first got off the boat. It was a passage of survival. We got to New York after weeks of seasickness and death. I had to sleep in a bunk with several strangers. We tried to comfort each other with anecdotes but hearing them talking about their own experiences just made me homesick. The smell on board was foul, but there was no escaping it. It’s not a journey I’d ever wish to repeat. I doubt I’ll ever get the chance to return home in person. I have to make a life for myself here, but it’s hard to know where to start whenever you have nothing.

I’m sorry for complaining. I know you have it much harder at home. I hope you’re still alive and healthy. How are Lily and Bobby? I hope they’re helping you around the house. I know Aoife’s death shook everybody. I’ve been thinking about you every minute of every day and worrying about your poor empty tummies. I hope the blight ends after this crop. It feels like it’s bound to. Two bad crops is enough for anyone to bear. The food here is bountiful, but everything costs money. I’m working hard for my wages and for the little room I’m renting. The lady I rent from is tough, but she’s kind-hearted. Sometimes she brings me dinner when she has leftovers. It’s hard to get used to the food here. I’ve been living on rice and beans, and I’m grateful for every bite I get. I know how precious it is.

I’ll never forget about you for a minute, no matter how busy I get here. It’s lonely, but I know I’m lucky to be here. Few people got the chance to come to America, or if they did, they didn’t make it off the boat. I’ll be praying for you all, and I hope you can write soon to tell me about what’s happening at home.

Love,

Ellie.

Dear Ellie,

Don’t worry about sharing your woes, love. You’ve had a long, tiring journey, and I’m sure it was difficult on your own. I heard the boats are dirty and filled with rats. I know it’s worth it to get you out of here. There’s nothing here for you. You had no opportunities here. Bobby and Lily would probably love to go too, but you know we could only afford the one ticket. I know you’ll make the best of it but it’s not easy leaving your family behind. We might be stuck with this terrible blight, but we have each other. You’re in a country none of us have ever seen and we probably never will, but we can hear all your exciting stories and share your letters together. That will get us through the dark days to come. I’m hoping the worst is over for us now. The stench of the potatoes is still hanging over the house and the fields, but we’ve grown used to it. We’ve planted lots of new crops and England have sent us cornmeal in the meantime. It’s given us upset tummies, but it’s better than the hunger pangs. You know that firsthand. It’s strange with your bedroom emptied of your possessions. I remind myself it’s different than Aoife leaving because I know you’re safe and well. Keep writing to me often to tell me about your new experiences. It heartens all of us to hear that you have a bright future, even if it’s tough at the beginning. Have you made any friends yet? Tell me more about the boat and your journey there. What is New York like? I’m dying to hear. I’ve never seen pictures of it. I don’t know anyone that has travelled so far from home before. Is it very different?

Sending you all our love and missing you every day. Write again soon, love.

Mummy

Dear Mummy,

It must have taken weeks for my letter to arrive. I still can’t fathom the distance between us. I tell myself it’s only one sea, but it still feels so far. I long to hear your voice. It feels like I’m starting to forget it. I’ve got so used to these American accents. My own voice sounds strange whenever I speak out loud. I found a more permanent job. I was doing odds and ends before now – sewing and washing and whatever I could get. Now I’m working as a maid for a family. It’s easier work than what I was doing, and they’ve given me a room to stay in in their big three-storey house. The houses are different here. No stone or red brick; they’re all wooden with painted panels and steps leading up to the porches. People sit on their porches and read or sew or just pass the time talking to their neighbours. It has a friendly feel. The weather is better too. It gets hot in the summer, I’m told, but it’s still Springtime here. I’m missing the rain; isn’t that odd? We always said it never stopped raining at home, like that was a bad thing. The ground looks yellower here; it isn’t as green and the fields are filled with different crops, like sheaves of corn. It’s a place of plenty, but you need money in order to have plenty. It’s hard for lots of people. I’ve heard many of the immigrants haven’t found work, and some haven’t received a welcome. They’d rather keep us off their soil, as far as I can tell. I’ve heard people talking about the Irish and how poor and dirty they look. It’s hard to arrive looking lively after such a gruelling trip. Many had to be put in quarantine whenever they arrived, because of the diseases on board the ships.

Mrs Davis is very kind to me. She got me some new clothes that used to belong to her niece. She said she didn’t need them so I might as well have them. It feels good not to wear rags. I am sending money home with this letter. I know you need it more than I do and I’m happy to send it. It makes me feel like I’m helping out in whatever small way I can. I know we agreed that I would come here, but sometimes it feels unfair that I’m living the life I am while you all suffer at home. Even though the potato blight changed everything, I still feel homesick. People eat spuds here, but they aren’t as much of a staple. Whenever we have them for dinner, it makes me lose my appetite. I don’t tend to talk about home, so no one understands. I can still smell the potato blight even from thousands of miles away. It’s a smell that will never leave me, I think, no matter how long I’m here. It’s the smell of sickness and death and it haunts me.

I’m glad you are all safe and I hope things are getting easier. Use the money to get as much food as you can. I want to know you’re well fed and that you have a better chance to avoid sickness. I wish I’d come here sooner and maybe I could have saved Aoife. If she’d had the food she needed, do you think she still would have died? I wrestle with that thought every day, Mummy. I know it isn’t fair to bring it up to you. I know it’s harder for you than it is for the rest of us. How are you coping now?

Tell Lily and Bobby I miss them too. I miss you most, Mummy. I’d never been away from you for a day in my life, and now it looks like I’ll be separated from you for the rest of mine. Thinking about you all being well keeps me going every day. I still say the same prayers you taught me every night. Whenever I do, it helps to bring back the sound of your voice. God bless,

Ellie

Dear Ellie,

It’s Lily. I know you were expecting to hear from Mummy, but she isn’t well enough to write. She’s got fever and she’s tucked up in bed. She’s been there since just after she sent her last letter. She got smallpox. I don’t know how she got it and how we’ve escaped it – so far anyway. They say it’s an airborne illness, but we barely see anyone anymore. So many people have stopped visiting. I think they’re scared of getting sick. There’s so much sickness. I just wish it would end. When the new crops come through, we will be alright, and we won’t rely so heavily on spuds anymore. I just hope our family makes it through. Losing Aoife was hard enough, and I don’t think Mummy could cope with losing another one of us. Since Daddy died when we were little, she’s had so much to contend with. It's too much for one woman, but you know how strong Mummy is.

On a happier note, we have been working hard in the garden. We bought lots of seeds and food with your money. It’ll keep us going for a while now. We were all painfully thin, but I think we are fattening up and starting to get a healthier glow in our cheeks. We shared what we could with the neighbours; you know Mummy, she always wants to share with others, however little she has herself. You’ve given us a project and we have been working on the land while Bobby tries to bring home some money too. He’s just been working as a farmhand on the local farm, even though there’s barely anything left to do there. I don’t know how we’ve made it this far, but somehow, we have. The word of the Lord has helped us all. If we didn’t have that, I don’t know what would keep us going. We know we need to survive the hard times to reach God’s glory.

I have so many questions to ask you about New York. What is it like? Is it as wonderful as everyone says it is? Are the people different than at home? What does it look like there? Do the people talk differently? I’ve never met an American, but I’ve heard they have a drawl. Have you been going to church? Mummy hasn’t been able to go the last few weeks and it has caused her a lot of upset. You know how much of a devout Christian she is. I don’t think she ever missed a service before this. I just wish our prayers were answered a little faster. I’m praying constantly for Mummy. We hope she’ll recover after some bedrest and that she’ll get outside again. The lack of fresh air can’t be good for her. She’s too weak to do any household tasks, and you know she likes to be busy. I wish I could cure her, but the doctor can’t do anything about it either. He just told us to pray hard. That’s all any of us can do for her.

After all this is over, I hope that I can join you in the city one day. I know we don’t have the funds for it now, but maybe one day we will. Times of trouble are always followed by times of prosperity.

Wishing you all the best and missing you every day. Please write again soon.

Your sister,

Lily

Dear Lily,

How is Mummy now? I’ve been desperately awaiting your response. I wish we could make the post travel faster. I just want to hear her voice and to hear that she’s feeling well again. What way is she? Has she still been confined to her bed? Is she able to do anything yet? I know it’s an awful illness and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It’s terrible to hear that she’s caught it. I know she’ll be ok though. She’s so strong. She’s always ok. If she isn’t ok, how can any of the rest of us manage?

I’m slowly getting used to New York. It feels like such a long time since I’ve seen any of you. I miss you every day too. Tell me what you and Bobby have been doing? Is he enjoying working on the farm? Do you have to do all the chores alone now? I’m sure you’re taking great care of Mummy. Did the doctor visit again? Sorry you’re getting a barrage of questions, but I have so many to ask you too.

It is very different here. The weather is warmer, and the architecture is funny. Everything is much fancier than the farmhouses and cottages back home. The houses are so big, they could hold twenty people, but there are normal sized families living in them - in the neighbourhood I’m working in, at least. I’m getting a glimpse of what it’s like to be rich. Even working as a maid feels self-indulgent. I think about you all back home and I feel guilty that I’ve got the chance to start over. I feel guilty that I’m not more grateful for it sometimes too. I get homesick, and I cry myself to sleep most nights, just thinking of home and all the silly things I miss. I miss the familiar trees in the garden, the cosy rooms of the cottage and hearing the laughter of those I love. It’s silent at night whenever I got to sleep. I miss lying awake, chatting to you about everything we thought our lives would become.

What do you miss from before the famine? I can hardly remember those days now. Do you allow yourself to think about them? We were all so carefree then. Sometimes I wish I could go back there and appreciate everything we had so much more.

Please write to me soon to tell me how Mummy is. I’m enclosing some of this week’s earnings to help you get more seeds. I’m glad that’s keeping you busy.

Love,

Ellie

Dear Ellie,

I hate to have to write this letter to you. We are still struggling to process it. Mummy passed away a few weeks ago. She looked like she was getting better, but then she took a turn for the worse. I wish she could have got to hug you one last time. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such sad news and by letter, no less.

They took the body away. It’s in the local burial ground with so many others. She doesn’t even have her own plot. She wouldn’t have expected that in the midst of everything that’s happening, but I wish she had got the send-off she deserved. She was still so young and full of life. That illness robbed us of so much.

Bobby and I have been getting on with the work that needs to be done. We are just going through the motions, keeping each other alive. I wish we could see you and that you could have had a last conversation with Mummy. I’m sure this news with overshadow anything else I could think to write about, so I’ll keep it short.

Keep in touch with us and let us know how you’re coping. Bobby is still working hard at the farm, and I have a million things to do at home. Our work seems like it will never be done, but it keeps us going too. We are trying to think positively about the future, but with our recent news, it’s tough to do that. Please keep praying for us as we will for you.

All my love,

Lily