August Gale (22 page)

And despite the opportunity, she never remarried. As the Marystown widows forever looked to the sea, mourning their lost husbands, Patricia Walsh held grief and hope in her heart. She believed that one day, Ambrose, her first and only love, would return. There would be a knock on the door or an unexpected phone call, and suddenly, a husband, a father would reappear, reunited with his wife and two sons.

T
he priest's black robes rustled in the breeze as he stepped into the skiff. Father John McGettigan eyed the homes that hugged the land across the bay. He had comforted many grieving families in the twenty-two years since he had been ordained, but on this August day he would knock on the doors of a dozen houses. Many of the fishermen's widows had several children. A few were pregnant or had just given birth.

McGettigan's thoughts turned to Lillian Walsh. How would he break the news to Miss Lil?
How do you tell a woman that the sea has claimed three of her sons and her husband?
The priest studied the dark water as he steered the boat to the southern shore. The motor cut through the bay drawing him closer to his grim task. The local constable sat next to McGettigan; he had agreed to accompany the priest and assist in delivering the death notices. Lost in their own thoughts, neither man spoke. McGettigan made a mental list of Marystown's dead: Paddy, James, Frankie, and Jerome Walsh, Michael Farrell, Edward Clarke, Dominic Walsh, John Brinton, Charles Hanrahan, George Mitchell, Tom Reid, and Billy Reid. And then there was Richard Hanrahan from Little Bay and Dennis Long from the neighboring village Fox Cove. Another Marystown father, James Keating, a doryman on board the
Jane and Martha
, had also perished in the gale. McGettigan bowed his head and uttered a silent prayer for the drowned men.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine—Grant them eternal rest, O Lord
.

From the presbytery kitchen window, Lizzie Drake followed the boat and the priest's silhouette in the morning sunlight. His face had paled, his voice stunned into silence since he received the telegrams about the
Annie Anita
and the
Mary Bernice
. The young maid had thought McGettigan would tumble to the floor from the shock. The reverend had been queer enough with an odd, vacant look in his eyes since the night of the storm, and now this tragic news further rattled the priest. In her years washing floors, scrubbing potatoes, and cleaning up after McGettigan, she had feared and sometimes grew angry at the priest, but she had never felt sorrow, pity for him. Yet on this August morn she would not trade places with McGettigan for all the gold in the colonial governor's coffers.
No, 'twould be a day that priest and the whole of Marystown would never forget
.

On the south side of the village, children and their mothers watched as McGettigan's boat drew closer. The sight of the priest prompted fear and dread. The women crossed themselves as if to ward off an evil spirit. “Whose house will he be going to?” they whispered. “Surely, he has terrible news. Word of the men missing in the gale.”

McGettigan and the constable spoke to no one as they stepped from the skiff. The priest turned away from the women and their faces pinched in worry. He pressed his own lips together and headed along the dirt path. McGettigan walked west along the water, toward the home of Paddy's parents, where he knew Lillian waited for word of her husband and sons. In his mind, McGettigan formed words,
They're all gone, Lil. Paddy, James, Jerome, and Frankie. They are with the Lord now. At peace, by His side
. He would try to hold her, convince her that prayer was best in this time of unbearable sorrow and loss. But the priest knew he would not get far with that advice. There would be screaming, wails from a woman who would never be right again.

Down along the creek, below the home of Paddy's parents, Ernest Walsh's daughters held their breath as McGettigan passed them. “Does he have word of Da?” they asked one another. The priest did not acknowledge the young girls as he strode quickly by them. He continued on to their Grandmother Walsh's home. McGettigan disappeared inside but for a few moments before the screeching began. The door flew open and four men carried Lillian Walsh out in the wicker chair she had collapsed into. Her screams, shrill and constant, echoed across the bay. Her legs kicked the air wildly.

The ungodly shrieks pulled women and children from their houses. From their doorsteps, they watched the men carry Lillian along the dirt path, past the fishing wharfs and Paddy's pier, to the captain's home on the hill. As they neared her front gate, Lillian's cries grew louder, her hands clawed at the air as she shouted, “No, no, no!”

Mothers covered their faces and sobbed as their children asked, “What's wrong? Why are they hurting Miss Lil?” McGettigan and the constable pressed past the crowds of women and proceeded on their mission. Leaving Lillian with the neighbors who had rushed to her home, the priest and the officer walked toward Alice and John Brinton's house. Her head bent to the ground, Alice Brinton raked hay as McGettigan neared her dwelling. Her seven-year-old daughter Mary ran to her side. “Ma, the priest is here to see ye.”

Alice Brinton knew before she heard McGettigan's words. Her husband, the poor soul, was dead, leaving her with two young lasses and an infant who was barely two months old. Alice gazed at the priest as if he were an apparition, a spirit from another world. She recalled the night before the
Annie Anita
and
Mary Bernice
had departed. Alice had been finishing her duties at the Walsh home, cleaning the dishes when Lillian had begged Paddy and her sons not to go.
The woman knew they would never return. The dark cloud, the whirlwind, omens of death. Lillian had portended the loss, the gale. And here we are, left the torment of fourteen perished souls and scores of children without their fathers. Blessed Mother of God, who will watch over us now?

McGettigan sympathized with the young woman's concern; the priest had his own worries. What would become of the widows? They had six, seven, and some of them, eight mouths to feed. With cod prices cut in half, the families barely survived when their husbands came home with their schooners filled with fish.
How in the name of Jesus would they make it now?
There would be little wood or coal for their stoves this winter, and in their cold kitchens, the cupboards would be bare. Dinner would be nothing more than a crust of bread, a few potatoes, and a kettle of hot water. It would not be long before the cemetery would claim the children, one by one. The thought of more death, more sorrow, in this small village stirred a chill deep inside McGettigan's bones.

The priest offered a blessing and a prayer for Alice Brinton and her three children before moving on to the neighboring home of Margaret Walsh. “I've got poor news,” McGettigan told Mrs. Walsh. “The
Annie Anita
was found broke in two. All hands were lost. Your son Dominic is gone.” Margaret Walsh dropped into the kitchen chair. Both she and her son had shared ill feelings about the August journey. Dominic had paced the floors the night before he boarded the schooner. Margaret had begged him not to go. The poor lad was just twenty-two years of age, building a home for his bride and planning to be married upon his return. How she wished she had held him fast, forbidden him to sail. She had dreamt of Dominic the night of the gale, seen the mountainous waves crashing against his dory. “He's not coming back,” she had told her other children that next morning. They had scoffed at their mother's dream until McGettigan knocked at their door.

Just after noon, the priest walked along the path to Isabel Mitchell's home. Her husband, George, had been on board the
Annie Anita
. From her kitchen window, she saw McGettigan and the constable veering to her gate. Her four children gathered around her as the priest spoke. “I'm sorry, me' dear, I have tragic news. The
Annie Anita
wrecked at St. Shotts. The bodies of Capt'n Paddy and one of his sons were found in the cabin. I'm afraid your husband, George, was lost with the rest of the crew.”

Isabel did not speak, nor did she cry out; she would save her grief for later. McGettigan blessed the children and their mother and quickly stepped from the home. He could barely comprehend the words he spoke.
Capt'n Paddy's body found. The
Annie Anita
and the
Marie Bernice
all hands lost. They're all gone. Husbands. Sons. Gone. How am I to impart this wretched news when I can scarcely believe it myself?
The priest shook off his misgivings and climbed the hill leading to the home of Charles Hanrahan, George Mitchell's dorymate. He had notified four widows and he had another five more to inform. The Fox Cove pastor would console Dennis Long's family, and mercifully, Lucy's mother had agreed to tell her daughter of James Walsh's death. McGettigan could not face the young woman with a newborn in her arms, a child born the night her father died.
No, the Lord had given him enough already
.

McGettigan paused to light a cigarette and calm his nerves. He drew in the smell of the sea and conjured the pleasant memories of his youth, his seminary years at All Hallows in Ireland. With his love for Shakespeare, poetry, and song, the seminary choir director had tried to convince McGettigan to pursue a vocation on stage, to perfect his brilliant tenor voice. “Why, I'll make ye as famous as the Irish singer, Johnny McCormack,” the director boasted. McGettigan had been flattered by the praise, but he quickly declined. His three sisters had taken their vows becoming brides of Christ, and so, too, would he serve the Lord. But he was naïve and innocent then, unaware of August gales and drowned fishermen, unaccustomed to despair and death.

Grinding his cigarette stub into the ground, McGettigan stepped toward Charles Hanrahan's door. He rapped softly, knowing Hanrahan's wife was waiting for him. He had seen her eyes upon him through the window, the fear tightening her face. He did not speak but a few words before Mary Hanrahan began to scream. Five months pregnant, the woman collapsed onto the floor and drew her young daughter and son into her lap. “Yur poor daddy's gone,” she sobbed. The children pressed their faces to their mother's breast. Her wails terrified them, and they did not understand where their da had gone to. His voice unsteady and barely above a whisper, the young boy turned to the priest to ask, “When will my father be coming back?”

McGettigan reached for the child's hand and marked the sign of the cross over his forehead. The priest closed his eyes and recited a prayer, “May they sense Your presence in this hour of need. In Jesus' name, Amen.” The constable followed McGettigan out the door and placed a hand on the priest's slumped shoulder. “We're near halfway done, Father.”

McGettigan nodded. The thought of more stunned widows soured his stomach and brought on a queasiness that left him unsteady on his feet, dizzy as if he'd been struck too many times in the head. He heard his father's advice to him as a young man, his dad shouting as McGettigan sparred in the ring with his older brother, a boxer for the British Royal Navy.
Keep yur feet moving, yur hands up, and keep breathing. Breathe, John. Breathe!
A loud buzz filled his head now, as if his brother had landed a blow to his brow. McGettigan inhaled deeply, heeding his father's words.

From Reid Hill, several of Tom Reid's children spied the priest and the peculiar look on his face. McGettigan stood alongside the dirt path as if in a trance. “Why does Father McGettigan have such a queer look on his face?” they asked their mother. Jessie Reid gathered her children close. Held in a tight circle, they followed the priest's movements as McGettigan stopped at the bottom of the knoll and knocked at their aunt's door. Jessie pressed her hand to her heart, believing her sister's adopted son had died in the gale. But then McGettigan and her sister started up the hill together. The priest, Jessie realized, had wanted her sister to come share the grim news.

“Dear Lord, children!” Jessie Reid screamed. “It's yur da that's gone! My poor Tom!”

As dusk settled over the town, McGettigan stood before the door of the last home, the dwelling of Edward Clarke, a doryman for the
Annie Anita
. McGettigan waited in the dark on the doorstep. From the lamplight inside, he could see Clarke's family, his five children and their mother seated around the dinner table. There were sparse bits of potato, cabbage, and carrots on their plates, hot water in their mugs. Through the windowpane, the priest met the gaze of a ten-year-old boy he knew as Vincent. The child stared at McGettigan with eyes that did not yet recognize his loss. The priest waited for the boy to inform his mother of his arrival. McGettigan could not knock on another door, nor could he face another weeping child. He had no more comfort to give.

I
learn of my grandfather's dying wish as the sun sets over the blue waters of Mortimer Bay. My father's cousin, Alan Brenton, shares the story as our car crests a hill overlooking the north side of Marystown.

“He called to tell me he wanted one last ride in my boat,” Alan says. “‘But this time,' he said, ‘I'll be in a vase. I want my ashes scattered over Tides Cove.'”

At the time, in the spring of 1990, my grandfather was dying of colon cancer and had but a few months to live. He had chosen his final resting place in the inlet nearest the sea, the headlands where a lighthouse beacon had welcomed his brother Paddy home after hundreds of journeys and sails. I imagine my grandfather lying in his hospital bed, taking comfort in knowing his remains would drift in the waters where his older brother had often shouted to his crew, “We're home, boys!”

My grandfather had other sentimental ties to the cove. The inlet harbored a patch of land called Big Head, a rocky crop of turf where Ambrose's great-grandfather, John Walsh, first arrived after emigrating from County Wexford. Here in these waters, where the schooners of his grandfather and brother took refuge from the sea and a long sail, Ambrose's ashes, his physical essence, would remain. And as with his family and the Marystown fishermen who drowned in the August Gale, my grandfather would forever abide in the sea.