Entry Island

He opened another huge ledger, and ran a bony finger with a dirty fingernail down columns of entries. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘The Emily was held in quarantine for just four days. Six of the sixteen that were put in hospital died.’ He ran his finger down another column, then looked up. ‘Seamus O’Connor was one of them. He’s buried in the mass graves.’

The mass graves are to be found in a flat, grassy area near the south-western tip of Grosse Île. The ground rises up on both sides, rocky and tree-covered. But through the trees beyond the graves, you can just see the sluggish swell of the river. Quebec City is somewhere there, not far upriver. So the dead were almost within sight of it.

Rows of crude white crosses pepper the grass that has grown freshly here over the recently disturbed earth. I found Michaél standing among the trees, sheltering from the drizzle and looking out over the crosses. He wore a blue woollen jacket and torn, baggy trousers held up by braces. The stitching in his boots was rotten and barely held them together. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets.

He nodded towards the graves. ‘That’s my countrymen buried out there,’ he said.

‘And mine.’

He looked at me. ‘Did you people have the famine, too?’

‘Yes.’

He turned away again. And I sensed anger in the way he clenched his jaw. ‘There’s not one of these poor bastards who would have chosen to leave. But if they’d stayed, they’d have starved to death.’ Anger flashed in his eyes now as he turned them on me. ‘With not a single landowner lifting a finger to help them.’ And then he blurted the question I knew he’d been afraid to ask. ‘So what did you learn about Seamus?’

I had been dreading the moment almost as much as he had. I was not at all sure how to tell someone that the person they love is dead. But I didn’t have to. He saw it in my face. And he turned away again quickly.

‘He’s out there, isn’t he?’ But I knew he didn’t expect an answer, and I saw big silent tears running down his cheeks to be lost among his whiskers. ‘Why couldn’t he have waited for me?’ He wiped away his tears with the back of his hands and I could see his embarrassment. ‘I pleaded for him to let me go with him. But, oh no. Too risky for his little brother. He wanted to go ahead on his own, establish himself here and make sure I had something worth coming to.’

He stood for a long time trying to contain himself. I had no idea what to say.

Finally he spoke again. ‘Looked out for me all our lives, did Seamus. Didn’t want to put me at risk. Mam starved to death, you see. And Da died of the cholera. So I was all he had left.’ He turned towards me. ‘I’d have starved to death too, if it hadn’t been for my brother. I never asked where the food came from that kept us alive, but he always came home with something.’

His face cracked open into a mirthless grin to disguise his grief.

‘Then he had this bright idea of coming over here. Great things he’d heard about the place. How you could have your own bit of land. Be a free man. Not in the pocket of some fockin’ landlord. Left me with an aunt and told me he’d send for me as soon as he’d found us something better. Only, I couldn’t wait, could I? Stole a bit of cash and bought my passage aboard the Highland Mary from Cork.’ His voice choked off, and he fought back his emotions again before gathering himself once more. ‘And now...’ He turned to look at me and I saw the pain in his eyes. ‘Now I’ve no idea what to do with my life.’ There was a long pause. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing.’ And suddenly the fire was back. ‘I’m not hanging around in this fockin’ place.’

I was sitting at the table in our Lazaretto when Michaél came looking for me this morning. I have spent the last few days teaching Catrìona’s children to count in English, as well as giving them some basic vocabulary. The Gaelic’s not going to take them very far in this land of English and French.

The boy’s eight, I think, and the girl about six, but not like children that age I remember from Baile Mhanais. There’s no play in them. No sparkle. Hunger and loss have taken their heart. So they sit docile and do what I say, eager simply for the attention. Anxious to please in the hope of some comfort in return. Like pet animals.

All the mischief was back in Michaél’s eyes and he could hardly contain his excitement. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me outside, walking us briskly away from the Lazarettos towards the shore, anxious that no one should overhear us.

His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m getting off Grosse Île tonight.’

I was surprised. ‘How?’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t even ask. It’s costing an arm and a leg. And the guards’ll bloody shoot us if they see us. There’s a boat going to meet us on the north-east shore and take us over to the north bank of the St Lawrence. We can make our way west from there to Quebec City. Me and three others. All Irishmen.’ He paused. ‘But we might make room for a Scotsman if he wanted to come along.’