August Gale (19 page)

Though it was well after midnight, lamps burned in the homes along the northern and southern shores of Marystown. Few would sleep on a night such as this. McGettigan knew that the fishermen's families—every mother, child, and wife—were on their knees. Clutching their Rosary beads, they'd be asking for miracles, beseeching the Lord and the Blessed Mother to protect their men at sea.
And 'twould surely take a miracle to bring the fishermen home, to see them through a gale that would show them no mercy, no respite
.

For much of the night, the priest had paced the parlor floor, uttering his own pleas for Paddy and his crew. Again and again, he recited the fisherman's prayer, his hands folded, his eyes closed in concentration:
Heavenly Father, We pray to You for those on the perilous ocean that You will embrace them with your mighty protection. Grant them grace in the hour of danger to commit their souls into Your hands. Oh Lord Jesus Christ, who can rebuke the storm and bring it to silence, and lay the roaring waves to rest, show them who call to You out of the deep that You hear their prayer and will save them
.

McGettigan pictured the
Annie Anita
riding the wind, her planks pounded by unrelenting waves.
Would the Lord grant Paddy another chance to conquer the sea, or would He pull him into the deep, claiming the captain's soul? And James, dear God, his first voyage as skipper. Would the Heavenly Father offer the young captain grace, guiding him and his crew safe ashore, or would he, too, vanish beneath the blue-black waters? Between the
Annie Anita
and
Mary Bernice,
ten of Marystown's men and two lads were in the Lord's hands. Two other of the crew hailed from Little Bay and Fox Cove. How many would return? How many would sail onto these shores again?

McGettigan reached for another glass of the amber liquor to quiet his nerves.

“May the Heavenly Father be with you all,” he whispered. The priest drew the parlor curtains aside and gazed at Paddy's house across the bay. The lights blazed on each of the home's three floors. Lillian would be out of her mind with worry, and there would be no calming the woman until telegrams or fishermen offered word of her husband and sons' fates. Beyond the priest's meadow, the hurricane tore hundred-year-old trees from their roots; it smashed windowpanes and ripped roofs from housetops. Rain pelted windows like nails tossed from buckets. Deep into the night, the gale would rage, and in between the desperate prayers, dreams would haunt and visions would appear, tokens of spirits, sailors who breathed no more.

On Reid Hill, Shoal Point, in Marystown, Fox Cove, and Little Bay, families gathered beneath the lamplight. The Reids, Mitchells, Hanrahans, Farrells, Clarkes, Walshes, Longs, and Brintons knelt on kitchen and bedroom floors. “Pray for yur poor Da,” their mothers urged. “Pray to the Lord to save his soul.”

Ernestine Walsh winced at the thunderclap and the lightning flash that lit up the kitchen. The girl of nine closed her eyes, praying for the noises to cease, for the wind to calm, and for the bad things to stop. Rain pounded their roof and leaked in torrents onto the kitchen floor; gusts off the bay had blown out their kitchen window, sending shards of glass flying across the room. They had all screamed in the middle of their prayers at the sudden crash. Mother had nailed a quilt over the jagged opening, but the wind still found its way inside, shrieking like a wounded animal.

The remaining kitchen window rattled, and Ernestine searched out the glass pane, looking for her father Ernest's schooner. Like her Uncle Paddy, her da had set sail a week before the storm.
Please come home, Da! Don't let the gale take you
. Ernestine worried, too, for her cousins, Frankie, Jerome, and James, and of course, for Uncle Paddy. Out of father's five brothers, Paddy was her favorite. He could be a devil, drinking and carrying on, but he always looked after her and her family when Da was away. If one of them fell ill, Uncle Paddy was there to make sure they had enough food, enough medicine, and wood for the fire.

Out on the bay, small globes of light caught the girl's eye. Ernestine spied two schooners sailing through the whitecaps. Lights fastened to the rigging, illuminating the boats' bow and stern. Ernestine shouted, recognizing the vessels.

“Mom! Uncle Paddy is back. And there's James behind him!”

The schooners veered to the north side of Marystown, near the presbytery.

“Why are they on the north side, Mother? Why aren't they coming up to the southern shore by Uncle Paddy's wharf?

Her mother shook her head and did not speak. Ernestine turned back to the window for another look at the vessels, but the boats were gone.

Beyond Reid Hill farther east in Little Bay, Richard Hanrahan's small home shuddered against the wind gusts. Bride Hanrahan hid beneath her bedcovers as the sky crackled and lightning burst like balls of fire. From the kitchen, Bride could hear her mother sobbing as she murmured the Rosary. Earlier in the night, Bride and her four siblings had knelt by their mother's chair, chanting Hail Marys for their father. When the clock tolled two in the morning, their mother had put them to bed, urging them to rest, but Bride feared sleep and her dreams. When she dozed, the images came to her. She saw her father thrashing in the sea. His mouth was open in a scream, but the roar of the wind silenced his cries. Weighted down with his oilskins, the waves crashed over his head, dragging him under; and then there was nothing but walls of black water, cresting, crashing. In the foaming sea, a flash of yellow appeared, her father's jacket sleeve. He shouted her name, his hand reached for her, for anything to hold on to. Hollering against the wind, she shouted to him. “Here, Da! I'm here!” Her small hand searched for her father's palm. But his body had vanished. There was only the sea, the mad, wild sea. She could hear his cries no more.

Lucy Walsh stifled her own screams as labor pains tore through her abdomen. It seemed the storm had brought on the young woman's contractions, and now, at the height of the gale, her pains grew more rapid, more fierce. Selena Gaulton held her daughter's hand trying to calm the soon-to-be mother. A midwife, Gaulton had delivered hundreds of babies in Little Bay, Marystown, and the surrounding outports. But this birth would bring its own complications. The thunder, lightning, and roaring wind had whipped Lucy into a fit of hysteria. She was beside herself with worry for her husband James.

“He'll never see the baby now, never!” she cried.

“Hush now, James and his crew will be fine,” Gaulton told her daughter, though the older woman did not believe the fishermen stood a chance. She had never seen a storm this vicious in all her years. Gaulton could only imagine the horror James and his crew faced at sea.

“Ye've got to focus on yur baby now, m'dear,” Gaulton told her. “Yur child will be here soon.”

Overhead, the rafters groaned, and Gaulton prayed the roof would hold.
Lord spare us from difficulties with this birth tonight
. The doctor would never make it across the bay in conditions this rough. Sterilizing cloths for the birth, Gaulton uttered more prayers. As she headed back upstairs to her daughter's bedroom, she struggled to return to Lucy's side. Invisible forces, shapes stood in front of her, spirits who wanted to be present, to witness the birth of Lucy's child. Gaulton made the sign of the cross over her forehead, fearing James and his crew had passed on.
Dear God, James is just a young man, and his wife, barely turned twenty herself. Married only three months they were. Lucy's heart would surely break in two if he never returned
.

The midwife pushed the dark thoughts from her mind and focused on her daughter and the baby that was coming fast. “Push Lucy, you're close, now.”

Pink and robust, the child emerged without complications and oblivious to the gale that roared outside. “It's a girl,” Gaulton announced, handing the infant to her daughter. The child, Lucy quickly decided, would be named Jamie after her father. Swaddled and searching for her mother's milk, the infant wailed, and Gaulton sensed a presence behind her. She turned to the sea chest that rested by her daughter's bed. There sat James, a vision in the dark. The midwife gasped at the sight and then the realization struck:
My dear Lucy, ye've become a mother and a widow on the same eve. Yur husband is gone now, girl. May the Lord watch over ye and yur new babe
. The shock of it, Gaulton knew, would not leave Lucy for a good, long while. She only hoped that her daughter would not look upon Little Jamie as a reminder of death and loss.

Across the bay, Father McGettigan tried to settle himself beneath layers of quilts and blankets. Though he had finished several glasses of rum this evening, the liquor offered little solace. Concern for Paddy, James, and their crews gnawed at his every thought. Cursing the wind that continued to shriek like a banshee, the priest blew the flame from the kerosene lamp and recited another prayer.
Mary, Mother of God, guide them through the dark and roaring sea. Offer them your blessings, your benevolence, and your protection. Amen
.

From the third-floor attic, he could hear the maid, the young girl, Lizzie, shifting in her bed.
Sleep will not come for any of us tonight
, the priest thought. Moments later, McGettigan heard an odd pounding. The knocking continued and grew louder before he realized someone was at the door.
Who could be out at such an hour on such a wretched night?
Relighting the lamp, McGettigan made his way downstairs and opened the Presbytery door. There on the stoop, stood Paddy and his crew. Dressed in their oilskins, the men remained silent, solemn. Before the priest could speak, before he could embrace Paddy and praise the Lord for a miracle, the fishermen disappeared, leaving McGettigan alone in the blinding rain.

“What is it, sir?” Lizzie asked from the stairs.

McGettigan turned to her, his face white as chalk.

“They're gone; they're all gone. We'll never see, nor hear of them again.”

W
e travel east, following the course Paddy last sailed on that August morning when skies were clear, the wind calm. The sky on this June afternoon is also cloudless, a brilliant blue. As our car crests Reid Hill, we glimpse views of the water below, vistas where children and wives long looked for a familiar sail, a returning vessel.

Here from the southern shores of Marystown, the children of the gale waited and watched, praying that their fathers would survive the storm. I imagine the strange happenings that night, the terrifying sounds, the unexplained omens. Ernestine Walsh, her face pressed to the windowpane, her eyes wide, envisioning Paddy and James returning in their schooners, kerosene lights guiding the phantom boats through a tempest of roaring wind and lashing rain. The baby, Jamie, a wailing infant born amidst a howling gale as her father's spirit stirred in the room. Bride Hanrahan's dream, the images of her dad, his frantic hand reaching for her as he disappeared beneath the angry sea.

Of the dozens of children who prayed that night, forty-two would never see their fathers again. Some would remember their last farewell, their father's kiss, the touch of his calloused hand. Others would hold on to the image of their dads' broad backs, sea bags slung over shoulders, dories drifting away in the dark. I imagine my father's memories of Ambrose vanishing, disappearing in the night. On the dark streets of Brooklyn, Ambrose closes a door, softly stepping into the cold November air. And in the morning, a boy of eleven learns, “Your father's gone.”

Like the children of the gale, my father carries memories: how he was never far from Ambrose's side, following him to the Staten Island playgrounds and to the ship-rigging lofts of Brooklyn; how Ambrose's strong hands wrestled him to the living room floor or braced his wobbling bicycle; how the two of them took car rides alone, father and son, Ambrose at the wheel and his boy Ronnie standing on the seat beside him, his small arm wrapped securely around the shoulder of a man who kept him safe, held him close.

How many times did my father wish for Ambrose's return, pray that his family would be whole again? How many times did he wonder: Why did my father leave us?

For decades the children of the gale have asked those same questions. Despite the passing of sixty-eight years, their sorrow lingers. On this June afternoon we seek the gale children, men and women who are now in their seventies and eighties and live in Marystown or nearby. Paddy's niece, Gertrude Walsh, has agreed to share her stories with us. The eldest daughter of Ernest Walsh's seven children, Gertrude was fourteen in 1935. With a few hastily scratched directions to her house, my father, Joanie, and I venture east along Marine Drive, the road that leads from Marystown to Little Bay and the sea. There are few markers in the small village of 160 people, and naturally we get lost—several times. Short on patience, my father utters a “Jesus Christ, where the hell is this place?” moments before we find Gertrude's driveway.

Eighty-two-year-old Gertrude and her daughter invite us into their kitchen. Gertrude sits in her rocking chair and leans forward to hear our conversation. Her daughter has warned us that her mother tires easily and may have difficulty talking with us. But when Gertrude speaks, her voice is strong and clear. She has no trouble recalling the storm and shakes her head at the memory of that August night.

“Gales, gales, gales,” she says closing her eyes. “The wind howled! Oh, it was awful. Mother lit the candles as the wind came through the windows.

“It was a terrible night. We gathered by Mother's feet and said the Rosary with her. We prayed for Father and we prayed for Uncle Paddy. The rain and the wind lashed down, and the water poured in through the roof. We never had a leak like that before.”

Like many of the fishermen's children, Gertrude dreamt of her dad. In her mind, she saw his hand on the helm of the
J.R. Rodgers
, his back bent to the wind as he sailed into the harbor.