August Gale (4 page)

Now on this August Lady Day afternoon, the customs officer sought revenge. He glared at Paddy and weighed what infractions he might use to lock the skipper up for a good, long spell. Perhaps this evening would provide an opportunity. He smiled at Paddy and muttered “
bastard
.”

Paddy clenched his fists and took quick steps toward the lawman. Before he could strike a blow, the skipper heard his name called across the field. The long black robes of Father John McGettigan slapped the priest's heels as he walked briskly to Paddy. Despite his stout frame, McGettigan moved quickly on his feet. His thick legs would serve him well today when the rum barrel emptied and the fights began.

“Ye ready for a row tonight, Father?” Paddy asked.

“Yes, I could see that you were ready now to pick a fight of your own. Don't you be starting anything, Paddy,” McGettigan warned, though the priest knew there was no stopping Paddy, especially if the skipper had a few belts of rum in him. Like many of the Irish in Marystown, Paddy fought for pure devilment and distraction. Idle fishermen meant certain trouble, and McGettigan would have his hands full if Paddy joined in the garden-party brawls.

Of Scottish decent, McGettigan wasn't shy about using his fists to break up fights in his parish. Known as Father John “Bull” McGettigan, the priest had racked up many hours in the boxing ring sparring with his older brother, a heavyweight champion. McGettigan's boxing skills came in handy on a Lady Day past, when a concerned wife knocked on the rectory door late one evening, pleading, “Father, you've got to come; the men are knocking each other out after drinking too much.”

McGettigan grabbed his axe, strode past the brawlers, and splintered the rum barrel to pieces. Called to assuage a drunk during another garden party, McGettigan told the liquored-up fisherman, “Fight me if you want more trouble.”

“I cannot hit ye, father, ye being a priest,” the parishioner slurred.

McGettigan tore off his white collar and bellowed, “What's yur excuse now?”

Whether it was with his fists or his voice that boomed across the wooden pews at the Sacred Heart Church each Sunday morning, McGettigan ruled the rural outport of Marystown. The sight of the priest terrified children and adults alike. Small boys ran toward the woods if they spied McGettigan walking toward them along the dirt paths, errant husbands received harsh words during church sermons, and unwed pregnant women were married outside at low-tide water mark, publicly shamed.

Instilling the fear of God and pastoring the small community had taken its toll on McGettigan, who grew fond of rum himself. There was little in the fishing village that connected the priest to his privileged upbringing in St. John's, Newfoundland's largest city. Educated in Dublin, Ireland, at All Hallows College, McGettigan hailed from a family of wealth and education. During his seminary schooling, he read fine literature and poetry. He studied Shakespeare, sang tenor in Ireland's elite choirs, and learned how to play the violin and piano.

After he was ordained, he returned to his family home in St. John's, where he served as an assistant priest, enjoying the city's concerts, plays, and fine restaurants—luxuries that were stripped away when he received orders appointing him to Sacred Heart Church in Marystown. In the village, there was nothing opulent about the hens and sheep that roamed the dirt paths or the pungent smell of drying fish stacked up on wooden stages that lined the shore.

And the well-to-do priest soon learned that parish coffers would suffer among fishermen who could barely feed and clothe their own families. During McGettigan's first mass, the collection box drew thirteen pennies. Thankfully, a few wealthy merchants and fishermen like Paddy contributed more than their share and invited the priest to their homes for Sunday dinners.

“Ye'll be getting a new pulpit when I get me next catch,” Paddy had promised McGettigan.

As the afternoon sun slipped behind the clouds, McGettigan eyed his friend. Dark circles rimmed Paddy's eyes, making him look older than his forty-eight years.
How much longer will you fight the sea?
the priest wondered. The skipper had talked about leaving the fishing to his eldest son, James. Over the past decade, James had earned his due. He had sailed with Paddy since he was a young boy, learning to navigate by the stars, the compass, and the glass that foretold foul weather. Paddy had groomed James to captain on his own, taking over the helm from his father. But McGettigan knew pulling Paddy from the sea would be a rough go. The skipper grew ornery when he remained ashore too long.

“We'll be off to Cape St. Mary's next week, Father,” Paddy reminded McGettigan. “Send us some of your blessings for fine seas and fair weather.”

McGettigan laughed. He knew full well that Paddy did not rely on God to save him in times of peril. When storms blew in, most of the Catholic fishermen stood on the bows of their schooners and made the sign of the cross over the mountainous combers, beseeching the Lord and the Blessed Virgin to calm the swelling seas. But Paddy had no use for crossing the waves. The more the wind blew, the more defiant he became. Paddy often climbed to the top of the mast during a raging storm; his face to the heavens, he would shout, “I'm not afraid of ye!”

The skipper, the priest knew, relished a fight, whether it was with another man, the sea, or the Lord himself.

M
y father hunches over the computer, his two index fingers pecking awkwardly at the keyboard. He sits alone on dark winter nights, searching the Internet for details about the August Gale and his Marystown ancestors. He has little experience or comfort with computers, and his tap, tap, tapping is often punctuated with sighs and curses. But like any project or job he has pursued in the past, he grows obsessed with this task, and for hours at a time, he continues to search.

In part, I know my father does this for me, the daughter who is more comfortable communicating through the written, rather than spoken, word. The second oldest of six girls, I was what relatives called “painfully shy.” My mother often joked that I never uttered a complete sentence until high school. I took comfort in books, pen, and paper.

While my reading and writing skills impressed my father, he sought to boost his timid daughter's confidence. Best man for his brother Bill's wedding, he surprised me with a request: “I want you to write the toast for me.” Ten at the time, I chose my words carefully, crafting a poem for the occasion. In a crowded reception hall, my cheeks reddened as my father lifted his glass and announced, “My daughter, Barbara, wrote these words.” I remember the pride in his voice and the applause. Years later, after high school teachers affirmed my father's encouragement, I pursued a journalism degree. My studies went fairly well until I flunked a college magazine writing class; I had failed to turn my story in before grades closed. “You'd be better off pursuing photography instead of writing,” the professor scolded.

Devastated, I walked along the campus railroad tracks. My writing career was over before it had begun. “I'm changing my major,” I informed friends. “I'm no good as a writer.” My father thought differently. “You have a gift,” he told me. “You're a writer.”

Now more than twenty years later, my dad encourages me to tell his family's story, even though this narrative pulls him back to a past he would rather forget. While I continue to work at my newspaper job, my father explores Newfoundland websites hunting for details about the 1935 storm and the schooners that Paddy Walsh and his son, James, sailed so many years ago. Hoping to piece together his family roots, he downloads the Marystown 1921 census. The eight pages of surnames read like the neighborhood tally in an Irish village: Clarke, Kelly, Farrell, Kilfoy, Flynn, Mallay, Hanrahan, and Walsh. Among the 343 people living on the southern shore of Marystown, there are forty-three Walshes. My father's engineering mind methodically reviews each Walsh household, noting the ties to himself and Ambrose. He marks the pages with a pencil, underlining his grandparents, Thomas and Cecilia Walsh, and their surviving children: William Patrick Jr., Philip, Leo, Ernest, Angela, Cecilia, Ambrose, and Donalda. He circles their ages; in 1921 Ambrose is 13; his older brother Paddy is 34. The census lists Paddy's wife, Lillian, and their offspring: James, Lottie, and Theresa.

Paddy's future children, Frankie, Jerome, Lillian, and William Patrick Jr., are not yet born. Of the seventy-three homes on the southern shores of Marystown, Paddy is one of two families with a live-in servant (the other is a wealthy merchant).

With a bit of luck and his brother's help, my father finds a family member from Marystown: Paddy Walsh's granddaughter. On a Canadian maritime website, Jamie (Walsh) Willet had posted her e-mail address and a note about her connection to the 1935 storm. Eager to talk with her, my father e-mails his second cousin, who now lives in Florida.

Hi Jamie

My name is Ronald E. Walsh. I was born on August 12, 1935, in Staten Island, NY. My father's name was Ambrose. He was your grandfather's brother (21 years younger). My brother, William Patrick Walsh, was born on January 20, 1945. He is named after your grandfather.

After explaining that he is looking for information on the August Gale and his relatives, he concludes, “I hope to hear from you.”

Less than three hours later, Jamie's enthusiastic response, typed in large capital letters, sits waiting in my father's e-mail inbox.

DEAR RON. YOU SOUND LKE ME. I AM SO INTERESTED (in our family). WHEN I GO HOME I LOVE MY PEOPLE AND MARYSTOWN. THEY ROLL OUT THE RED CARPET FOR ME.

Over the next week, Jamie and my father trade e-mails back and forth; Jamie sorts out the confusing list of half uncles, brothers, and sisters, and in between, she informs other Walsh relatives of her sudden connection with Ambrose's firstborn son, Ronald.

In just a few days, my father receives a surprise e-mail. The subject line catches him off guard. He reads the message several times before sharing it with me.

Sliding the piece of paper across my kitchen table, he explains, “This is from Ambrose's daughter.”

“Ambrose's daughter?” I repeat, confused about this unexpected note from my grandfather's second family.

I begin reading the words that are crammed in one long paragraph, as if the writer had dared not take a breath, as if she had wanted to share these thoughts for many years.

Ambrose's daughter starts her note with an innocent “Hello,” and I wonder if she refrained from using the salutation of “Dear Brother” for fear of offending my father with such an endearing term. Named after Ambrose's sister Donalda, she refers to herself as Donnie. In her opening lines, she explains that she had learned about my father through Paddy Walsh's granddaughter Jamie.

I received an e-mail from Jamie, telling me that she has been speaking to my brother, Ron; I told her I have never met you, but heard about you growing up. I knew I had two half brothers and always have been interested in knowing you, but was always a bit hesitant to do so, considering the situation of our father and what happened so many years ago. I don't understand how a man can leave his family and never look back. I was twelve years old when I found out about you; I am forty-three now.

The youngest of Ambrose's children, Donnie explains that she has four brothers and a sister, Kathy, who is the oldest in the family. Before Ambrose died, he had many misgivings, Donnie says. “One of his worst regrets was the sons he left; he said none of us could ever replace them.” My father will later shake his head over Ambrose's sentiment, asking me, “How the hell could he say something so stupid to his kids?”

Ambrose's words stir both anger and sadness in me. Like my father, I cannot understand how he would utter something so callous to his children, yet I wonder how my grandfather's regret tarnished his life and his second family. I consider my father's half sister, my “aunt,” who is five years younger than I am and living thousands of miles away, across the country in California. I imagine her carefully crafting her feelings, struggling with her own emotions and guilt. It is clear Donnie has a desire to ease the pain Ambrose inflicted.

I'm really sorry that things happened the way they did. I hope that maybe we can get to know each other. I don't need anything from you, except to know you and your brother; it has been a wish of my sister's and I for a very long time. You have been in our thoughts since the day we found out about you.

Donnie ends her e-mail explaining that she would love to receive a letter from my father, but understands if it is too difficult for him to write her.

“
Just know
,” she concludes, “
that you are thought about very much
.”

I wipe tears from my eyes realizing my father's half sister offers the apology Ambrose never uttered. In the months since my father shared the story about the August Gale, he has also begun to share the memories of his childhood. He talks about his feelings in bits and pieces, recreating small snippets of time.

“I thought he was God,” he tells me, recounting his early years with Ambrose. “I followed him around like a puppy dog.”

I listen to these words closely, imagining my dad as a young boy, shocked by the abandonment of his father, his hero, the most important man in his life. I wonder what Donnie knows about my father. Does she know the details of his childhood in Staten Island and Brooklyn? Does she know Ambrose abandoned my Nana, uncle, and father not once, but twice? I hand Donnie's e-mail back to my father. He studies the words on the page and shares his reaction to her note.

“At first, I thought: Why is she writing to me? What am I supposed to say to her?” He had no interest or desire to talk with Ambrose's second family. Why would he want to talk with the children Ambrose chose over him? Knowing my father's reluctance to even speak Ambrose's name, I figure he will put Donnie's e-mail aside, like the feelings he has buried since he was a small boy.