‘When would I go?’ asked William. His voice was strained with excitement, his face flushed.
‘This ship’s sailing next month. James Brown is going, I believe, which would be a good thing for William – to have a friend with him. Of course, James Brown is older than William.’
Eliza knew that William and James were not exactly friends, James Brown being much older, and much less lively than William. Perhaps William was not frightened; indeed, she was sure he was not, but it was a large thing to go to a strange land knowing one person only. She saw William let his breath out quickly.
Mother groaned. ‘Next month . . . not William, not so soon . . .’ But Eliza knew it had to be William, because he was the one with the life blood, with spirit, although it was his spirit Mother would feel the loss of so greatly.
‘It’s a chance, Mother,’ said Father, ‘given life is somewhat precarious here at Knockaleery Farm, us being a large family. There’s those Johnstons from below Kildress River that have gone there and done well, and that little man that came by last year, whose son was gone. It could prove better than America from what I hear. They want for farm labour, but with all his education, William could do better than that.’ He turned to William. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to go, son, not unless you had the inclination yourself. You’re almost a man . . .’
‘Just eighteen years about . . .’ protested Mother.
‘And can add four columns . . .’ said Father, ‘. . . in his head.’
‘I have a great inclination to go, Father,’ said William. Eliza watched him, knowing how his mind raced, taking great leaps, making it hard for him to collect his thoughts. She could see the excitement in his face. ‘Brother James sends money back from America, which I could too. That would give me great satisfaction. It is the surprise of it.’ He glanced at his mother. ‘I’d miss my dear Mammy and all,’ he added. ‘But my inclination is set. It’s just this place that I did not expect.’
‘Where is this place, Daddy?’ asked Ann Jane. She looked at Father, teasing him. ‘You know I never learned geography.’ Ann Jane read and wrote a small amount, but that was all she had ever cared to learn.
‘In the southern part of the world,’ said William, ‘right round and away from our land, past the islands of the south seas. You wouldn’t have looked at the map that close, Ann Jane.’ He tugged on her plait.
‘I wasn’t such a scholar as you, William,’ said Ann Jane.
‘I could go with William,’ said Mary. ‘I saw it in the book, I think,’ she added.
‘It’s a place of convicts,’ said Mother.
‘We should all go,’ said Eliza, ‘and have brother James come from America. Daddy, wouldn’t that be fine?’
Father laid his big hands down on the table again. They were all silent.
‘At the price,’ he said, ‘we all may go in time, but it would be foolishness before we know more. And we have the debt to McCrea.’ He sighed. ‘William can find out whether it be suitable for the entire family and let us know the lie of the land, although if I had my choice, no child of mine would ever go.’ They all knew how many had died of hunger these last years, the English refusing help when the potatoes first failed, then never giving enough, as if Irish lives were nothing. Father looked at his son across the table and then he spoke with a hint of laughter. ‘Since William’s been talking so much about emigrating and making his fortune, he is most probably ready for the road, wherever it take him.’
‘I am, Daddy,’ said William. ‘And the ship’s leaving in October?’
Mother sighed and Father put his hand on hers. ‘Now, Mother, from what I’m told it’s more than a place for convicts. There’s mostly free settlers there. I had a long talk to Mr Tenner. It’s a new land, but then so is America and Canaday. This place, Sydney, it’s quite a port, with wool and whaling. They insist on a good class of person going. I have to get characters written for William, to attest to his parents and his education. Mind, Mother, I won’t send him unless you’re satisfied.’
Eliza knew all too well that her father’s own satisfaction was always her mother’s too, in his mind at least. Mother thought that people like Mr Tenner were pushing the people to emigrate, so she couldn’t help wondering if there was profit in it for him. Those who went sent money back, and since there were fewer mouths to feed back home, Mr Tenner had less trouble collecting his rent. He might also make a little from the shipping agent. Things between the landlord’s agent and the landlord’s tenants always went more the agent’s way. Mother had told Eliza that this sad thing of sending children away and cleaving families apart had happened before in Ireland, in poor times. She herself had read in the newspapers Father sometimes brought home of thousands and thousands going because of the famine, just as their own James had gone, two years ago.
‘I’ll tell “The Prodigal Son” tonight,’ Mother said. ‘It seems right in the circumstance.’
It was William whom both Eliza and Mother would miss the most, although neither of them would ever say such a thing. William, of all the sons, still knew his mother. The others seemed to forget she was anything but a mother, but William still noticed her ills and her sadness and her favourite flower. He liked to talk to Mother about things that were nothing but made them laugh, like how old Uncle Archy was always so savage on Father, even when they took him a bunch of onions.
William was the one in the family who stood out, not just by being clever, but by knowing how to live his life, how to make peace with others, knowing when to ask and when to give way. But he was also impatient with things that stayed the same year after year. The sameness pressed down on him and made him restless. When he was small, he’d rushed in from school and told them of the great city of London with its palaces and prisons, and where there were so many people that they did not know others whom they passed in the street. He had always longed to see such places.
‘The “Prodigal” would be a fine choice, Mammy,’ said William, ‘seeing as I’m sure to come back to you here at Knockaleery.’
‘Do you promise, William?’
‘I promise.’
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘I’ll have to go for a time. To make my fortune.’
‘Six years, William. Come back in six years.’
‘Six years. I’ll be a gentleman in New South Wales, with fine clothes and a pocket watch and all.’
William could barely contain his excitement. The emigration posters he had seen for America in Cookstown had shown a poor Irish lad like himself, and a man in fine clothes, as one might have in America.
‘You can flaunt me, Mammy.’
‘No flaunting, William. Just come back.’
Eliza, lying in bed end-to-end with Ann Jane and side-to-side with Mary, thought of the story of the prodigal son. Mother had no schooling and could not read or write, but she knew her Bible, chapter and verse, and she drew her life from it. Eliza aspired to that faith, but she felt it unjust that the son who went should be given the fatted calf, while the other who stayed faithfully at home was never rewarded.
William was going, although if they went by age, it should have been Robert. But her brother Robert was the difficult one. His temper flared, and often enough he said harsh things to Eliza, but that was just the way he was. Robert was wild and funny too, which she could like. It always seemed that Robert needed more of Father’s love, but he got less. William was blessed, being easy to love. While Eliza felt William’s desire to go, and understood why Father had decided it was he who would go, she felt a sort of dread, for he and she shared so much. They walked back from church together, took messages to neighbours, or went down to the bog to talk and joke.
Eliza’s mind drifted to the map of the Bible lands that Mr McNickle had taught them so thoroughly at school, and then to the map of the world which had hung on the wall of the schoolroom. Her memory was hazy of many faraway lands, the blue sea stretching between them. She could not remember New South Wales or many of the lands at all, sinc
e she had done considerably more dreaming about the sea itself. But William would go, she knew that. They were hungry now, even with this last good season. The potato blight could come again and leave them even hungrier still.
All of this was going through her mind, so she could not sleep, even though both her sisters were asleep. She listened for the voices of her parents, the familiar rhythm of their voices in the dark.
‘It’s such a strange and sad thing, sending our children away,’ Mother said.
‘We try to preserve life for them all,’ said Father. ‘We multiply, like the birds and the beasts of the field. So we go forth to new lands like Moses.’
Eliza knew her father needed Mother. He often wrapped his arms tight around her, almost like he was a child. Mother caught his fears and soothed them, while he steered the ship which was his family. He could not tell them how much it pained him to send William. Eliza had seen it when he’d looked into William’s face tonight and seen William’s hunger to be gone. Here in the dark, she could hear his voice, cracking with tears. And Mother would know, but would not press him, because even though they held to different sides of the question, in some other way, they had decided together. Of all their children, it was William who wanted this new life, who would make something of himself and maybe for all of them.
‘Maybe Robert could join William,’ said her mother. ‘I know the worry of Robert lies heavy on you.’ They did not see eye-to-eye on Robert. Robert could not be constrained or restrained – he could not bear it. Sometimes Eliza felt that if Father would let Robert be, his discontent would go. But Father could not let anything be. It was not his nature.
Father grunted, a mixture of dissatisfaction and frustration. ‘He takes the wrong turning so often, when the right turning is before him. Let’s see how William does, then maybe we’ll send Robert after him.’
‘Or bring William back.’
‘There’s no living here.’
‘If we plant no more potatoes . . .’
‘The girls will have to go.’
Eliza shivered, wondering if that meant herself. Sometimes, when William or Robert talked of it, she imagined going with them, going across the sea, seeing a different land. But she could not imagine being without Mother and Father, far from the familiar things of home, so far across the ocean.
‘They’re our children, Joe,’ her mother said. She almost never called him Joe. ‘They’re going, one by one. James first, to America, and now it is dear William to this other place. Then Robert maybe, then Ann Jane and Mary. Poor John, he can never be sent!’
‘Mother, I wish it were not so,’ said Father.
‘Eliza! I’ll never part with Eliza!’
Eliza felt reassured by this for a moment. Except it would mean she would be the one left, that she would never see those other lands.
‘Oh Joe, I dread the sadness. I dread us coming to the downhill of life, when we should have our children and grandchildren round us. We’ll be like stooks blown by the wind, all separate. I know life is full of trial and trouble, but this rests hard.’
William was still wide awake, thinking, thinking, thinking of this new place, this New South Wales. John was beside him in the bed, with his hand on William. At night, John needed something to hold to, otherwise he woke with night terrors so severe he even woke the animals downstairs. The family calmed him by walking him, by showing him the moon, by singing to him. Mother prayed for him and Father cared for him, but he was never any better, poor fellow.
William would miss him badly, as he would miss them all, but at the same time, he could not wait to go. He saw how carefully his parents lived their lives, how well they tended the family, how steady they had been in the face of the disaster of the famine, how good-humoured his father was, carrying such heavy burdens. He loved and admired all this, but in a way he could not explain, it was this very steadiness he wished to be free of – to explore other ways, other places.
William heard his parents talking; he heard their lovemaking. He had heard Eliza earlier at her prayers; he heard Mary snoring. He thought how strange it would be to sleep in another place. He’d slept often enough at brother Joseph’s, over at Tatty-keel, when they harvested there, but that was family, with the same smell and feel – except for Joseph’s wife, Eleanor, who fancied herself a lady and had a bottle of lavender oil. She used one drop each day, and Joseph promised her when the good times came, he’d buy her another bottle.
William loved the way the lavender oil made Eleanor smell. He loved her fancy red shawl, and the way she sang as she worked. He imagined that in New South Wales there would be girls with such things, girls with eyes as bright as Eleanor’s, girls as shapely. His mind tripped forward. He’d see the world and discover how life was lived in other places. Life, he knew, was bound to be hard. But there was much to see and understand.
Knockaleery pressed in on him: a world complete in itself. He knew it to be just a tiny slice of life, a minute piece of the great world, tightly contained, ruled, and ordered. He had long wanted to go where he didn’t know every turn of the road, every variation of the seasons, every stile in every field. It was like a hunger in him. And he wanted to help his family rise above the grind of poverty.
He knew how much his parents had grieved when James went. But he’d make money to pay McCrea, so Father could stop fretting. Maybe he’d make money to get Lizey a new coat and Mother a shawl. He could see it in his mind, how their faces would light up when they received such things. Brother James sometimes wrote home about the fine things in America, and William hoped it would be the same in New South Wales.
He could not imagine what he would do there, and how he would go about it. It swirled around in him – possibilities, dreams. James had struggled at first in America, but now he had bought a farm of land. At school William had been the brightest of the scholars, and Father had paid extra for him to go to night school. Father said he was good at the markets, working out the prices and bargaining.
In another land, things would be different. He felt he could not fail.
He fell asleep dreaming of the great sea he was to cross.
CHAPTER 2
The Reverend Harry King Macartney
Archdeacon of Melbourne
Sydney
NSW
24th Septb 1849
Drumshambo
Cookstown
Co Tyrone
My Dear Sir
I take the liberty to write to you respecting the bearer William Irwin of this parish. He is a member of our Church he bears an excellent character and has determined to Emigrate to Sydney. He is a well educated intelligent young man, his Parents most respectable People Farmers by occupation and he has assisted his Father. I feel convinced he will fill with fidelity and zeal any situation he may be appointed to. He is most anxious to further himself and there is, alas, nothing now to be had in our Country I shall take it a great favour if you can in any way should it come in your power to assist and further the views of this young man or point out to him how to act in the settlement he is going. I trust you will excuse the liberty I have taken but as the brother of my friend Sir William Macartney I have written to you believe me Dear Sir
Yours sincerely
John M......
* * *
An emigration was a large event in the neighbourhood – sad, but with hope in it too. In the parish of Kildress, it was generally known that young William Irwin was leaving for New South Wales, where none in the parish had gone before. There was much debate and speculation about the matter. There had been many in the parish who had emigrated to America and Canaday already, and all had been farewelled with ceremony. Their fortunes in other lands were closely followed by those left at home.
The day before William left, the Knockaleery farmhouse, which was very small, was crowded with friends and neighbours by late afternoon. By nightfall the farmyard was full too. People stood in groups or sat on bales of hay and upturned buckets, although old Uncle Cander had brought h
is own armchair with him. Father was cooking a piglet at one end of the farmyard, and the fire threw out warmth and a fine smell. There was a considerable amount of ale, which William and Robert drank freely. Father looked at William as he poured another drink.
‘Don’t worry, Daddy, I won’t take to drinking,’ William said. He was light-headed, from ale or excitement – he didn’t know which.
‘Is the pain of parting he’s feeling,’ said Robert. ‘Leaving old Knockaleery Farm.’
William put his arm around Robert’s shoulders. He was closest to Robert, of all his brothers. They chased rabbits on the downs and they had made a rough boat to float on the river. They were very different, and they fought, as Robert did with everyone, but there was a great affection between them. William knew it was hard for Robert that he was going, while Robert was left behind. ‘So what might you be drinking for?’ he asked Robert.
‘I might be drinking for the pain of not parting from my family,’ said Robert, giving his father a black look.
Father began to say something, but Mother put her arms around Robert and said, ‘I couldn’t bear to let you all go.’ They looked to John, who was not drinking at all, and jokes were made about that.
Old Uncle Cander had brought his fiddle, and he and Sergeant McBean, who had brought his pipes, were playing outside in the farmyard.
William saw Eliza clapping her hands against the cold, so he took her hand and danced with her. She looked like a woman now, with her long dark hair coiled up and her pretty face shining with bright blue eyes. Since it had been decided that he would go, they had been a little shy with each other, for he couldn’t quite tell her how he would miss her. The things they shared were everyday matters, and it would have felt strange to say he’d miss running down to the bog, or bringing in the cows for milking in summer.
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