The administration hut was close to the pier, a long shed with windows looking out over the bay. The administrator himself was a Scotsman from a place called Dumfries. He said he had been working here more than ten years. I asked him if he wasn’t afraid of catching the typhoid. He just smiled and said the fear never leaves you. But that if he’d been going to catch it he reckoned he’d have got it by now.
‘You speak the Gaelic, I’m told,’ he said, and I nodded. ‘We have translators for most languages here, but we recently lost our Gaelic speaker. Actually, he was Irish, but he seemed able to talk to the Scots well enough.’
The administrator turned to gaze out of the window at all of the boats anchored in the bay.
‘I wonder if you might be able to help us with a wee problem we have. An Irishman called Michaél O’Connor who arrived here on the fifth. He doesn’t appear to speak any English.’ He turned back to look at me. ‘The man’s demented. Even turned violent once or twice. He hitches a ride on the ambulance and comes here two or three times a day shouting and screaming. Maybe you could talk to him for us. Find out what the hell it is he wants.’
I found Michaél O’Connor in Lazaretto No. 3, and was surprised to discover that he was not much older than myself. He was sitting at a table on his own, staring into space. Most men, it seems, shave and get their hair cut after a day or two here, but Michaél had a thick black beard on him, and his hair was shoulder-length, matted and knotted. He looked at me with the palest of blue Celtic eyes, empty of any emotion.
Until I spoke the Gaelic to him, and his face lit up. ‘Man, I thought you were another of these bloody people come to jabber at me in English. There’s not one of them speaks God’s own language, and I can’t make myself understood at all.’ Then he glared at me suspiciously. ‘It’s a weird sort of Gaelic you speak, though.’
‘Not as weird as yours,’ I said.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Scotland.’
He roared and laughed then and slapped me on the back, and I think it is the first time I have heard human laughter in months. ‘Ach, you’re a Scotsman!’ he said. ‘Second-best to an Irishman, of course, but you’ll do. Did they send you?’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘To find out what it is you want from them.’
His face clouded a little as his smile faded. ‘My brother Seamus left Cork on the
‘Surely you could have found some way of asking them that?’ I said.
And then he shocked me by speaking English with a thick brogue and a foul mouth. ‘The fockers don’t speak the mother tongue, Scotsman. Just the fockin’ English.’
I was astonished. ‘But you speak it yourself.’ I raised my hands, at a loss to understand. ‘So where’s the problem?’
His eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘I’ve never given the English the pleasure of hearing me speak their bloody language yet. And I’m not about to start now.’
I laughed and shook my head. ‘But these people aren’t English, Michaél. They’re Canadian. And they only speak English or French.’
He guffawed again. A big, loud, infectious laugh. ‘In that case, it looks like I’m going to have to learn the fockin’ French, then.’
They gave me access to the arrival and departure records in the administration office this afternoon, and I sat at a table with a great big log that listed the arrival of every boat — where it was from, when it arrived, how many people were aboard, how many had died and were sick.
I looked for the
And from that I took heart and hope that my mother and sisters had not faced disease aboard the
I turned my attentions then to the passenger list for the