A Son of Aran (24 page)

Following soaring temperatures and arid ground conditions during the long hot summer, the arrival of autumn was a welcome diversion. The happy couple spent evenings in the warm balmy air gathering what fruit remained on the stunted apple, damson, and plum trees of Estat de Tirelle—sufficient for Eileen and Santa Clara to bake luscious pies, and to preserve the better quality fruit for later use. Week followed week, autumn mists merged into winter frosts and snowfalls. Christmas was again around the corner.

‘Seosamh, love, I think I'm going into labour,' Eileen declared with alarm. ‘The pains have been coming intermittently all day. If I get a sudden call, we have no midwife service here at Estat de Tirelle. For safety sake, I should make arrangements to go into hospital in Salamanca; the road is long and weather conditions are uncertain. If an emergency were to arise, you might be called on to perform the role of midwife on the way.'

‘Good Lord, Eileen, if that happened I'd be of no use whatsoever. Come on, pack your bags, I'm taking you to Salamanca straight away.'

In prevailing mid-winter frosts, driving conditions were not conducive to speed. Seosamh, conscious of the sensitivity of the situation, drove with extreme care, keeping a wheel close to the road verge in anticipation of a sudden slide that could exacerbate Eileen's condition. Arriving safely at the hospital, he watched as the nurses wheeled her into the maternity ward.

‘I'll be down to you in a minute or two, love,' he told her, as he went to revive his flagging spirits with a cup of coffee. He had barely taken the first sip when he was alerted with the news that his wife had given birth.

‘That was a close call,' he murmured. ‘Can I see her now?'

‘Not for a little while—finish your coffee—we'll let you know when the time is appropriate,' the nurse told him.

Seosamh could not sit still. Nervously he walked up and down the hospital corridor, repeatedly asking why there was such a delay, and waiting for the ward door to open.

‘Is everything all right with Eileen? Have there been difficulties? Is the baby all right?' he asked excitedly.

‘Yes, everything is fine,' the nurse said. ‘Mother and baby are both doing well.'

After what he thought was an interminable lapse of time, he heard his name called.

‘Señor O'Loinigh, you may now visit your wife.'

He found Eileen, bright and cheerful, sitting up in bed with the baby in her arms.

‘Seosamh, come and see our young son. Do you think he looks like his father?'

‘Eileen,' he said with fervour as he kissed her tenderly, ‘this is the very best moment of my life. I don't care who he looks like. My concern is that you and the baby are out of danger. I love you, Eileen. Thank you for being my wife. I'll love our son too, no matter whom he resembles.'

‘What name will we call him?' Eileen asked. ‘Do you have any particular name in mind?'

‘Never gave it a thought,' Seosamh replied—‘it's usually women who think about things like that in advance. How was I to know whether the child would be a boy or a girl? What about you, Eileen—have you a name in mind?'

‘To be sure, I have; I've thought about it long and hard but I can't make up my mind. There's you and there's my dad; I'd like to name him after one of you but, if I do, I will be guilty of partiality. How about a completely neutral name? Carl for instance in memory of our benefactor!'

‘Carl is fine by me; I reckon it is only fair to Carlos that we leave some symbol of the Montmorency family name intact for future generations. After all, where would you and I be were it not for Carlos and his benevolence?'

‘OK then, for better or worse, Carl will be the baby's name; I hope he'll never hold it against us for calling him that,' Eileen laughed.

Amid great jubiliation, after a week had elapsed, the new O'Flaherty O'Loinigh family returned to the ancestral Castillo de Tirelle where they were feted with champagne by Santa Clara and Jago's parents and siblings. For Eileen and Seosamh, life assumed a new dimension—bottles, nappies, disturbed sleep, and cries of a new born baby resounding through a house where heretofore adult voices held sway. Responding to the challenge of new responsibilities, they rallied to each other's assistance when problems presented. Marital love and dedication prevailed—wasn't this the life together they both had longed for!

‘
Buíochas le Dia
(Thanks be to God)'—it's good to be alive,' declared Seosamh.

‘B
ODY IN THE WATER,' SHOUTED THE LOOK-OUT ON A
fishing vessel some weeks after the typhoon had abated and the sea was calm again.

‘Quick, lower the lifeboat,' the captain ordered. ‘You two,' he told crew members, ‘over the side and bring the body on board.'

It was a strange sight. The body of a man in his fifties was loosely lashed to a plank of balsa wood—debris detached by the storm from one of the many merchant ships that sank in those waters during World War Two. Quickly they loosened the rope, hoisted him aloft, and laid him flat on the deck. Facial scars suggested that he had been bashed by some hard object; his right arm was hanging limp. Fronds of seaweed were entwined around his neck and chest. As they stood over him, one of the seamen bent down and lifted his left arm; it was supple but cold and lifeless. Checking the right wrist for a pulse, he felt a weak but perceptible throb.

‘This man is alive,' he announced. ‘Quick, get some cognac—there may be a hope of reviving him.'

Prising the teeth apart and drawing forward the man's tongue, he allowed a sip of the spirit to enter his mouth and waited for reaction. Nothing happened; he repeated the treatment. A flicker of one eyelid signalled life; a faint heart beat became perceptible; sporadic breathing commenced.

‘I think we have him,' a crewman gleefully exclaimed, as he lifted the man's body to expel any water that might have accumulated in his lungs, laid him on a sail cloth, and covered him with a warm blanket. Little by little, amid coughing and spluttering, his eyes blinked momentarily against the sunlight and closed again. In a little while they remained open, staring wildly. The injured man made gestures with his hand and whispered a language they didn't understand.

‘This man needs to be got to a hospital,' the skipper said, ‘we are too far out to take him.' He turned to the radio operator: ‘See if you can alert a coastguard or rescue craft. If he doesn't get help within the next few hours, I fear he will develop hypothermia. We'll do our best to keep him alive until help arrives.'

‘Mayday! Mayday! Fishing vessel Axarius Cruz calling! Fishing vessel Axarius calling! Position 30.35N 22.40 W. Injured man on board. Medical assistance urgently required. Roger.

The SOS was repeated every five minutes until a response was received.

‘Magador sea rescue. Calling Axarius Cruz. Message received. Motor launch on the way. Roger! Over and Out.'

Two hours later, anxious eyes were still scanning the ocean for sight of the rescue craft. It appeared like a speck on the horizon drawing steadily nearer until it came alongside. A three-man team consisting of a paramedical and two burly sailors wearing life jackets, clambered aboard. Following a detailed account of the occurrence from the captain and a quick examination of the injured man, he was transferred without delay, and the rescue launch took off at speed. When they reached a hospital on the west coast of Africa which they had alerted in advance, a doctor and nurse were on standby. The invalid was transferred to a special unit where with thermal treatment, administration of oxygen, and tending of wounds and broken bones, he recovered sufficiently to ask questions about his whereabouts. Apart from shaking heads and gestures, there was no intelligible response. At a distance he could hear voices babbling in a language he didn't understand. Grabbing a pen and paper from one of the attendants he wrote: ‘Who am I? Where have I come from? How did I get here? I have no documents to assist me. I beg the person who finds this note to pass it to somebody who understands my language.' His note brought no response—most likely whoever found it had no way of decyphering the message. On release from hospital months later, he occupied his time limping slowly around the coastal town. Fishing boats coming and going in the harbour were of interest to him—he could not imagine why. He wasn't tempted to take a trip on any of these frail looking crafts; instinctively he felt the sea was not for him. Sailors and others that he encountered appeared to him to be a dangerous lot— dark complexioned, jet black hair, bristly beards, knives prominently displayed on broad leather belts—he wouldn't like to meet any one of them in a dark alleyway. Although he had nothing on his person that might be of benefit to such shady characters, how were they to know? After a lapse of time—he couldn't recollect how long—as he limped aimlessly along the seafront one day, he was approached by a fair skinned young couple accompanied by a small boy.

‘Who are these people? What do they want with me?' he asked himself with a feeling of apprehension.

‘Pardon me, sir,' he heard the man say. ‘May we speak with you? We haven't been able to find anyone who speaks our language. Your complexion suggests that you may, perhaps, be European. Having observed you walking on the docks we felt you might be in a position to help. Can you tell us if a passenger ship named The Atlantic Mariner called here recently? We had arranged with its captain to take passage to Portsmouth on a day last week; insofar as we can determine the boat did not arrive.'

He couldn't believe his ears—somebody had spoken a language he understood!

‘I must tell you how pleased I am to have met you' he replied. ‘I am in a similar position in regard to the local tongue. I'm afraid I may not be of much help. As you see the wharf is extensive and many craft come and go—hulks and fishing boats for the most part. I am familiar with a small section of the docks only; during the time I have been here, no ship of the type you mention has tied up. I suggest that you should pursue your inquiries in the local centre where there may be a shipping agent or clerk who understands English. If you have no objection I would like to accompany you in your quest. I too want to find a means of transport to England—people there might help me to establish my identity and reveal where I come from. My story is complicated—as we walk, I will fill you in on the few details that I know.'

The captain of the Atlantic Mariner was not convinced. ‘Who is this person who speaks English without an identifiable accent? Is he perhaps a confidence trickster who wants to board my ship for some nefarious reason? He doesn't have money to pay for his passage; he has no identity documents—is he a fugitive from justice or an army deserter? In taking him to England, I may be held accountable if the man's story of having been lost at sea turns out to be false.'

Much as he empathised with the man's isolation in an alien country without means of support, unable to communicate his needs, and with little other opportunity of getting away, it was much too risky to take him along. Despite prayerful pleadings he refused.

‘No,' he said, ‘I cannot take you on my ship.'

The English-speaking couple overheard the conversation. As the ship prepared to sail they approached the captain:

‘May we suggest, captain, that, in Christian charity, it is not right to abandon this poor individual to his fate. From the story he has told us it is evident he has suffered much through shipwreck, injury, loss of memory, and loss of identity. If you leave him here he will surely perish at the hands of brigands or from abuse and starvation. Having regard to his drastic situation, we are willing to pay for his passage to England, and to support you if there are difficulties with the immigration authorities when we dock in Portsmouth.'

‘OK,' he said, ‘on your heads it will be, if difficulties arise.' ‘Your passport, please?' The British immigration officer was curt and unfriendly.

‘I am sorry, sir—I don't have a passport or other means of identity. All my belongings were lost before I was taken from the sea.'

‘Can I have your name then?'

‘I don't know my name. I have lost my memory too.'

‘Are you aware that I cannot allow you to land on English soil without identification documents? You will be forced to remain on board ship until your case has been investigated. I will ascertain from the ship's captain what he knows about you, where you came on board, and why he undertook to carry you to England in the first place. Have you got anybody who can verify your story of having been lost at sea?'

‘I have no recollection of how I got into the water. I don't know who it was that rescued me. I awoke in a hospital ward with doctors and nurses pouring over me. I did not understand what they said but, from their expressions, I gathered I was very ill when I was brought there. After I was discharged from hospital I wandered around the docks for a number of weeks, hoping to find some sailor with whom I could communicate. I was fortunate in meeting two English-speaking missionaries returning from Africa who had arranged to board the Atlantic Mariner. They befriended me, and they succeeded in persuading the captain to allow me to sail with him. That is all I know. Perhaps you will refer my predicament to the immigration authorities. I speak English—this may provide a clue to my nationality. I want to locate my people who, at this stage, will have given me up for dead.'

‘Have you anything to add to the story you already related to the immigration officer?' the chairman of the authority asked.

‘No, sir, I have given all details of my position insofar as these are known to me. Due to loss of memory of the events that led to my being admitted to a hospital in West Africa, I can provide no further information.'

‘To your knowledge have you ever been a member of Her Majesty's forces, army or marine.'