SOS Lusitania (13 page)

CHAPTER 28

N
EWS
S
PREAD FAR AND WIDE
…

S
ergeant Kilroy received news of the shipwreck from Admiral Coke's office in Queenstown as the cathedral bells chimed four o'clock.

The sergeant rose in his chair and called a police officer to take over from him. Sergeant Kilroy took his bicycle and cycled along the quay, dismounting when he reached Hill Street. When he got to No. 1 Park Terrace, he left the bicycle by the side of the house and knocked. Mam opened the door, with Christopher by her side.

‘I'd better come in, if I may?' The Sergeant took off his peaked cap gravely. ‘Admiralty House received this message and sent us a copy. You'd better read it, Mrs Kennedy. How are you, Christopher?' He turned to the boy, but the little fellow ignored him and stared at his mother.

Mam read the message, looked at the Sergeant and put a hand to her forehead.

‘Oh Mam!' shouted Colleen, arriving at the door, ‘is it about Finbar? Is he all right?'

‘No,' said Mam, walking slowly into the kitchen and sitting down at the table.

‘No? Oh God, what's wrong with Finbar?' Colleen began to weep, and Mam did too, while Sean dropped his football and ran to his mother.

Mam held her children close to her, then composed herself and stopped crying, though there were still tears in her eyes. ‘We know nothing yet, children. There has been a terrible
tragedy at sea. The
Lusitania
has …' She began to weep again.

‘And Daddy …?' Colleen looked at her mother who sobbed more loudly.

‘You're a fine family,' said Sergeant Kilroy. He didn't know what else to say.

‘When will Daddy and Finbar be home?' Christopher asked Sergeant Kilroy.

‘Children, the
Lusitania
has sunk. That's all we know at this time. We must hope and pray that Daddy and Finbar have survived.'

‘Admiral Coke's cable is all too true and all too shocking,' said the Sergeant. ‘And it was only a few weeks ago we were all here looking for your Finbar …' He picked up his peaked cap. ‘Now we are searching for survivors. I suppose that is the way to look at it.'

Mam sighed and got up. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, Sergeant?' She went towards the cooker for the kettle.

‘No thanks, Mrs Kennedy,' he said. ‘I have to go back to the barracks.' He put his cap on. Mam saw him to the door and spent a long time standing there, staring down at the harbour, until Colleen came out to her.

‘Mam, what are we going to do?' she begged.

‘I don't know, dear child. Will you run and get Mrs Kelly
and ask her to mind Sean? I want to go and look for our men,' she said mournfully. ‘I need you with me, and Christopher. We'll go as soon as Mrs Kelly arrives. Hurry, Colleen.'

Mrs Kelly returned with Colleen, and she rushed in and hugged Mam. ‘I heard the news about the awful tragedy, Kitty. The whole town is talking about it. You know nothing for certain yet, Kitty, so we'll all just keep hoping and praying.' Mrs Kelly's voice was low and her hair was tied up in a scarf. She had been baking and her hands were covered in dough. ‘You go off with Christopher and Colleen, now. I'll bring Sean over to my house and he can help me a bit. I got a huge order from the hotels. Loads of tarts, I was just going to come for you, Kitty, to see if you'd help,' she explained. ‘Would you like a currant bun, Sean?' Mrs Kelly put out her hand to Sean. ‘Take a coat, Kitty, and warm clothes for the children.'

Outside the Kennedy house, the two women hugged each other.

‘We'll hope for the best and prepare for the worst,' Mrs Kelly said, with sadness in her voice.

Mam, Colleen and Christopher walked quickly past the cathedral and took a short cut down a lane of steps onto Old
Street. They entered the Cunard offices on Westbourne Place where a queue was already forming. When the desk clerk listened to Mam and read her identity document bearing the name and rank of her husband, he came from behind the counter, pushed his way through the crowd and directed her to the park along the harbour edge. The Kennedys joined another crowd there, and an official from Cunard, in a uniform like a sea captain's, handed them three return tickets on the
Cork, Bandon and South Coast Railway
and omnibus services for Kinsale.

At the station, they waited with others for a special train that finally began shunting for Cork city after two hours. All the passengers spoke in low tones and many said nothing. In Cork it was raining and Mam was glad that she had the warm clothes. Colleen and her mother wrapped shawls about themselves while Christopher pulled on his flat cap. They climbed aboard the omnibus beneath the signboard marked Kinsale. Mam and Colleen were silent, but a constant string of songs from Christopher made fellow passengers smile kindly at him. Other children made faces at him and screwed a finger to their foreheads and stuck their tongues out in annoyance, but he ignored them and continued to entertain the adults, who were grateful for the distraction. Rain beat down on the
windows, turning the lush landscape to a dull green.

It was dark when they got into Ballygarvan as the driver drove into the yard of Carberry's Hotel. At two long tables, everyone got fried eggs, slices of bacon and potato cakes with a smear of butter melting on top, and large teapots were passed up and down the table.

Christopher hummed on the next leg of the journey as well. Colleen thumped him a few times, but Mam grabbed her hand and said, ‘Oh darling, leave him alone; he's happy enough and sure that's maybe the best way to be.'

‘Mam, I'm so frightened,' whispered Colleen.

Mam tucked her daughter's head against her shoulder and stroked her face until she fell asleep. ‘You're a good boy, Christopher,' she said to her son, and tickled him on the head. ‘Is there no tune you don't know how to sing?' she added.

‘He's a great entertainer altogether,' said an old man who talked to his fellow passengers in a low drone, inventing as much news as he dared and repeating over and over the little he actually knew about the shipwreck.

Mam closed her eyes, longing for the journey to end.

CHAPTER 29

T
HE
D
ROWNED AND THE
S
AVED

O
n entering Kinsale the omnibus followed the Pier Road to the quays. The crowd rushed out of the vehicle and over to the quayside where a group of about a dozen survivors stood shivering in blankets near the doorway of a stone boathouse. Outside the boathouse were braziers with blazing turf and coal that gave off spurts of sparks as the wind changed direction. The survivors who shuffled about in ill-fitting but dry clothes were too shocked to answer the questions of those who had travelled from Queenstown and Cork. A nurse brought out a tray of tin mugs with soup and another woman a tray of buttered slices of bread. There was no shortage of
food and it was all free. Mrs Kennedy and the children were very hungry and ate their fill.

Mam approached a survivor and managed to get his full attention. The Kennedys listened eagerly to the man who had one blanket tied around him like a kilt, another worn over his shoulders as a cloak. He shook his head: No, he knew nothing of Captain Kennedy or of Finbar. They left him and then saw a Cunard official writing up survivors’ names in chalk on a blackboard. Mam’s eyes quickly focused on the Ks: Frank Kellett, George Kessler, Herb Kienzle, Bill Kimball. No Kennedys.

‘If you cannot find your loved ones here,’ said the official to the crowd, ‘you should go to the shed and search among the …’ he lowered his voice ‘… dead’. Mam put a hand to her mouth as he pointed across the quayside to a building with small fishing boats upturned outside it. She told Colleen to mind Christopher, then she walked slowly over to the door. Another official stood at the entrance with two constables who had several lanterns; they held out one to her and she took it, and went inside, her heart beating fast.

A long line of bodies lay on the ground like people in a deep, silent sleep. Two rows of them. The air had a faint smell of a fish market – of salt, sea spray and seawater. She raised the
lantern high and looked around. She passed by the women’s bodies quickly, knowing them by their features and matted hair. She paused before each man and before a boy dressed in a check suit. Not Finbar, but she held the lantern to his face twice, just to be sure. It took a long time for her to reach the last man: no, the man was short, clean-shaven, quite young. Not her husband at all.

‘Is this the only place like this in Kinsale?’ she asked one of the constables outside, handing back the lantern and staring into the crowd of onlookers across from the morgue.

‘Only place? Well, yes,’ he said. ‘I think you should go to Queenstown, madam. I have been told to tell everyone if you do not discover what you need to know in Kinsale …’ he began to stumble over his words, ‘you should go to Queenstown, ma’am.’ He looked at her kindly.

‘But I am from Queenstown,’ said Mrs Kennedy in desperation as her children ran over to hug her.

‘And did you search there for your loved ones?’ said the constable.

‘No. Not in any place like this,’ she gestured with a hand at the makeshift morgue.

‘The Cunard company can offer to accommodate you overnight in Kinsale,’ he told her. ‘And the omnibuses will
be running again tomorrow. There is so much confusion, ma’am. We have never had to cope with such a situation, such a tragedy. We are confused too.’ The constable stepped aside to let another woman in to begin her sad search.

CHAPTER 30

G
OOD
N
IGHT

I
t was a very long journey back to Cork for Mam, with Christopher and Colleen sharing one seat beside her in the overcrowded omnibus. The children swung from being sad and weepy to being restless and teasing each other. The train for Queenstown was late and overcrowded. The whole world suddenly seemed to be going to Queenstown, Mam thought.

In Queenstown, there was a huge crowd milling about. Newspaper boys carried bulky bundles under their arms and chanted the news loudly: ‘Sunk by German U-boat – read all about it.’

The Kennedys pushed their way out of the station where they saw printed billboard signs displayed inside latticing:
Cunard Information Office: Survivors, Advice, Information
. The
temporary resting place of the drowned was a warehouse on the quayside. Thin blankets on the windows let in a dull light, with dusty beams on some of the faces, making them look like damp, pale, marble statues. Their arms lay folded across their stomachs or by the sides of their stiff, cold bodies. Again she looked at every face up close; each time apprehension left her as she did not recognise who it was.

‘Let’s go home,’ she said, coming out into the sunshine at last into the noisy, chattering crowd – the newspaper vendors, soldiers, constables and seamen all surrounded by small groups of townsfolk unaffected by personal loss.

‘Mam, did you see Daddy or Finbar?’ Colleen looked up at her.

‘No, darling, but it is all very sad,’ Mam replied, and could not see her daughter for the tears.

‘Do you think they’re both drowned?’ Colleen too started to weep.

‘I hope not, Colleen love, but I couldn’t find them and I cannot do anymore today.’ Mam walked slowly up the hill, her children following her.

‘But it’s good that you didn’t find them, isn’t it, Mam?’ Colleen took her mother’s hand.

Christopher suddently burst out: ‘They’ll be home, Mam,
I know it!’ He grabbed her hand and sang all the way home.

Mrs Kelly listened to their news, then put on the kettle. ‘What about a cup of tea, Kitty, and some apple tart?’

Mam was so distracted she began cutting the pie in so many slices she cut some of them twice over. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she said in a low voice to Mrs Kelly: ‘The children love your baking.’

‘Your mother is always fibbing,’ Mrs Kelly tried to joke as she warmed the teapot. ‘Your mother is a far better baker than I could ever be.’ The twins smiled, but Colleen couldn’t be distracted by smalltalk.

‘I want to know where Daddy and Finbar are. I’m not very hungry, Mrs Kelly,’ Colleen rushed upstairs.

‘I love apple tart.’ Christopher’s voice was low. He took a huge slice and handed another to Sean. Mrs Kelly and Mam smiled at the young boys for a moment. It was their only smile that day.

In Kinsale, I went to a stone building marked
‘Lusitania’
. There were clusters of bottles, holding daffodils, on both sides of the entrance. I stared in. The bodies were in here, I soon discovered.

‘What’s your name, young fella?’ a man asked, extending a hand to me, but I could hardly speak. ‘You need dry clothes, lad,’ the man said. He pointed to a shed. ‘Over there.’

‘I need to find my Dad,’ I explained, and the man stood aside, and handed me a lantern. The warehouse was damp and dark, but I wasn’t afraid after what I had experienced at sea. I moved from one drowned person to the next, checking for my father, and suddenly fell to my knees in front of Penny Mayberry. My chest heaved and I wept quietly, holding my stomach.

She was in her blazer and pinafore, her feet bare as the night she had talked in her cabin before she pushed them into her slippers. Only two nights ago, I thought, two nights! I put my knuckles into my mouth and bit hard, trying to stop the awful pain. Her face was like white marble – cold, bare, beautiful and gaunt. Her eyes were like jewels, staring at the ceiling and her blond hair was matted with sprigs of seaweed making a crown on her head. Her hands had been laid across her stomach with the fingers wedged together; they looked like polished ivory twigs.

I leant over her face and touched her on one cheek. It was like a piece of frozen ice, so cold I thought my fingers would stick to her.

‘Oh Penny! Penny Mayberry!’ The tears flowed down my face. I begged of the heavens that she would wake and call me ‘Finny’ and that we could talk and that she would tell me things were ‘critical’. I stayed with her a very long time, unable to leave her behind forever. In the end, I spoke to her.

‘Good night, sweet girl,’ I said, as loud as I could. I said ‘good night’ even though it was morning, because in here night seemed more accurate because everything and everyone was dark and silent.

When I went outside eventually, I told the attendant that I could identify one of the drowned. The man took the details and asked me to specify which category the person was in: family, friend, crew, passenger?

‘Passenger and …’ I nearly choked on my tears ‘… friend.’ I could hardly say the word it meant so much to me.

The attendant stared. ‘What was the relationship of the deceased to you, again?’ The man held his pencil, poised to write. ‘Here, boy, what is your name?’

‘I am Finbar ‘Finny’ Kennedy and Penny Mayberry was my special friend,’ I said and ran off in tears.

‘Hey!’ shouted the attendant, ‘go and get dry clothes then go to the Cunard office’, he pointed, ‘and tell them who she is. You’ll get help there too.’

I moved away from the crowd and walked to the side of the quay to where the water lapped the cut stone as I stared out to sea. I gathered my strength, went to the shed and found some dry clothes, then went to the Cunard office. A man behind the desk asked me to write a short report. They gave me a stool under a ledge and I limped over to it, where others were writing their reports too. I couldn’t finish my sentences and sometimes began with ‘… then I, then I …’. The clerk at the desk helped me phrase the whole statement and noted that I was Captain Kennedy’s son. The positive identification of Penny Mayberry was of great help to the Cunard office, the clerk told me in a low voice. He handed me a voucher for food and a ticket for transport to Queenstown.

‘One final thing, sonny,’ the clerk said. ‘Is this the correct address: 1 Park Terrace, Queenstown?’

‘That’s my home. Is my Dad, John Kennedy, a survivor?’

‘You asked me that already, son, but all I can tell you is that he is not on the Kinsale list. You will be able to find out in Queenstown, where they have another list. There is still hope, son.’ The clerk shook hands with me and said, ‘Good luck, sonny.’