Chapter 45

To Distant Shores

Clare hadn’t forgotten her promise to Pence.

They made an effort to track him down in the city of Cork. Some said he had died, others said he was imprisoned, and a few others believed he had managed to cast away on a ship to faraway lands.

When they finally arrived to the ship, the last-call bells were ringing and the crew was making final preparations. On this passage, there was no steerage space, no crudely converted cargo hull with inhumane conditions.

Although the quarters were tight as could be expected in a transatlantic voyage, Andrew had first-class accommodations for their trip, and Clare and he even had their own room. Though cramped and not as speedy a vessel as the American clipper Clare had taken to Dublin, it would be a much different experience than her first voyage.

Still, as she stood on the deck, pointing out the functionality of the topsail, bowsprit, buntline, scuttlebutt, outrigger, and many other nautical terms to a wide-eyed Davin, Clare felt the surge of expectation as the ship headed out of harbor and into the dark, open mass of sea.

It reminded her of Seamus, and this recollection carried with it a moment of tenderness. So full of promise. Such a precious, gentle, troubled soul. Clare prayed he would be open to God’s leading.

She glanced over to Andrew, who was sitting out of view of the water, struggling with nausea but doing well all things considered.

Down the deck a way, a fiddler began to slide his bow across his instrument and, after a few tuning strokes, played the Irish songs of old.

Caitlin and Davin sauntered over to listen and watch as the passengers were drawn to dancing.

Clare went over to Andrew, sat down, and held his hand in hers. “How are you doing?”

“I was just thinking,” he said.

“About?”

“Look at your people. Unspeakable tragedy. Suffering. Devastation. And yet, they have a spirit above it all. This story needs to be told. And you’re the one to do it.”

“Yes,” she smiled. “I know.”

They sat together for a long time, listening to the creaking of the masts, the flapping of the sails, the lapping of the water against the sideboards, the cries of the birds, and the sweet sounds of uncharted hope.

Then from far in the distance, as if hovering over the sea, Clare discerned an ethereal sound ascending. Or was it the wind? It reminded her ever so clearly of when Grandma Ella would hum a song of reverence. Her nanna struggled to sing fully in key, but it never mattered. The pure adoration in her heart always perfected her music to tones of beauty and grace.

Clare’s memories of the beloved woman gushed and overwhelmed her with a deep empathy for the pain and suffering endured. Had Clare ever been told these stories of grief, betrayal, and disappointment, or was she hearing them for the first time? They were hardships well beyond any Clare herself had faced.

“Nanna?”

There was no answer but Clare’s thoughts were swept back to that agonizing evening when she cared for Grandma Ella as the woman lay on her deathbed.

Words were shared that night that Clare never understood. Until now.

“Clare. Clare.”

“Yes, Nanna.” She gently wiped a cool, wet cloth against the woman’s wrinkled and clammy forehead.

“My dear, dear Clare.”

“Shhhh. Please, Nanna.”

“It’s you! You, sweet Clare.” She struggled to rise from the bed as if she had heard something she was compelled to share. “You’re my reason.”

At the time, Clare dismissed these last few utterances as merely the ramblings of a dying woman. But now they resonated with truth and poignancy. Grandma Ella’s entire journey was to breathe hope into Clare. And for generations to follow.

Into the breeze and with abandonment Clare celebrated with her grandmother, and they wept as one, with immeasurable fondness.

“What’s wrong?”

She turned to Andrew, who looked at her with confusion and concern.

Clare laughed and rested her head softly against his tall shoulder.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Clare whispered. “Far from it. It’s just she’s been waiting for this moment all of her life.”