I had taken a small room in Queenstown for a single night. It was barely more than a cupboard, but it was sufficient for my needs, which were few to none. I was only too happy to pay Mrs. O’Brien my last shilling for any dry space. I’d have slept standing up in the corner of her kitchen, like a broomstick, if nothing else had been available. The day had been gloomy, but that night had been a howling storm.
This was the beginning of a passage from one life into another. I planned to embark on the Minnesota on the morrow for my new life in New York. My dearest Ireland would disappear; dreams, stolen by recent misfortune, crashed about my head. Excitement and—I will admit—fear jangled nerves raw as I tossed. Mr. Sullivan quaked the floor with a sound like a rough saw through hardwood from the neighboring room. Sleep had skipped passed me this last evening. Continue reading Queenstown Passage