Brothers O'Neill (eBook)

Prologue

The mournful sound of the ship’s horn pierced the ears of Patrick Sean O’Neill as he stood fixated on the departure dock about to leave his home for the last time. It was a cold and rainy December day in 1926. Patrick stared quietly at the letters on the side of the ship he was about to board for his long trip to America. The letters spelled out the words T.S.S. Letitia, and in his hands, he held the ticket that would take him away from his beloved Ireland.

The sky was a steel gray and the stinging drops of rain being blown in from the sea was a reminder of a chill he would never forget. Nor would he ever forget how his Mum and Da or an ever-present peat fire could chase away the cold from his body at the end of each day.

The ticket read: Section C; Room 800; Berth number 4; departure Londonderry, Ireland to New York City, USA. He held the ticket inside his wool coat, protecting it from the rain, water dripping into his eyes from the brim of his cap, mingling with tears of possibly never seeing his home and family again.

A uniformed man waved Patrick and dozens of other men and women to walk up the gangplank onto the ship. As he pushed past slower climbers who were also moving up to the deck, Patrick carried a battered suitcase which held the few possessions he was taking to his new home (wherever that might be). In his suitcase were two wool shirts, a sweater knitted by his Mum, two pairs of woolen pants, frayed underwear and three paperback books written by Mark Twain. The pocket of his wet tweed coat held his passport and an unopened letter his Mum had given to him before he left his house for possibly the last time.

As he reached the top of the gangplank and turned to look down at hundreds of people waving goodbye to their loved ones, no one waved back at Patrick, as he was now all alone and on his own. After the crew had untied the large ropes from the cleats on the pier, the ship pulled slowly away, churning past a breakwater, before it picked up speed and fought its way through rolling gray waves; waves that blended into the same-colored sky that hid behind the cold winter rain that chilled Patrick to the bone.

Shivering, Patrick found his way to the lower deck and his bed in room 800, occupied by three other young Irishmen chasing their dream. The accommodations were sparce as he and his three new bunkmates shared a space that was even smaller than his bedroom at home.

The first night they were out to sea, Patrick sat alone on his bunk and opened the envelope his Mum had given him. The letter, which was written on a single piece of white paper, read:

Patrick, your Da and I feared that this day would one day come, but always keep God in your heart and find the dream He intends for you. And always remember, you are the dream that He intended for me.

And with the letter was a St. Christopher medal and chain, the Patron Saint of travel which his Mum hoped would keep him safe. Patrick wiped his tears and silently prayed he would see her soon but knew he would not. He put the chain around his neck, with the medal hanging on his chest just below his chin. Patrick knew he would think of his mother every time the medal touched his skin. And he did.

For days on end after his departure, Patrick spent most of his time reading his Twain books to keep from getting sicker by the endless up and down motion of the ship caused by the rough seas. The pungent smell of unwashed bodies and clothes touched by vomit was a smell unlike any he ever experienced. And even worse, the heat below the deck was so oppressive he occasionally would find his way to the top deck and lie for hours in the bottom of a lifeboat, looking at a sky full of stars and hoping one was shining for him. Patrick’s only solace on the trip was to talk with other young men and women emigrating to a new home and hear the stories about what had prompted them to leave a land they all loved. He kept thinking about the great times he had in local pubs with his friends, Sunday dinner roasts with his family, absorbing the warm heat of a peat fire in his home’s fireplace, fishing for salmon in the creek that ran through his farm, but mostly he could only think about his Mum and Da. They had instilled in him the love to read, the ability to work hard and dream, his affection for the rolling hills of County Monahan, and the understanding of the importance of family.

Patrick O’Neill was 21 years old and the second son in a family of six siblings born and raised in the village of Carrickmacross in County Monaghan. As was tradition in Ireland, the first son inherited the farm from his father and any other sons were forced to find other ways to make a living, which was almost impossible at that time in the Emerald Isle. Although well-educated and quite intelligent, Patrick had no choice but to do what tens of thousands of other Irish born did, leave their homes and go to America to find a way to survive.

Patrick was a thin gentle man, with brown hair and protruding ears, and a romantic and voracious reader of all the stories about America. His favorite books were written by Mark Twain, and young Patrick’s fervent wish was to one day be able to see the Mississippi River. He was enamored by the descriptions by Twain of towns like Hannibal and characters like Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, but he was also enamored with the vastness of the country and the opportunities provided to those who wished to work hard. Patrick’s work ethic was second to none and knew in his heart that if given the opportunity, he would prove to be the best hire anyone could possibly make.

Aside from the few possessions he carried, Patrick had little money left over after paying his passage across the Atlantic Ocean. But not having money would not deter him from building a new life in America. Afterall, Patrick Sean O’Neill was determined and ready. But first he had to survive the trip across the ocean, and if he was able to stop throwing up the little food he ate, he might be strong enough to face an uncertain future in the land of Twain.

After days of fighting back nausea from the tumultuous seas, bad food and sick roommates, Patrick grew ever excited that his journey was about to end. He was nearing the coast of the US and the beginning of an adventure that would forever change his life. Patrick was about to realize his dream about becoming an American citizen, hopefully find a good Irish girl to marry and a good Irish family to build. As the T.S.S Latitia was pulling into the large New York harbor, he stood on the deck shoulder to shoulder with many others like himself, and with his chest bursting with anticipation he stared at the large beacon that beckoned him, The Statue of Liberty. It was positioned on a small island, with its arm and flame held high toward the sky saying: welcome to your new home.

Less than a mile away was another small strip of land, which Patrick discovered processed immigrants as they entered the US, and the small strip of land with an imposing building was called Ellis Island. The T.S.S Latitia pulled up to a pier and tied up, and after being given instructions, the exhausted passengers disembarked one by one into the large building.

The big room that Patrick entered was roped off to lead everyone single file to a long counter with a dozen officials dressed in uniforms asking questions and reviewing papers. Patrick’s papers showed personal information about his name, age, health information, where he was from and the name and address of the person in the States who was his official sponsor. In his case, it was a distant cousin, Tom O’Neill, who lived in New York City, a relative Patrick had never met. Tom was one of two brothers who emigrated from Ireland to the US years earlier. The other brother, Jack, lived in Chicago.

As Patrick finished showing his papers to a stern and humorless man behind the counter, he was directed to someone referred to as Doctor. After a few probes and looking in his mouth, the Doctor stamped his papers and sent him on his way. Patrick walked out of the imposing building clutching his suitcase and the papers which indicated he was now entering the United States of America.

For a moment, Patrick stared at the bright sun welcoming him to his new home, and then began to take the short walk to a nearby dock. He got on a ferry filled with fellow passengers from his ship and crossed a short distance on the boat to another dock in an area called Manhattan. Tucked away in his passport were written instructions on Tom’s address and directions on how to get there. Patrick was about to spend his first night in a country where everyone walked fast, talked loudly and put signs in their windows that said: No Irish need apply.

Tom warmly welcomed Patrick to his small apartment home with his wife, Sheila, and their two small children. The apartment was two rooms on the fourth floor of a building in an area called Hell’s Kitchen, a neighborhood of predominantly Irish Catholics. Both Tom and Sheila made him feel comfortable, and a few drinks of Irish whiskey after he arrived, Patrick tasted his first American meal. After dinner and a few more Irish whiskeys, he...