A Son of Aran Read online

  ‘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.’

  ‘I am unable, sir, to answer that question. I have no recollection of ever having been in England or of serving in the forces you mention.’

  ‘Do you realise that without identification papers you have attempted to enter the country illegally.’

  ‘I admit that what you say is true but how can I establish who I am and where I come from without having resort to an English speaking authority? I plead with you to allow me to stay in England until my problem of identity can be resolved.’

 
After adjourning for consultation, the officer returned: ‘Having considered the circumstances you have recounted, directors of the Immigration Authority are sympathetic to your predicament. They have decided that you may remain within Her Majesty’s realm but under restriction. Accordingly you are to be consigned to a prison for minor offenders in London, pending further investigation of your case.’

  Anguished cries, shouts, and brawls, echoed through the long prison aisles to greet the new inmate as he was being led to his cell. Banging of tin mugs against cell bars signalled a new arrival.

  ‘Who are you? Where do you come from? What are you in for?’ Questions came, one on top of the other. It was futile to try to reply. The warder conducted him to an empty cell and turned a key in the lock. A mattress, a blanket, a small table, a slop bucket, comprised the only items within. This was worse than confinement in the hospital in Africa.

  ‘How I miss the freedom of having been able to walk around there even though I was unable to communicate with people. I can hear plenty of my own language spoken here but in dreadful circumstances—vile shouts, threats, obscene curses hurled at other inmates, incoherent mumbling of drunks and winos. Bellowing like caged animals, the occupants peer through cell bars, trading insults with the warders, or lie mute on their beds—how long must I endure their uncouth performance before I get my release?’

  Time did not appear to be of any consequence to the prison authorities. In the absence of communication with the outside world, a single stroke on the cell wall each day was the only means an inmate had of calculating how many weeks, months, or years he was incarcerated. Lack of natural lighting made it difficult to differentiate between day and night; only the daily routine of eating, slopping out, and supervised exercise in the prison yard, filled the gaps. He had begun to lose track of how long he was in prison when one day in the yard outside he heard a voice at his elbow: ‘A Pheadair, cén fáth go bhfuil tusa anseo?’ (Peadar, why are you here). He looked at his questioner in wonderment thinking, ‘what is this language I am hearing?

  The man repeated his query in broken English: ‘Peadar O’Flaherty, what is a decent man like you doing in this place? It isn’t like you to kill someone or rob a bank—why are you in prison?’ He stood spellbound.

  ‘My good man, do you know me? What name did you call me? Should I recognise you?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I know you? Didn’t we grow up together in Aran? Surely you cannot have forgotten me even though we didn’t meet these last few years. I am Seánín Mhicil Dubh from Gort na hInnse. I am over here on the buildings for ten years, a rough life by any standards. With a few of my mates I got involved in a fight with some English buffs, lazy sods who were good for nothing only showing their superiority. In the fight they came out second best until someone called the cops. I lashed out at them too, put one policeman on his back, and finished up getting six months in jail for my part in the row.’

  ‘Seánín, I believe you have saved me from an endless spell in prison. I lost my memory due to a mishap at sea; since then I haven’t been able to tell who I am or where I come from. I landed illegally in England and they put me in jail until they find out if the story I told them is true. Will you repeat what you have just told me in front of the Immigration Authorities?’

  ‘Of course I will, Peadar; isn’t that what friends are for? Let me know when you want me to speak for you.’

  ‘Tell me, Seánín, who have I belonging to me in Aran? Do I have a wife or family? Have I other friends there?’

  ‘You don’t have a wife, Peadar; she died a long time ago. You have a daughter who doesn’t live in Aran any more— people tell me she went to live in Spain. Máirtín, your old friend and companion that shared the trawler with you, is still there. I can tell you his address if you want.’

  ‘Seánín, you have saved my life. Praise to the Lord God who brought us together in this unforseen way. I’ll talk to you some more when I get in touch with the authorities.

  Warder, warder, I have received information as to my identity. Will you take me to the prison governor? I must speak with him.’

  ‘You say you have uncovered evidence of who you are and where you come from. Can you tell me the source of this information?’

  ‘A fellow prisoner, who grew up with me in Ireland, recognised me in the exercise compound. He called me by my name, Peadar O’Flaherty, and told me that he knows my family and friends back home in the Aran Islands on the western seaboard of Ireland. At this stage I have only his testimony but he is willing to restate it in front of the board of inquiry.’

  ‘How do we know that this is not a story concocted between you for the obvious reason of obtaining your release from custody? Can you advance any other avenue of investigation that might prove the veracity of his statement?’

  ‘I am of opinion that the police in Aran are in a position to substantiate the information he has provided, if you will be good enough to make contact with them. The island is small in size. The police there will be aware of any islanders who are posted as missing due to an event at sea. My fellow prisoner mentioned an islander named Máirtín with whom he says I used to fish off shore in a vessel that we jointly owned. If my informant speaks the truth, this man will be in a position to verify his story.’

  ‘On foot of the information you have supplied, inquiries will be made with the Irish Police Authority. If the story you have told us turns out to be true, there remains the question of personal identification. It must be clearly shown that you are, in fact, the person to whom the testimony relates. Can you nominate a person of good character who has known this Peadar O’Flaherty personally, and who is prepared to swear an affidavit in this connection?’

  ‘My informant tells me I have a daughter who grew up in Aran and is now resident in Spain. It should be possible to make contact with her through mutual acquaintances in Aran.’

  ‘That’s all for now. You may return to your cell. You will be informed in due course of developments as these emerge.’

  ‘That’s the first step on the road to my resurrection from the dead,’ he told Seánín when they met in the yard next day. ‘Maybe the sun will soon begin to shine for me again. Up or down, I’ll be forever grateful for your role in the matter. When we both get out of this slammer we’ll celebrate our release in an appropriate manner.’

  The station sergeant in Kilronan raised his eyebrows in surprise at the missive he received from the Superintendent of the Garda Siochána.

  ‘Peadar O’Flaherty,’ he mused, recalling the reprimand he had received following the discovery of the man’s wife in the sea and his own intuition that the husband had in some unproven way been an accessory to her death.

  ‘But sure, that fellow was drowned at sea three years ago. His body was never recovered. Is this another scam? Is someone trying to prove he is alive—something to do with inheritance maybe?’ Carefully he supplied the information requested: ‘Yes, a person named Peadar O’Flaherty lived on Aran.

  ‘Yes, our records show he was lost by drowning in an accident at sea. His body was not recovered.

  ‘Yes, he has a daughter named Eileen O’Flaherty who grew up on the island. She no longer lives here.

  ‘I understand that Eileen O’Flaherty has gone to live in Spain, accompanied by another islander named Seosamh O’Loinigh. Addresses in Spain, provided by the Parish Priest of Aran, Father Corley, are as follows—Estat de Tirelle, Valladolid or, alternatively, in care of Father Benedictus, Social Studies Department, Salamanca University.’

  Eileen rubbed her eyes when she received a letter from the British Immigration Authorities:

  Madam,

  We have in custody at Wandsworth Prison, London, a man who claims that he is one Peadar O’Flaherty of Aran, Ireland. To help in processing his application for admission to the United Kingdom, a person of good standing is required to verify the validity of the man’s claim by personal identification, and to swear an affidavit in this connection. The man claims that he has a daughter
of your name who resides in Spain. In an effort to advance consideration of his application, it is proposed to hold an identification parade at Wandsworth Prison on the twentieth day of June, nineteen hundred and fifty nine. In view of his claim to be your father, perhaps you will wish to participate in this exercise. In the event of your compliance, I would appreciate if you will contact me in advance at the address stated.

  Harold Langworth

  ‘Seosamh, this cannot be true! What do you think we should do about the request? We know that Peadar is long since dead—some people are apparently using his identity for their own ends. Can they not let him rest in peace?’

  ‘Sure, Eileen, it is a long shot but can you afford to ignore it? What if Peadar never drowned, but maybe was picked up by a passing vessel and taken away to the other side of the world? From reading the telegram, it would appear he is trying to get back into England. If he got that far he would have no difficulty in crossing over to Ireland. I know it will be difficult for you to go to London, what with the baby and all, but I still think it is your duty. If you don’t go through with it, you will always have a nagging doubt about the story. If you prefer to go on your own, I will look after baby Carl until you return.’

  ‘There’s no question of me going alone on this errand, Seosamh. Either we go together or I don’t go at all. How could you think of sending your wife to England to face someone who claims to be her late father? Supposing it happens to be true—who will come to my aid if I faint from shock?’

  The Governor’s office was a bleak, unfriendly place—a bare unpolished desk, a table, two hard bottomed chairs on one side, a soft swivel chair on the other, walls festooned with mug shots of wanted criminals, an eerie sensation of the kind of interviews that took place there. Mr Langworth’s acknowledgement of their presence was coldly official. Seosamh announced in his best English: ‘I am Seosamh O’Loinigh. This is my wife, Eileen O’Flaherty. At considerable inconvenience we have responded to your request to participate in an identification event relating to somebody who claims to be my wife’s father,’