When We Meet on that Distant Shore

April 11, 1912

The skirl of pipes filled the air as the tender America made its way along the bustling waterfront of Queenstown. The colorful terraces and bunting of signal flags added to the festive atmosphere, and the red White Star Line swallowtail fluttered above it all.

Tommy couldn't see the pipe player from his seat near the stern–packed shoulder-to-shoulder with other passengers–but he could hear the opening strains of "A Nation Once Again," a particularly interesting choice in light of the Home Rule Bill being read before the House of Commons at some point that day. He didn't know if it had already happened and he tried not to think about it as it didn't really matter. Regardless of the outcome, he was leaving Ireland behind.

With some effort due to the tight quarters, he pulled out the letter that he had found tucked inside his bag that morning and reread it:

My dear son,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your journey is going smoothly. I know you are not happy about leaving your home behind, but I hope you understand that this journey is necessary. Your duty is to your family, after all.

I know it will be hard for you to be away from home, but I have faith in your strength and your ability to persevere. You are a good and honest man, and I know that you will do your best to make us proud. Remember that we are all relying on the money you send back. We are grateful for your efforts.

I understand that this is difficult for you, and that you may feel homesick and lonely. But try to think of the bright future that awaits you in America. The opportunities there are endless, and I have faith that you will make a successful and fulfilling life for yourself.

So my dear son, do your best and be strong. Please take care of yourself and stay safe. Write to us often and let us know how you are doing.

We miss you and we love you,

Your father

He held the letter over the side of the tender and imagined letting it flutter free. It would float for a few moments on the dark water, the ink blurring, before, at last, sinking out of sight and mind. Gone forever. It was tempting and he very nearly opened his fingers to let it slip away. Instead, he sighed. He carefully refolded the paper and stuffed it deep inside his bag, a problem to be dealt with later or maybe never at all. The first song ended to a smattering of applause and another one began. Several on the tender joined in singing "Boolavogue." But Tommy didn't feel much like singing.

As the tender moved past the south transept of St. Colman's cathedral where seagulls skylarked overhead, the woman next to him crossed herself. There were tears tracking down her cheeks but he didn't know if the tears were happy or sad. Maybe they were a combination of both. He turned in his seat for one final look at the low green cliffs of his home–the formidable Fort Carlisle standing guard–as the boat turned left and to the "Ballad of Muirsheen Durkin," headed out to open water and the waiting ship.

As they approached the great black hull, the tender fell silent and even the pipes stopped playing.

~~~

John paced nervously about the small room. "I really think I should fetch the doctor," he said for what felt like the hundredth time.

"No, no," Sarah replied. "I already told you. It's just a bit of seasickness." She had been laying in her bed since breakfast, her face a slight shade of green.

"But it's the Titanic, " he insisted. He stopped pacing and held out his arms. He certainly didn't notice any amount of movement. To him the ship felt as solid and still as dry land.