The ship gives another violent lurch and crashes down into the sea as if it might break. Pitching, rolling, crashing. In the darkness people moan, a woman screams, and a child cries. And the sound of retching echoes around steerage like some awful fanfare. The miasma of sickness and unwashed bodies, mixing with the ship’s own disagreeable odours, is enough to make all but the strongest nauseous. This voyage, the O’Donnells’ hard-won salvation from the hunger stalking their homeland, has been a nightmare from the moment the SS Tartar left the relative calm of Belfast Lough to steam into a ferocious storm. Terrified, Finola burrows into her sister, gripping Maeve’s hand until it hurts, and she wonders for the umpteenth time if they might not live long enough to see Scotland. They have borne
