Читать книгу Ireland in Travail онлайн

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“Have you seen about a berth?” he asked.

I shook my head and penetrated to the women’s cabin. It was the most uncomfortable place I had ever seen. I struggled past heaps of rugs and luggage, and stumbled over legs as far as the stewardess, an overworked woman, who answered me impolitely. There was no berth left, and I struggled up to the deck again through the descending people with my heart in my boots. There was nothing but a cold, hard seat and the whistling wind.

Scraps of conversation reached us in between the noises. People who had fared as badly as we had stood about in sulky groups. Dour Northerners clustered together and eyed a party of priests. On the hatches some Tommies lifted up their voices in song, and round the deck paced military officers with suffering faces.

It was an evil night.

In the early morning I, who had never thought to see a dawn again, caught a glimpse of Dublin Bay.

The shattered boatload poured along the platform. I stood by the small luggage while my husband went to pounce on the rest from the hold. A long-lipped porter weighed up my wealth.