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It was a glorious summer day in 1915, with clusters of elderberry
blossoms dangling like woolly tassels from the shrubbery lining
the estuary of the great Chicago River as it deposited its muddy
torrent to sully the crystal-clear waters of the great Lake Michigan
in the United States of America. There had been a fierce war raging
somewhere in the Western hemisphere but most of the subjects of
this ‘Land of the Free’ went about their normal chores,
knowing little about this affair and indeed caring little about
it either. It was only when the newspapers carried tidings of
some American vessel being scuttled on the high seas that any
interest was awakened, as the sinking of the Lusitania had aroused
in the early part of the year.
So here in the narrow streets of the blustery city the bustle
of the grain buggies prevailed as they plied to and fro with their
swollen sacks of wheat and corn, heading for the wharves, where
steamers from other lands had their hatches open to receive whatever
cargo was for export. The only difference this sunny day was that
the streets were much clogged by the landaus which overtook the
laden buggies with scornful indifference as their affluent owners
hurried out of town to wallow in the sunshine of the countryside.
Peter Boyle, a swarthy seaman, had just arrived from his home
on Beaver Island in the far North. His ship being two days on
the journey, and him having but little rest, he was feeling bedraggled
for the lack of sleep, and being still young, in his late twenties,
he was conscious of being smutty as well. All he longed for now
was a tub of steamy hot water in some local saloon and a trip
to the barber shop to have his beard trimmed and his bushy locks
shortened to his taste. Peter had been born three thousand miles
to the West on Arranmore Island. Like all island men, he had been
a man of the sea all his life, as had his predecessors, and when
the time came to fend for himself he had to consider emigrating,
as most of his compeers had already done.
This did not worry him because he had already decided where to
go, and what career to follow. Many of his friends had already
gone abroad and like true island men got positions as crew-men
on sea-going vessels plying here and there on the great American
Lakes. Most of those he knew had settled on Beaver Island, and
it was there he also decided to go. Having ‘friends in court,’
it did not take him long to get a job as a trimmer, and he was
now all set to make his fortune, with Arranmore just a memory.
The sea was in his blood, and he was not afraid of it. Fourteen
years earlier his older brother Dan had drowned on the Wicklow
coast when The Exile, on which he was a deck-hand, foundered on
a reef during a gale. But Aran folk were no strangers to such
tragedies and learned to accept them as a ‘way of life.’
So on this fine morning as he ambled along the wharves he was
as happy as any man in Chicago. He selected a barber's saloon
on the promenade close to the confluence of the lake and the majestic
river that had come in from the country many miles away. The barber
was busy, and as Peter had to take his turn he settled for a cozy
arm-chair close to a window overlooking the quays. After a brief
spell he heard a ship's klaxon sounding close at hand and on looking
out beheld a medium-sized pleasure-boat chugging down the river,
with a multitude of passengers lined up on her starboard rail
waving pennants and cheering while a rag-time orchestra belted
out a tune from the forward poop. As Peter sat there taking in
this scenario the thought struck him that the passengers were
on one side and the vessel was off her centre of gravity and listing
dangerously.
‘She must have no ballast at all,’ he thought as the
barber nudged him that his chair was now vacant. As he walked
across the floor there was a tumult of shouting and screaming
coming from the street, and, rushing back to the window, Peter
went rigid as he beheld the pleasure-boat's gunwale disappear
under the edge of the wharf and her passengers being toppled into
the swirling current. There was an outburst of yelling and screaming
with street pedestrians running in all directions wondering if
what they were seeing was real. A geyser of water belched into
the air as the funnels disappeared below the waterline and those
passengers who could swim thrashed about with others hanging onto
them in their panic.
The ship's life-boat had been dislodged from its davits and was
now being carried away down stream. Peter instantly bounded through
the open door and without hesitation bounded into the turbulent
water as many hands reached out to him, so many that he saw he
was in danger of being swamped. He disregarded all pleas for help
and being a strong swimmer headed out after the capsized lifeboat.
He knew the drill in such procedures, and in very little time
he was safely aboard and rowing desperately back to where the
helpless people were trying to keep afloat. With the energy of
a giant he began hauling them aboard one by one, while others
clung desperately to the sides. In less than ten minutes the lifeboat
was clogged with dripping women and children, and knowing that
they at least were safe he began to swim out into the depths again,
searching for others. He could see none, and coming to the conclusion
that many had already drowned he guided the rescued gang back
to the slipway.
Just as the last of them was on dry ground, a piercing cry came
from far down the estuary. In that direction he saw what seemed
to be a teenage girl being carried out into the lake. Why he did
not resort to the boat he had just emptied remains a mystery to
this day, but he jumped into the water instead and swam strongly
out towards the distressed girl while dozens of spectators watched
but offered no other help.
With powerful strokes he closed in fast, and in spite of her
exhaustion the girl swam to meet him. He managed to get her turned
on her back. Adopting the same position himself, he grasped her
firmly between his thighs and swam towards the shore. With her
soaking clothes and inability to offer him any help at all, his
legs began to submerge. With mighty strokes he ploughed his course
backwards while his torso sank lower and lower. Eventually he
shouted for help, and although there was an empty boat lying by
the slip-way, no one thought of going to his aid. When the girl
seemed to have died, the load on his body became unbearable. His
energy was fast drying out, and enhancing his buoyancy was no
longer in his power. With one final gasp he flung up his hands
and disappeared below the waters of Lake Michigan.... He was far
from home.
I have been told that some Friendly Society or another erected
a monument to commemorate his heroic feat, and that it can be
seen there to this day. Although Peter was my mother's cousin,
I have never heard whether his body was ever found, or whether
he is buried in the States. He was not married, and of course
there are no children who could be contacted.
For those who came from Arranmore, it was not always the good
life that they found.
– Bernard J. Byrne
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