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Star of the Sea

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Thrilling and full of suspense, this is a novel of Ireland set on a New York-bound ocean liner.

In the spring of 1847, from an Ireland torn by disaster and injustice, the Star of the Sea sets sail for New York. On board are hundreds of hopeful emigrants, some brimming with optimism, many more desperate to get away and start afresh in the New World. Among them are a maidservant nursing a devastating secret; the bankrupt Lord Merridith and his ...
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Star of the Sea

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Overview

Thrilling and full of suspense, this is a novel of Ireland set on a New York-bound ocean liner.

In the spring of 1847, from an Ireland torn by disaster and injustice, the Star of the Sea sets sail for New York. On board are hundreds of hopeful emigrants, some brimming with optimism, many more desperate to get away and start afresh in the New World. Among them are a maidservant nursing a devastating secret; the bankrupt Lord Merridith and his family; an aspiring novelist; a writer of revolutionary ballads -- all braving the Atlantic in search of a new beginning. Each is connected more deeply than they can possibly know. Also stalking the decks is a killer, hungry for the vengeance that alone will bring absolution.

The voyage of almost four weeks will see some lives end and others begin anew, and so much time to reflect on the life left behind; passionate loves tenderly recalled, ducked responsibilities now regretted, the shocking realization of a deep relationship where once it seemed there was nothing. In this spellbinding story of tragedy and mercy, love and healing, the further the ship sails towards the Promised Land, the more her passengers seemed moored to a past which will not let them go. This is a novel that is both urgently contemporary in its preoccupations, and historically revealing. It is a gripping and compassionate tale, building with the pace of a thriller to an unforgettable conclusion.
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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
Fans of Matthew Kneale's English Passengers and Sheri Holman's The Dress Lodger will find themselves enthralled with this tale of a sea journey from the Emerald Isle across the Atlantic. Brimming with exquisitely rendered characters and historical detail, this captivating tale of mystery and murder combines the elements of the literary novel, historical epic, and thriller to create a muscular work of fiction with a surprising sense of page-turning urgency. Making a wintry voyage from Ireland to New York in 1847, the Star of the Sea is a ship filled with passengers whose range from humble folk fleeing the ravages of the Irish Potato Famine to bankrupt aristocrats trying to outrun the secrets of their past. Beneath these class differences lies a web of connections marked by betrayal and hatred that spans generations and is about to turn murderous.

Narrated by a fictitious journalist for The New York Times, O'Connor's novel is adroitly studded with interviews and reportage of the 26-day journey. A literary star in Ireland, O'Connor splashes onto our shores with formidable proof of his literary gifts, an epic feast of a novel revealing impeccable language skills and an ear for dialogue, combined with a wonderful attention to detail and subtle nuances. (Summer 2003 Selection)

The New York Times
Joseph O'Connor, an Irish critic and playwright who is also the author of several previous novels, lures us into an easy read that, before we know it, becomes a chilling indictment not of a murderer but of us. As a London publisher says midway through the book, advising a writer unsuccessfully peddling his fiction, this is ''a good old thumping yarn,'' the sort of thing a reader can ''sink his tusks into.'' But Star of the Sea is also an agonizing inquiry into the nature of abandonment and the difficulty of finding anyone who will truly care about the fate of others. How large does suffering have to loom before we take notice? O'Connor suggests that we can tolerate mountains of misery, sipping our coffee and reading our newspapers as the corpses pile up beneath the headlines. — James R. Kincaid
Publishers Weekly
First published in the U.K. and shortlisted for Irish Novel of the Year, this brooding new historical fiction by novelist, playwright and critic O'Connor (Cowboys and Indians) chronicles the mayhem aboard Star of the Sea, a leaky old sailing ship crossing from Ireland to New York during the bitter winter of 1847, its steerage crammed to the bulkheads with diseased and starving refugees from the Irish potato famine. The novel takes the form of a personal account written by passenger G. Grantley Dixon, a New York Times reporter who intersperses his narrative with reportage and interviews as he describes the intrigue that unfolds during the 26-day journey. There's Pius Mulvey, "a sticklike limping man from Connemara" known to the passengers as "the monster" or "the ghost," who shuffles menacingly around the ship and is the subject of many a rumor. There's Earl David Merridith of Kingscourt, one of the few passengers in first class, who has evicted thousands of his tenants for nonpayment of rent, dooming them and their families to almost certain death by starvation. Also aboard is the young widow, Mary Duane, a nanny for the Kingscourt children who shares a history of intimacies with both Kingscourt and Mulvey. And there is, of course, Kingscourt's wife, with whom Dixon is having an ill-advised affair. One of these passengers is on a mission to commit murder, and another is the fated victim. Through flashbacks, the complicated narrative paints a vivid picture of the rigors of life in Ireland in the mid-19th century. The engrossing, well-structured tale will hold historical fiction fans rapt. 4-city author tour. (May) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
The New York Times Book Review
"A brave and artful novel...[T]his is "a good old thumping yarn", the sort of thing a reader can "sink his tusks into." But Star of the Sea is also an agonizing enquiry into the nature of abandonment and the difficulty of finding anyone who will truly care about the fate of others...Few modern writers have exposed with so much passion and skill the protective measures...that we wrap around ourselves." —James Kincaid
Library Journal
Aboard the creaky Star of the Sea, a motley handful of first-class passengers and hundreds of evicted tenants fleeing the 1840s Irish famine endure a stormy voyage to America. The first-class passengers include a bankrupted Irish landlord, Lord David Merridith; his discontented wife, Laura; an aspiring American man of letters, G. Grantley Dixon; and a compassionate English doctor who cares for dying famine victims below deck. Completing this microcosm of Irish society are Merridith's servant, Mary Duane, a victim of sexual abuse by her employer, and a mysterious Irish balladeer in steerage named Pius Mulvey, who is gradually revealed to be a notorious murderer armed with a mandate to kill David Merridith before the ship's arrival in New York harbor. Oscillating between the life stories of the characters in Ireland and the deaths of dozens of weakened famine victims aboard the ship, O'Connor (Cowboys and Indians) brilliantly weaves together an intriguing plot, a cast of memorable characters, and some stunningly realistic dialog. Universal themes of love, loyalty, vengeance, and violence are explored in the context of a troubled class-ridden society convulsed by the catastrophic potato blight. This first-rate historical thriller will prove popular in all public libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 1/03.]-Joseph M. Eagan, Enoch Pratt Free Lib., Baltimore Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
People
Along the way O'Connor even brings in a thoroughly gripping murder mystery that is all the more affecting for the depth he gives his characters. They add up to a powerfully symbolic microcosm of the time. Bottom Line: Shining Star
Kirkus Reviews
A bumptious epic about a New World-bound ship Star of the Sea, full of raging immigrants, conflicted aristocrats, and a flint-eyed murderer. It’s the tumultuous year of 1847 when O’Connor’s gallimaufry of characters board a "coffin ship" bound from Ireland to New York. Hundreds of famine refugees huddle in steerage, while just above them a handful of first-class passengers reside in splendor, though they’re rent with hidden intrigues—and all hear the thudding gait of the loner with the bad leg who wanders the ship at night. At center are two men in particular: the aristocrat David Merridith and the limping loner, Pius Mulvey. Merridith is a self-loathing scion of a British family that had long owned a large chunk of Ireland. When the estate’s fortunes crashed, at the height of the famine, most of the tenant families were put off the land—while corpses littered the countryside. Now on his way to New York with wife and children, Merridith has many secrets, most concerning their servant, Mary Duane. Pius is of a different stripe, though he hates himself just as much: having abandoned a pregnant girlfriend and his slightly mad brother in Ireland, Pius made himself into a high-living thief in London’s East End, one night even giving great inspiration to Charles Dickens, who was slumming for material. Later come to ruin, Pius has been embarked on a mission by some Hibernian thugs who won’t take no for an answer: kill the English scum David Merridith. Told mostly in flashbacks, and mostly through the highly arched voice of first-class passenger and journalist Grantley Dixon, this is the sort of gloriously overstuffed story that could be told in hushed breath over fifteen or so lengthyinstallments on late-night radio. Irish author O’Connor ('Yeats Is Dead!' 2001; etc.) pulls out all the melodramatic stops for a thrilling tale without once losing his eye for the right detail or his ear for the perfect phrase.
THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
A brave and artful novel.
PEOPLE
A powerfully symbolic microcosm of the time. Bottom Line: Shining Star
IRISH ECHO
By deconstructing the most defining moment of Irish history, and breaking down its essential components, he has given a face and a voice to the million who died.
Irish Echo
By deconstructing the most defining moment of Irish history, and breaking down its essential components, he has given a face and a voice to the million who died.
People Magazine
A powerfully symbolic microcosm of the time. Bottom Line: Shining Star
New York Times Book Review
A brave and artful novel.
From the Publisher
Praise for Joseph O’Connor’s Inishowen:
“This is a tremendous book; affecting, intelligent, ironic, humane and utterly convincing. It is also extremely funny.” — Spectator

“His writing is terrific.” — Roddy Doyle

author of This Side of Brightness - Colum McCann
...O'Connor's most inventive novel: brave, comic, ambitious and still, at its core, uniquely contemporary.
The New York Times Book Review - James Kincaid
"A brave and artful novel...[T]his is "a good old thumping yarn", the sort of thing a reader can "sink his tusks into." But Star of the Sea is also an agonizing enquiry into the nature of abandonment and the difficulty of finding anyone who will truly care about the fate of others...Few modern writers have exposed with so much passion and skill the protective measures...that we wrap around ourselves."
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780436255564
  • Publisher: Secker, Martin & Warburg, Limited
  • Publication date: 3/25/2003
  • Pages: 320

Meet the Author

Joseph O'Connor

Joseph O’Connor was born in Dublin. He has written ten widely acclaimed and best-selling books including the novels Cowboys and Indians, shortlisted for the Whitbread Prize, Desperadoes, The Salesman, and most recently Inishowen. His work has been published in eighteen languages.

Good To Know

In our interview, O'Connor shared some fun facts about himself:

"As a university student, I once had a summer job selling plastic refuse sacks over the telephone. Rather worryingly, I was not too bad at it."

"I was born on 20 September, 1963, the anniversary of the day on which various pieces of Robert Emmet, the great 19th century Irish patriot, were separated from one another by British uniformed persons with the aid of an axe and scaffold. As a result of this haunting coincidence, my parents very nearly named me Emmet O'Connor. Quite a good name for a novelist, actually."

"I have always wanted to write a novel called The Old One-Two, but I haven't the faintest idea what it might be about."

"I'm afraid I have little time for hobbies, other than music, which I've mentioned above. My wife and I sometimes go to the opera. We're lucky enough to get to travel a lot, often because of work -- she's a screenwriter. As the father of a lively three-year old boy, I occasionally catch Barney or Clifford, the Big Red Dog. But secretly I prefer the ,I>Bear in the Big Blue House -- better stories and more moral ambiguity."

"Other ways of unwinding include regular and deafeningly loud doses of J. S. Bach, the great Muddy Waters, or George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers. As for literary dislikes, I do have one big one. Despite its newfound popularity, I must confess that I simply don't get the point of Tolkien's work, that sad little circus of hobbitry and Elvish. How profound must one's weariness of the real world have become to want to burrow into the recesses of Middle Earth like a disappointed mole. Some people I love swear that The Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece, but I am firmly on the side of C. S. Lewis, who is said to have sighed, on reading an early draft: ‘Oh, for God's sake, Tolkien. Not another elf story.'"

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    1. Hometown:
      Dublin, Ireland
    1. Date of Birth:
      September 20, 1963
    2. Place of Birth:
      Dublin, Ireland
    1. Education:
      B.A., University College, Dublin, 1984; M.A., 1986; University College, Oxford, 1987; M.A., University of Leeds, 1991

Read an Excerpt

The Monster

A PREFACE; in which are sketched certain Recollections of THE STAR OF THE SEA; the condition of her passengers and the evil which stalked among them.

~

All night long he would walk the ship, from bow to stern, from dusk until quarterlight, that sticklike limping man from Connemara with the drooping shoulders and ash-coloured clothes.

The sailors, the watchmen, the lurkers near the wheelhouse would glance from their conversations or their solitary work and see him shifting through the vaporous darkness; cautiously, furtively, always alone, his left foot dragging as though hefting an anchor. A billycock hat was crumpled on his head, a ragged scarf wound around his chin and throat; his tattered military greatcoat so utterly dirty it was impossible to imagine it ever having been clean.

He moved with a deliberation that was almost ceremonial, a curious strain of threadbare stateliness: as a king in a story in disguise among his lessers. His arms were very long, his eyes needle-bright. Frequently he had a look of bewilderment or foreboding, as though his life had come to a point that was beyond explication or was drawing ever closer to such a point now.

His mournful face was disfigured with scars, cross-hatched with the blemishes of some affliction much exacerbated by his bouts of furious scratching. Though slender in build, made like a featherweight, he seemed to carry an indescribable burden. Neither was it a matter of his deformity alone -- a distorted foot in a brick of a wooden clog which was stamped or branded with a capital M -- but the air of anguished expectancy he bore; the perpetually frightened watchfulness of the abused child.

He was one of those men who attract great attention by making a great effort to attract none. Often, although they could not explain it, the sailors had a sense of his presence before seeing him. It became their amusement to wager on his whereabouts at a given hour. 'Ten bells' meant down by the starboard pigpens. Quarter after eleven found him up at the scuttlebutt where by day the destitute women of steerage prepared what little food they had -- but even by the third night out of Liverpool the contest had lost its power to kill the time. He walked the ship as though following a rite. Up. Down. Across. Back. Stem. Port. Stern. Starboard. Materialising with the stars, stealing below with the sunrise, he came to be known among the ship's nocturnal denizens as 'the Ghost'.

Never did he engage the sailors in conversation. The night-stragglers, also, he completely eschewed. Not even after midnight would he speak to another, when anyone still above boards would talk to anyone else; when the dark, wet deck of the Star of the Sea saw a fellowship seldom apparent by daylight. Gates were left open at night on the ship; rules relaxed or quite ignored. It was illusory, of course, this witching hour democracy; darkness seeming to obliterate station or creed, or at least level them down to a point where they were not worth acknowledging. An acknowledgement in itself, perhaps, of the axiomatic powerlessness of being at sea.

At night one sensed the ship as absurdly out of its element, a creaking, leaking, incompetent concoction of oak and pitch and nails and faith, bobbing on a wilderness of viciously black water which could explode at the slightest provocation. People spoke quietly on the decks after dark, as though fearful of awakening the ocean to savagery. Or one pictured the Star as a colossal beast of burden, its rib-timbers straining as though they might burst; flailed by an overlord into one last persecution, the hulk half dead already and we passengers its parasites. But the metaphor is not a good one for not all of us were parasites. Those of us who were would not have admitted it.

Below us the depths which could only be imagined, the gorges and canyons of that unfathomed continent: above us the death-black bowl of the sky. Wind pounded down in an outrage of screams from what even the most sceptical mariner was careful to term 'the heavens'. And the breakers thrashed and battered our shelter; like wind made flesh, incarnate and animate, a derision of the hubris of those who had dared to invade them. Yet there was an all but religious tranquillity among those who walked the decks at night: the angrier the sea, the icier the rain, the more palpable the solidarity among those withstanding them together. An admiral might chat to a frightened cabin boy, a hungry man of steerage to a sleepless Earl. One night a prisoner, a maddened violent Galwayman, was brought from the lock-up to take his doleful exercise. Even he was included in this communion of the somnambulant, quietly conversing and sharing a cup of rum with a Methodist minister from Lyme Regis in England who had never tasted rum before but had often preached its evils. (Together they were observed kneeling on the quarterdeck and quietly singing 'Abide With Me'.)

New things were possible in this Republic of night-time. But the Ghost showed no interest in possibility, or novelty. He was immune; a crag in the vastness surrounding him. Prometheus in rags, awaiting the avid birds. He stood by the mainmast watching the Atlantic as though expecting it to freeze over or bubble with blood.

Between first bell and two bells most would slip away; many alone but some together, for tolerances flowered under night's kind cover; nature and loneliness bedfellows in the dark. From three until first light, little happened on deck. It rose and it fell. It climbed. It plunged. Even the animals slept in their cages: pigs and chickens, sheep and geese. The clang of the watch-bell would sometimes puncture the ceaseless and numbing susurration of the sea. A sailor might sing shanties to keep himself awake: he and a comrade might tell stories to each other. From down in the lock-up the madman was intermittently heard, yelping like a wounded dog or threatening to brain the other prisoner with a handspike. (There was, at that time, no other prisoner.) A couple might be glimpsed in the shadowed alleyway formed by the aft wall of the wheelhouse and the base of the funnel. Still he would stand, that man from Connemara, gazing out at the awesome darkness; facing like a figurehead into the sleet, until the webs of the rigging emerged from the murk, so black against the reddening sky of dawn.

Just before sunrise on the third morning, a seaman approached to offer him a pan of coffee. Beadlets of ice had formed on his face, on the back of his coat and the brim of his hat. He did not accept the benevolence nor even acknowledge it. 'As poor as a pox-doctor's clerk,' the Mate remarked, watching him shuffle silently away.

The sailors sometimes wondered if the Ghost's nightly ritual was a religious observance or exotic self-punishment, such as the Catholics of Ireland were whispered to favour. A mortification, perhaps, for some unspeakable transgression, or ransom for the souls ablaze in Purgatory. They believed strange things, these Aboriginal Irish, and a mariner whose profession took him among them might expect to witness strange behaviour. They talked in a nonchalant, matter-of-fact manner about miracles; saintly apparitions; statues that bled. Hell was as real as the city of Liverpool, Paradise as mappable as Manhattan Island. Their prayers were like spells or voodoo incantations. Maybe the Ghost was a holy man: one of their gurus.

Among his own tribe, too, he evoked confusion. The refugees would hear him opening the hatch, hobbling down the ladder and into the gloom of candles; his hair wild, his clothes sodden, his glazen eyes like those of a half-dead mackerel. They knew it was dawn when they saw him coming, but he seemed to bring below the stinging cold of the night. Darkness clung around him, a cloak of many folds. If there was noise, as there often was even at dawn- a huddle of men colloguing, a woman deliriously chanting the Mysteries- his arrival would cause much of it to die. They watched as he shivered the length of the cabin, as he dragged himself down through the bundles and baskets, flaccid with exhaustion, dripping and coughing, a battered puppet whose strings had been cut. He would peel the drenched coat from his shuddering torso, fold it and roll it to the shape of a bolster and slump in his blanket to sleep.

No matter the happening, he would sleep all the day. Invulnerable to the noises of babies or seasickness, to the quarrels and tears and fighting and gaming that made up the clatter of life below decks, to the roars and oaths and wooings and ragings, he would lie on the boards like a corpse. Mice scuttled over him; he never gave a twitch; roaches ran under the collar of his semmit. About him the children would canter or puke, men would scrape fiddles or bellow or argue, women would haggle for a little spare food (for food was this waterborne dominion's only currency, its disbursement a matter of fevered speculation). From the heart of the din came the groans of the sick, rising like prayers from their paltry bunks; the sick and the healthy sleeping side by side, the tormented moans and fearful invocations mingling with the buzzing of the innumerable flies.

The line for the only two water closets in steerage formed directly past the coffin lid of squalid floor that the Ghost had silently claimed as his berth. One lavatory was cracked, the other clogged and overflowing; the cubicles infested with legions of hissing rats. By seven in the morning the ammoniac stench, constant as the cold and the cries of steerage, would have invaded that floating dungeon with savage force, would be filling it up like an erupting spirit. The stink had an almost corporeal presence; it felt like something you could grasp in gluey fistfuls. Rotten food, rotten flesh, rotten fruit of rotting bowels, you smelt it on your clothes, your hair, your hands; on the glass you drank from and the bread you ate. Tobacco smoke, vomit, stale perspiration, mildewed clothes, filthy blankets and rotgut whiskey.

The portholes intended to ventilate steerage would be thrown open in an attempt to quell the astounding putrescent reek. But if anything, the breeze seemed only to make it worse, blowing it into the hollows and alcoves. Saltwater would be sluiced over the boards twice a week, but even the freshwater stank of diarrhoea and had to be laced with vinegar before it could be faced. The malicious fetor oozed its way around steerage, a steaming, noxious, nauseating vapour that stung the eyes and inflamed the nostrils. But that choking effluvium of death and abandonment was not baneful enough to wake the Ghost.

Since the start of the voyage he had remained imperturbable. Just before noon on the morning we left Liverpool a great shout had gone up from a group on the maindeck. A barquentine had been sighted approaching from the south, heading up the coast towards Dublin. The Duchess of Kent was her honoured name. She had carried the remains of Daniel O'Connell, M.P. -- 'the Liberator' to Ireland's Catholic poor -- from his death-place at Genoa in August of that year, to be laid to rest in his motherland.* Seeing the ship was like seeing the man; so it appeared from the passengers' tearful praying. But far from joining the Novenas for the fallen champion, the Ghost had not even come up on deck to watch. Heroes did not interest him as much as sleep; nor did their hallowed vessels.

*In my memory the sails on that ship were black, but when I consult my notes I see I am mistaken. --G. G. Dixon.

At eight o'clock the galley crew distributed the daily ration: half a pound of hardtack and a quart of water for each adult, half that banquet for every child. Roll call was taken at a quarter after nine. Those who had died the night before were removed from steerage to await disposal. Sometimes the slumbering Ghost was mistaken for one of them and required the protection of his dilapidated fellows. The plywood bunks would be hastily hosed down. Swabs were mopped across the boards. Blankets would be collected and boiled in urine to kill the lice that spread scabies.

After they had eaten, the people of steerage would dress and wander up to the deck. There they would walk in the clean, cold air; would sit on the boards and beg from the sailors; would watch through the cast-iron double-locked gates as we First-Class passengers took pastries and coffee under the shelter of the silken awnings. Exactly how the cream was kept fresh for the rich was often vigorously discussed by the poor. A bead of blood dropped into the mix was said by some to be effective.

The first days passed with agonising slowness. To the passengers' stupefaction, they had learned at Liverpool that the ship would be taking them back to Ireland before setting out to confront the Atlantic. The news led to frustrated drinking among the men, which in turn had led to frustrated fights. Most in steerage had sold all they owned to gather the fare across to Liverpool. Many had been robbed in that unhappy and violent city, swindled into parting with their few possessions; sold heaps of crudely stamped pewter washers which they were informed were American dollars. Now they were being carried back to Dublin, from where they had fled in the weeks before, resigned- or endeavouring to become resigned, at least- to never setting eyes on their homeland again.

But even that small blessing was to be denied them. We had chopped across a filthy-tempered Irish Sea and docked at Kingstown to take on provisions; then crept down the jagged south-east coast, making for Queenstown in the county of Cork. (Or 'Cobh', as it is known in the Gaelic language.) Seeing Wicklow glide past, or Wexford or Waterford, seemed to many a bitter taunt, a poultice being ripped from a putrefying wound. A consumptive blacksmith from the town of Bunclody jumped the upperdeck rail near Forlorn Point and was last seen swimming weakly towards the shore; every last shred of his will employed to bring him back to the place where his death was certain.

At Queenstown a hundred more passengers came on, their condition so dreadful that it made the others seem as royalty. I saw one elderly woman, little more than an agglomeration of rags, barely gain the gangplank only to die on the foredeck. Her children beseeched the Captain to take her to America anyway. No means were available to pay for her burial but they could not support the shame of dumping her body on the wharf. Her aged and crippled husband was lying on the quayside, too afflicted by famine fever to be able for the journey, a few short hours from death himself. He could not be asked to witness that sight as one of his last sights on earth.

The Captain had refused to acquiesce. A sympathetic man, he was a Quaker by faith, but bound by a set of regulations he dared not to transgress. After almost an hour of weeping and begging, a middle course was discovered and carefully plotted. The woman's body was wrapped in a blanket from the Captain's own bunk, then placed in the lock-up until we had left the port, at which point it was discreetly thrown overboard. Her people had to do it themselves. No seaman could be asked to touch the remains in case of infection. It was later recounted by the Fourth Engineer, who against all advice had been moved to assist them, that they had disfigured her face terribly with some kind of blade, fearful that the current would drift her back to Crosshaven where she might be recognised by her former neighbours. Amongst those so poor that they deserve no shame, shame lasts even longer than life. Humiliation their only inheritance, and denial the coinage in which it is paid.

The batterings of recent crossings had taken their toll of the Star, a vessel approaching the end of her service. In her eighty-year span she had borne many cargoes: wheat from Carolina for the hungry of Europe, Afghanistan opium, 'blackpowder' explosive, Norwegian timber, sugar from Mississippi, African slaves for the sugar plantations. The highest and the most hideous instincts of man had been equally served by the Star's existence; to walk her decks and touch her boards was to feel in powerful communion with both. Her Captain did not know -- perhaps nobody knew -- but she was bound for Dover Docks when this voyage was completed, there to finish out her days as a hulk for convicts. A few of the steerage people were offered work by the Captain's Mate: coopering, caulking, doing odd bits of joinery, stitching up shrouds out of lengths of sailcloth. These were envied by their comrades who had no trade or whose trade back in Ireland had been tending sheep: as useless an occupation aboard the ship as it would surely prove in the slums and rookeries of Brooklyn. On-board work meant extra food. For some, it meant survival.

No Catholic priest was among us on the Star of the Sea, but sometimes in the afternoon the Methodist minister would recite a few uncontroversial words on the quarterdeck or read aloud from the scriptures. He favoured Leviticus, Maccabees and Isaiah. Howl, ye ships of Tarshish: for your strength is laid waste. Some of the children found his fiery style frightening and pleaded with their parents to be taken away. But many remained behind to listen, as much to kill the boredom as anything else. A small-headed, dapper, compassionate man, he would stand on his tiptoes and conduct them with his toothbrush as they sang the adamant hymns of his denomination, the lyrics starkly majestic as granite-stone graves.

O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come;
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.
Down in steerage, the Ghost slept on through the singing.

And then the darkness would descend again. He would rise from his flea-ridden heap of stinking bedding and devour his ration like a man possessed. His food was left for him in a pail beside his berth and though theft of food was far from unknown on the Star, nobody ever stole the Ghost's.

He would take a drink of water. Every other day he would shave. Then he would don his ancient greatcoat, as a warrior putting on his armour of battle, and bluster his way up into the night.

The steerage cabin was situated directly below the maindeck, its half-rotted roof planks here and there as brittle as the biscuit that kept its inhabitants one swallow from death. So sometimes in steerage, as the dusk came down, they would hear the clug of his wooden shoe above them. A thud, and a shower of powdery splinters, causing children to chuckle into their gruel or take a kind of delicious fright. Some of the mothers would seize on their trepidation: 'If you're not good this minute and do as you're bidden, I'll put you above for Lord Ugly to eat you.'

The Ghost was not ugly but his face was unusual. Pale as milk and slightly elongated, its features might have been stolen from several different men. His nose was bent and a little too long. His ears protruded slightly like those of a harlequin. His hair, as a hideously overgrown black dandelion, might once have belonged to a pantomime ghoul. His wan blue eyes had an unearthly clarity which made the rest of his face seem dark despite its pallor. A smell of wet ashes hung around him, commingling with the odour of the long-time traveller. Yet he was more careful than many in his habits and was frequently observed to use half his water ration to wash his comically tangled hair, as meticulous as any débutante preparing for a ball.

Tedium was the god who reigned over steerage, commanding the acolytes of restlessness and dismay. The Ghost's eccentric demeanour soon began to attract speculation. Any assemblage comprising human beings, any family, any party, any tribe, any nation, will bind itself together not by what it shares but ultimately by what it fears, which is often so much greater. Perhaps it abhors the outsider as camouflage for its own alarms; dreading what it would do to itself were the binding to fall asunder. The Ghost became useful as the stranger of steerage, the freak come among the terrified normal. His presence helped to cultivate the illusion of unity. That he was indeed so very strange only increased his value.

Rumours adhered to him like barnacles to a hull. It was said by some that he had been a moneylender back in Ireland; a 'gombeen' in their slang; a hated figure. Others pronounced him the former master of a workhouse, or a landlord's agent or a deserted soldier. A candle-maker from Dublin insisted the Ghost was an actor and swore he had seen him playing his namesake in a production of Hamlet at the Queen's in Brunswick Street. Two Fermanagh girls who never laughed were certain he must have served time in a bridewell, so cold was his expression and so calloused his small hands. His apparent fear of daylight and love of the darkness led some of the imaginative to call him 'a cithoge'; a weird supernatural of Irish legend, the child of a faerie and a mortal man, possessed of the power to curse and conjure. Yet nobody was sure of exactly what he was, for he gave away little in conversation. Even a question of platitudinous unimportance would draw only a mumble by way of response, always evasive or too quiet to be understood. But he had the vocabulary of a scholar and was certainly literate, which many of those in steerage were not. Approached by one of the braver children, he would sometimes read in an oddly tender whisper from a tiny book of stories which he kept in the depths of his greatcoat and never allowed anyone to touch or examine.

When drunk, which was rare, he had his countrymen's habit of talking in ironies that do not seem ironic: of turning a question back on the interrogator. But most of the time he did not speak at all. He took pains to avoid one-to-one conversation completely, and in company -- which was often unavoidable, given the merciless realities of steerage -- he would bow his head and gaze at the boards, as one lost in prayer or hopeless recollection.

It was said by some of the children he tolerated that he knew the names of an astonishing number of species of fish. Music, too, seemed to interest him somewhat. One of the sailors, from memory a Mancunian, claimed to have seen him studying a broadsheet of Irish ballads -- and laughing at its contents for some unrevealed reason: 'cackling like a crone on Hallowe'en night'. When asked with absolute directness he would give an opinion of a fiddler. But the opinion was always briefly expressed, and almost always approving in tone, and as happens with those who only give approving opinions, the others soon wearied of asking him.

He had something of the younger priest; an unease around women. But clearly enough he was no sort of priest. He read no breviary, dispensed no blessing, never joined in the Glory Be. And when the first of the passengers was taken by typhus, two days out of Queenstown port, he did not attend the obsequies such as they were: a dereliction that caused a certain amount of muttering in steerage. But then it occurred to someone that the Ghost might be 'a Jewman', or possibly even some kind of Protestant. That, too, could have explained his unease.

It was not that he did anything unpredictable- in truth he was the most predictable man on the ship. It was more that his very predictability made him strange.

It was as though he was certain that someone was watching him.

Even at that greener and youthful interval, I had happened upon men who had taken life. Soldiers. Presidentes. Gangsters. Executioners. Since that terrible voyage I have met many more. Some killed for money, others for country: many, I think now, because they found pleasure in killing and used money or country as varieties of disguise. But this inconsequential little man was different to all of them: this monster who haunted the decks at night. To observe him shuffling that vessel of miseries, as he shuffles, still, across my memory, even at this interim of almost seven decades, was to witness one who was curious in his behaviour, certainly; but no more than many in the strangle of poverty. No more than most, if the truth be told.

There was something so intensely ordinary about him. It could never have been guessed that he meant to do murder.

Copyright © Joseph O'Connor 2002

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First Chapter

CHAPTER I

The Leave-Taking

The FIRST of our TWENTY-SIX days at Sea:
in which Our Protector records some essential Particulars,
and the Circumstances attending our setting-out.

VIII NOV. MDCCCXLVII
MONDAY THE EIGHTH DAY OF NOVEMBER,
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-FIVE DAYS AT SEA REMAINING.

The following is the only register of Josias Tuke Lockwood, Master of Vessel, signed and written in his own hand; and I attest it on my solemn honour a compleat and true account of the voyage, and neither has any matter pertinent been omitted.

LONG: 10°16.7'W. LAT: 51°35.5'N. ACTUAL GREENWICH STANDARD TIME: 8.17 P.M. WIND DIR. & SPEED: S.S.W. Force 4. BUFFETING SEAS: rough. HEADING: W.N.W. 282.7°. PRECIPITATION. & REMARKS: Mild mist all the day but very cold and clear night. Upper riggings encrusted with ice. Dursey Island to starboard. Tearagh Isld visible at 52°4.5'N, 10°39.7'W, most westerly point of Ireland and therefore of the United Kingdom. (Property of the Earl of Cork.)

NAME OF VESSEL: The Star of the Sea (formerly the Golden Lady).

BUILDER: John Wood, Port Glasgow (prop. engines by M. Brunel).

OWNER: Silver Star Shipping Line & Co.

PREVIOUS VOYAGE: Dublin Port (South Docks) - Liverpool - Dublin Kingstown.

PORT OF EMBARKATION: Queenstown (or The Cove). 51°51'N; 008°18'W.

PORT OF DESTINATION: New York. 40°.42'N; 74°.02'W.

DISTANCE: 2,768 nautical miles direct: to be factorised for tacking into westerlies.

FIRST MATE: Thos. Leeson.

ROYAL MAIL AGENT: George Wellesley Esq. (accompnd. by a servant, Briggs).

WEIGHT OF VESSEL: 1,154 gross tons.

LENGTH OF VESSEL: 207 ft ¥ beam 34 ft.

GENERAL: clipper bows, one funnel, three square-rig masts (rigged for sail), oaken hull (copperfastened), three decks, a poop and topgallant forecastle, side-paddle wheel propulsion, full speed 9 knots. All seaworthy though substantial repairs required; also damage to interior fittings & cetera. Bad leaking through overhead and bulkheads of steerage. Hull to be audited in dry dock at New York and caulked if required.

CARGO: 5,000 lbs of mercury for Alabama Mining Co. The Royal Mail (forty bags). Sunderland coal for fuel. (Poor quality the supply, dirty and slaggy.) Luggage of passengers. Spare slop in stores. One grand piano for John J. Astor Esq. at New York.

PROVISIONS: sufficient of freshwater, ale, brandy, claret, rum, pork, cocks, mutton, biscuit, preserved milk & cetera. Also oatmeal, cutlings, molasses, potatoes, salt or hung beef, pork, bacon and hams, salted veal, fowl in pickle, coffee, tea, cyder, spices, pepper, ginger, flour, eggs, good port wine and porter-beer, pickled colewort, split peas for soup; and lastly, vinegar, butter, and potted herrings. Live beasts (caged) to be butchered on board: pigs, chickens, lambs and geese.

One passenger, a certain Meadowes, is lodged in the lock-up for drunkenness and fighting. (A hopeless out-and-outer: he shall have to be watched.) Suspected case of Typhus Fever moved to the hold for isolation.

Be it recorded that this day three passengers of the steerage class died, the cause in each case being the infirmity consequent on prolonged starvation. Margaret Farrell, fifty-two yrs, a married woman of Rathfylane, Enniscorthy, County Wexford; Joseph English, seventeen yrs (formerly, it is said, apprenticed to a wheelwright) of no fixed place but born near Cootehill, County Cavan; and James Michael Nolan of Skibbereen, County Cork, aged one month and two days (bastard child).

Their mortal remains were committed to the sea. May Almighty God have mercy upon their souls: 'For here have we no continuing city, but we seek the one to come.'

We have thirty-seven crew, 4021/2 ordinary steerage passengers (a child being reckoned in the usual way as one half of one adult passenger) and fifteen in the First-Class quarters or superior staterooms. Among the latter: Earl David Merridith of Kingscourt and his wife the Countess, their children and an Irish maidservant. Mr G.G. Dixon of the New York Tribune: a noted columnist and man of letters. Surgeon Wm. Mangan, M.D. of the Theatre of Anatomy, Peter Street, Dublin, accompanied by his sister, Mrs Derrington, relict; His Imperial Highness, the potentate Maharajah Ranjitsinji, a princely personage of India; Reverend Henry Deedes, D.D., a Methodist Minister from Lyme Regis in England (upgraded); and various others.

As we sailed this day came heavy news of the wreck of the Exmouth out of Liverpool on the 4th ult. with the loss of all 2391/2 emigrants on board and all but three of the crew. May Almighty God have mercy upon their souls: and may He bestow greater clemency upon our own voyage; or at least observe it with benign indifference.

CHAPTER II

The Victim

The SECOND evening of the Voyage: in which a certain
important Passenger is introduced to the Reader.

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12°49'W; 51°11'N.
8.15 P.M.

The Right Honourable Thomas David Nelson Merridith, the noble Lord Kingscourt, the Viscount of Roundstone, the ninth Earl of Cashel, Kilkerrin and Carna, entered the Dining Saloon to an explosion of smashing glass.

A steward, a Negro, had stumbled near the doorway, bucked by a sudden roll of the vessel, letting slip an overloaded salver of charged champagne flutes. Someone was performing an ironic slow-handclap at the fallen man's expense. An inebriated mocking cheer came from the farthest corner: 'Huazzah! Bravo! Well done, that fellow!' Another voice called: 'They'll have to put up the fares!'

The steward was on his knees now, trying to clear the debris. Blood was rivuleting down his slender left wrist, staining the cuff of his brocaded jacket. In his anxiety to collect the shards of shattered crystal he had sliced open his thumb from ball to tip.

'Mind your hand,' Lord Kingscourt said. 'Here.' He offered the steward a clean linen handkerchief. The man looked up with an expression of dread. His mouth began to work but no sound came. The Chief Steward had bustled over and was barking at his subordinate in a language Merridith did not understand. Was it German, perhaps? Portuguese? Saliva flew from his mouth as he hissed and cursed the man, who was now cowering on the carpet like a beaten child, his uniform besmirched with blood and champagne, a grotesque parody of commodore's whites.

'David?' called Merridith's wife. He turned to look. She had half risen from her banquette at the Captain's table and was gaily beckoning him over with a bread-knife, her knotted eyebrows and pinched lips set in a burlesque of impatience. The people around her were laughing madly, all except the Maharajah, who never laughed. When Merridith glanced back towards the steward again, he was being chivvied from the saloon by his furious superior, the latter still bawling in the guttural language, the transgressor cradling his hand to his breast like a wounded bird.

Lord Kingscourt's palate tasted acridly of salt. His head hurt and his vision was cloudy. For several weeks he had been suffering some kind of urinary infection and since boarding the ship at Kingstown, it had worsened significantly. This morning it had pained him to pass water; a scalding burn that had made him cry out. He wished he'd seen a doctor before embarking on the voyage. Nothing for it now but to wait for New York. Couldn't be frank with that drunken idiot Mangan. Maybe four weeks. Hope and pray.

Surgeon Mangan, a morose old bore by day, was already pink in the face from drinking, his greasy hair gleaming like a polished strap. His sister, who looked like a caricature of a cardinal, was systematically breaking the petals off a pale yellow rose. For a moment Lord Kingscourt wondered if she was going to eat them; but instead she dropped them one by one into her tumbler of water. Watching them with a sullen undergraduate expression sat the Louisiana columnist, Grantley Dixon, in a dinner jacket he had clearly borrowed from someone larger and which gave his shoulders a boxy look. Merridith disliked him and always had, since being forced to endure his socialistic prattle at one of Laura's infernal literary evenings in London. The novelists and poets were tolerable in their way, but the aspiring novelists and poets were simply insufferable. A clown, Grantley Dixon, a perfervid parrot, with his militant slogans and second-hand attitudes: like all coffee-house radicals a screaming snob at heart. As for his imperious guff about the novel he was writing, Merridith knew a dilettante when he saw one, and he was looking at one now. When he'd heard Grantley Dixon was going to be on the same ship, he had almost wanted to postpone the journey. But Laura had told him he was being ridiculous. He could always count on Laura to tell him that.

What a collection to have to abide over dinner. A favourite expression of his father's came into Merridith's mind. Too much for the white man to be asked to bear.

'Are you quite all right, dear?' Laura asked. She enjoyed the role of the concerned wife, particularly when she had an audience to appreciate her concern. He didn't mind. It made her happy. Sometimes it even made him happy too.

'You look as if you're in pain. Or discomfort of some kind.'

'I'm fine,' he said, easing into his seat. 'Just famished.'

'Amen to that,' said Surgeon Mangan.

'Excuse my lateness,' Lord Kingscourt said. 'There are two little chaps I know who insist on being told bedtime stories.'

The Mail Agent, a father, gave a strange, baleful smile. Merridith's wife rolled her eyes like a doll.

'Our girl Mary is ill again,' she said.

Mary Duane was their nanny, a native from Carna in County Galway. David Merridith had known her all his life.

'I don't know what's come over that girl,' Lady Kingscourt continued. 'She's barely left her cabin since the moment we boarded. When usually she's hale as a Connemara pony. And quite as bloody-minded as one too.' She held up her fork and gazed at it closely, for some reason gently pricking her fingertips with the ends of the tines.

'Perhaps she is homesick,' Lord Kingscourt said.

His wife laughed briefly. 'I hardly think so.'

'I notice some of the sailorboys giving her the glad eye,' said the Surgeon affably. 'Pretty little thing if she didn't wear so much black.'

'She was bereaved of her husband not too long ago,' said Merridith. 'So she probably shan't notice the sailorboys I should think.'

'Oh dear, oh dear. Hard thing at her age.'

'Quite.'

Wine was poured. Bread was offered. A steward brought a tureen and began to serve the vichyssoise.

Lord Kingscourt was finding it difficult to concentrate. A worm of pain corkscrewed slowly through his groin: a stone-blind maggot of piercing venom. He could feel his shirt sticking to his shoulders and abdomen. The Dining Saloon had an ashy, stagnant atmosphere, as though pumped dry of air and filled up with pulverised lead. Against the cloying odour of meat and over-bloomed lilies another more evil stench was trying to gain. What in the name of Christ was that filthy smell?

The Surgeon had clearly been in the middle of one of his interminable stories when Merridith had arrived. He resumed telling it now, chuckling expansively, enfeebled by duckish clucks of self-amusement as he gaped around at the dutifully simpering company. Something about a pig who could talk. Or dance? Or stand on its hind legs and sing Tom Moore. It was an Irish peasant story anyway: all of the Surgeon's were. Gintilmin. Sorr. Jayzus be savin' Yer Worship. He tugged his invisible forelock and puffed out his cheeks, so juicily proud of his facility for imitation. It was something Merridith found hard to stomach, the way the prosperous Irish were never done lampooning their rural countrymen: a sign, they often claimed, of their own maturity on matters national, but in truth just another form of cringing obsequiousness.

'Will you tell me now,' the Surgeon chortled, his bright eyes streaming with excess of mirth, 'where else could that happen but darlin' auld Oirland?'

He spoke the last three words as though in inverted commas.

'Wonderful people,' agreed the heavily perspiring Mail Agent. 'A marvellous logic all their own.'

The Maharajah said nothing for a few long moments, grim-faced and bored in his stiff robes. Then he muttered a few gloomy syllables and snapped his fingers to his personal butler who was standing like a Guardian Angel a few feet behind him. The butler brought over a small silver box, which the Maharajah reverently opened. Out of it he took a pair of spectacles. He looked at them for a moment, as though surprised to have found them there. Cleaned them with a napkin and put them on.

'You'll remain at New York for some time, Lord Kingscourt?'

It took a moment for Merridith to realise whom the Captain was addressing.

'Indeed,' he said. 'I mean to go into business, Lockwood.'

Inevitably Dixon gave him a look. 'Since when did the gentry stoop to working for a living?'

'There's a famine in progress in Ireland, Dixon. I assume you stumbled across it on your visit there, did you?'

The Captain gave an apprehensive laugh. 'I'm sure our American friend meant no offence, Lord Kingscourt. He only thought - '

'I'm quite aware of what he thought. How can an Earl be fallen low as a tradesman? In a way my dear wife often thinks the same thing.' He looked across the table at her. 'Don't you, Laura?'

Lady Kingscourt said nothing. Her husband went back to his soup. He wanted to eat it before it coagulated.

'Yes. So you see my predicament, Dixon. Not a man on my estate has paid rent for four years. My father's death leaves me with half of all the bogland in southern Connemara, a great deal of stones and bad turf, a greater deal of overdue accounts and unpaid wages. Not to mention the considerable duties owing to the government.' He broke a piece of bread and took a sip of wine. 'Dying is rather expensive,' he smiled darkly at the Captain. 'Unlike this claret. Which is muck.'

Lockwood glanced uneasily around the table. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with the aristocracy.

A young woman had begun to pluck the ornate harp that was sitting near the dessert table in the middle of the saloon, beside the dripping ice sculpture of Neptune Triumphant. The melody sounded tinny and just slightly out of tune, as harp music habitually sounded to Merridith, but she played with a seriousness he found affecting. He wished the Dining Saloon were empty except for himself and the young woman. He would have liked to sit there and drink for a while: drinking and listening to the out-of-tune music. Drinking until he felt nothing.

Connors? Mulligan? Lenihan? Moran?

Earlier in the day, through the cast-iron bars that fenced off the people of steerage from their betters, he had noticed a man he had often seen in the streets of Clifden. The fellow was in chains, and either drunk or half mad, but Merridith still recognised him, he wasn't mistaken. He was a tenant of Tommy Martin's at Ballynahinch. Apparently - so the Methodist minister from Lyme Regis had said - he had been flung in the lock-up for being drunk and violent. Merridith had been quite astounded to hear it. That wasn't at all how he remembered him.

Corrigan? Joyce? Mahony? Black?

He would come in to Clifden on a Monday morning to sell turnips and kale with father, a smallholder: a pugnacious little jockey of a typical Galwayman, full of spit and strength and snap. What the hell was his name? Fields? Shields? A widower, anyway. Wife died in '36. He'd scraped a living for himself and seven children out of a perch of quartzite shale on the slopes of Bencollaghduff. Ridiculous to say, Merridith had often envied them.

He knew himself how ridiculous that was. And yet the father was clearly so proud of his son. There was a tenderness between them, an embarrassed affection, even though they were never done goading each other. The farmer would accuse his son of idleness; the son would retort that his father was a drunken gawm. The man would clip his son across the head; the son would fling a half-rotten turnip at him. The women of Clifden would congregate around their rickety stall as much to watch them trade imprecations as to buy what meagre goods they offered. Abusing each other had become a kind of pantomime. But Merridith knew that was all it was.

Meadowes?

Very early one December morning, driving the phaeton to meet his sister off the mail-coach at Maam Cross, he had seen them kicking a ragged football in the middle of the empty marketplace. The morning was still: a little misty. Their stall had been set up near the gates of the church, the turnips polished like gleaming orbs. The whole town was asleep except for the father and son. Leaves were drifting in the deserted streets; the fields in the distance were silvered with dew. He remembered it all now, as he sat in the Dining Saloon, plunging through the rolling darkness of the sea. The strange beauty of everything in the Connemara morning. Their shadowed forms gliding through the mist like celestial beings. The thuk as one of them would hoof into the ball. The muffled shouts. The impish obscenities. The extraordinary music of their unrestrained laughter echoing against the high black walls of the church.

In all his childhood Lord David Merridith had never kicked a football with his own father. He wasn't sure his father would have recognised a football. He remembered saying as much to his sister when he met her off the Bianconi that morning, weighed down with Christmas parcels and boxes of candied fruits; brimming with news and gossip from London. The way she had laughed and agreed with his remark. Probably, Emily said, if Papa had ever seen a football, he would have rammed it into a cannon and tried to shoot it at a Frenchman.

He wondered where his father was now. His body was buried in the churchyard at Clifden; but where was he? Was there any shred of truth to it, after all, the pietistical absurdity of life after death? Could the story be metaphor for some other, more scientific reality? Would the sages of the coming times be able to decode the allegory? And if such a truth existed, how did it work? Where was Heaven? And where was Hell?

Am I all my fathers? Are they all me?

Three weeks before embarking on the Star of the Sea, Merridith had locked up the house in which he and his father and grandfather had been born, shuttered up its shattered windows, closed it and locked it for the last time. He had handed the keys to the valuer from Galway and walked around the empty stables for a while. Not a single former tenant had turned up to see him off. He had waited until dusk but nobody had come.

Accompanied by his bodyguard - the man had insisted - he had ridden out from Kingscourt to visit his father's grave at Clifden, only to find that it had been desecrated again. The granite sea-angel had been smashed in two, the words ROTTIN BASTARD whitewashed across the tombstone, along with the emblem of those who had put them there. His grandfather's grave and those of the ancestors had all been marked with the splattered badge of their loathing. Merridith's own name appeared on several of the stones, and those ones, too, had been defaced. His mother's tomb alone had not been touched, a pardoning which had merely made the despoliation around it seem starker. But looking at the scene, he had been able to feel nothing. Only the misspelled words had truly taken his attention. Did they mean that his father was rotten or rotting?

He wondered about that now: the awful inadequacy of his response. And what precisely had they meant to say, these men who had ruined his father's grave? Their symbol was an H enclosed in a heart, but what heart was it that could violate the dead? 'Hibernian Defenders', his bodyguard had explained; the name the local troublemakers gave to themselves. Another name they went by was 'the Liable Men', primarily because they dealt out liability; also they were gruesomely reliable in doing so. And Merridith had quietly pretended not to know these etymologies already, had feigned his usual interest in the customs of the indigenous, as though the constable had been enlightening him about jig steps or fairytales. Had they truly hated his father quite so much? What had he done to deserve their repugnance? Yes, he had been an inflexible landlord, in the latter years especially; that was undeniable. But so had most other landlords in Ireland, and in England too, and everywhere else: some far worse and many more cruel. Didn't they know, these night-stalking mutilators, how much his father had tried to do for them? Couldn't they understand he was a man of his time, a conservative by instinct as well as politics? That politics and instinct were often the same thing, in the pebbled fields of Galway, in the statued halls of Westminster. Probably in every other place, too. 'Politics' the polite word for antediluvian prejudices, the rags put on by enmity and tribal resentment.

For some reason Merridith found himself thinking about his children: a memory of his younger son as a baby, sobbing in the night with the pain of teething. The puppet-stuffed nursery in the London house. Stroking the child's head. Holding his hand. A blackbird hopping on the rain-spattered windowsill. The tiny fingers tendrilling around his own, as though mutely to plead, 'stay with me'. Like Christ in the garden. Watch with me one hour. The heart-rending smallnesses we finally want. Strange thought that Merridith's father had been a baby once. And in the minutes before he died he had seemed so again; that vast, indignant, iron-hearted seaman whose portrait hung in galleries all over the empire. He had reached out his frail, white hand to David Merridith and squeezed his thumb as though trying to break it. There was fear in his eyes; gleaming terror. And David Merridith had wanted to say, It's all right. I'll stay with you. Don't be afraid. But he had not been able to say anything.

As though waking from a sleep that has lasted too long, he realised the people around him were talking about the Famine.

The Mail Agent was loudly contending with Dixon. 'The landlords aren't all bad, you know, dear boy. Many of them subsidise their tenants to emigrate.'

The American scoffed. 'To rid their estates of the weakest and keep the best.'

'I suppose they must run their lands as a proper business,' attempted the Captain. 'It's a hard thing for everyone, but there it is.'

The thrown-back glower was wholly predictable. 'And is it proper business to accommodate the steerage passengers as you have on this vessel?'

'The passengers are treated as well as my men can hope to treat them. I must work within the constraints laid down by my owners.'

'Your "owners", Captain? And who might those be?'

'I mean the owners of the ship. The Silver Star company.'

Dixon nodded grimly, as though having expected the answer. He was the kind of radical, so Merridith assumed, who is secretly relieved that injustices exist; morality being so easily attainable by saying you found them outrageous.

'He has a point, Lockwood,' the Surgeon said. 'Those people down in steerage aren't Africans, after all.'

'Nig-nogs are cleaner,' the Mail Agent chuckled.

The Surgeon's sister emitted a hiccup of tipsy laughter. Her brother gave her an admonishing glance. Quickly she arranged her features into an expression of sorrow.

'Treat a man like a savage and he'll behave like one,' Merridith said. His voice had a tremble that frightened him a little. 'Anyone acquainted with Ireland should know that fact. Or Calcutta or Africa or anywhere else.'

At the mention of Calcutta some of the company surreptitiously glanced at the Maharajah. But he was busy blowing on a spoonful of soup. A surprising thing to do, perhaps, given that the soup was already chilled.

Grantley Dixon was staring at Lord Kingscourt now. 'That's rich, Merridith, coming from you. I don't know how a member of your class can sleep at night.'

'I sleep very well, I assure you, old thing. But then I always peruse your latest article immediately before retiring.'

'I am aware that your Lordship has learned how to read. Since you wrote to my editor to complain about my work.'

Merridith gave a low-lidded, disdainful grin. 'Sometimes I even snore a little and keep my wife awake in bed.'

'David, for heaven's sake.' Lady Kingscourt was blushing. 'Such talk at the dining table.'

'Quite a sight, the periodic eruption of Mount Dixon the Lesser. As for when your long-awaited novel finally delights us all by appearing, no doubt I shall find it as conducive to tranquillity as the rest of your effusions. I dare say I shall sleep like Endymion, then.'

Dixon didn't join in the round of uneasy laughter. 'You keep your people in abject penury, or near it. Break their backs with work to pay for your position, then put them off the land with no compensation when it suits you.'

'No tenant of mine has been put off the land without compensation.'

'Because there's hardly anyone left to put off it, since your father evicted half of his tenants. Consigned them to the workhouse or death on the roads.'

'Dixon, please,' said the Captain quietly.

'How many of them are in Clifden Workhouse tonight, Lord Kingscourt? Spouses kept apart as a condition of entry. Children younger than your own torn from their parents to slave.' He reached into the pocket of his tuxedo and pulled out a notebook. 'Did you know they have names? Would you like me to list them? Ever once visited to read a bedtime story to them?'

Merridith's face felt as though it were sun-scorched. 'Do not dare to impugn my father in my presence, sir. Never again. Do you understand me?'

'David, calm down,' his wife said quietly.

'My father loved Ireland and fought for her freedom against the vicious scourge of Bonapartism. And I have used what you term "my position", Mr Dixon, to make strenuous argument for reform of the workhouses. Which would not be there at all to offer what help they do were it not for the likes of my father.'

Dixon gave a barely audible scoff. Merridith's tone was becoming more strident.

'I have spoken about the matter frequently, in the House of Lords and other places. But I shouldn't suppose your readers would be interested in that. Rather tittle-tattle and muck-raking and simplistic caricatures.'

'I represent the free press of America, Lord Kingscourt. I write as I find and I always will.'

'Don't delude yourself, sir. You represent nothing.'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen,' the Captain sighed. 'I implore you. We have a long voyage ahead, so let us leave aside our differences and remain good friends and companions together.'

Silence settled over the discomfited company. It was as though an uninvited guest had sat down at the table but everyone was too embarrassed to mention the fact. A dribble of unenthusiastic applause sounded through the saloon as the harpist finished a sentimental Celtic melody. Dixon pushed his plate away desultorily and downed a glass of water in three quick gulps.

'Perhaps we shall postpone the political discussion until later in the evening when the ladies have retired,' the Captain said, forcing a laugh. 'Now. More wine, anyone?'

'I have done all I can to improve the situation of those in the workhouses,' Merridith said, trying to keep his tone steady. 'I have lobbied, for example, to relax the conditions for admission. But this is a very difficult question.' He allowed himself to meet Dixon's now unmeasurable gaze. 'Perhaps you and I can have a talk about it on another occasion.' He added once more: 'it's a difficult question.'

'It certainly is,' Merridith's wife said suddenly. 'Unless strict conditions are imposed they take advantage of the help offered them, David. The conditions should be a great deal stricter, if anything.'

'That is not the case, dear, as I have told you previously.'

'I believe it is,' she calmly continued.

'No, it isn't,' said Merridith. 'And I have corrected you on this question before.'

'Otherwise we merely encourage that same idleness and dependency which have only led to their present misfortune.'

Merridith found his anger rising again. 'I'll be damned if I'll be given lectures on idleness by your good self, Laura. Damned, I say. Do you hear me now?'

The Captain put down his cutlery and gazed bleakly at his plate. At the next table the Methodist minister turned to give an owlish stare. Dixon and the Mail Agent sat very still. The Surgeon and his sister bowed their heads. The Maharajah continued quietly eating his soup, a soft whistle through his teeth as he blew on it.

'Permit me to apologise,' Lady Kingscourt said hoarsely. 'I am feeling a little unwell this evening. I believe I shall go to take some air.'

Laura Merridith rose stiffly from the table, dabbing her lips and hands with a napkin. The men half-stood and bowed as she went, all except her husband and Maharajah Ranjitsinji. The Maharajah never bowed.

He removed his spectacles, breathed carefully on to the lenses and began wiping them scrupulously on the hem of his golden scarf.

The Captain waved over one of the stewards. 'Go after the Countess,' he quickly muttered. 'Make sure she stays behind the First-Class gates.'

The man nodded his understanding and left the saloon.

'Natives restless, are they?' the Mail Agent smirked.

Josias Lockwood made no reply.

'Tell me something, Captain,' said the Maharajah with a perplexed frown. Everyone at the table gaped at him now. It was as though they had forgotten he was capable of speech.

'That pretty young lady who is at present playing the harp?'

The Captain gave an embarrassed look.

'You shall enlighten me, I know, if I am speaking in error.'

'Your Highness?'

'But isn't she actually...the Second Engineer?'

Everyone turned or stretched to stare. The harpist's hands were sweeping across the loom of strings, weaving a climax of ardent arpeggios.

'By the holy powers,' said the Mail Agent uneasily.

The Surgeon's sister made an attempt at laughter. But when nobody joined in, she suddenly stopped.

'It didn't seem right to have a man,' the Captain murmured. 'We do like to keep up appearances on the Star.'

Copyright © Joseph O'Connor 2002
First published in Great Britain by Secker & Warburg

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work
should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt Inc.,
6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.



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Reading Group Guide

Star of the Sea begins with four introductory quotations, or epigraphs. Comment on how each of the epigraphs relates to this novel.

Who is telling this story (or, more aptly, these stories)? What do we know of the narrator at the outset, and what do we come to learn about him? Also, discuss whether and where the book-within-a-book structure enhances the novel's key themes and ideas.

David Merridith and Mary Duane are perhaps the only two characters whom we encounter as both children and adults. (Can you think of any others?) How do David and Mary change over the course of the book? How do their identities as adults reflect or refract their younger selves? More generally, what comments or concepts about childhood did Star of the Sea suggest to you?

One reviewer of this novel has claimed, "Pius Mulvey deserves a place among the classic villains of literature." Do you agree?

Describe the mystery that informs this novel-especially its last few chapters. Who is the murder victim? Who is/are the murderer(s)? Who are the suspects? What are the clues? What are the red herrings?

Discuss how the novel explores the phenomenon of creativity, especially as it relates to language, names, lyrics, stories, poems, etc. Does the novel suggest that the writing of history is also a creative act? Is a truly objective version of history either possible or desirable?

Star of the Sea has much to say on the subject of love (and, for that matter, sex). What kinds of love do we find in this novel? And what kinds-if any-are downplayed here, if not entirely lacking?

Investigate the role played by Charles Dickens in this novel-as a minor character and, perhaps, as a literary influence on both Grantley Dixon and Joseph O'Connor. What other Victorian authors, in your view, might fit logically and convincingly into these pages a la Dickens?

Look again at the incantatory poem that comprises Chapter XXVII. What do you make of this puzzling litany? What does it mean? Who composed it? (And can you translate the Latin "Ora pro nobis" phrase?)

The last sentence of this book reads: "All the way back to Cain." Which characters in this novel might be seen as representations of the Cain and Abel paradigm? Identify specific scenes or dialogue to make your points.

Look again at the date that appears below Dixon's signature at the end of Star of the Sea. What is the significance of this date, both in terms of history and in the context of O'Connor's narrative?

The sea voyage that defines this novel is a journey to America, which in the nineteenth century was not only the land of opportunity but also the world's great melting pot. But the eponymous ship itself is likewise a melting pot. Compare the different cultures, ethnicities, and social classes presented in these pages.

Compare how America is depicted in Star of the Sea-and how it is diversely understood by the main characters-with how you think America is perceived today, both at home and abroad.

James Kincaid in the New York Times commented, "This is a brave and artful novel disguised to appear safe and conventional." Is this true? In what ways, and for what purposes, does the author disguise his novel?
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 15 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 15 Customer Reviews
  • Posted October 27, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    A movie yet to be made

    I love the historic detail O'Connor blended into the open yet secretly dark plot of Star of the Sea. His words and sentences enhances the human imagination which lures you more and more into each page turn.
    Highly recommended.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 29, 2008

    Loved it.

    Im so sorry to see that someone thought this was 'predictable'. I LOVED this book. I loved the history, I loved the characters, and how they intertwined. Why this book is not on the best seller list, Ill not understand. I've told my boyfriend that if he reads it, and loves it too, then I'll know I should marry him!

    3 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 25, 2005

    Incredibly well-written

    One of the most remarkable books I've read. I learned so much about the Irish famine, but beyond that, I learned how a human can become a monster, and how very human monsters can be. It's a story of tragedy, certainly, of a defilement of an entire people as well as the corruption of a select few. The story is well-written, with beautiful prose and remarkable imagery that sometimes just broke my heart. Read it!

    3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 16, 2004

    Star of the Sea -- to read and re-read -- it's a novel, it's history, it's a shocker.

    Star of the Sea By Joseph O¿Connor Once in a while we read a book, which is so gripping and interesting, that we are anxious to read it once again. After a trip to Ireland this year and visiting the many places of historical interest, I found it necessary to read more about the history of that enchanting country. My first step was to visit a good bookstore in Dublin, where I asked for more about the sad and alarming history of Ireland. The book most recommended was Star of the Sea by Joseph O¿ Connor. This book was written as a novel; however, it gives the reader of participating in the actual happenings. During and after reading the book, I spent a lot of time on the Internet, checking the facts. Mr. O¿Conner was meticulous about his writing. The story covers the 26-day sailing of the Star of the Sea ¿ an elderly ship, not in very safe conditioning, taking a large group of emigrants who escaped the cruel potato famine in the 1840¿s. There was the Monster (or murderer) Mulvey, who was on a mission to kill Lord Kingscourt, better known as David Merridith, who was on his way to a new life in New York. Mr. Dixon, who is having an affair with David Merridith¿s wife, Laura. Captain Lockwood was the very sympathetic captain of the Star of the Sea. We read quotes and chapters of his ship¿s log, bringing the story even more to life. Intertwined was the story of Mary Duane, a very sad and unlucky girl, whose life touched several of the characters. Each character is described so that after a while, the reader begins to recognize and feel with him or her. Star of the Sea is written so that the reader is taking the same frightening trip, leaving behind loved ones and their beloved land, in hopes of beginning a new life. Many of the emigrants did not survive the journey. There were outbreaks of illnesses, starvation, cold and unbelievable suffering. This is another story of the survival of the lucky and the fittest. Mr. O¿Connor wrote the story so that its author was actually Mr. G. Grantley Dixon. There are footnotes, which should be followed, throughout the book. The feeling is that Mr. Joseph O¿Connor took on the guise of Grantley Dixon. It is a must to read the Introduction and the Epilogue, so that we are not left hanging in the air, wondering what happened to the main characters. This is a page-turning read. Don¿t miss it! The pages will turn slowly, because we are always made to ponder what we have just read. Don¿t miss this fantastic piece of literature.

    3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 28, 2003

    Wonderful.....

    gritty, compelling story with great cast of characters. Historic and memorable!! I highly recommend it.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted August 23, 2013

    Highly Recommend - Mystery/History/Fiction/Characters

    I read a lot of Historical Fiction, and also enjoy Mystery/Thrillers, and Star of the Sea has it all. The backdrop is the mid-1800's when Ireland struggled with the great famine, the indifference of landowners and the government, and many Irish emigrated to America. The story is told through several different characters POV--snippets from the ship captain's log, news articles, etc. It is made clear immediately that the story is a murder mystery but the author takes his time unfolding the story. Beautiful prose, poignant social commentary, great storytelling. I look forward to a second reading.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 12, 2004

    It's not worth it.

    It seemed very intriguing at first, almost as if it were a knock off of Titanic, but the farther I read the drier and more predictable it got. There is a sort of historical aspect in the book that can be somewhat interesting to particular types of readers, but overall I say it's not worth it.

    1 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 9, 2014

    Cheaper on Amazon

    Cheaper on Amazon, d
    W

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 28, 2013

    This novel was not at all what I had expected - in a good way. I

    This novel was not at all what I had expected - in a good way. I had the impression that this was going to be a depressing novel about
     the famine and to be fair, it is, but it is so much more than that - and that's testament to O'Connor's skills as a storyteller. From the first
    chapter I was gripped by the characters and engaged by the murder mystery that keeps up the suspense till the very end.

    By following the stories of the privileged landowners and the poor tenants, O'Connor challenges some of our long-held, polarised views
     of the famine in Ireland and shows things in a different light, which is the mark of great historical fiction. I really felt transported into
    another time whilst reading this book and engaged by the strong characters such as Pius Mulvey and Mary Duane.

    The journey of the Star of the Sea is a harrowing one and with every passing day there is an ominous feeling aboard the ship as they
    inevitably reach their destination. Stories of the famine can make for difficult reading, (and to be honest I would have been more inclined
    to read a non-fiction book on the subject) but I'm so glad I picked up this book. I would highly recommend this novel.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
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    Posted July 28, 2010

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    Posted October 27, 2008

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    Posted September 15, 2011

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    Posted August 14, 2009

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    Posted July 9, 2010

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    Posted October 2, 2009

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