Grosse-Ile

"O windswept isle -
your gnarled trees bend with the gales that sweep
Above the hallowed ground wherein they lie
Those exiles who sought freedom but to die;
In foreign soil they take their last long sleep."


We are looking out over the upper section of the Irish Cemetery on the island of Grosse-Ile, which lies in the Saint Lawrence River, thirty or forty kilometers to the east of Quebec City. Here, on this island the "Famine Irish" landed in their thousands, under-nourished, exhausted, and often infected with Typhus Fever.

Everything this young country could do for them was done, but it was not enough to stay The Fever. Many of the volunteers and professional workers, fell ill and died along with the people they were trying to save. Nothing would stop The Fever, and people perished at such a rate that only mass graves could answer the demand.

"O poor Grosse-Ile, - what awful scars you bore
Where spades dug deep into your breast
Where speedily the dead were laid to rest

You can see how the graves have caved in over time. The crosses are symbolic, and do not mark individual graves. Behind the camera, and to the left stands the new monument to those who lie here. Its design is based upon ancient Irish passage tombs, with the modern addition of standing glass panels, into which are etched the names of the dead. The setting has been handled with dignity and restraint, so that the monument fits the natural beauty of the landscape. It will surely become a place of pilgrimage for the surviving kin.

"O quiet isle -
where Winter wraps you in a shroud of white
And Summer spreads a coverlet of green
And turns this spot into a peaceful scene
Golden in the sun by day; silvered by moon at night. 
                                                                Mary Eileen O'Gallagher

All told, over six thousand souls were laid to rest in the Irish Cemetery. Through the trees, to the right lies another, smaller cemetery for those natives who died here, fighting an enemy they could not see. That such a fight required courage is clearly shown in the following exerpt from a letter written by a priest on the island, to his superior, reporting on the condition of his fellow clerics. The letter leaves no room to doubt that any of these people were aware of the fate which stalked them daily.

(translated from the French)
. . . There are about forty ships in the port, of which a dozen or more have been visited. According to Mr. Symes, there are about 1200 sick, about half of whom await the last rites. Most of them die as soon as they have received the sacrements, and are replaced by others. We do not believe any die without the sacrements. Yesterday there were about 55 burials in all. Mr. McGuirk is pretty well, Mr. McGauran less so, and Mr. McDevitt very weak. . . .
Mr. McGauran, Mr. McGuirk and Mr. McDevitt will be too weak to resist the disease much longer. . . .

As well Monsigneur, deign to commend me to The Lord, and pray that He grant us strength. 

                                         E. A. Taschereau, priest.





Clan
Mhac an t'Saoir
of Erin


"thought of mind, skill of hand, they are our own,
for we are Freemen of Cine Mhac an t'Saoir"