On Grampus Ledge

Cohasset, Massachusetts. St. Patrick's Day: 2007. A fresh mantle of snow covers the ground. It's not that light, fluffy January snow, it's March snow, heavy, lead-like, and moisture laden; the kind of snow that breaks backs when you shovel it - the kind of snow that causes heart attacks. It's ten in the morning and I'm on my way to Cohasset's Central Cemetery, also know as the Joy Place Cemetery.

I pass the Cohasset Historical Society: no one's home. Through the center of town now, past the Common; the 1st Parish Church is on my right; that's where two of the masses were held. Now the road dips, rises slowly, and veers to the left slightly. On my right is my destination. Turning now, I brake, and slip, and slide down a steep grade; the plows haven't done their work yet. I glide, slowly, hit the gas on a small rise, and come to a halt. There's an entrance to my right. Time to go, time to pay my respects.

Past the entrance and I'm in; I'm walking, shuffling actually, throughh the newly fallen snow; it's slippery. Side stepping up a small hill, I stop. There it is, the reason I have come here today.

Standing atop this knoll is a 20-foot tall Celtic Cross, the symbol of Irish tenacity and will. It's made of granite, perhaps Cohasset granite, but most likely New Hampshire granite. Walking around the cross, I look up and down, checking out every inch of this stone memorial.

The cross is here in this old graveyard, to honor and keep alive the memory of the forty-five mentioned, but more so, to the memory of the one hundred or more that rest in a watery grave a mile or so from this most hallowed ground.

It's quiet, most cemeteries are, or at least seem to be. It's not the silence of night; it's somehow different. Nighttime quiet can be broken by the sound of a passing car, or footfalls; in a cemetery silence is different. I guess it can best be described as the silence of peace. There seems to be an absence of sound in a cemetery, of noise. Cemeteries are earth, and stone, and bone: all are still. The dead are calm in their rest, peaceful. There's a certain placidity here, a serenity, a tranquility. In silence I read the inscription on the stone.

"This cross was erected and dedicated to mark the final resting place of about forty-five Irish emigrants from a total company of 99 who lost their lives on Grampus Ledge off Cohasset, October 7, 1849, in the wreck of the Brig St John, Galway, Ireland. R.I.P."

Now there is only a granite shaft to memorialize those who died that horrible day. Off shore, waves still crash over Grampus Ledge, and the Cohasset Rocks. That minefield of granite ledges has claimed many more ships and many more lives. Yet, here in this cemetery rest the hushed voices of the dead of the St. John, memorialized in stone, yet lying in an unmarked grave.Their spirits are restless and they dream dreams that will never die, and they hope eternally; their vision never dimmed. I hear a voice, if only in my mind, and it speaks to me:

"I am of the past, of days gone by and long forgotten; by some. I'm a ghost, an apparition, conjured up from the pages of some historical tome, written by an author unknown. I am here , now, to tell the truth, the whole story from start to finish. I'm a survivor, the spirit of one who died in that angry sea, on that granite-ledged Grampus, on that wild and harsh October morning so many years ago. I was on that wheezing old ship, that ill-fated vessel. Fate, fickle as ever, chose that I should die, that I should be placed in an unmarked grave with the others; now I'm back!

"I drift, I float, and I wander. I land safely, quietly and unseen. Ah! Here it is, our shrine, where we, the dead, are memorialized forever. Alas! More granite! I touch it; yes, it's cool, as granite should be. I see no names, only the words of someone who never knew us, or what we were. I recall old friends, family, and neighbors; we all sailed on the St. John. All are gone now.

"We were so young then, so courageous, so adventurous. Planning our futures, looking for a new start in life after so much suffering. Now I wonder what might have been. Our hearts were strong, and we sailed with no regrets, leaving family, friends, and the land we loved far behind - Erin! Oh Erin!

"We were so eager and filled with the zest for a new adventure. I, for one, could see it all in my mind; Boston, America, and the future. Now, here we are, at our rest 'neath the soil of a land few of us ever set foot on alive. Our bodies found no safe haven here; yet our souls met with God."