Journey of the Foundresses

We were up early next morning, and I think every priest on board wanted to say his Mass at 5:30 in the library.  While waiting we went out on deck.  It was a superb morning; warm, sunny, white gulls swooping about, and the first “ship” we saw was a little sail boat, all red, the first of many.  Shortly after, the New York skyline became dimly visible and sent Sr. Paul into a silent ecstasy!  We had to go to breakfast immediately after Mass for it was much earlier on account of the landing.  Our momentous meeting with the customs officials came shortly after on A deck.  All of us went right through—the Americans, of course, being passed first without examinations other than their identity.  Many of us missed the Statue of Liberty—but not Sr. Paul.  When we finally reached the deck, it was thronged with the entire population, for it was the landing deck.

We found the others at once, the gray head of our Archbishop towering over them, and to all appearances protecting M. Prioress from three reporters who had boarded the ship from the pilot boat and were diligently asking questions.  They were very polite though, never interrupted each other, and took turns asking questions.  His Excellency did most of the talking, though, and gave them exact and precise information.  He never left us, in fact, until we were just about ready to leave our luggage sections in the dock.  Of course, these reporters wanted pictures, so we were herded down to a private little corner of the deck, through a rope, which must have been quite a privilege.  

This spot happened to be right beside the gangplank, and by this time we were inside the dock, and little tugboats were pushing us in.  One of them, I recall, was named Geraldine.  Not many people were allowed onto the pier, and we noticed a priest in a light brown coat taking snaps of us, and excitedly asking us by sign for the “+”.  A Cistercian, sure enough!  We promptly got His Excellency in our midst, and the “priest” thanked us by the usual sign.  We found out later that he was Br. Leo from the Valley!  The brown coat was legal then!

The gangplank was being gradually but quickly put into place now with ropes, and during a quiet moment we turned around and caught Sr. Carol embracing enthusiastically a little priest, whom we instantly surmised was her brother, Fr. John.  The reporters, who had stayed by us all this time, instantly sensed a story and made sure of their pictures first.  But after the first one, the Archbishop stepped in and “prevented them” in their exuberance from being rash.

Out of all the people on that boat, Sr. Paul was the first off, with the Archbishop right behind her; he told her afterwards that he couldn’t keep up with her.  We congregated under “O” and our baggage filtered in, piece by piece—minus at least one piece.  Those who had relatives there lost no time in contacting them.  The “foreigners” watched them, delighting in their delight.  It was their turn now.

We were some time there—two pieces of luggage held us up.  Msgr. Spillaine was non-existent the whole time; we found out later that he was negotiating our transportation.  Our nice black limousine the Archbishop had promised could not be had, and a bus was chartered.  Shortly before we left, His Excellency came along, “You’re all set.  Anything you want?”  We assured him and thanked him profusely, not forgetting to say, “We’ll miss the little teas.”  A pleased, remembering kind of smile was his only answer as he gave us his ring to kiss—then he was away with four or five men.  We followed soon after, Msgr. Spillaine herding us all together and counting us every five minutes!  Dom Celsus and Fr. John came along with us, and we went down to the street level in an elevator, a small crowd watching us until the cage was out of sight; I believe the elevator was a singular privilege.  We had to wait some time for the bus, which we certainly did not fill; there was ample room and choice of seats.  The driver had to get a license or something first, and we went right through the heart of the city to get there, Sr. Paul pointing out the sights as we went along, but all we were interested in was peace and quiet.  We finally left New York (after a slight scraping accident with another fender) and drove steadily until we reached New Haven, Connecticut.

Just outside the city limits, we heard the deafening clatter and roar of two motorcycles with sirens trying to compete.  It was two traffic cops and they drove alongside the driver’s window, “You going to St Raphael’s Hospital?  “Yes.” “Alright, follow us” and away they shot, obviously delighted to escort us through the city.  Of course, we were all on the qui vive now and watched in huge enjoyment while our driver had to speed up to keep up with the keepers of the speed laws.  We sailed gloriously through red lights, traffic signs and around corners, the sirens meanwhile creating considerable disturbance.  We sat as small as possible in our seats, though not missing the turned heads and the windows that were raised to see where the fire was.  If they did manage to catch a glimpse of us and guess who we were the question would undoubtedly arise “But I thought they were called the silent order.”

The whole hospital it seems was on the steps to greet us, but first of all each of us thanked the two smiling cops, and Msgr. Spillaine promised them our prayers.  One of them said:  “Thanks, we need ‘em.”  We learned later that he was right from Ireland—no doubt picked for the occasion.

Since we were pressed for time, we were taken to the dining room very soon, where a beautiful dinner was waiting.  The color design of napkins and little candy baskets was green and white.  A sign in Gaelic, festooned with shamrocks, read “Cead mille faiele,” a hundred thousand welcomes!

To be continued...