Catherine Duigan uses the 1926 Irish Free State Census to imagine a dramatic voyage by the Steamship Scotia across the Irish Sea.
Garda Micéal Ó Domhnaill was probably waiting at the end of the gangplank for Captain Samuel David Prichard to hand over the 30 now completed census forms. He had supplied them during a previous docking of the Scotia mailboat in Dun Laoghaire Harbour, and it was his responsibility to retrieve them.
The government had issued clear instructions. On the 18th of April, 1926, the first census of the Irish Free State was to be undertaken. Residents and visitors to the country had to provide their name, age, sex, marital status, place of birth, ability to write English and Irish, religion, occupation and employer – including the crew and passengers on ships in Ireland’s harbours.
Launched in 1921, the Scotia still looked smart in her London, Midland and Scottish Railway Company livery. The passengers had joined the ship in Holyhead, most transferring from the London Euston train. On its canopied deck below the lifeboats and two elegant funnels, they could watch Wales disappear and wait for Ireland.
The Scotia had operated well on her passage across the Irish Sea, completing the journey in a little over 3 hours. It was essential that the mail reached Ireland on time.
An army of Anglesey stokers and firemen, including William Williams, Hugh Hughes and Thomas Williams, sweltered, feeding black coal into the furnace to produce the all-powerful white steam. As coal trimmer, Robert Hughes had the trickier job of balancing the ship by ensuring the coal was evenly distributed in the bunkers – shouting instructions over the noise of the engines.
Second Officer William Thomas Griffith was still mourning the death of his little daughter, Doris; ei flodyn. Under his gentle guidance the young deck boy, Thomas Greene from Holyhead, ensured that all ropes were neatly coiled and walkways clear. His Mam was so proud that Thomas did not have to endure the muck and misery of a cattle boat.
From former prisoners to presidents, Captain Prichard had seen it all in terms of passengers, but this sailing became a special theatrical performance. He expected newspaper reporters to be waiting for Broadway leading lady, Lucille La Verne, currently surrounded by the starched white linen and silver of the dining salon.
Finding her witty, charming and unaffected, she told him with a Tennessee twang that she asked her managers to secure a Dublin performance of her play, “Sun-Up” – “Over here I am at home again; I know so many Irish across the herring pond.”
Like an actress, passenger Silver Dean Oliver needed to manage her emotions returning to Ireland. An ancestor, an officer in Cromwell’s cruel and conquering army, was rewarded with a large land holding in west Cork. More recent loyalty to the crown had extracted family sacrifice and generated suspicion.
Her only brother was killed by a sniper on the Western Front. During the War of Independence, three local men broke into their home, Rockmills House, and shot her father in both legs after a land dispute. A year later the house was burned down, like many big Anglo-Irish houses.
Perhaps the compensation Ms. Oliver received was funding her medical education. Still facing up to physical trauma, she sat reading Gray’s Anatomy. She went on to serve Ireland’s people well as a hospital anaesthetist and surgeon.
Over a drink in the ship’s bar, Lorcan Robins, former Sinn Féin politician and now Irish diplomat, was choosing his words carefully talking to barrister, Arthur Rose Vincent. Born in India to a well-known family and married to an American heiress, Vincent had acted as a trusted go between the Irish Republican Army and the British Government during the War of Independence.
Maybe Vincent asked if there was more he could do to support the development of the new state?
Arthur Rose Vincent became a Seanad Éireann member from 1931 to 1934, and together with his wife they gave their Irish estate to the nation, creating Killarney National Park. But for the moment, he was content to know that below decks his children Elizabeth and Arthur were under the watchful eye of their governess, Londoner Edith Vaisey. His Irish valet, John O’Shea, would have already polished his shoes and laid out a clothing selection.
Using his connoisseur tastebuds to judge a pint of stout, Hertfordshire maltster, Sydney Marpole Harrington, wondered if he would be able to convince Guinness managers to place an order for his grain. The captain did not disturb his pastime sketching a cartoon of Miss Kitty Evelyn holding court amongst her large retinue of Scottish music hall artists and musicians. In a much-anticipated variety revue, they would perform 17 scenes, play ukuleles, dance and sing chorus songs in the glamorous Olympia Theatre in Dublin city centre.
Brooklyn born black vocalist Connie Smith seemed preoccupied, maybe worried that her husband Gus was taking on too many performance commitments. He collapsed on stage in January 1927 and died, but she went on to make the transition to film and television and remains an important figure in the history of black artists in the UK.
The giddy gang of very young Glasgow girls forming part of the music hall troupe made Anglesey ship stewardess, Elizabeth Williams, smile and remember her own adventurous spirit.
Out on deck the Captain noticed Englishman T.S. Kemmis looking tanned but tired of travel, shivering while straining his eyes to see the Wicklow Mountains. He was starting his international business lifestyle working for the colonial Kassala Cotton Co. Ltd in Sudan, and Ireland was an important market.
Nearby stood Australian born William Edgar McBratney, linen buyer for his uncle’s New York based company. He would take a train north to Belfast across the festering border partitioning the island.
After he retired from sea-going Captain Prichard continued to work for his community as a member of Anglesey Council, but he died suddenly in 1932.
This merciful tragedy saved him from hearing about the destruction of his brave ship, Scotia. On its third sortie carrying escaping soldiers back from the beaches of Dunkirk, a bomb was dropped down a funnel before exploding. In the mayhem, it is estimated that 300 lives were lost, including 28 of the crew.
A happier voyage on the Scotia is frozen in time in the 1926 Irish Free State Census. Rich in people and hidden stories, the census is also an important and inspiring new research resource for exploring connections between Ireland and Wales.
Photo 2: Captain Samuel David Prichard with President William T. Cosgrave of the Irish Free State (with permission from Prichard family).
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