An Irish Girl

by Marilyn Hering

  “Get Father Boyle. Quickly. And tell him to bring what he needs for Extreme Unction.”

  They soon heard footsteps. Father Boyle, red-eyed, rushed through the door, Patrick soon after. He carried a small, maroon velvet box which contained the objects needed for Extreme Unction, the last Sacrament of the Catholic church. He opened the box and placed it on the small table next to Elizabeth’s cot. He could see she was barely breathing. He also took out two candlesticks, two wax candles, fresh water, and a wafer of bread. He wet his thumb with the holy oil from a jar in its container, then he motioned to Tara to lift Elizabeth’s blanket and drape it over the front of the cot. He anointed her feet, each time emblazoning the sign of the cross into Elizabeth’s flesh.

  “By this anointing and his loving mercy may the Lord forgive you whatever wrong you have done by the use of your eyes, nostrils, hands ...” He touched those parts of her body as he spoke.

  Tara sat on the bed, half heard him. The cold from her mother’s frail hand rushed through her body.

  Father Boyle placed the sacred wafer between her lips, “Body of Christ,” he said.

  He saw that Elizabeth’s pulse had dwindled, then ceased.

  “She has passed on,” Father Boyle said. And then he stood up, eyes tear stained, closed the maroon box, and left. He seemed to find remaining there unbearable.

  There was no consolation for Tara, Liam and Patrick. Liam lay across her body and wept. Patrick and Tara held each other with tear-stained eyes.

  The news spread quickly of her death but they did not have enough wood to make her a proper coffin since so much had been sold for money to buy food. Patrick and Liam dug a gravesite for her within twenty feet of their stone cottage. One of the women, Mrs. Kristina Duffy, from the village, arrived soon and began the ritual of “keening,” a wailing for the person who had died, common to the Irish beliefs upon the death of someone in an Irish family. She writhed and screamed until she lay on the floor, exhausted. The day of the supposed burial Liam, Tara, and Patrick still sat by her side trying to decide what to do next.

  “She’ll not be put in the earth without a proper coffin, not my Kathleen. I’ll have no worms eat at by beloved,” Liam wept.

  The next day they looked out the window shocked at what they saw. The men of the village each carried a leftover board they had not sold, some small planks of wood, others larger and began to build a coffin. When it was finished, they moved it closer to the burial site. It was a crude coffin, but certainly it would do.

  After it was completed, they placed it near the opening that had been dug in the ground.

  Tara and Patrick approached their father.

  “You have to let her go now, da. Remember, she’s with God now. And the angels.”

  Liam stared at Kathleen’s body with a glazed look in his eyes.

  Patrick said, “Let me help you, da,” as he grabbed his father’s arm.

  Liam, Patrick and a few of the other men placed her lovingly in the coffin and closed its lid.

  Finally one of Liam’s friends hammered it down with nails that sounded as loud as thunder. Father Boyle, red-eyed, stood with the group as the coffin was laid in the ground. “May I say a brief prayer for her, Liam? I think she would want it.”

  Liam nodded.

  He opened his prayer book, his hands trembling, and read excerpts from the Mass for the Dead.

  “O Lord, Jesus Christ, King of glory, deliver the souls of all the faithful departed from the pains of hell; that they fall not into darkness but let the holy standard bearer Michael bring them into that holy light which You promised of old to Abraham and his seed. We offer you, O Lord, sacrifices and prayers of praise. Receive them in behalf of Kathleen O’Brien whose soul we commemorate today. Grant her, O Lord, to pass from death to that life you promised.”

  Father Boyle knew Kathleen would have wanted to have a complete Mass said for her, but under the circumstances of Liam’s watchful eye he was glad he was even able to say the prayer he did.

  Suddenly there arose from the crowd a woman singing. It was Mrs. Duffy, a freckle-faced woman, obese, with hair the color of carrots and eyes as green as grass, Kathleen’s best friend for years, who had performed the “keening.” Then more and more voices joined in, their tear-stained faces singing notes that surely reached heaven.

  I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen

  Across the ocean wild and wide

  To where your heart has ever been

  Since first you were my bonny bride.

  The roses all have left your cheeks

  I watched them fade away and die,

  Your voice is sad whene’er you speak

  And tears bedim your loving eyes.

  So I will take you back, Kathleen,

  To where your heart will feel no pain

  And when the fields are fresh and green

  I’ll take you to your home again, Kathleen.

  Patrick, Liam and a few of his closest friends shoveled the soil upon Kathleen’s coffin. Every shovel of the spades struck the voice of thunder as they thudded against her coffin, then scraped it with a hollow sound. Then they placed a marker of wood shaped like a cross upon her grave.

  Exhausted and weak from hunger, the group departed, a few to their cottages which they could still pay rent for and many to the ‘scalps’ they had built for shelter, unable to pay their rent.

  A quiet excitement and low whispers filled the air of Monaghan. John McGuire, who seemed to have taken the place of their beloved leader, Connolly, who wasn’t well, was coming to their county to speak. In their wildest imagination most of the residents never expected this great leader and fighter for justice for the Irish to come here.

  When Saturday night came, the church was overflowing with many men and women standing in its aisles and even the loft of the church to see this great man and what he had to say. They heard he had led raids on British ships docked in their seaports in the North and stolen food the British planned to sell in their own country and others for profit while the Irish starved.

  He arrived on a chestnut stallion and on each side of him rode two armed men, his guards. He was a tall, strongly-built man, wearing a plaid flannel shirt, common khaki pants and boots up to his knees. His face showed strength as well; his cheekbones gave his face the appearance of strength, his defiant blue eyes emanated the character of a powerful man, his fleshy lips were pressed tightly together as he rode, his longer brown hair hanging three or so inches below his collar.

  Tara, Patrick and her father watched him dismount and then from inside the church as he strode toward the altar area with a sure and steady stride. The roar of the audience was overwhelming as he and his bodyguards, hands on their guns and perusing the crowd, stood in front of the altar. He raised his arms to them and they slowly quieted down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “I’m calling upon you for help. We have discovered—and it’s an undisputed truth—that large quantities of food are being exported to England from Ireland during this terrible period of starvation of our people. Ireland is actually producing enough food, wool and flax to easily feed and clothe eighteen million people. Can you imagine?” He stepped forward.

  “Yes, I said eighteen million people; yet, a sailing ship coming into one of our ports with a cargo of grain is sure to meet six British ships sailing out with a similar cargo. Ship after ship filled with wheat, oats, cotton, cattle, pigs, eggs, and butter blithely sails down the Shannon River, leaving Ireland, which is on the verge of starvation. The potato deluge has swept away all other food from our cottagers. As you know, the Irish farmer was compelled by economic need to sell whatever he managed to grow to pay the rent; and, of course, paying it is the first necessity of life. Many to most of you are now living in ‘shales’ having been evicted from your homes, unable to pay the rent. You’ve been forced, I know, due to economic need to feel re
sentment—rightly so, when food left in market towns under your own eyes is protected by a military escort of great strength.’’ He stepped forward further.

  “I have learned that instead of leaving the port at Belfast, which we have raided successfully three times, they have changed their tactics and are presently in the bay near Dundale. My men plan to attack it next week at a time I will tell any of you who volunteer to help us. They believe the Irish are stupid and lacking in knowledge of their change of plan. The men I already have who have volunteered, twenty, will get to its hold and carry away approximately forty pounds of meal they plan to ship to England. Anyone else who feels strong enough to help us and make that journey, please stay; and we will outline our plan. The only problem we still have is how to divert the captain. While the ship’s men will surely be asleep when we raid the ship, the captain will most likely not be.”

  Tara stood up.

  “I’ll volunteer for that.”

  McGuire turned to her. He beheld a beautiful woman with green-gray eyes, flawless skin and auburn hair that fell down her back.

  For a moment he was taken aback, then composed himself. “It’s—impossible—for a woman to be involved.’’

  “And why not? A woman is just the kind of diversion the captain would need, having been at sea, and very lonely most likely.”

  A look of surprise crossed McGuire face. The crowd began to murmur.

  “Do you mean you’d even be willing to—.” He did not finish the sentence.

  “For Ireland, yes, I would. To help feed the starving Irish, to get them food, I would do anything. Yes. Anything.”

  The crowd roared with applause.

  O’Rourke still looked confused.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes.”

  He paused a few moments, finally spoke.

  “Yes.” he said.

  “Those of you who feel too weak to make the journey, please leave now. And certainly it’s no shame on you. Those left will meet next Monday morning at l a.m”

  Most of them knew they were so weak from hunger they would be unable to help.

  After they left, to those who stayed McGuire outlined his plan regarding their meeting next Monday at one a.m., taking their rowboats and then stealthily removing their shoes. Each would remove twenty pound bags of meal from the hold and when they return distribute two cups of meal to each of the Irish in their district.

  “This young lady,” he gestured to Tara, “is the key,” he said, “since all the men will be asleep and we can enter the hold where the food is stored. All except the captain who will surely be in his quarters at the upper front deck of the ship. She must arrive ten minutes sooner and gain access to the captain in his cabin and somehow keep him there.”

  “I have no idea what you’ll be running into,” McGuire said. “He may be younger but most likely older if he’s risen to the ranks of captain. He may be smart as a whip and know something’s wrong. In either case, I’m sure he’ll be seduced by your charms.”

  “I’ll be ready for whatever I encounter,” she said firmly.

  He asked if there were any questions, said he had picked that particular time because only a quarter moon would be shining.

  After the men went on their way, he and his bodyguards mounted their horses to leave. It was then he saw Tara walking to the back of the church. “You don’t mean you walked to get here,” he frowned. “It’s dark now.”

  “No, I came on my horse, Chestnut. But I would have walked if I had to.”

  “Let me follow you home. It can be dangerous out here with all the starving Irish roaming around.” He gestured to his bodyguards to leave them.

  It was the first time in her life she regretted having Chestnut with her.

  She mounted him, she introduced herself, and McGuire rode at her side. A sudden warmth entered her at the thought she would be riding so close to him. He helped her get on her stallion while his men waited. She felt an overwhelming sense of passion seep through her, one she had never known before. She blushed as his strong hands helped her onto Chestnut. She glanced at him and could tell he felt it too.

  “It’s straight down the road until Carmkmaris, then left and straight to my stone cottage. I’m one of the lucky one with a cottage to go to, but that should be ending soon.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I work as a seamstress and it pays the rent, thank the Lord. And I don’t think it will end. The rich always have money for new clothes. But you never know.”

  “I’ve learned something. I didn’t know there was a dress shop like that in Ireland.”

  She did not answer.

  They finally arrived at her cottage. He helped her off of Chestnut and that same strange feeling of passion surged through her.

  “I’ve got mixed feelings about you being a part of this, but if you’re sure—“

  “I am.”

  “All right then. Arrive ten minutes before the others.”

  “I will.”

  He was still holding her around the waist. She could see he was as aroused as she was.

  ‘’I’ll see you then, on Monday,” his voice was low and somewhat shaken.

  “I’ll—I’ll—be there,” she stammered.

  The next Monday at ten to one Tara arrived at the ship “Pride of Britain.” She had walked the rather long distance, fearing the sound of her horse’s hooves might awaken the men on the ship. Miss Rouche let her wear one of the more elaborate dresses in the shop, thinking she was going to dinner with Captain Litchfield. It was a lovely cream satin embroidered at its bodice with tiny pearls and at its bottom there were embroidered birds around it.

  She saw McGuire almost immediately.

  “You look beautiful,” he said as he studied her lovely face and green-gray eyes.

  She smiled.

  “I thank you,” she blushed, “especially coming from you. But I must admit, it’s part of my plan.”

  She removed her shoes, which had once been her mother’s dress shoes, and carefully climbed the ladder to the main deck. She knew on every ship the captain’s quarters were at the top front deck of the ship. She knocked on the door that said “Captain” lightly.

  A gruff voice said, “Enter.”

  She did and began looking around.

  She quickly observed stylish furniture, decorative features and well-made hardware. There was tongue-and-groove paneling, a window, and a china cupboard to show the opulence, she supposed, of the captain’s quarters. The cupboard had cut-out shelves, possessing a set of beautiful flow blue china, illustrating how every-day furniture could be accommodated to a ship. His mahogany desk gleamed as he sat there.

  “Where is he,” she yelled. “Where is that cheating husband of mine?”

  He looked confused.

  “Madam, I assure you. I’m the only person here.”

  She charged across the room, opened a door leading to the lavatory. She knew it would be empty.

  She covered her mouth.

  “I feel—I feel a fool,” she said. “I thought my source who told me he was here with a woman as well as you and another woman was right, that she could not be wrong.”

  She finally had a chance to study him. She guessed he must be in his mid to late sixties. He had jug ears, his face was scarlet red and filled with broken blood vessels, the sign of years and years of alcohol consumption. She was glad of that.

  A half bottle of whiskey sat on his desk. She squeezed her forehead. “I’m so ashamed. Do you think I could have a drink?” She could see the lid and the bottle of whiskey two thirds drunk sitting on his desk. Another good sign.

  She rushed over to him as he lifted the bottle from his shaky hand and poured her a small drink. She could see he had already been drinking by the tiny amount of whiskey left in the lower rim of his glass. She g
rabbed the bottle and poured him a large drink to the rim of the glass.

  “Whoa! That’s a lot of whiskey.”

  “A strong man like you can take it, I’m sure,” she smiled. “I like a man who is strong and can hold his liquor.” She moved closer to him. They clicked glasses. “A man like you and not like my weak husband.”

  He gulped down five mouthsful of whiskey.

  “Why don’t we sit on the bed?”

  He looked dumbfounded, as though in a daze.

  They went to his bed and sat down.

  “Would you like to kiss me and touch my breasts? I know I would like that.”

  He reached towards her.

  “But finish your drink first. A strong man like you, why, you’re the captain of this ship, of all those men.”

  He gulped down the rest of the large glass of whiskey, half shocked, half excited.

  They went to the bed where he slept. She lay down. He laid down beside her. She opened the buttons on his uniform and rubbed his chest, could see he was beginning to have an erection. She kissed him passionately. She opened the buttons on her dress, her breasts tumbling out. He went to grasp them.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I like to have a man hold me in his arms and slowly feel him against me. It’s more exciting that way.”

  She placed her arms around him, kissed his neck, could see the whiskey was beginning to do its job. Surely, she thought, the men must be in the hold, loading their rowboats by now. But she must make sure. She let him feel her breasts and placed her hand on his hard penis under his trousers. He was completely aroused. She rose, went to the desk where the whiskey bottle was, grasped it, and filled his glass again. “Did you know it’s better the more you drink? Drink it all.”

  “N-no, I didn’t.”

  She drank a mouthful, then handed the almost full glass to him. He drank it all down. God knows how much he’d had before that.

  She let him touch and fondle her, waiting for the whiskey to do its job. Finally, his hands became limp, his erection declined, and his mouth suddenly opened wide, emanating a loud snore that reminded her of a caw a few minutes later. She did not move those few minutes, had to be certain he had lost consciousness and fallen asleep. Try as he might to keep his eyes open, they had finally closed and she knew he was in a deep sleep, snoring.