He returned to the fire and rubbed his arms and chest to get the circulation going in his limbs. The embers hissed and sputtered as rain pattered through the smoke hole onto the flaming peat. Puffs of steam rose in the air. He bent over, stretched, threaded his fingers together, and thrust his arms above his head. His two shirts and blanket lay neatly folded on the straw. They, along with his breeches, had been boiled to kill any lice.
Perhaps Briana would show up at the fight and hold his shirt for good luck. If not her, then one of the other village women would be sure to oblige, pleased to be his good luck charm. Stripped to the waist, he was confident his muscular figure might capture flattery from the opposite sex—words that would stroke his pride. After the go-round with Connor, he could tease Briana about the lovely young woman whom he’d favored. A healthy dose of jealousy might make for interesting conversation later.
He found the half-empty bottle of whale oil that Brian had given him for helping with odd jobs at Lear House. It was too precious to waste outside of lamps, but on this occasion it might help protect him from Connor’s blows. He removed the glass stopper from the narrow bottle and poured a few drops in his right hand. A strong fishy odor filled his nostrils. It was as if he was on the boat himself, grappling with the whale as it was pulled onboard from the sea. He smeared the brown liquid over his arms and chest, saving some of it for his face. The slick oil, along with the rain, would make it harder for Connor to land a punch. Of course, the rain worked both ways. He might have trouble getting a blow in as well.
The smell revolted him as he spread it on; the reek of it almost made him retch. He stuck his head out of the cabin for fresh air. After several deep breaths, the queasy knot in his stomach settled. The rain flowed off the potato ridges, running down the hill to the road, which had now turned into a muddy mixture of pebbles and muck.
He sat for a time on his straw bed, imagining how Connor would attack him. Would his adversary strike his chest, an uppercut to his chin, a jab, a hook? He would be prepared for any maneuver his rival would throw at him. Rory had fought three times before: once, at five, with his older brother, whom he had soundly thrashed; a second time, when he was eleven, with a boy, now a man, who still lived on Lear House land. That argument had begun over the question of who was the better fighter. The bout had been a draw as far as Rory was concerned. They had both returned home to their mothers with bloody noses. And the third, and most glorious occasion, occurred when he knocked out a young man who was vying for Briana’s affection. They had staged the fight on Benwee Head on a brisk spring day on the cliff overlooking the Atlantic. No one else was in attendance. Briana had no knowledge of the fight, or the cause of it. Rory had promised not to mention it at the request of the defeated man. As such, they had accepted the outcome and were still friends. That was how a man behaved.
His deceased father’s pocket watch sat on the stool next to his bed. It read eleven forty-five. Rory reached for his shirt knowing that it would soon be awash in whale oil. The rain would mix with it, turning the garment into a soiled mess. He slipped it on over his slickened arms and then reached for two white strips of cloth he had torn to wrap around his knuckles.
When he arrived at the village center, up the road from the farms, he was shocked at the number of people who had turned out. Connor had spread the news, although Rory doubted his adversary had trumpeted the real reason for the fight. The match was a friendly contest between two men who had decided to favor Carrowteige with an entertainment. Rumors might spread that the fight was over Briana, but how ridiculous that would seem to anyone who knew the man. Connor was happily married and adored his wife and children.
Rory had told only Briana, Lucinda, and Jarlath, but judging from the crowd, more than one person had spread the news. Men he recognized, mostly tenant farmers who were friendly with Connor, circled the village center, which often served as a gathering place. They pulled their collars tight around their necks as water dripped from their hats. A few puffed on their pipes, protecting the bowl from the rain with their free hand. Others, looking sallow and lean, were unknown to him. They must have been from the hills or other villages near Carrowteige. A man would come to a fight on an ugly day to be entertained, or perhaps he would be lucky enough to find a free cup of poteen.
The few merchants who were open stared from their doorways. Many businesses were closed and padlocked because of shortages. Most business owners, including the proprietor of the general store near the bay, had suffered some effects from the blight.
Rory searched the crowd for Briana but didn’t see her. A few women, their heads and faces covered by scarves, huddled in doorways sheltered from the rain. He could barely see their eyes. His heart fell a bit knowing that Briana wouldn’t be there to cheer him on, but what had he expected? Come to your senses. She was against this fight from the beginning. She wouldn’t show up with roses and a smile!
Few smiled at him. Some men gave him a knowing nod, others a look of bored indifference, as if more pressing matters occupied their minds. He could understand why. Father O’Kirwin joined the crowd at the last minute, but Connor was nowhere in sight. His rival was sure to come. The man would never forfeit a fight.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Connor pushed through the crowd, his two young sons following their father. He stopped and directed the boys to stand with a farmer Rory knew. Connor then slopped through the mud in his boots. He reminded Rory of a workhorse pulling a wagon. Connor stopped in front of him, looked up into the rain with blinking eyes, and said, “Bonnie day for a tumble.”
Rory nodded but swallowed hard, taken aback by his rival’s enthusiasm. The fight would be a tough go if he didn’t muster an equal intensity. If his heart wasn’t in it, he would be thrashed. He reminded himself that he was fighting for a political cause he believed in, but the thought had crossed his mind since his confrontation with Connor that perhaps the Mollies could do more for County Mayo than the Ribbonmen.
Connor stripped off his shirt and threw it to one of his boys. The man had already wrapped his hands. He stepped back and raised his fists.
His adversary’s chest and arms were rippling muscle. Connor’s biceps, now bulging, looked like mounds under his flesh.
For a second, Rory considered dropping the challenge. If he joined the Molly Maguires the whole affair would be over—but not forgotten. He would be the coward who had capitulated, and would forever be remembered that way. Better to fight than to be the butt of scorn and ridicule, to be called a coward.
He shed his shirt and threw it near the ring of men who stood in back of him. In his quest to find Briana, he had forgotten the idea of giving it to another woman. Now he was out of time. He took the cloth strips from his breeches and wrapped them tightly around his knuckles.
He raised his fists in front of his face.
Connor advanced.
Rory ducked the jab, his boots sliding in the mud. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Father O’Kirwin mimicking their swings.
* * *
Briana stuck her head around the corner of the gray stone building that sat several yards from the village center. Water dripped from the roof onto her waxed cotton hat and then the shoulders of her coat. Her father had declined to accompany her because he was tired, and although a fight would have been a fine diversion on a sunny day, he was not in the mood to stand in the rain. Of course, Lucinda shuddered when Briana asked her—half as a joke—if she wanted to attend. “I’d rather die first” was her sister’s curt reply.
She shook her head and watched the two men go after each other. She remembered her father’s fight years ago and how her stomach had churned at the sight. Blows thumping against flesh, bodies thrown against each other in anguished cries, the crack of bone, blood pouring from mouths or noses—how could any sane man agree to such nonsense? Why was Rory so pigheaded about Connor’s challenge? What difference did it make whether he was a Ribbonman or a Molly Maguire? At least, as Rory explained
it, the Ribbonmen had rallied to help Catholic Ireland. Lives had been lost, but that was history. What had the Maguires done recently, except stir up trouble? She was unsure what they wished to achieve, and their tactics seemed underhanded, bordering on anarchy. She’d heard rumors of men dressing in women’s clothes under cover of darkness to disguise their identities, of sheds and homes being torched, landlords and agents threatened with death, farm animals killed. She wanted none of that and, least of all, for Rory to be part of such a group.
Connor leapt at Rory and slammed him in the chest, then caught him in the stomach with a jab. Rory groaned and fell into the mud with a slosh. Connor stood above him, swinging his fists, taunting him, urging him to get to his feet. Rory lifted on his elbows and struggled up from the muck.
It was a mistake to come. She quickly banished the thought—her father had chided her for leaving the cottage. “You don’t have the stomach for it,” he warned. She might have believed him a year ago, but since October when the blight first appeared and life in Mayo sputtered like a flame in the breeze, she had begun to take stock of herself. It was increasingly hard to be the docile housekeeper, the woman who stood in the shadow of her older sister. People were dying. Lear House had been mostly spared, but the blight had arrived only six months before. The words flowed into her head: We should call it what it is. A famine. A great famine. Life could get much worse under this misfortune. The tenants had been able to struggle through the harsh winter through their own perseverance, but another crop failure would be disastrous.
Rory straightened and landed a hook on his rival’s left cheek and then an uppercut to the chin. Connor, dazed, staggered under the onslaught. He shook his head to rid himself of the stunning force of the blows. He rushed at Rory, arms thrust out, but slipped in the mud. Both men fell in a heap in the brown slop, thrashing about, trading blows as the muck flew up around them. They both struggled, flinging the muddy water from their eyes.
Briana took her eyes off Rory and Connor for a moment. Most of the men in the crowd looked weaker, thinner, than she had ever seen them. They stood with blank faces, their clothes draped from their bony limbs. The women huddled in the doorway. One of her girlhood friends, Heather, held on to a woman too weak to stand by herself. Briana stepped closer to see if she could help.
Heather spied her and held out her hand. “Don’t come any closer, miss. She’s not well from hunger. She came with her husband looking for food. They expected there might be a fair at this fight.”
“Heather, it’s me. Briana.” Her friend had never addressed her as “miss.” She inched forward, unnerved by Heather’s tone yet astounded by her willingness to aid the sick woman. What if she had lice? If so, Heather was exposing herself as well as her family.
Her friend forced a smile. “Forgive me, Briana, but we’ve seen so little of each other lately. I’d begun to think the Walsh family didn’t care what happens to their tenants.”
“You know that’s not true. My father is busy with the accounts—we’re all trying to make ends meet. We just got back from Westport days ago, looking for food for the manor and the tenants.”
The sick woman turned her head toward Briana. The gray skin on her face clung to her skull. Strands of hair extended from the rim of her cap. Briana observed the mottled flesh, dark and light, pearl colored; the sunken cheeks; the dull, blank eyes.
“What of your sister who sits in your warm cottage with her books?” Heather’s mouth turned down in a smirk.
The question stung Briana. “My sister is employed by the owner and is trying her best to win concessions for us all.” Her words were a partial lie—Lucinda had made no previous effort on the family’s or tenants’ behalf; she had, however, since agreed that steps must be taken to save Lear House. She was not about to draw and quarter her sister in front of Heather.
“Let’s hope she succeeds,” Heather said, and turned back to the sick woman.
A roar went up from the men in the crowd. Rory and Connor were flat on the ground again.
Rory straddled Connor’s stomach and pounded his rival’s face, right and left, left and right, with punches from his wrapped hands. The hard blows reverberated across the center until the crowd quieted, enthralled by the attack. Connor’s head lolled under the assault.
Blood coated Rory’s knuckles; he bled from a cut below his left eye.
The older of Connor’s sons, a boy of no more than eight, sprinted from the circle and jumped on Rory’s back. The child pounded his fists on top of Rory’s head until Rory thrust his arms backward and dislodged the boy, who fell sideways in the muck. The child rose, swiping at the mud and ready to resume his attack, but Connor stopped him with a stiff arm. A grumble rose from the crowd.
Connor lifted his head and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “You’ve won. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Thank God,” Briana muttered.
“Fool,” Rory said, and then rubbed his jaw. He stuck his hands in the mud and slowly lifted himself off Connor. When he was on his feet, he extended his muddy arm and pulled the other man up. They shook hands and stood looking at each other until Connor broke out in a laugh. Rory followed. Soon they were slapping each other on the back and jabbing at each other. The two men gathered their shirts and slipped them on over their muddy bodies.
* * *
Idiots. Both of them. All of this, and for what? A slap on the back?
Briana was about to sneak away to Lear House when something caught her eye. Connor’s boys clutched their father’s knees. They both had tears in their eyes.
Connor knelt down and gripped them by the shoulders, whispering to each in turn. The boys left their father’s side and walked to Rory. They extended their hands. Rory smiled broadly, lifted each, and hugged them. Holding the younger boy, Rory talked with Connor for several minutes as the crowd dispersed.
A smile broke out on Briana’s face as Rory held Connor’s sons. Her heart filled with pride at the friendship and integrity that Rory had shown to his adversary. These thoughts confirmed what she had felt for a long time: Rory Caulfield would make an excellent father. She turned, circled behind the stone buildings, and finally found herself on the muddy path back to the cottage.
The rain let up somewhat as she walked down the lane. Gulls skimmed over the slate-colored waters of Broadhaven Bay. The sky was getting lighter in the west, a sign that the daylong rain was coming to an end. She kicked a large pebble with her booted foot, and it landed with a muddy splash in a puddle a few feet away.
She stopped in front of Rory’s soggy cabin. The sod looked as if it was about to melt in the damp. The few gray rocks embedded in the walls were dark and slick. There was no reason not to go inside. Neither her father nor Lucinda were expecting her to be home by an appointed hour. All would be well, as long as she was at the cottage in time to put the cooking pot over the fire. Maybe he would enjoy her company after the fight, and she could tell him that she had witnessed his victory.
The pig snuffled near the entrance, snorted at her, and then trotted away, happy to be outside in the mud. She stepped inside and shut the door to keep out the damp air. The turf fire warmed her face. She took off her coat and hat and tossed them at the foot of the straw that made up Rory’s bed. His blanket lay folded neatly across it; a thin cotton rectangle stuffed with down served as his pillow. Everything was in its place: the candle on the stand; his other shirts, breeches, sweater, and coat hung from the wall; the fire pit, free of dirt and ash, burned with precision in the center of the room. Even his pots and pans gleamed from cleaning. When she was his wife, she would have nothing to teach him in the way of housekeeping.
“I can’t believe a man can be—”
The door opened behind her.
Rory stood silhouetted against the leaden sky. A cut under his left eye bled, but the bruises on his face caused her more concern. They raged purple and ragged on his forehead and left cheek. He leaned against the door and tried to smile. His shirt was open an
d coated with oily splotches. His chest, face, and arms were spattered with mud.
“Every muscle in this poor body aches,” he said, limping into the room. “The next time, I think my principles will be damned. Thank God that’s over. I should have thrashed Connor with ease. He’s older than I am, a father with children.”
She resisted the urge to call him a fool to his face. Instead she watched as he walked outside, stripped off his shirt, and bathed his face, arms, and chest from a pot of cold water. He returned, threw the blanket aside, and sat on the bed.
“Would you like to come to the cottage for supper?” Briana asked.
“No, my stomach aches. Some warm water to wash my face would be nice.” He touched the cut under his eye and winced. “What brings you here? I didn’t expect to see you since you avoided the fight.”
Briana swiveled the cooking stand over the hot coals, poured water into a pot, and positioned it over the fire. It would take some time for the water to warm enough to be useful.
Rory moaned, massaged his head with his fingers, and then lay back on the straw.
Her breath caught, and she looked away somewhat embarrassed by her thoughts. It would not be good for her da or, God forbid, Lucinda to catch her in Rory’s cabin, especially in his current prone position. He was handsome; no woman in the village would deny it. Even with a swollen face, the bloody rags around his knuckles, he stirred her heart.
A slick coating of russet hair covered his chest. His pectorals, swollen and crimson from the fight, heaved with each breath. His lean stomach curved in a concave depression leading downward to breeches pressed tight against muscular legs. He was still strong compared to others because he and Jarlath had worked to save oats, rye, and potatoes once the blight had begun.
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