The ship’s whistle sliced through the air, and the engines throttled back from the power that had propelled them across the Atlantic. The vessel hugged the dock and soon crept to a stop with a soft thump against the pilings. From her point on deck, Briana saw two groups of uniformed men standing next to the lowered gangplank.
“Do you have the money and Father’s letter?” Briana asked her sister.
Lucinda patted her bag. “Are you scared?”
“I’m excited, but nervous too,” Briana said.
They inched down the steps and toward the gangplank, jostling elbows and bumping against bodies in the crowd. Some passengers had already descended.
Uniformed men were questioning those on the wharf—the few Americans aboard, presumably Bostonians, had little trouble passing by with only a brief conversation and a nod. One of the men detained an Irish family with two children. Frowning, the wife sat atop their bags and listened while the man questioned her husband. Their pale, young girl held her hands over her stomach while attempting to hide in the folds of her mother’s dress. Briana suspected that the child, presumably sick, had forced their detention.
Before they reached the bottom of the plank, Briana took off her wedding ring and placed it in her pocket. She didn’t want the Customs officers to know she was waiting for a husband to arrive as well.
When they reached the wharf, another man guided them to a desk where an officious young officer began his questions without a welcome. The dark-haired youth with eager eyes held a pen, which he periodically dipped into an inkwell. “Your names?”
“Briana Caulfield and Lucinda Walsh.” Briana answered for them.
He wrote their names in his log book. “Reason for coming?”
Lucinda presented the letter to the young man.
He read it, passed it back to her, and looked them both over from head to toe.
“Are you ill, or have you been, at any time within the past month?”
They both shook their heads. Briana didn’t mention her sea sickness.
“Do you have money to support yourself?”
Lucinda withdrew the pounds from her bag and showed it to him.
He seemed unimpressed. “You’ll have to change that to bank notes before it’ll do you any good. Go on.” He waved them away from the table, concerned about dealing with the travelers who stood behind them.
They walked a few feet, put their bags down, and then took stock of their surroundings. Gulls soared over the ship in a journey to the outer harbor; others cried from the top of pilings and looked for scraps of food from a passerby. Even the birds looked different here—they were fatter and unafraid of humans.
“Now what do we do?” Lucinda asked with a frown.
“Find a place to—”
“You ladies look lost.” The words, in English, were overly sweet but tinged with a gruff edge.
Briana swiveled to face two portly men with red, cherubic faces stained by the sweat dripping from underneath their caps. They were dressed in heavy work shirts, long pants, and black boots, and they looked as if they might be brothers.
“We’re the Carsons,” the larger of the two confirmed and bent down to grab Lucinda’s bag. She kicked his hand away with a deft blow from her foot.
The man’s hands flew back, shocked by her moxie. Briana was impressed with the physicality Lucinda had developed from working as a governess to three boys. “Here, miss, I was only trying to help. We’re here to take young women like you to the finest lodgings you can afford in Boston.”
“No, thank you,” Briana said. “We can make our own way.”
Lucinda stepped in front of her bag. “Keep your hands off my property,” she ordered in her best English accent.
“Oh, cheeky.” The man mopped the sweat from his forehead. “You won’t find better accommodations than the Coatesworth Arms. That’s what I get for trying to help you young ladies out.”
“I’ll give you cheeky,” Briana said, and then swore at them with Irish curses that would have made her mother blush.
A young man strode up to Briana’s side and asked in Irish, “Are these two giving you trouble?” He was tall like her husband, but instead of Rory’s fairer looks, this man’s hair was thick and shone black like the shell of an Irish mussel. His bright blue eyes took in the two men, who backed away after sensing trouble.
She could tell that the man who had rushed to their aid was from Mayo, but not from Carrowteige. The two large men disappeared into the crowd, and Briana studied her savior. He wore scuffed boots, Irish breeches, a white shirt, and a dark waistcoat. Despite his young age, his hands were chapped and scratched. His thick arms and shoulders swelled under his coat. There was something about him she immediately liked, but she cautioned herself that a handsome man could be dangerous. Still, his kind eyes and gentle smile gave her the confidence that he wouldn’t take advantage of them.
He took off his round cap, held it in his hands, and continued in Irish. “My name is Declan Coleman. I’m from Mulranny. Did you see another pair of young Irish ladies onboard the Warton?”
Briana thought for a moment. She couldn’t recall any other Irish ladies of young age on the ship. She looked to her sister, who had made more acquaintances, but Lucinda shook her head.
Declan shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up the gangplank. “I don’t think they’re here. I was hoping . . .”
His voice trailed off, and his face displayed a sadness that echoed in her soul.
“They might not have been able to travel on such a fancy ship. I’ll wait until everyone’s off.”
“Who were those men?” Lucinda asked in English. “One of them reached for my bag.”
“You speak English?” he asked, somewhat surprised.
Lucinda nodded. “Of course. There’s no need to speak Irish here—in America.”
He smiled, and Briana could tell that he was teetering on the verge of laughter. “Where I live, Irish is all I hear,” he replied in English. “Unless you’re planning to go straight to Beacon Hill, you’ll hear it too.” He paused as if somewhat embarrassed by what he had to say. “Those men are runners—crooks—for boarding houses. Well, that’s putting it politely. They’re houses of prostitution. They steal your money, and then the women are forced to work there to get it back. Of course, the women pay for food and board. An awful scheme that I’ve seen too many women fall prey to. That’s why I check every ship coming in from Ireland—so my sisters don’t end up in a place like that.”
“Thank you for looking out for us,” Briana said. “We’re in need of a boarding house ourselves.”
“Are you here for good?” he asked, still keeping an eye on the travelers who trickled down the gangplank.
Briana shrugged. “I don’t know how long—at least until things get better in Ireland so we can return to Mayo.”
Lucinda pursed her lips. “We’re seeking security and a life outside Ireland—at least I am.”
The sad look crossed his face again. “The stories I’ve heard are terrible. You’re lucky you were able to travel in such luxury. The lumber ships coming to Canada and America from Ireland are floating death traps. Do you have money?”
“What business is it of yours?” Lucinda asked. She exchanged an artful look with Briana that wordlessly suggested caution in their dealings.
“My sisters are coming to live with me and my wife in an extra room we have. But if they don’t come . . . we could use the rent.” He studied the last of the passengers departing the ship. “We live in South Cove. I do woodworking for the new homes on Beacon Hill.”
Lucinda was quick to reply. “If your sisters do come, your offer is a moot point. Thank you, but we should look for a place of our own before accepting. We should like to get to know you better before we partake of your hospitality.”
His face softened. “In that case, I offer some unsolicited advice. Room and board are expensive. The Boston neighborhoods where our countrymen live are places an Irish pig wouldn’
t live—but most Irishmen have little money and no choice.” His jaw tightened. “I know because I worked my way out. I hope you don’t end up there. My offer stands if the room is available, which looks likely. Fewer ships will be sailing as fall approaches.”
His description of living conditions alarmed Briana, but Lucinda was right—for the moment they should make their own way. They talked for a few minutes about Ireland and the sea voyage before her sister tugged at her, making clear her desire to leave the wharf.
“Can you recommend a boarding house for us?” Briana asked.
“The Newton on Beacon is decent and takes in young women. It’s near Beacon Hill where I work.” He gave them directions.
They both thanked him after he had finished.
“Remember my name—Declan Coleman—if you need help. Ten Loyal Street in South Cove.” He tipped his hat. “I hope we’ll meet again.”
“I’m sure we will,” Briana said.
They left him at the wharf, still wondering if his sisters might be aboard. Rows of brick buildings as far as they could see stood in front of them. Horse-drawn cabs trotted by as they neared King Street, a busy thoroughfare that merged with the wharf. Street vendors, selling vegetables and flowers, shouted “Ladies” at them and urged them to buy their wares.
Lucinda took a deep breath. “Well, sister, we are here. Shall we visit the Newton on Beacon?”
Briana nodded and thought of the men who had tried to take them to a house of prostitution. “Yes,” she replied, for they had no other recommendation to consider.
CHAPTER 16
September 1846
A few days into September, Rory awakened at daybreak to the crunch of marching feet. He threw on his breeches and shirt and ran to the door.
Under an overcast sky, a detachment of dragoons and Constabulary officers tramped down the road toward the farms. With a glance, he judged that twenty-five to thirty men were headed toward the manor. The Constable of Belmullet, Edmond Davitt, who had questioned him about Sir Thomas’s shooting, led the way on his horse. The dreaded time had come.
Rory pounded on Jarlath’s door. His brother, swiping the sleep from his eyes, answered. “What’s going on?” Jarlath’s wife and son huddled, arms around one another, near the turf pit.
“They’re here!” Rory pointed up the road, and Jarlath gazed past his outstretched arm.
“By all the Saints,” Jarlath said as he eyed the men. “Hell has finally broken loose.”
“Try to slow them down—as we planned,” Rory said.
“I’ll do my best,” his brother replied, and then shouted to his wife and son to gather their belongings.
“I’ll get Brian.” He left his brother and sprinted down the lane past Lear House to the cottage, a faster path than jumping fences and potato ridges. His heart thumping, he looked back at the marching column of men and, trailing behind them, a large wagon pulled by two horses. That sight sent shivers racing over him because it meant the officers had come prepared to evict. He stumbled to the cottage door and threw it open to find Brian stooped in front of the turf fire.
“They’ve come!”
His father-in-law jerked his head toward him. “Blakely’s made good on his pledge.”
The waiting, the long discussions about eviction, had taken a toll on Brian. Rory could see the despair in the older man’s sunken eyes. His father-in-law had shriveled under the weight of losing his daughters and the manor. His sagging shoulders reflected his dejection.
Rory, Jarlath, and Brian had tried to formulate a plan for the remaining tenants, but no one knew exactly what to do. It wasn’t a question of surrender but of insufficient choices. Many had already fled looking for work. From letters coming back to Mayo, the tenants had learned that working conditions were as terrible in Dublin and in England as those in the county. The public works projects had been suspended because of government costs. Jobs were scarce everywhere.
With nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, his father-in-law had decided to stay at Lear House until he was forced to leave. At least he would be at home where he belonged. Only a few families were left now: Connor and his wife and children and many others had deserted the estate for what they hoped would be a better life in England. Rory had tried to convince Jarlath to leave, but his brother refused to desert him, saying they’d “be stronger together.” Only four other families remained, despairing of their situation but clinging to the small hope they could survive.
Brian remained seated, apparently in no hurry to confront the men. “We knew this day would come, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Come on,” Rory urged him. “Maybe they’ll listen to you—the landlord’s agent.”
Brian shrugged. “What can I do? Neither you nor I can fight an army. We must obey the law.”
His father-in-law slowly rose and clasped his hands behind his back. He seemed a faded remnant of his former self, as if he had already been defeated by the men who were coming to Lear House. The respect that Rory had always felt for Brian turned to pity. He was a man impoverished by age, lack of money and food, and most important the will to fight. Rory could see the specter of defeat in Brian’s eyes as he shuffled away from the fire.
“We can at least try to stop them,” Rory said.
Brian cornered him at the door. “Don’t be a damn fool. You’ll die. My grandchild needs a father.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t think he would do it. I hoped it would be different.”
His words pricked Rory like a needle, and he considered them wise, but what of the obligation to protect one’s home? Where did that responsibility end and forced subservience begin?
Brian put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to them,” he said. “Perhaps they’ll listen.”
Even as his father-in-law spoke, Rory knew there was nothing either of them could do other than save what they could from their homes, like the pistol still hidden in his bag; he couldn’t let the soldiers get the weapon.
They trudged to a stop in front of Lear House. Jarlath, his shirt hanging over his breeches, walked beside Davitt’s horse. The officer ignored his pleas to stop their march. The constable held up his hand, pulled the chestnut mare to a halt, and dismounted.
“Good morning,” Davitt said in a cordial tone and looked at Rory. “Mr. Caulfield, as I recall. . . .” He cocked his head and continued, “I’m sorry I couldn’t personally receive the information you provided about the incident at Lear House, but I was away on business. The possible suspect has not been found. The investigation remains in force.” He directed his gaze at Brian. “And, sir, you are?”
“Mr. Brian Walsh, the landlord’s agent.” He extended his hand, and Davitt shook it.
The constable lifted a rolled paper from a brown saddlebag strapped to his horse and handed the document to Brian. “You are named in this legal order.”
Brian barely glanced at it before handing it back.
“Don’t you want to read it?” Davitt asked.
“No,” Brian said. “I know what it says.”
Davitt looked back at his men and the wagon, coughed, and then said, “I should inform you . . . all tenants are to be evicted from manor property, including the agent, Mr. Brian Walsh, and that all dwellings on the estate, except Lear House and the shed housing the horses, are to be demolished in order for the land to be made suitable for farming and grazing.”
“Farming!” Rory’s anger nearly choked him. “That’s what we do now!”
“I understand, Mr. Caulfield,” the constable said, remaining calm, “but Sir Thomas Blakely’s order calls for all the land, not just the current cropland, to be put to better use—moneymaking use—through farming and grazing to support the estate.” He turned to Brian. “This pains me as well, Mr. Walsh, being an Irishman myself, and I hope you understand that I have no choice in this proceeding. The men are here to carry out Sir Thomas Blakely’s legal rights.” He held up his hand as a signal to his men. “We’ll give you an hour to gather what
you need before we begin.” Most of the paid soldiers seemed complacent about their task; other officers, Irish who had friends or family members in the same position, glowered at the thought of what they had to do.
I want to kill him. Rory thought of squeezing his hands around Davitt’s neck, then striking out in a blind rage against all the men who stood in the road. His fists were of no use against dragoons, and one traveling pistol couldn’t take on thirty men. I want to kill them all, but it’s . . . hopeless. The farmers who remained stood no chance against armed soldiers. And standing among the soldiers stood Irishmen who were being paid to do their duty. They surely had wives and children too—the likely reason they were willing to go to blows with their countrymen.
His fury faded and common sense took over. He pulled Jarlath aside so that he could confer with him and his father-in-law. “There’s nothing we can do.” His voice faded as the resignation sank in. “Let’s save what we can and gather in front of Lear House.”
Realizing he had little time to lose, Rory sprinted to his cabin. He collapsed in a heap on the straw that made up his bed. Not only had he been lonely—at wits’ end—since Briana left for America, but now he was losing his home, their home, to that English bastard. He slammed his fists on the small table near the bed. It shuddered and tipped over, the candle holder tumbling to the floor. What good is any of it? What the hell good is it? Where was Father O’Kirwin? Where was anyone who could save them?
He swiped a tear from his eye. Briana had taken the few clothes she wanted to Boston—the rest would remain in the cabin. He opened the bag containing the pistol and began shoving his clothes inside. What else was there to take? A pot, a pan? No, he could find others if he had to. There was little to remind him of his family—no drawings, no mementoes other than his mother’s rosary. He spied it on the peg where his clothes normally hung. Rory lifted it gently and fingered the small beads that made up the holy object. His spirit broke and the tears flowed. Why did God allow this curse to happen? No food . . . families destroyed by a plague we can’t control. We must have been horrible sinners. He flung the rosary into his bag.
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