Hope from the Ocean: (The Prequel to Fireflies )

by P. S. Bartlett

  “What else? Anythin’ else?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. That’s all I can think of! Please, let me go.”

  Dan was holding the boy so tight his knuckles were white. He was mortified at his callous inquisition of the child and set him down gently on his feet and backed away. When he looked over at Dillon’s horrified expression, he knew he’d gone too far. Dan reached in his pocket, pulled out a pence and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds.

  “Here,” he said, pushing it into the boy’s hand. He looked down at those woeful eyes and apologized, before turning away to continue their journey.

  They had a clue now by way of the horse’s eye and the one main road to and from Dublin. If the man travelled that road on the regular, eventually they’d run into him. If the man was already in Dublin, which the odds favored, at least they’d have something to reference when trying to find him, along with the drawing.

  “It’s not hopeless, Uncle. Now we have somethin’ ta look for,” Dillon said as he climbed back onto Goblin.

  Dan didn’t say a word. He coughed and spat, then put his hat back on his head and clucked at Tammy to move. They followed the road, passing dozens of wagons and horses but none matching the description the boy had given them. Dillon repeatedly pulled Goblin’s reigns to hold him back from racing off.

  Evening was crawling in over the horizon. In the distance, the silhouette of the city rose as if it grew up from the ground like stone trees covered in twinkling lights. It had been many a year since Dan visited Dublin and he believed he hadn’t missed a thing. The closer they got to the city, the busier the road became and it widened to accommodate the increasing traffic. The large stone buildings with their unique architecture seemed to take Dillon’s breath away. As big and bold as he’d behaved before they left home, with each nose to tail of the horse, he appeared smaller and smaller until the city limits were but the good hard toss of a rock away.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the long ride to Dublin, Dillon spoke to Dan of how curious he was about this great city, yet remarked that the memory of Loch’s story that Christmas night long ago may keep him from climbing off Goblin and setting foot on the ground. Sticking to his theory, Dillon rode Goblin across the border. However, long since a non-believer of such stories, Dan had taken Tammy by the reins and walked her, from where the dirt road changed over to stone and brick.

  Dan chuckled to himself at how the street lights fascinated Dillon. He leaned over a bit as they passed each one, asking repeatedly what magic was keeping the flames lit.

  “Uncle Dan, I need to go—if ye understand.”

  “We’ll have to find some lodgin’, Dillon. Ye mind these horses a bit and I’ll take a little walk.”

  “Yer leavin’ me alone here, Uncle?” Dillon croaked.

  “Only for a few minutes. Take the horses over there under that lamp light and ye can do what ye have to do in those bushes while I find us a place to sleep. Ye can see me from here, lad.”

  Dan came upon the open door of a raucous pub. Although he had reservations about entering such a place, he knew there’d be someone who could tell him the closest place to board for the night. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, not stopping to look left or right, and headed straight to the bartender.

  “Pardon me, sir, me boy and I are in town for the night and I was wonderin’, did ye know a place where we and the horses could stay on the cheap?”

  The bartender took a long look at Dan and then nodded to a young man behind the bar. He said something to the boy and the boy answered, looking at Dan, and then headed up a flight of stairs near the back.

  “Just fer the night, ye say?” the bartender asked, leaning over the bar.

  “Aye, sir. Just tonight.”

  “I’ve got two rooms upstairs, one’s empty and ye can feed and water the horses around back. There should be enough room back there for a couple more. It’s not home, but it beats the bench.”

  “How much? Oh, and do ye serve food here?”

  “Just gimme a shilling fer each of ye and one fer the horses. The stew’s on the house but the whiskey isn’t.”

  “Thank ya, sir. I’ll just go collect me boy and horses and be back in a jiffy. I don’t drink whiskey but thank ye for the stew.”

  Dan left one shilling with the bartender to secure the room while he went to retrieve Dillon and the horses. As he walked, his mind wandered with thoughts of how grateful he was Patrick had sold that load, as he had enough money left for boarding for the night, as well as a hot meal for them before they went to bed. He could also continue this mission in knowing Noreen had enough money to feed the children for the week. The peaceful reassurance he gave himself quickened his steps back to where he’d left Dillon, and Dan found him yet again, sitting atop Goblin.

  “Son, why are ye sittin’ on that horse? Don’t ye think he’s had about enough of yer backside fer one day?” Dan stated, slowly sliding his hands onto his hips and shaking his head.

  “He’s not complainin’, Uncle. He don’t act like he minds me.”

  Dan laughed and took both horses by the reins and led them towards the pub.

  “What kinda’ place is this?” Dillon inquired as they approached.

  “It’s a pub, better known to yer Aunt Noreen as a den of iniquity.”

  “What’s that mean? I never heard a that before.” Dillon climbed down off the horse and followed Dan through an ally to the back of the building.

  “That means ye stay outta these places unless ye want yer aunt to swat ye with a switch,” Dan replied, stopping to look Dillon in the eye.

  “I sure don’t want that but…are ye gonna tell her we were in here?”

  “We’re gonna get somethin’ to eat and then we’re goin’ straight ta bed. There won’t be nothin’ ta tell, anyway. Now, water and feed those horses and get them ready for the night while I go pay the man and get our food.” Dan patted Dillon on the shoulder and headed through the back entrance of the pub. The young boy was there waiting with the hot potato and onion stew and even had a side of bread and two tall cups of cool water.

  “Yer room is ready, sir. Will ye need any help with yer horses?”

  “Na’ thank ye, lad. Me boy can handle those two. Does that gate lock up at night? That’s two fine horses and a new saddle out there and I’d hate to be missin’ anythin’ when I wake.”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll lock it up now since we’re all full up for the night,” the boy affirmed and darted past Dan out into the small stable and closed and locked the gate behind him.

  “How ye doin’ there? Need any help?” the boy asked Dillon, who was almost finished with his work.

  “Naaaa, I’m nearly done…uh…what’s yer name?”

  “Donald. Ye can just call me Donny, everyone does. Me Da owns this place,” the boy answered, reaching out for a handshake.

  “Yer Da owns this whole place? The buildin’ too?” Dillon asked, looking side to side and up and down while shaking Donny’s hand.

  “Yeah, as far as I know. I mean all the money is his but he does pay a man the first Saturday of every month.”

  “Well, I better be gettin’ inside or me Uncle will be lookin’ fer me,” Dillon explained, patting Tammy and Goblin to say goodnight.

  “Sure, it’s this way. I got yer food all ready and yer room, too. Ain’t much, but at least ye got a roof. I thought he was yer Da”

  “Aye. He raised me like a Da.”

  Once they’d finished their stew, Donny showed them to their room and handed them a candle and matches and said goodnight. “Well, the jacks is out back like ye seen so I’ll be goin’. It’s been grand to meet some folks that ain’t plastered. It was a pleasure not ta have ta hump ye up here.” Donny chuckled as he closed the door on Dillon’s confused expression.

  The room was small but Dan was grateful on this warm night to have a window. A breeze blew in just enough to dilute the staleness of the air, which was tainted with the sweat of many a man
who’d slept off the drink in there. Donny had filled a pail with fresh water and even left a clean face cloth and a sliver of soap for them to wash up. They both wore the journey of the day on their faces, even after they were washed. Despite the ruckus and chatter rising through the floor, they found sleep in mere minutes.

  * * *

  Dan was awake at the first band of light coming through the open window and roused Dillon. Once dressed, they took their leave but not before Donny gave them each another bowl of stew and some bread. He’d even fed and watered the horses and saddled them. Dan thanked Donny over and over and even dropped a shilling in Donny’s hand on the way out.

  “We don’t normally include breakfast but yer decent people and me Da won’t be awake ‘till noon at least,” Donny whispered.

  Dan led both horses back down the alley while Dillon walked behind with Donny, who was rambling on and on about his duties at the pub and how his Ma had died when he was just out of his nappies. He even told of his father’s wooden leg and how he was shot in the foot in a tussle at the pub with a drunken troublemaker and his foot turned black as tar. After several minutes, Dan had heard enough and motioned to Dillon to get on his horse so they could move on with their quest.

  “If ye ever find yerself in town again, pop in and see us–that is if I took care of ye square,” Donny said, waving to them as they turned to ride off.

  “Yer a fine young man. Yer father should be proud,” Dan commented, believing they were done.

  “Thank ye, sir. Whatever brought ye to Dublin, I hope ye find it.”

  Dan tipped his hat and said, “We’re headed to the port–to the passenger ships?” He was fishing for anything Donny may know about how things worked and fortunately, Donny was a talker. He wondered if the poor boy ever had anyone sober to speak to.

  “Were ye comin’ to see someone off yesterday?” Donny scratched his head under his hat.

  “Not exactly, but we’re hopin’ to today.”

  “Why, yer too late, sir. The only ship leavin’ this week pulled out yesterday.”

  “How do ye know that?” Dillon screeched.

  “This here pub is the last stop for a drink on the way outta town and a lot of the fellas who work the docks stop here before headin’ back to the country. They get their wages and stop fer a drink before they go. Them’s the one’s been makin’ all the ruckus.”

  “Yer for certain the ship’s left?”

  “Oh aye, sir, without a doubt. Sorry, sir.”

  “Thank ye again fer yer hospitality.”

  Dillon’s eyes were downcast as he sat atop Goblin. Even though they’d done their best to find Patrick, they now knew he was at sea before they’d even set foot out of Caragh to start their journey. Dillon raised his head and tried to swipe the tear from his cheek before anyone could catch him but Dan didn’t need to see a tear to know the boy’s heart.

  “Come on, lad, let’s go home.” Dan clucked his tongue and headed towards the main road out of town.

  Dillon and Goblin trailed behind him, walking as if through layers of thick mud. Wagons and carriages passed by them yet Dillon barely raised his head this time, no longer in awe of everything he saw. Dan was sure the boy was done with this, that he likely hated ships and cities and pubs. He most likely even hated poor Donny for crushing any chance there might have been of stopping Patrick from boarding that ship.

  “Hold on just a second.” Dan brought Tammy to a cold stop.

  “What is it, Uncle?”

  “What in heaven’s name is that God awful noise?”

  Dan went ahead a few paces and rode up next to what appeared to be an empty wagon with two coal black horses harnessed to it. He slowed almost to a stop, circled the wagon and found the driver fast asleep in the back, curled up next to a few empty crates with a bottle clutched in his hands.

  “Do ye think...” Dillon started to speak but Dan hushed him. He rode around to the front of the horses and sure enough, one of them had the ice blue eye they were looking for. The horses whinnied and stepped a bit as he came closer, even lurching the wagon a full wheel rotation forward but the driver still didn’t wake. He didn’t even flinch. Had it not been for his loud snoring, he could have been mistaken for dead. Dan thought of rousing the man but by the time he’d finished the idea, Dillon was climbing into the back of the wagon about to thump the man and wake him.

  “Dillon, wait,” Dan ordered but Dillon was drunk too, on a lethal combination of anguish and anger which even the most level-headed of grown men can barely contain.

  “Ye there! Mister! Wake up, will ya?” he shouted as he kicked the man’s legs. The man moved but an inch and then repositioned himself. Dillon looked dumfounded and gave him another swift kick. “I’m talkin’ to ye, mister! Have ye seen my brother?”

  Dan grabbed Dillon by the arm and pulled him down out of the back of the wagon with one swift jerk. Dillon shook him off and ran back for another shot at the man. Dan snatched him and spun him around.

  “Stop this. Stop it now,” he commanded.

  “He has ta wake up, Uncle! He knows somethin’. I know he does!”

  Dan hopped into the back of the wagon and grabbed the bottle the man cradled and yanked it from his sleeping grasp.

  “Hey! Gimme that!” the man shouted, rolling halfway up and then falling back with a thud.

  “I figured that’d do it. What’s yer name, mister?”

  “Who wants ta know?”

  “Yer name or I’ll bust this over yer bloody head.”

  “Mackay. What’s it to ye, anyway? I don’t even know ye, and if it’s money yer lookin’ for, ye’re holdin’ the last of it.”

  The man rolled to his back and leaned on his elbows, looking up into Dan’s steely gaze. Dillon’s eyes and mouth were wide open as he watched, obviously in awe of his normally mild mannered uncle.

  “Don’t want yer money or yer whiskey. I want ye to tell me about the boy ye carried here yesterday from Naas.” Dan pulled Patrick’s picture from inside his shirt and shoved it into Mackay’s face.

  Mackay ran his hand up and down and side to side over his puffy mug. He tried to get to his feet of his own devices but he moaned and complained of his pounding head and weak legs until Dan was done waiting and pulled him up. Mackay leaned on the empty crates for support but then sat down on the wagon bed and slid to the back to climb down.

  “How the devil did ye get up here in the first place?” Dan asked, helping Mackay.

  “Aye, well, ye know how it is when yer fluthered, me friend. I can’t remember.” The man laughed loudly, which only sent Dillon back over the edge.

  “What did ye do with me brother?”

  “I’m tryin, lad! Give a man a minute ta think.”

  Mackay leaned back against the wagon, still unsteady and wreaking of whiskey and tobacco. Under much different circumstances, he may have been a bit comical and perhaps even a pitiful sight, but not this day. There was nothing either funny or sad about this wasted man and they cared nothing for his condition but rather only for the answers they needed.

  “Yer referrin’ to Patrick, I suppose,” Mackay finally spoke.

  “Aye! What of him?” Dillon shouted.

  “He told me Thursday last he was plannin’ to run away yesterday and he asked me how someone could go about doin’ just that.”

  “Ye told him how ta run away? What kinda devil are ya?”

  “Dillon, hush and let the man speak.” Dan placed his palm against Dillon’s chest, as with every word, he lurched closer to Mackay in anger.

  “I told the lad I carried my load to Dublin every Thursday mornin’ when I took leave from the market and yesterday, he showed up at the crack a dawn, wakes me up and tells me if I buy the lot, he’ll ride along with me and help unload it at the dock. Look, fellas, I thought he was just blowin’ wind I did, and when he took a gander at the place, he’d tuck tail and find his way home.”

  Dan moved his hand from Dillon’s chest and placed it on the boy’s shoulde
r as Mackay told his tale. That old familiar knot rose in his throat and he coughed hard, turning his head away and then catching his breath before spitting hard at the ground. He nearly lost the stew and bread along with it this time, but the retching he felt was more about the anxiety and worry for Patrick than previous years of too many pipes.

  “Where did ye last see him?” he asked.

  “When the ship was loaded, I seen him carryin’ the last of the barrels with the other boys, ye know, the free hands, so I sat on the wagon fer a bit gawkin’ at the passengers climbin’ the gangway. I struck up a conversation with the lovely Miss Katie Boyle who was down ta the dock seeing her sister off to Philadelphia and…”

  “Did he get off the boat or not, Mackay?” Dan’s patience had run empty.

  “Yer worries are fer the hands ye lost on yer farm, but that lad was runnin’, if’n it were me that helped or someone else.” Mackay leaned back and tried to stay arms-length from Dan but it was too late. Dan already had him by the front of is grimy shirt.

  “Did he get off the bloody boat?”

  “No, sir! To me knowledge and from what I seen, once he stepped onto that ship, the boy never again set foot in Ireland. Look here, fellas, the boy was distraught, he was. Said he’d be better off dead than stayin’ here in Ireland, so I says to him what I heard said to someone else before: “there’s hope from the ocean but none from the grave,” and that was the last I seen him.”

  * * *

  Upon the hour of nine in the evening, a weary Dan and Dillon Flynn finally arrived at their home. After a brief and solemn meal of boiled cabbage and potatoes, Dillon turned in for the night. Dan stepped outside in the waxing moonlight and wished he had his pipe to comfort him. He heard the door open and a second later felt Noreen place his already packed old pipe in his hand.

  “Noreen, ye shouldn’t a done this. We need the money.”

  “Oh, hush. After the last two days, Daniel Joseph, I know ye need this and besides, this is all ye got so enjoy it.”

  Dan looked at the pipe, pressed the tobacco down firmly with his index finger and handed it back to Noreen. “I got the cough, ye know.”