He was too late: all had gone to wreck and ruin. His rapparee brethren were hanged or in hiding, his brother soon dead, and Molly months gone.
Chapter 29
The wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
—Marvell, “An Horatian Ode,” 1650
The dark procession wended past the House, past the brew-house, dairy, and stable, then around to the front again and back down the hill, and finally to the small chapel and cemetery in the glen below, where Wallers had for a century buried their dead. It was an ugly, dirty day, shrouded in mist and darkened brows.
Lobster-coated soldiers from the garrison at Charles Fort lined the way, a guard of honor for a faithful old soldier, for a reluctant veteran of bloody Irish wars. Black-staved conductors and two trumpeters led the procession. A groom led a riderless horse, Finn, the old gentleman’s favorite. Retired old soldiers mounted on aged chargers carried his armor piece by piece, brightly polished for the somber occasion. A local lord bore the brave gentleman’s standard, the great banner, detailing his ancestry. Two more trumpeters followed, levets reverberating in the still air, and behind them marched the herald.
Six horses, black with black caparisons, drew a black funeral carriage, and a pair of wolfhounds followed. Four great gentlemen flanked the carriage, men whose respect for the old gentleman and for each other made up for their religious and political disagreements. Behind the carriage walked the chief mourner, then came sovereigns, judges, mayors, burgesses, chamberlains, marshals, provosts, and constables, men of importance from throughout the baronies of the county, old friends and old enemies, Irish and English, Protestant and Catholic, nobleman and merchant, all in their finest.
And last came those whom the old gentleman would have thought the most important of all: the people of the land whom he had known well, drunk with, and fought amongst throughout his life, their presence this day a greater tribute to him than were all the nobility and gentry who walked in his procession.
Sir William was dead, and she had killed him.
I did what I must, Molly thought, staving off her grief and guilt.
They had argued.
“When you’re tried, the prosecution is not only going to claim that you waged war on the king simply by visiting France—a preposterous notion, but one that has succeeded before—but also that you’re in league with a notorious rapparee, that bastard O’Hanlen! I know damn well he’s that O’Neal you’ve been betrothed to for years!”
“Who’s telling you this?” she demanded. “Parson Waters?”
“I’ll hamstring that gossiping turd of a coward soon enough. Stick to the point, please! I’ve talked long with the magistrate, and he believes the only way you won’t be convicted is if you deny O’Neal, or whatever the hell his real name is.”
“Sir William,” Molly said, voice trembling, “you’ve been good to me for many years. I know you’ve done this for the sake of my mother’s memory. You’ve even been like a father to me, but I will not give Michael up. I truly believe that both Fortune and the hand of man, via God’s will, will not let me be tried.”
“Then you’re a damned fool! They’ll take your estate, they’ll hang your betrothed when they catch him on the roads one day—and they will!—and they might even hang you if they’re able to tie you in any way to his robberies and murders, and whatever Jacobite plotting he’s been up to. Then what can I do for you but grieve?”
“I will not be tried, Sir William, I’m sure of it.”
“How can you believe this? The only way you won’t be tried is by fleeing Ireland, or…” Sir William’s voice trailed off. His face turned red, he gripped his cane so hard that his arm shook as he stood from his chair. “By God, Molly, I won’t believe it! Not my own—”
But whatever he would not believe was never said. He was struck speechless, his left side paralyzed. He fell and broke his arm and jaw. A day later he was dead.
Molly was largely shunned after the funeral. It was a subtle shunning, yet obvious to anyone with eyes open. Sir William’s brother already acted as if he were the great lord of the manor, and Parson Waters lurked everywhere, gleefully obsequious. Mourners gathered in the inner hall, but after half an hour Molly could no longer stand the atmosphere and retreated to her room.
“Agamemnon, Menelaus, will you protect me?” she asked as she stroked the coats of the wolfhounds at her feet.
An hour later someone knocked on the door. Reluctantly she opened it.
“You look like a woman with a great decision to make, one she mustn’t make lightly. Do you mind if I come in and help?” Jane Hardy asked.
Molly’s face flushed in anger, embarrassment, and suspicion. “Must you?”
“I fear I must, my dear. And what I’m going to say mustn’t be heard by anyone else, so please stand aside, let me in, and close the door,” she replied, and pushed the door all the way open.
“I hope this won’t take long,” Molly said sharply as Jane stepped boldly past her.
“That all depends. We do have some time, but not much, so close the door. Don’t worry about the parson eavesdropping, he’s too busy whistling “Lillibullero” and testifying below, swearing to things he’s seen and more things he hasn’t, including treasonable behavior between you and a local rapparee named O’Hanlen—and we both know who O’Hanlen really is. Sir William’s brother is holding a small council of war at the moment, and much of the subject is you. It’s my impression that he’s decided he’ll be the one to have your estate after it’s confiscated. And it will be confiscated, my dear, there’s nothing you can do about that now. Constable Rutson is with him: you might be arrested as early as tomorrow on new charges.”
“Things might change soon,” Molly said defiantly. “Fortune has a way—”
“Of buggering both men and women for sport. Haven’t you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Jacobites in London tried to murder the king, my dear. And they failed. There will be no rebellion, there will be no restoration of James to the English throne. Nothing will change in Ireland.”
“My God!”
“I assume your despair is for the failure of the Jacobite cause, but we can both pretend your concern is for King William’s safety. They’re looking everywhere for plotters, and they’ll be look here soon enough for the petty sort, after they’ve finished looking for those in London. Where’s your betrothed, by the way?”
“I won’t answer that!”
“As you please, my dear, but you probably wouldn’t be telling me anything I don’t already know. Listen closely: it’s not just that they’ll accuse you of consorting with O’Hanlen. They’ll pin his treasons on you, too, whether or not there’s evidence. You are Irish, Catholic, a woman, and you’ve consorted with a known outlaw who is assuredly a traitor too. Your betrothed is a noose around your neck and every tree a gibbet if you remain here.”
“Why do you care what happens to me?”
“Molly, dear, I’ve always had my own sense of honor in my lines of work. I’ve made my own rules and lived by them as often as I could, which has been more often than not. I’ve done whatever I’ve done because I chose to, not because I had no say at all in the matters. I’ve made my own bargains and my honor has never been for sale. This is something unusual in a woman, and blasphemy in most men’s eyes, and even in many women’s. There are too few of us who can hold up their heads, even if men pretend not to recognize what we’re doing.
Jane took a long pause before resuming. “I’d rather not see any of us hanged, and I certainly can’t see what purpose hanging you would serve now.” She waited for Molly to recognize the full import of her words, then continued. “Two of my servants, papists both, and two of Sir William’s, also papists, are waiting at the stable with a saddled horse and a few supplies. I assume you’ve already planned where you’d run if it came to this?” Molly nodded. “Good. Now, let’s get you dressed. I’ve clothing for you at the stable,
we need only slip down the stairs.”
“I’ve clothing here.”
“A man’s?”
“Yes.”
“Clever girl! I guess it’s safer to ride by night dressed as a man?” Jane asked rhetorically. Molly did not answer. “As you please, Mistress O’Meary. You’re fairly tall for a woman, your breasts aren’t large, I think you can get by as a man from a distance in daylight, and anyway it’ll be dark soon.”
From a chest Molly drew a man’s clothing. Already she knew how to wear these clothes like a man would, she knew how to walk like a man in them, how not to move delicately or shyly. She knew how to be strong but silent, to move with a quiet assurance and purpose, to keep her hat down low, throwing a shadow across her eyes, to keep her cloak pulled about her shoulders. With Jane’s help she wrapped her breasts and pulled on several shirts to give her body some size. She let her hair down and wore it loose about her shoulders. She tied her purse to her waist under her breeches and let it hang between her legs. She had a pistol, illegal though it was for papists without a license. She loaded and primed it, and around her neck and beneath the shirts she hung a small stiletto whose narrow triangular blade could inflict a fatal wound. She pulled on boots, coat, and hat, and packed a portmanteau with a woman’s clothing and accoutrements.
“Here are a dozen guineas,” Jane said as she passed her a small purse. “It won’t get you far, but I’m sure you have other resources, such as those already between your legs? Good. If anyone sees you leaving the house, you’re one of my servants, understand? Don’t worry, Sir William’s brother is in the library with his cabal, and the remaining guests are in the great hall.”
Down the stairs they went, Molly a few steps behind, at a servant’s distance.
“Here my help ends,” Jane said at the kitchen door. “May Fortune have your back. If nothing else, it will be dark soon—and I’m sure you know well your way on the roads by night.”
Through the kitchen and scullery Molly escaped the house unnoticed. At the stable she was met by four silent servants, one holding a horse, another who passed her a sword and belt to complete her costume. She mounted the horse, Finn, Sir William’s favorite. He had given her permission to ride Finn as she pleased, and the animal was the most reliable in the stable. She rode at the trot from the manor.
The horse was not as fast as she might have liked, but he could go forever. Her clothes felt strange tonight, although she had worn them many times before. The money between her legs pressed her flesh in a way she might have found erotic were it not for the danger she was in. She rode as quickly as she thought was safe, pacing the horse, for the ride was nineteen miles or more, and she did not know if she might suddenly need to gallop away for her life.
She knew by instinct when to walk and rest her mount. She listened to him, and with her legs, hand, and low voice responded to him. But deep into the night she began to rest him less and less, for strange, evil shapes began to appear and disappear among the trees and bushes as she rode by; and fear, nay, terror, rode swiftly at her heels: she could hear him, his cloven feet echoing each clop-clop of her horse’s hooves. She had no sense of time, only of distance, and even that was occluded by the darkness, as were the stars and moon that might have told her how many hours had passed. Soon, or much later, she could not tell, the sky began to brighten, but it was only the moon appearing from behind the clouds.
Onward she went.
Innishannon? Bandon Bridge? Ride around them, then back onto the road.
The river? Swim it, Finn loves the water—but be careful, hang on, these boots will drag you down if you let go of him! she thought as they plunged into the cold water and she held tightly to his mane. Across and safe, now to the southwest, where’s the road?
Here it is, onward now... across the Argideen... past Timoleague and Cloughnakilty... and now south along the bay, across from Inchydoney where the tide has risen and made the small peninsula into an island.
And there it was. She could smell first the marshes, then the salt air; she could hear the surge, and suddenly the hours and miles were behind her and forgotten.
She waited near the shore before the dawn in the cool, damp darkness, salty mists and sea sounds caressing her cheeks and ears. Strands of her hair clung to her temples. Finn snorted restlessly and looked back at her several times, questioning why she had stopped. He nipped once or twice at the toe of her boot. Gulls flew by; she could hear them, but could not see them. The ocean washing against the shore masked other sounds, and enfolded her, its strength and fortitude granting her a quiet courage, and she again lost any perception of time. She could see nothing in the darkness, neither ship nor boat. And then before her, gradually, was the first light of morning, revealing strange, blurred shapes and objects that soon altered their appearance. What at first seemed a crouching, imaginary beast became a plant, then finally a pitted, worn rock. A lump became first a sea beast thrown up on the shore, then a small boat. A hummock became a stone cottage.
She grew tense again. Finn tossed his head. Now Molly discerned the masts and spars of a small ship. She heard steps in the gritty sand, then she saw a short man—no, a boy—approaching. He spoke to her in Irish.
“Where do you come from, sir?”
Molly looked down at the innocent face.
“Then where then are you going?” he asked, when she did not answer.
“I seek the Mary Pink and Patrick Sarsfield,” she said, using the name of the vessel expected and the password. She tossed him a brass shilling with the likeness of James II—useless ‘gun money’ that had briefly served as cash in Ireland among the Jacobites during the war.
The boy glanced at the coin. “Sarsfield’s dead, sir. They say he was killed in the Spanish Netherlands in ‘93. And the shilling’s worthless. But you can come with me if you like. You shouldn’t be standing here like this; someone might think you were a spy trying to leave Ireland. Come, come!”
She followed the boy to a place near the shore where several hard-looking men drank around a small, smoky fire almost invisible in the dawn. They all stared at her.
“He’s looking for Patrick Sarsfield, gave me brass shilling with the true king’s likeness on it.”
“What’s your name?” asked one.
She did not answer.
“Well, you’re not Michael O’Neal for I know him, and it’s his password you use, nor are you any other we expect. So speak now or you’ll feed the fish in the bay.”
“I am Molly O’Meary,” she said, pulling the scarf from around her face.
“That you are, that you are; you’re too pretty to be a man. You’re known among us.”
“I’ve come for passage to France. I seek shelter and protection until I can get to sea.”
“Are you sure?”
“I stand accused of treason.”
“You’re lucky then; the Mary Pink is anchored offshore, she arrived well before time,” the man said. “You can leave your horse with the boy. Come, now, we must be going before we’re caught ashore.”
The men soon pushed a small boat through the ebb and flow while she sat in the stern. She was uncomfortable alone with them as they rowed to the pink, unsure even who they were. But they all behaved respectfully, at least in her presence. The crew of the small ship treated her much the same after she boarded. She paid the captain for her passage. After this they seldom exchanged a word.
She was violently seasick the first two days. The pumps squealed constantly and there were angry words exchanged about how badly the pink was leaking, and how they ought to get into a safe harbor, any harbor, before the vessel burst apart in the sea. By the afternoon of the second day, though, she felt as if she had grown her sea legs, and finally went up on deck when she heard the crew talking excitedly about something. She knew the swells were greater now than they had been when she had first grown seasick, yet they no longer bothered her much. She had put her masculine clothing away, wore her dress instead, and left her hair down and lo
ng to blow in the wind.
She saw three ships ranging from two hundred to four hundred yards away, one of which was a large black man-of-war. Then noticed what appeared to be a very large tourniquet, for she could think of no other words to describe it, right in front of her. It was a hawser wrapped several times around the hull and tightened with a spar, as one tightens a tourniquet, squeezing the hull together and keeping the pink afloat. This clumsy-looking jury rig—“wolded with her hawsers,” a seaman would say—was not a reassuring sight, and four men still worked the pumps.
“They’re all Dutch-built, but they’re flying French colors. Could be French, could be Dutch. If they’re Dutch, we’ll be taken, for they’ll never believe we’re not trading with the French. Good afternoon, Mistress O’Meary,” the captain said when he saw her, “Frenchmen, we think and hope. If they’re anything else we’re in trouble. They’re hoisting out a boat; they’ll want to search us. Jesus and Mary, I hope they’re French.”
A small boat came alongside from one of the two stores ships, called flutes. Six armed men clambered quickly aboard.
The boarding party’s two officers surveyed the small vessel. They removed their hats and bowed when they saw Molly.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” the first said, “parlez-vous francais?”
“Oui, Monsieur,” she said, sure now they were French by their manners and flawless accents. “I call myself Molly O’Meary, of Kinsale in Ireland.”
“Is this an English ship?” the officer asked, ignoring the captain who came to join them.
“It is, but has French passes for safe conduct and it sails to France. I, however, am Irish, a fugitive from the English.”
“A fugitive? You? Mais non, Mademoiselle, this I cannot believe.” He turned to his petty officer. “Check their papers and passes, then their cargo,” he said, then addressing Molly, “Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I wish to introduce to you my friend, Monsieur Alain de Baatz of the House of Montesquiou-Ferenza, a lieutenant in the Compagnies detachées de la marine, who travels with us to his new post. I am Lieutenant Timothée Kercue, an officer of La Seine, a flute in the service of our glorious monarch, King Louis. We are convoyed by La Tulipe Noir, a corsaire of France.” The officers bowed again.
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