Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  When he heard the rude bark of a Liverpool crew, it still gripped his belly like an iron hand, sent his mind screaming back to his own place in the dark hold, where his passage had bought him not the space of one six-by-six bunk as advertised, but a quarter of that space, the bunk shared with a man, his wife, and their child. He never slept. No liquor was allowed, but the captain himself sold spirits once a week to any who could pay, and Sean’s bunkmate was a drunk who thought nothing of taking his wife despite close quarters and her helpless protests. Sean had turned his back to block the sound of her defeat—and the sound of the sharp slaps and vicious curses earned by their son, who tried in vain to push his father off his mother. Sean had liked the boy and, on days the captain sold his grog, sat with him on the stairs, telling stories of Irish kings until the only sound below was that of heavy snores.

  The mother died when illness broke out, and it had been Sean who stood with his hand on the boy’s shoulder as they dropped her body into the sea. Then the boy had sickened, and Sean’s efforts to get medicine had proved futile; the ship’s doctor sold instead of dispensed.

  The water had been stale, tinged by the wine or salted meat previously stored in the barrels; the meat was rancid and so salty that passengers had to choose between drinking their water or rinsing their food; the biscuit was inedible. So it was no surprise to Sean, really, when the boy simply gave up and died, his body barely rippling the sea before it disappeared.

  Terrified that he might not survive this voyage, Sean had hidden on deck to avoid the rank air below. When discovered, he’d been beaten with crown crackers and steel knuckles, but did not dare complain, having once witnessed the consequence of such action: an older fellow who’d threatened to report the crew if more water was not doled out had been knocked down with belaying pins and buckets, tied to the mainmast, and shaved with a rough razor before his cheeks and neck were coated with hot tar. The man had howled for hours as the crew spat grog in his face.

  Sean had decided then to endure and stay alive, and in the end, he jumped ship when the captain threatened to skip the inconvenience of Staten Island by simply unloading all visibly sick and injured passengers on another boat headed for Grosse Isle, farther north in Canada; he had no intention of posting the two-thousand-dollar bond required for each passenger too ill to disembark in Manhattan. Later, Sean learned that captains frequently sailed back down the coast and dumped the ill in New Jersey, leaving them to walk back up to the city, but on that night he had no confidence that he was not bound for Canada.

  He escaped as she lay anchored in the harbor, the water so icy it stopped his breath, and he’d grabbed the first thing that floated past—a log come untied from the boom—to keep himself from drowning. The tide brought him closer to shore, but he knew he’d not have the strength to swim in and the sea would be his grave after all. But as he prayed, he was spotted by a band of angels disguised as drunken American sailors, who rowed out to him, hauled him into their skiff, and good-naturedly slapped him on the back as he coughed up ice water. They took him to shore and dried him off, commiserating that there was nothing worse than bastard Liverpool tars, then filled him with whiskey and sent a runner to find one Dugan Ogue, who’d come right away in the dead of night to fetch the boy, asking was it so bad in Ireland that he’d had to swim all the way here, then?

  Sean shook his head, and tossed back the whiskey.

  “Here ’tis.” Ogue returned to his place behind the bar, holding out a battered envelope, the ink smeared from dampness.

  Sean stared at the handwriting, and his mind went blank.

  “From home, looks like.” Ogue pushed it across the bar. “News, maybe, about your one.”

  Sean looked up, suddenly afraid of what that news might be. Tentatively, he took the packet and tore open one end, seeing by the handwriting that it contained two letters in different hands.

  “This one’s from William,” he said hoarsely, scanning the page. All color drained from his face.

  Ogue immediately refilled his glass, then moved respectfully away.

  The letter began with no formality:

  O’Malley,

  Terrible news—McDonagh is dead. He was imprisoned in Dublin. Reports say fever, but we cannot know for sure as so many have died and his body thrown into the pit with theirs. A prison priest confirmed it was him and that he had suffered torture but gave them nothing. He was a brave man, a spiritual man, and I have no doubt he faced death with courage. This has been a devastating blow. The whole country mourns him and I feared they would abandon any last shreds of hope, but they have rallied stronger than ever in his name, even in the midst of the terrible suffering which surrounds us still. Above one hundred a day are removed dead from the workhouses and thrown with no ceremony into the pits, a dusting of lime their only shroud. Fever is rampant among us and orphans made every hour. The starving continues. I thank God you are well out of it for entire villages in the countryside now lie quiet as the grave they have become.

  I made haste to locate your sister, but found her not in time for Captain Applegate. She and her daughter sail in one week’s time out of Liverpool on the American packet, Eliza J, captained by P. Reinders, American. She has borne McDonagh’s son and was hard pressed to leave him, but fear of imprisonment and the loss of both children convinced her at last; the infant is with your father at Cork. Grace is wanted for the murder of a guard and dares not travel openly. Julia will accompany them as far as Liverpool and see them safely on. I send this out directly and with all good weather it should reach you before they do.

  We Irish have always lifted high our heroes, and McDonagh’s life is well sung by poets and balladeers. We are terribly crippled by all that besets Ireland, my friend, and my own trials are great, but the longing for freedom has not ebbed and I know we shall rise up stronger than ever. Redouble your efforts in his name. I await news.

  It was signed in Smith O’Brien’s neat hand, followed by a postscript.

  This came today from Alroy. I send it on at his request.

  Sean set William’s letter down and picked up Abban’s, but he could not focus, because his vision was blurred. He remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on Abban Alroy outside the small cabin in Macroom, how he’d convinced the man to join the cause; Morgan had needed someone he could trust, and Abban—his family lost to the hunger—became McDonagh’s right-hand man. The two of them had become a force to be reckoned with. Abban was devoted to Morgan; they’d broken Sean out of jail and gotten him on the ship to America—that was the last time he’d seen them. Hand trembling, he picked up his glass and emptied it in one long, burning gulp, blinking hard to clear his vision.

  Abban’s letter was crumpled as if carried in many pockets before reaching William, the writing full of words hurriedly spelled and crossed out, the smudged and blotted ink of a barely literate warrior poet. At the very first word, he heard Abban’s thick Connemara accent.

  Sean, my brother,

  Our one was taken in a raid and I not there to save him, tho you know I would have torn them all apart with my bare hands if given half a chance. I learnt of his dying by letter in his own hand, meant for Grace, and that she was with Barbara, but I could not take it to her myself as my foot was come off, the leg to follow. She’s ever on my mind as the letter said she carried his child and we both know how he loved her. So, I come to Cork in the back of a cart but have missed her by the day for she’s gone to Liverpool and then to you, Barbara says. Lord knows I’d go on if I could, but I’ll stay here til I’m healed, looking after your da and the wee boy. It helps my heart to know he made Grace his wife and got this child—it’s all he ever wanted in the world. Remember the night we come for you, you cursing the guards so it rang out the walls and Morgan laughing so hard he could barely think how to save your scrawny hide? He loved you like his own, he did. Now I’ll do that for him. I’m sorry for us all.

  Abban

  This was the letter Sean crumpled to his chest as he let out a woun
ded roar. The others in the room fell instantly silent, staring at the gimpy lad who often sat at a back table, scheming with the mighty men. They knew he was here to fight for Ireland—him with his short leg and twisted arm, keen mind and quick tongue—and they looked out for him as best they could, but hearing the depth of that pain they knew there was nothing for it but to sit still. For in that roar was the sound of a man’s heart ripping in two, the sound of a man’s mind yearning to come apart in order to forget what he now must know forever, the sound of a loss so great that it would never be fully overcome, and now the man was crippled in more than just his body. They watched as Ogue come around the great bar to speak low to him, look at the letters laid out before him, then shelter him in his mighty arms, helping him across the floor and up the back stairs to the rooms above. They waited in silence, no one coming or going, lifting their glass nor speaking a word, until Ogue come back and told them the terrible black news that McDonagh was dead in Ireland. They sat, staring at his face as if the understanding of it was somewhere in the big man’s eyes. He shook his head—that was all. Then he poured whiskey into Sean’s glass, still on the bar, and lifted it high before him.

  The men rose as one body, chairs and stools scraping the wooden floor, snatching off their caps, pulling themselves up tall and proud.

  “Let us drink to him now,” Ogue called.

  “McDonagh!” the men roared, glasses thrust fiercely in the air.

  “And to Ireland,” came a lone voice from the back, and fifty pairs of eyes filled with the misty vision of home.

  They drank their drinks quietly then—for Irishmen—clasping hands soberly with one another and telling stories of the Great One himself, though most had never met him, but sure they knew someone who had. His raids, his courage and compassion, his undying love for Ireland and for a beautiful Irish girl whose heart was as great as his own—the legends grew as hours passed and word spread through the neighborhoods, from the Fourth Ward into the Sixth, up Baxter Street and down Mulberry. The Irish emerged from dark cellars and freezing attics, filthy alleyways and twisted paths, drunk and sober both, filling the windows and doors of crowded tenements, spilling out onto the sidewalks, where they were swept up by the silent mob making its way down the long blocks to hear the truth from the big man himself—the unwonted truth, the terrible truth, the heartbreaking truth that Morgan McDonagh, the Great One, was lost to them all.

  Nine

  AFTER two weeks of freezing drizzle and stinging squalls, there came a morning when the clouds lifted and the sun shone brittle and hard, blinking off whitecaps that blinded any who dared to peer over the ship’s rail. Sheltered from the biting December wind, Grace and Mary Kate ate some of the breakfast they had collected from the cook at dawn and then sat contentedly between two large coils of rope, faces tipped up to catch the light.

  “Good morning, Missus … Donnelly. Enjoying the day?”

  Grace opened her eyes and blinked away the sunspots.

  “Aye, Captain Reinders, we are indeed. The light’s a blessing after the dark days below.”

  “And how goes it in the hold?” he asked, realizing he’d not seen much of her since they set sail.

  “Fine, thank you. Biscuit?” She offered him a piece.

  “I ate hours ago.”

  “Ah, well, I’ve little doubt of that. Tell me, Captain,” she asked, playfully, “do you ever sleep a’tall? I can’t think of a time you’ve not been up here on this deck.”

  “Well, I … that is to say …” he stammered, caught off guard by her familiarity. “A good captain must keep an eye on every watch, so I sleep a few hours at a time, then get up and see to … things.”

  He’d noticed that the Irish did not exactly stand on formality; they plunged right in with the most intimate questions about a man’s family and private thoughts. In fact, there seemed to be little they did not discuss and often with a great deal of mirth, which was doubly disconcerting for a man such as himself. Certainly, he was not going to review his sleeping habits with this young woman and her remarkable eyes. A captain should always appear interested while remaining detached—best not to get drawn in. He decided to change the subject.

  “Missus Donnelly, why aren’t you taking meals in the saloon with the other first-class passengers? Isn’t the food better there?”

  “Oh, aye, Captain, ’tis, and I’m grateful.” She glanced down at the leftover biscuit, cheese, boiled bacon, and apple in her lap. “I prefer to eat in the open air, is all, and I hope it’s no trouble to you, then?”

  He eyed the little girl, who had stopped chewing, though her cheeks were stuffed full of food.

  “No.” He frowned. “It’s no trouble to me. But we’ve had mostly rain the past two weeks. Don’t tell me you sit up here in the rain.”

  Mary Kathleen, her eyes never leaving his, shook her head.

  “We take our share below,” Grace admitted.

  “But why not eat in the saloon? It’s pleasant enough, isn’t it?”

  Again Mary Kate shook her head.

  He looked at her, surprised. “No?”

  Grace bit her lip. “It’s mostly English you got there, Captain,” she explained, apologetically. “And you know they don’t look upon us so well, especially those come up each day, smelling like … the hold.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.” He frowned. “You know, I could eat in the saloon instead of my cabin.”

  “Ah, no, Captain.” Grace shook her head. “Don’t put yourself out. All those sour faces are bound to spoil your appetite, as well, and we can’t have that now, can we? Besides,” she said, “Mary Kate and I are more than content, and your cook has been ever so kind in handing us our food off his kitchen each day.”

  “Galley,” Reinders corrected absentmindedly. “A ship’s kitchen is called the galley. But Missus Donnelly, you’re entitled to all privileges of first class.”

  “And is not one of those being able to eat where I like?” she asked.

  He nodded reluctantly.

  “Well, then, Mary Kate and I choose to take our meals down below or out here in God’s fresh air. Thank you very much for your concern, Captain, but don’t trouble yourself over it.”

  “Well, I don’t like it,” he said, stubbornly. “And I’m not sure I should let those upper-crust snobs get away with it. But if this is the way you want it …”

  “’Tis,” she said firmly.

  “All right.” He turned to go, then hesitated. “If I may say so, Missus Donnelly, you are certainly a very gracious person.”

  “Ah, no, Captain, just thankful.” She looked him in the eye. “On this ship, we have food every day. Why should I care where we eat it?”

  He had no reply for that, simply nodded and then took his leave.

  “You can swallow what you’ve got in your mouth now, girl,” Grace said softly. “There’s no reason to be afraid. He’s built like your da, but a different kind of man altogether.”

  Mary Kate did as she was told, then drank a cup of water, sitting practically on top of her mother as she always did. Grace pushed the last bite of bacon into the child’s mouth, then brushed the crumbs from both their skirts.

  “Shall we go find Missus Kelley, then? You can play with Siobahn and Liam while she and I clean the clothes.”

  Mary Kate nodded and Grace pulled her up, leading her by the hand across the deck to the open hatch. Down below, the air was noticeably more rank, even with the wind sweeping through. Some passengers still lay abed, or had gone back to bed, sick or uneasy with the journey, though the worst of the seasickness appeared to be over. Others, having finished their gruel or biscuit, were straightening beds and organizing belongings, shaking out clothing and blankets if they had them.

  Grace found Alice sitting on the edge of her bunk, hands in her lap, staring blankly. Siobahn lay next to her.

  “Alice?” Grace leaned down. “All right, then? Want to come up and take the air awhile?”

  Alice’s eyes cleared momen
tarily, then filled again with anxiety. “’Tis Siobahn,” she whispered. “She tossed about all night.”

  Grace placed her hand on the girl’s forehead. Not hot, but very warm; cheeks, as well, and her eyes—when she opened them—were glassy. The child had been unwell since she boarded, and Grace had noted her steady decline with growing alarm; she was plagued by random fevers, each leaving her more listless than before. This morning, her lips were dry and cracked.

  “Has she had any water yet?”

  Alice shook her head.

  “Go on up, then, and get in line. I’ve some here, but she’ll want more.” Grace took the woman’s hands and pulled her up. “Go on now,” she admonished. “I’ll sit with her. Go up into the air. ’Tis a fine morning and you’ll feel better for it. Where’s Liam, then?”

  “Here.” The boy’s head popped out from the upper bunk.

  “Come down from there at once, Liam Kelley,” Grace scolded. “The owner of that bed eats naughty boys for his breakfast!”

  Liam swung himself over and landed gracefully beside her; he was lithe and full of spirit, not nearly as sullen as she’d taken him for at first, and Grace had grown very fond of him.

  “I’ve a job for you.” She handed him his cap. “Take your mam up and wait with her in the water line. ’Tis lovely up there. I’ve just come back. Go on now, off with you both!”

  He grabbed his mother’s hand and towed her along, grinning back over his shoulder before they disappeared up the stairs.

  Mary Kate remained by Grace’s side, a firm grip on her mother’s skirt. “Is she sick?”

  “Aye.” Grace met her daughter’s eyes; the child was old beyond three years, and it was best to tell her the truth. “She has a fever.”

  “He’s sick.” Mary Kate pointed out a man lying on his bunk across the aisle. “And her.” She pointed to another figure rolled on her side. “Them, as well.” This last a family of four, all lying listlessly.