Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  Grace looked from them to her daughter and back again. The child was right. These people lay too still, eyes staring, breathing quick and shallow. She felt Siobahn’s forehead again. Had it grown warmer in the last few minutes?

  “Ship fever, is all,” she said, as much to reassure herself as Mary Kate. “Siobahn needs fresh air, water, a little broth if we can cook it.” She bit her lip, thinking. “Come on, girl.” She scooped up Siobahn, blanket and all. “Into the light with you now.”

  Mary Kate led the way, Grace right behind. Feeling Siobahn’s arms go feebly around her neck, Grace smiled down into the little face, the heat of the child seeping through the rough blanket. Up on deck, they picked their way carefully back to the rope coils, which allowed full sun but sheltered them all from the biting gusts of wind.

  “Sit here, Mary Kate, by Siobahn.” She settled the girls into a space in front of a large wooden crate. “I’ll find Alice and Liam, and see about getting up a broth.”

  Grace found Alice straightaway, nearly to the front of the line, and told her where the girls were. Liam begged to come when she said she was off to the kitchen—the galley, she corrected herself—and Alice was glad to let him go. He was a boy who insisted upon filling every moment of his life, who bristled with a kind of nervous energy even when lying still, perhaps in answer to living among the dead for so long, his mother supposed; but oh, he did wear on her.

  He frisked along behind Grace, following her across the deck to the stair that led to the cook’s galley when, unexpectedly, she veered off and approached the captain, who stood with a crewman at the wheel.

  “Captain Reinders,” she said, her voice lost in the sound of wet, slapping sails. “Captain!”

  Startled, he turned. “Missus Donnelly!”

  “This is Liam Kelley, Captain. I’m sure you’ve seen him scampering all over your boat like a wee squirrel, so I wanted you to know his name in case he gets himself into trouble.”

  Reinders regarded the young man seriously. “Like the Eliza J, do you, son?”

  Liam’s eyes went wide. “Oh, aye, Captain. She’s a beauty, she is! And so fast! We must be nearly there, the way she flies over the sea. What a boat!”

  The corners of Reinders’ mouth twitched. “Ship,” he corrected. “And we’ve still got a lot of sailing ahead of us. Hey!” He narrowed his eyes and leaned down. “You’re not the boy my men shouted down out of the rigging yesterday, are you?”

  Liam’s shoulders slumped and he hung his head. “Aye, Captain.” He peeked up meekly, eyes beseeching. “But I had a notion to see the view from way up there.” He pointed to the crow’s nest. “And my feet just moved on their own. I could do nothing to stop them!” He glared at the treacherous feet, then lifted his eyes again in wonder to the place high up the mast above the straining sails. “What do they see from up there, do you suppose, Captain? Do they see all round the world, from one side to the other?”

  Grace and the captain exchanged a glance over the boy’s head.

  “Mostly, they see water,” Reinders said, trying to remain serious despite Liam’s infectious enthusiasm. “Water and more water.”

  “Oh.” The boy’s face fell.

  “But sometimes they spy other ships on the horizon,” the captain added. “Or schools of shark. Sometimes whales.”

  “Whales!”

  “Around here we watch mainly for icebergs.”

  “Icebergs! I’ve never seen an iceberg! Are they grand, then?”

  “Grand and deadly,” Reinders cautioned. “They lie waiting like crystal castles. Seamen used to think they were floating islands of ice, and came in close with their ships, lured by the brilliance … but they’re not islands,” he said. “What you and I see is only the tip—they go deep, the icebergs, down to the very bottom of the sea. And just beneath the surface, they spread a skirt of jagged edges that can scrape the bottom off the sturdiest of ships or punch a hole right through her side. We stay well away from icebergs on this ship.”

  “Have you enough men looking out then, do you think?” Liam glanced around, anxiously.

  “I do,” Reinders assured him. “We’ll be past them soon, and then it will be land the look spies out.”

  “Will they call us, Captain? When they see America?”

  “Sure. But do you see that fella over there?” Reinders pointed to the bow, where an old man gripped the rail, jacket buttoned up tightly to his neck, hat tied down under his chin with a hank of rope.

  Liam nodded.

  “My money’s on him to see it first.” The captain winked. “He took up that place the first day we sailed, and except for a few hours’ sleep each night, he stands there in all weather, never taking his eyes off the horizon. I tied him to that rail myself in the first storm, when I realized he’d only sneak back if I sent him below. He says he’s got no family left in Ireland and no one waiting in America. What he thinks he’s going to see, I can’t begin to guess.”

  “I can,” Grace offered. “It’s his last hope. He thinks he’s sailing to Tir nan Og—Land of the Young. A new life.”

  Reinders kept his eyes on her face for a moment, then looked back to where the old man stood. “Land of the Young,” he repeated thoughtfully. “He’s going to be sadly disappointed when we get there.”

  “Ah, no, Captain.” Grace laughed. “Won’t any of us be sad about that!”

  “I will!” Liam insisted loudly. “I love this boat!”

  “Ship, boy! Ship!” Reinders’ voice was stern, but he liked the lad, liked his fire. “Tell you what, Master Kelley. You stay out of the rigging and off the deck in foul weather, and I’ll give you a tour of the whole ship myself before we land—agreed?” He put out his hand.

  “Oh, aye, Captain! Aye!” Liam pumped the hand up and down with both of his.

  “And …?” Grace prompted.

  “Thank you, sir! Thank you very, very much, sir!”

  “You’re very welcome, and now if you’ll excuse me, I must make sure we’re headed for North America, not South.”

  Grace and Liam watched him stride away, Grace noting the firm set of his cap and the clean line of his jacket—a confident man.

  “He’s a fine one then, isn’t he, missus?” Liam’s eyes shone with admiration.

  “Aye,” she agreed. “But mind what he told you now—don’t be getting in everyone’s way, roaming like you do all over the boat.”

  “Ship,” he corrected automatically, and she laughed.

  The cook, a grizzled old sailor with milky eyes, was in a fairly good mood and produced a beef bone with shreds of meat still clinging to it. Grace thanked him gratefully as she did every morning after receiving her breakfast, making sure to stay on the good side of the one in charge of the food.

  “Run down and fetch your mammie’s pot,” she ordered Liam. “I’ll see to the girls and then we’ll get a place at the fire to make Siobahn a good broth.”

  “Is she quite sick, then?” Liam asked. “She was always sick at home, and some days she never did get out of bed, mostly when there was nothing for it. No dinner, I mean.…” His voice trailed off.

  “I know it’s been hard for you.” Grace put her hand on his head. “That’s why you’re going to a new life. And she’ll be fine, not to worry.” She ruffled his thick, tangled hair, then gave him a gentle swat on the bottom. “Run on, now, and find that pot.”

  She watched him make his way nimbly through the knots of passengers who had come up on deck, and thought again what a good boy he was. He reminded her of young Nolan Sullivan, son of the housekeepers at Donnelly House; she pushed the thought quickly away as she did any thoughts of the past these days. Morgan’s letter never left the inside of her vest and she brought her hand up to press against it nearly every hour of the waking day and many times in the night, but to dwell on him—the loss of him—or on their child, who lay behind, would be to invite a despair so deep that she might never rise from it again. And so she kept busy.

  She spied Alice’s green
shawl at the head of the line; reassured that they’d get water, Grace started back to the girls. Rounding the corner, she saw a man bent over them, shaking his fist in their faces—Mary Kate’s eyes were wide, her mouth a frightened O, but her arm was around the older girl’s shoulders.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Boardham turned around, eyes squinting in the sun that shone over Grace’s shoulder. “You can’t just leave your brats anywhere you like,” he reprimanded. “They gets in the way of the crew.”

  “I’m here now.” Grace forced herself to be polite, not wanting to tangle with him. “You needn’t worry yourself further.”

  He scowled. “If there’s foul weather, the crew’ll be needing at these ropes. The brats is in the way. Get ’em out of here, I’m telling you.”

  Grace glanced up at the sky. “We’ll only be out a while longer.”

  He took a step closer and now the sun was not directly in his eyes. “I know you,” he growled. “Irish trying to pass as decent folk. Got sent down though, didn’t you? To the hold. Where you belong.”

  “I remember you, as well, Mister Boardham,” she answered quietly. “Will you leave us in peace now, or will I call the captain?”

  Boardham’s mean little eyes narrowed even more. “You might have him fooled, but not me,” he hissed. “Americans like him don’t understand you dirty Papists, sneaking bastard Irish—but I do.” Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. “You can’t get around me.”

  Grace’s eyes flicked to the faces of the children; he followed her glance and the little girls drew back even further into the ropes. He glared at them, but then suddenly he smiled.

  “She’s sick, that one.” He tipped his head in Siobahn’s direction. “Fever, I can tell. She’ll infect the crew. Fever stays below—that’s captain’s orders, and I’m only carrying them out.” The grin spread. “Take her below and keep her below till she gets well … or till she dies.” He spat the last word.

  Grace stared at him, aghast, and he held up a hand to signal the end of their discourse.

  “Got other duties to perform,” he said smugly, “now I’ve checked the deck for vermin.” He laughed hard at his own joke, then turned his back and left.

  “Hush now, girls,” Grace soothed, taking them both in her arms. “Don’t let a great eejit like that ever see you cry—a man who threatens children is no man a’tall. Here’s your mam coming now, Siobahn. Wipe your tears and don’t let her know we’ve had trouble.”

  Alice set down the pail of water and pushed back her shawl, eyeing her daughter with surprise. “She looks better, she does. Color’s back and all. You were right about the air. Just needed a change, I expect.”

  “I got this from the cook.” Grace held up the beef bone. “And Liam’s gone to fetch your pot.”

  “Ah, bless you, Grace.” Alice picked up Siobahn’s hand and caressed it. “Dear Mother of God and all the Saints, Heaven knows what we’d’ve done without you on this boat.”

  “Ship,” Liam corrected, handing her the pot. “It’s a ship.”

  Ten

  BARBARA McDonagh’s eyes were gritty with weariness, bruised from her night of watching over the fevered sleep of others. Her arms, resting on the desk in her study, felt stiff and heavy, and she listened to the sounds of the waking convent as if from far away. She knew she had entered that state of remove that veils the deeply tired, but that it would be pierced by a strong cup of tea and her acceptance that day had indeed come again. She pinched the bridge of her nose and blinked her dry eyes until a bit of moisture came forth to bathe each one, small relief for the desert they’d become.

  Outside the study, a squalling wind continued to rattle the ill-fitting windowpanes, some of which had been broken in earlier storms and patched with whatever materials were at hand. Every crack and crevice that remained was an invitation to the biting wind, and the study was cold despite a brick of turf burning low in the grate; she was reluctant to add another—the plentiful pile cut early in summer had rapidly diminished with keeping the children’s dormitory heated.

  Thank God Abban had arrived when he did. Even with one leg gone, he hobbled about with his crutch, patching walls, mending windows, stopping leaks, and now going into the wood for fuel. The lash of winter storms had only just begun, and she had not known how they would keep warm through the long, dark months. None of the three sisters left were strong enough to drive the cart to the wood, cut down a tree, strip the limbs, cord, stack and load it, then drive it home, and she dared not leave them alone now their dear Mother herself had died. But God had provided Abban, and Abban had provided hope in the form of determined optimism.

  She turned and looked out the small window on the bay side. Great slamming sheets of rain the night before had given way to spatters come only now and then in brief gusts against the glass. She could see that the clouds were higher in the sky and rode more lightly on the wind; soon the storm would pass and she’d go out with Abban to survey the damage. But first she’d go up to the little room on the third floor and check on her tiny nephew, who’d been frightened by the storm and made restless all night long. She’d gone in several times to quiet and rock him so that Patrick—who kept the baby in his own room—might get some rest. He’d been wakeful, and together they’d marked the hours of the long night; the words of their only conversation still echoed in her thoughts.

  She pressed fingertips to eyelids and rubbed gently, until a solid rap on the door caused her to look up.

  “I brung you a cup a tea, Sister.”

  Abban came into the room awkwardly, the saucer in one hand, his crutch in the other. He set it down on Barbara’s desk, then fished a hard roll wrapped in a cloth out of his pocket.

  “Thank you, Abban.” Barbara took the tea gratefully and inhaled its fragrance, her stiff fingers warmed by the pottery, her face by the steam. “And thank God for Julia Martin.”

  Julia had sent a box of supplies that included the luxurious black tea, and Barbara had allotted each adult in the house one strong cup each morning, a welcome change from the hot water or weak teas they’d been brewing from dried berries and herbs.

  “Eat your roll now, for I know you’ve not broken your fast yet this morning.” Abban peeled away the cloth and waved it temptingly. “’Tis a lovely roll, this—not two days old and still easy on the gums.” When she failed to laugh, he took a closer look at her. “You look terrible worn-out, Sister. Rough night?”

  “No more than usual.” Barbara stifled a yawn. “More children came in the wee hours. True orphans in the storm, this lot.”

  “Oh, aye.” Abban glanced out the window. “I saw them when they come for their oats—two wee girls and a boy. How come they, then?”

  “An older brother. Their mam died giving birth—baby, as well, I suppose, though he didn’t say. Their da brought them to the city with an eye on going out to Canada, but the soup kitchens along the way were Protestant and …” She shrugged helplessly.

  “He wouldn’t give up the faith.” Abban finished the sentence. “Ah, God love him, the poor sot.”

  “Fell down in the road, made the boy swear to deliver them safely to us—not the workhouse, nor to any Protestants—and then he gave a great gasp and died.” She sighed. “How the boy managed to get them all here, I can only guess. The little ones are still shocked out of their speech, and the boy wouldn’t say more, just that here they were and thanks very much for taking them in.”

  “Would he not stay himself, then?”

  Barbara shook her head. “Though I argued with him for over an hour. Can’t have been more than ten, but determined to make his own way. Going across, he said—’tis what his da wanted and he’d promised, you see. He’ll send for themselves once he’s arrived and got himself a good job and big house.” She smiled ruefully. “He let me put a little food in his pocket and he didn’t say no to a blanket, God bless him.”

  “Poor boyo,” Abban said. “We’ll never hear from him again.”

 
“We might,” Barbara insisted. “Where’s your faith, man?”

  “I’ve plenty of that, Sister, but it’s not blind. ’Tis a risky business making the crossing, let alone a small boy on his own with just a roll in his pocket and one blanket to keep him warm. Hard enough for grown men and women to survive a winter crossing.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Barbara frowned.

  Abban thumped himself in the head. “Ah, what a daft eejit I am. Themselves will make it—I’m telling you that, and I know it in my heart.”

  “Do you, Abban?”

  “Aye,” he said firmly. “The Lord has too much work for our one to do, to let her go after all this.”

  Barbara’s eyes could not mask her doubt.

  “Where’s your faith, girl?” he teased.

  “It’s in my other pocket,” she said, guiltily. “I’ll fetch it right after breakfast.”

  “You do that,” he minded. “And keep it on you from now on. How’s himself holding up?” He jerked a thumb at the ceiling.

  “All right,” she said, picturing Patrick sitting up in his little room with the baby in his arms. “God’s working in him, as well, and it’s not easy for him.”

  “He’s a proud man,” Abban allowed.

  Barbara nodded. “We talked last night. He’s been so worried about her, but I think he’s coming into some peace about it now.”

  “Good. Worry’ll kill a man slower than a bullet, but just as dead.”

  She looked at him. “Where in the world do you get those things?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Ah, well, I’m just an old farmer turned soldier turned convent handyman, you know. What wisdom I’ve got’s a mess of this and that.”

  She smiled then, and he smiled even more to see it.

  “Eat your roll now, and I’ll go see to that broken glass in the kitchen.” He pulled the crutch up under his arm and headed for the door.

  “Thank you, Abban,” she said quietly. “For everything.”

  “You’re harboring a criminal here, Sister,” he reminded her over his shoulder. “So let’s just call it even.”