Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  “Who’s that, then?” A man—old or young, Grace could not tell for the greasy hair and the grime on his face—held out a candle and looked them over suspiciously. “What do you want from me?”

  Liam pushed past Grace. “Da? ’Tis me, Da! Your Liam!”

  The man’s face brightened and his rheumy eyes watered. He reached out and pulled the boy into an embrace, dropping kisses on his head. “Ah, now, son, you’re here! You’re here! Oh, my own boy, come all this way and lost your poor mother, God rest her soul. Lost herself and your sister, as well. Oh, no. Oh, no!” He wept now, rocking the boy. “Oh, to have seen them one last time. Oh, son. My son.”

  Liam wept, too, overcome, and Sean and Grace looked at one another.

  “Come in then, come in.” Seamus wiped his face on his sleeve and opened the door wider. “You must be Mister O’Malley.” He extended a dirty wet hand, but Sean took it.

  “We’re happy to meet you, Mister Kelley.” He looked around the dark room, saw a pile of straw in the corner, a stool and a barrel. “Though we’ll miss having your boy at our place.”

  Liam could not take his eyes off his father.

  “The lady can have the stooleen.” Seamus pushed it toward her, then set the candle down on the barrel.

  “This is my sister, Grace,” Sean said. “She’s the one came over on the ship with your wife.”

  “Alice was a good woman,” Grace volunteered. “She loved the children very much, and wanted me to make sure Liam had a home.”

  Seamus nodded soberly. “She died of the fever then. And the little one, as well.”

  “Aye. There was a service aboard ship. Liam and I came the rest of the way together, and he’s lived with us ever since.”

  “I thank you for that. I’ve not been well myself, as you can see.” He coughed something up, then spat into the corner. “The good Lord sent him just in time, for I’m out of money and the rent’s gone due, but a strong one like himself can earn that and more.”

  Liam looked up at Grace, who kept her face neutral.

  “Come here, boy, and give your old da a kiss.” He put out his arms and Liam stepped dutifully into them, but he was stiff now, unsure. “Aye, we’ll work it out now you’re here, won’t we, boy?”

  “Are you sure you’re well enough?” Sean asked carefully. “We’d be happy to keep him until you’re back on your feet.”

  Seamus frowned. “Give him up now he’s finally home? Never!” A fit of coughing overtook him and he reached behind the barrel for a bottle. “Me medicine,” he explained and took a swig.

  “Really, Mister Kelley, you don’t seem …” Sean gestured helplessly.

  “Maybe you’d better go now.” Seamus pulled Liam closer. “Give us some time to get to know each other again. Thank you for all you’ve done, and sure you’ll get your fine reward in Heaven. Say good-bye now, boy.”

  “Good-bye,” Liam said softly, eyes going from Sean’s face to Grace’s.

  Grace came over and kissed him, whispering in his ear, “You know where we are, Liam.”

  He nodded and Sean shook his hand, and then they left. Numbly, they felt their way back down the stairs, through the courtyard, down the path, and out into the street, where it had begun to rain again.

  Dugan took one look at them and smacked his fist against the side of the cart. “I knew it. I just knew it. He’s a drunken old sot, isn’t he?”

  Sean and Grace nodded slowly, unable to believe it.

  “Well, we can’t just leave him here.” Dugan eyed the neighborhood. “’Tis no place for him.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Sean said, dazed. “I can’t believe I did this.”

  “No.” Grace put a hand on his arm. “We had to look for his father. We didn’t know it would be like this.”

  They rode home silently through the rain, out of the dismal district and back to the less dismal one, to the warm shining lights of the Harp and Hound with its familiar smell of ale and pickles, baking bread and potato soup, the bar already lined with customers, Danny Young standing behind and serving as if he did it all the time. Mary Kate had seen them park the cart in the back, and lead the mule to the lean-to. She came running down the stairs to greet them, her cheeks glowing.

  “He’ll be back,” she said resolutely, when she saw their faces.

  Grace picked her daughter up and buried her face in the curly hair, felt the solid weight of the girl in her arms.

  “He will.” Mary Kate held out Alice’s comb and Siobahn’s sock. “He promised.”

  Twenty-four

  JULIA’S carriage left the rugged country lanes and took the more well-traveled road to Cork. She knew she was approaching the city by the proliferation of well-fed English soldiers—fifteen thousand more since January, thank you very much, Lord Clarendon. She had hoped for an end to the invasion when the Special Commission of Judges declared that in every case they reviewed, murder was related to land issues, particularly evictions that cast out already desperate families; according to Lord Chief Justice Blackburn, “The motive for all was the wild justice of revenge.” Clarendon’s response, of course, was that the condition in Ireland was one of servile war, that this was a rebellion of slaves and must be quashed. And then he’d sent in more troops, ten thousand in Dublin alone with warships anchored at the Cove of Cork.

  Julia sighed and looked out the window. A misty June rain had left the hedges glistening, and fields of wildflowers swayed in the breeze. The trees were thick now with lustrous leaves, though there was still an absence of birds and wildlife, and in some of the smaller villages, bark had been visibly stripped during the winter. The soldiers of Ireland’s rebellion remained a gaunt and ragged bunch, but at least they were no longer freezing. It had been a long winter and all around the world, it seemed, countries moved ahead—insurrection in Sicily had forced the king to concede a constitution, and the people of Piedmont had secured one, too. King Louis Phillipe of France had slipped off to England after a popular, nearly bloodless uprising; a Republic had been proclaimed with Lamartine, the poet, Minister of Foreign Affairs. The English papers downplayed any comparison with Ireland, but the Irish papers gloried in France’s triumph, celebrating it by lighting bonfires all over the country. Mitchel had taken advantage of this, blasting away at the English with the full fury of his rhetoric while at the same time calling upon the new arm of Young Ireland, the Irish Confederation, to exert military pressure to force the British government to concede Repeal immediately; only Repeal of the Union and an Irish Parliament, he insisted, could save Ireland from ultimate destruction. Julia admired his passion.

  He had been so terribly frustrated when the mass meeting of the Chartists in England—led by Irish Repealer Feargus O’Conner—had come to nothing: the marchers had been stopped at the bridge on the river Thames by nine thousand troops and batteries of field artillery, along with special constables. A compromise had been reached wherein the marchers canceled their mass meeting in exchange for a private one later on. Diffused and taken out of the public eye, support for the Chartist movement had diminished. Another blow.

  Angry—always angry—John Mitchel had broken with the Young Irelanders to form with Fintan Lalor a party dedicated to armed rebellion, beginning with a strike against high rents; but it was a later article proposing a refusal to pay poor rates that ended his friendship with Charles Duffy. Duffy adamantly held that, miserable though they might be, poor rates were the only thing standing between thousands of destitute Irish and certain death, and he demanded John write a retraction. John refused and left to start his own paper, The United Irishman, in which he called unrelentingly for rebellion while simultaneously inflaming England with threats and insults—it was heady stuff, but Julia had to admit to a secret glee in his calling Lord Clarendon “Her Majesty’s Executioner General and General Butcher in Ireland.”

  The others carried on, and Julia accompanied Thomas Meagher and William to the Music Hall in Abbey Street the night they solicited for service in the Arme
d National Guard, reminding the men that Americans were recruiting an Irish Brigade, and fully one-third of the British Army consisted of Irishmen. Within days, Smith O’Brien and Meagher had been charged with making seditious speeches. John had been charged, as well, for his articles, but all of them posted bail and went straight back to work. Thomas and William planned to go to Paris with a letter for Lamartine, who they hoped would lend support to the cause, and John continued to address the masses who turned out in droves to hear him yell, “Arm yourselves, for the love of God!” There wasn’t much to arm themselves with, however; several ships sent over from America had been confiscated once guns were discovered aboard.

  Julia was exhausted now the trial was over—and bitter about John’s sentence—but knew she must go to Cork. Britain had applied intense pressure on Rome and Pope Pius IX, formerly the liberal pope, had issued a statement admonishing the Irish priesthood for their involvement in politics and forbidding any further political activity. Priests were transferred, religious orders disbanded, convents and monasteries closed. Her dear friend Father Kenyon was a strong and visible supporter of the Young Irelanders and many looked to him for leadership, but he had disappeared without a trace. Julia was worried about Barbara and what would happen to Patrick and the baby.

  At last they started up the long, winding road to the convent, gray and crumbling on the hilltop. The gate was open—indeed the gate was off its hinges—and they drove directly into the courtyard. Julia climbed out unassisted and asked the driver to carry the supply box around to the kitchen. She knocked at the front door, then pushed it Open.

  “Hallo!” she called, unpinning her hat. “Barbara?”

  Barbara came down the stairs, hands outstretched. “Julia! Thank God you’re here! Come in, come in!” She took her friend by the arm and led her into the study. “Abban saw you coming up the road. He’s making our tea.”

  Julia looked around the study, saw the cold grate, patched windows and water-warped sashes. Heard the silence. “Where is everyone?” She set her hat on the desk.

  “Mostly they’re with the Lord,” Barbara said matter-of-factly. “We were hit hard with fever. There’s only Sister James now and myself to run things. And Abban, of course, God bless him.”

  “What about Mister O’Malley? And the baby?”

  Barbara turned and looked at her. “Did you not get my letter, then? About Patrick?”

  Julia sat down. “No.”

  “He died just after Easter.” She sighed and sat down, too. “I wondered why I hadn’t heard from you,” she added. “I thought maybe you were traveling again, maybe in England, with all that’s happened.”

  “I haven’t been home much,” Julia apologized. “And the mail isn’t reliable anymore.”

  “I should’ve written you again.”

  Julia shook her head. “It’s not your fault. I … was it fever?”

  “Aye. But he was right with God, and peaceful at the end.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “Still alive, though how I don’t know. We lost his nurse, but Abban went to town and stole a goat right out from underneath their English noses!” she said. “God forgive him,” she added contritely.

  “What do you hear from Grace? Does she know?”

  “I’ve not written yet.” Barbara looked down at her hands. “There’s been so much here, one after the other. And we didn’t hear from her for so long, only the one letter saying they’d made it, and that took months.” She sighed. “But I know I must. Sure and she’s worried sick.”

  “I wrote.” Julia frowned. “I told her everything was fine, that I’d see you in the spring and send her father and son soon after that.”

  “I’ll take him.” Abban pushed a rough tea cart on wheels into the room. “And then I’ll come back.”

  “You with your one leg cannot take a wee sickly, blind baby and a stubborn goat on a ship to America,” Barbara argued.

  “I can, woman, and I will!”

  “You can’t! He fusses and spits up his food, takes sick all the time. He won’t survive it, Abban, and you know that! You might not survive it.”

  “Barbara’s right,” Julia interrupted. “You can’t take him, Abban. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What are we to do then?” he demanded. “Has she told you they’re closing this place down and sending her away?”

  “I was afraid of that.” Julia looked grim. “It’s happening all over. They’re afraid of rebellion within the orders. You nuns are the worst,” she joked ruefully. “Smuggling food and weapons, harboring fugitives … Can’t be trusted, you know.”

  “But look at Father Kenyon!” Barbara exclaimed. “He speaks out everywhere!”

  “Not lately,” Julia reported. “Either he’s been suspended, or he’s gone into hiding.”

  “But priests have been involved in politics since the day the church was founded.” Abban shook his head in disgust. “I been a good Catholic all my life. With all due respect, His Holiness is letting the loud voices of angry men drown out the quiet voice of God.”

  “And the clergy is listening,” Julia pointed out. “No one wants to defy the Holy Father—they’re afraid of being replaced.”

  “I doubt very much there’s a waiting list of priests wanting to come to Ireland,” Abban scoffed. “There’s weak men and strong men, and that’s all. Those who leave us to fend for ourselves weren’t worth much to God in the first place.”

  “You should start your own Order,” Julia teased.

  “No, thanks. God’s got other work for me. Here now”—he lifted the pot off the cart—“tea’s getting cold.” He poured out the cups and handed them round. “What can you tell us about the trials, Julia? Were you there?”

  She nodded. “Ten thousand men marched William from his lodgings in Westland Row to the Law Courts. It was a packed jury, and everyone knew it, but he was defended by Isaac Butts.”

  “I know the name.” Abban stood next to Barbara’s chair, his hand on her shoulder.

  “Brilliant man,” Julia said with admiration. “Brilliant speech. He won a refusal to convict.”

  “What about Mister Meagher?” Barbara leaned forward. “Did he go free, as well? Wasn’t he also defended by Mister Butts?”

  “He was tried the very next day, and Isaac spoke more passionately than ever. Rotten jury again, of course, but there was a Quaker who held out, so no conviction.”

  “How did they get Mitchel?” Abban asked. “He had that old Robert Holmes defending him, and we thought sure he’d get off.”

  “They got him with the new Treason Felony Act,” she explained. “Pushed through by the Whigs in Westminster for that very reason. He sat in Newgate a week before the trial. They weren’t taking any chances with him—somebody had to pay for all the rhetoric thrown down. And of course, he didn’t help himself by telling everyone that sedition was a small matter and he intended to commit high treason.” She smiled ruefully. “There wasn’t a single Catholic on the jury, even with thousands on the list.”

  “Transportation?”

  “Fourteen years in Bermuda.” Julia sighed. “You wouldn’t believe the troops pouring into Dublin. Clarendon must think he’ll be murdered in his sleep.”

  “Maybe he will.” Abban tightened his grip on Barbara’s shoulder.

  “Not by you.” Julia eyed him. “Clubs are forming in every district. William says fifty thousand men are drilling even now. Money, arms, and officers are expected from abroad, and Old and Young are reconciling their differences. John O’Connell—”

  “Bah!”

  “I know—the father brought millions to the cause and the son drove millions away. But he’s still a powerful man, and William has agreed to discuss terms with him.”

  “Terms,” Abban scoffed. “All I want to know is, when do we fight?”

  Julia set down her cup. “Autumn. William says there’s a place for you, if you want it.”

  “I do,” he said immediately, then looked down at Ba
rbara. “But what about herself and the baby?”

  Julia bit her lip. “Do you know where they’re sending you?”

  “No. And I’m not so sure I’m going anyway.”

  “Barbara—”

  “You hush.” She put her hand over Abban’s. “This is between you and me, and no one else.” She turned toward Julia. “I’m not going anywhere without the baby.”

  “No.” Julia looked from one face to the other. “I can see that. Are you prepared to leave the Order?” she asked carefully.

  Abban and Barbara looked at one another, communicating silently.

  “I see.” Julia leaned back in her chair. And then she smiled. “All right, then.” She clapped her hands together decisively. “I’ve got an idea.”

  They talked through the afternoon and into the evening, until the light was dim and their voices ragged. No one slept well, all rose at dawn, and when Julia left, she carried Morgan’s son in her arms.

  Twenty-five

  “YOU can’t keep running away.” It was hot and Grace was tired and here was Liam standing before her again.

  “I’ll just stay the day,” he pleaded. “I promise I’ll go back tonight.”

  “Ah, Liam love, you always say that, and then you don’t, and I haven’t the heart to make you, and then your da comes storming down here and makes a terrible scene, and you know what he said he’d do the next time you ran off.”

  Liam hung his head. “Take me to the asylum for incorrigibles.”

  “Aye, and I’ve no doubt he’ll do it.” She sighed, then pulled him in for a hug. “’Tis a mess, this. I don’t know what to do. But I know I’ve got to take you home.”

  Mary Kate glared at her from her place on the stool.

  “That’s enough out of you, little miss,” Grace scolded. “You think I want to take him up there? Well, I don’t. ’Tis no place for a child, for anyone. No one a’tall should live like that. Have you eaten?” she asked the grubby little boy.