Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  Morgan had unwittingly stepped into this quagmire when he befriended the boy; he had lost even more friends when he came to Nacoute’s aid and then to Aquash’s. No one had stepped up to help him when the tree had fallen on his supply wagon, and he would’ve died out there had it not been for Nacoute, Aquash, and May. May’s husband, Louis, was a decent enough fellow—kind to his wife and loving to his children—but he was a man who avoided trouble at all costs; he wanted to make a good living, raise his children, and someday move back out to Nova Scotia, where his people still lived. He would make noises about a fair hearing should Nacoute be accused of killing Martine, but he would not put himself or his family at risk should the others decide to string the boy up—or worse. No one would come to Nacoute’s aid, and Morgan would be unable to save him. The sureness of this drove him to his knees, and he began scrubbing furiously at the dark stain on the cabin floorboards. Some of the blood had seeped down between the cracks or been soaked up by the dirt he’d sprinkled over it, then swept away and buried, but a stain still remained, large and dark enough to raise suspicion.

  Nacoute had laid a small fire in the hearth to heat food and water for his mother, and Morgan had nearly finished scrubbing when a shadow blocked the light from the door. Morgan looked up, then got to his feet.

  “What do you want, DuBois?”

  “What are you doing here, Irish?” Henri asked in his heavily accented English, though he did not seem particularly surprised to see Morgan in Martine’s house. “And where is my friend Remy, eh?”

  Nacoute had frozen at the sound of Henri’s voice but now resumed stirring the pot, though he did not look up. Aquash quietly covered the baby’s head, keeping her eyes lowered, as well.

  “Who knows?” Morgan shrugged. “Wore himself out tearing the place up last night. Probably passed out under a tree somewhere.”

  “He was not so drunk,” Henri countered. “I know.” He looked over Morgan’s shoulder toward the hearth, taking in Nacoute’s battered face. “Is the boy’s doing, no?”

  “No.” Morgan moved to block his view of Nacoute. “He was mad with drink, Martine was—attacked them all, even the baby.”

  Henri snorted. “But you break in and save the little family, eh, Irish? And now the little family … she be yours, eh, mon ami?”

  “I didn’t break in. The boy come for me, beat my door …”

  Nacoute banged the spoon against the pot and stood up, anger flushing his cheeks. He shook his head at Morgan, then pointed at the Frenchman.

  Henri strode across the room and shoved the boy, speaking rapidly in French, menacing him. Nacoute stood his ground, shaking his head.

  “Get off him,” Morgan warned. “Or answer to me.”

  The Frenchman, no stranger to McDonagh’s fists, let go of the boy and stepped away, cursing under his breath.

  “No one wants you here, DuBois. Get out.”

  “This is not your house,” Henri spat, and then he paused, eyes widening. “Or maybe it is? Have you killed Remy, Irish? Is that what you have done?”

  “He deserves a good beating, true enough,” Morgan replied. “And I did my best. ’Twas him give it up in the end, though, smashing his way out the door, and good riddance to him.”

  The Frenchman crossed his arms. “I think … no. I think I go into the forest and find Remy. If not today, then another day—when the animals, they have dug him up.” He jerked his head toward the stain on the floor. “There is blood. Remy’s blood.”

  “No.”

  “Oui,” he insisted. “It is the end of you now, Irish. No one will believe what you say, only what they see—with Remy gone, Aquash is yours, and her bastard. And, of course, the money.” He nodded, smiling now. “But you did not count on Henri DuBois. I am looking at a dead man. A dead boy, too.” He laughed. “You see how it all works out?”

  Morgan stared, his mind racing; how did it all work out? He registered the smug look on Henri’s face, but also the beads of sweat along the man’s grimy hairline, the narrowed eyes that darted glances around the room, taking stock. The mother, the baby. The baby.

  “I do see it now,” Morgan said evenly. “’Tis your child Aquash bore.”

  Henri spat on the floor in disgust, but Aquash had raised her eyes to Morgan’s and he saw that he was right.

  “I should’ve known.” Morgan took a step toward the Frenchman, hands balling into fists. “I should’ve killed you the first time I caught you trying to force her.”

  Henri laughed. “But you did not. And now it is too late for you. The whole camp says you are the father of this child.”

  Morgan studied the man in front of him, took in the set of his jaw, the tremor that ran along his chin. “You were first with a bottle when Remy came home last night,” he surmised evenly. “Got him all fired up, then made a few comments about the size of the baby—big for having come early and all. Let him know folks were talking. Isn’t that right, you slimy son of a bitch?”

  Henri scoffed and returned the curse in French.

  “And it doesn’t look a thing like him, once you point it out. Wrong coloring altogether, wouldn’t you say?” He narrowed his eyes. “So he started to beat her, of course, and threatened to kill the baby, and that’s when you ran to my place, knowing I’d think ’twas the boy needed help.” He stepped a little closer. “You knew he was drunk out of his mind, and well armed in the bargain. You knew I’d have to kill him. And then I’d hang. And the boy. Aquash would be yours; the cabin would be yours. And the money, and everything that was Martine’s. You set him up, you bastard. I almost feel sorry for him.”

  Henri took a step back. “What you say is a lie, Irish. No one will believe you. You killed Remy, and for that you will pay.”

  “Not me.” Morgan shook his head. “The blood on that floor’s Martine’s—you’re right about that: Remy’s and mine and the boy’s. ’Twas a hell of a fight. But somewhere out there, the big man is sleeping it off, and when he comes back, I’ll be waiting to tell him whose child that really is and how it got here. He’ll know you set him up, DuBois. And then we’ll see who pays.”

  “Hah!” Henri barked, but there was doubt in his eyes and, behind that, fear. “Go on, Irish, and maybe we will not hunt you down. Take the boy. No one wants him here. But leave now, if you wish to live.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Morgan crossed his arms calmly. “You’d like me out of the way; the boy, too—tired of him watching over his mother, getting in your way. But him and me, we’re tired of you, DuBois. Tired of the way you treat the Indian women round here, tired of your drunken, lazy, dog face. This was your plan—your stupid, stupid plan—and I’m not answering for it. Not to Martine, not to anyone. You hear me, now?” He reached behind his back and pulled a long knife from a sheath stuck in the belt of his trousers. “Start running, Frenchie. Before I cut your scheming throat.”

  Henri’s eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed with rage. “It is your throat that will be cut,” he threatened as he backed out the door. “Don’t think you have won today.” And then he turned and ran.

  Nacoute quickly closed and bolted the door, then leaned against it. Aquash held her baby close, and all three eyed one another helplessly. Aquash spoke to her son in their language, and he answered, then went to the hearth, brushed away the smoking embers, and pulled up a stone with the metal bar from which they suspended their cooking pot. After pushing the stone aside, Nacoute reached far down into the hole and pulled out a leather sack tied securely. This he brought to Morgan, lifting the man’s hand and putting the sack into it, folding Morgan’s fingers around it.

  Money. Silver and gold. Morgan shook his head. “’Tisn’t mine and I’ll not be taking it,” he said firmly, trying to hand it back.

  Nacoute went to the door and opened it, motioning for Morgan to leave.

  “No.” Morgan shook his head again. “I’ll not leave you here to face them alone.” He appealed to Aquash. “They’ll hang him,” he told her and made as if to wr
ap a rope around his neck, pointing at the boy. “And you’ll spend the rest of your days bearing babies for DuBois and any other man he chooses to give you to.” He sighed, frustrated again by his inability to communicate.

  He had no plan. He had no way to protect himself or the boy, or the woman and her baby. These trappers were a rough bunch, and if they decided to hang him, they would, and there’d be little in the way of discussion. He sat down at the table, head in his hands, trying to think of a way out of this. Should he steal a wagon and take them all back up north to the immigrant settlement where he’d first landed? It had been a year since he’d been there, a year spent recovering from legs so shattered he’d been sure he’d die right here, sure that at the very least he’d lose them both and never be able to make it to America, never be able to find his wife. After he’d come so far and lived through so much, the thought of dying alone in the Canadian wilderness nearly unhinged him, but Aquash had arranged to have him carried back to his cabin, had lit a fire and begun her silent, steady care of him.

  Morgan could only think it was because he had made a friend of her son, Nacoute, the wary boy who always seemed to be in a fight. He’d looked out for the boy every time he’d come down from the settlement with supplies, liking him instantly, recognizing in him the same fire that shone from the eyes of Sean O’Malley. Morgan had rescued the boy from more than one beating, which made him less appreciated by the trappers and their sons but secured the devotion of Aquash. She and her friend, the other Indian woman, called May, repaired Morgan’s shattered legs, applied poultices when he burned with fever, brought him food every day, and washed and changed him like a baby. He owed these women his life, and he would not abandon Aquash and her family now.

  But they’d never reach the northern settlement on foot—not with Aquash in her condition and with a baby—and a cart would be too slow, too visible. And, though he was loath to admit it, it meant going in the wrong direction. He needed to go south; he dreamed of traveling south. It had been five years since he left Ireland, five years that had slipped away so quickly and yet whose every passing day had been agony. But where else was there to go? Silently, he prayed to the God who had sustained him thus far, and was so fervently beseeching that he did not hear the soft rap on the door. It was the murmur of voices that caught his attention.

  “May! What are you doing here?” He rose as Nacoute closed the door behind her.

  “You must go.” May’s English was better than his French, though she was easily flustered. “Men coming soon.”

  Then she spoke to Aquash, who began to climb painfully from her bed.

  “What?” Morgan asked.

  “Men come for you, for Nacoute. Put away ’til Remy come home or find dead.” She frowned and shook her head. “Know me?”

  “Aye.” Morgan nodded grimly. “I’ll take the boy with me and go, but what about Aquash? I can’t just leave her.”

  “Aquash go home. Nacoute go home. You go.”

  “Home?” Morgan knew that Aquash had lived here with Remy for nearly ten years. “Does she know how to find it?”

  May frowned, confused.

  “Where home?” Morgan pointed in different directions.

  “Ah! By river. There.” She pointed south. “Many day.”

  “Follow the river, then,” Morgan said more to himself than to anyone else. Many days, he thought. How many days? And could she do it in her condition? He looked at her now, and she met his gaze, steady and determined despite her swollen, bruised face and what must be an aching body.

  “They go home,” May repeated. “They go, you go.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “I know you. Nacoute—get blankets, food, your quiver, the knife.”

  “I do,” May insisted. “Go out Nacoute. Help.”

  Morgan followed Nacoute out and around the back of the cabin. Leaning against the wall was the sledge they sometimes used to drag wood in from the forest; Nacoute put this on the ground and began reinforcing it with leather strips, small branches, and bark. They would take this with them for land travel, put their belongings on this, Morgan thought, or—if Aquash weakened—it could be modified to carry mother and child. He helped, bringing Nacoute everything the boy indicated.

  Then Aquash came around the corner dressed in her warm leggings and boots, the baby in a carrier on her back, fur rugs in her arms. May had put food and water in leather sacks and handed these to Nacoute.

  “I’ve got to go back to my cabin,” Morgan said suddenly.

  “No time, no time!” May urged.

  “No choice.” He thought for a moment. “Start for the river and I’ll meet you there. May—” He kissed her cheek quickly. “Wela’lin, May. Wela’lin.”

  She nodded soberly, accepting his thanks, then watched with the others as he disappeared down the bank to the creek.

  He moved quickly along the creek, crouching to remain hidden by the bank, and suddenly he was back in Ireland, running through the hills with the rest of his ragged band, evading the English soldiers who hunted them for insurrection. He stopped and shook his head—this was Quebec, not Ireland, and if he ever wanted to see his home again or the woman he loved, he needed to stay focused. He moved forward cautiously, listening for the sounds of men; hearing nothing, he slipped up the bank, then around front and into the tiny room. Quickly, quickly, he told himself, throwing his only change of clothes into a knapsack and then lifting the mattress off his bed. There was the Bible Gracelin’s gran had given him years ago in Macroom, and inside it a sketch of his mother made by his sister Barbara—the only things that had come with him on that frantic, secret trip from Ireland. Eejit, he scolded himself; stupid to risk coming back for these things, and yet how could he leave them behind when they were all he had left to remind him of who he’d once been. Not Mac, the Irishman who ran the supply wagon from town to settlement to trapper camp, but Morgan McDonagh, son of a proud poor man and a humble mother—both dead now; brother to eight sisters—dead, as well, for all he knew; best friend of Sean O’Malley—alive, God willing, and still in New York City; husband of Gracelin—alive, please God, please God, please God; and maybe even the father of a child who walked the earth thinking his father was dead. He mustn’t let himself become this new man, this Canadian Irishman, and he fought against it daily; he must remember where he came from, what brought him here, who he was. He looked around the cabin one last time for anything he might need. There was nothing. He had not allowed himself to make a life here.

  Aquash and the baby were climbing into a canoe at the river’s edge when he got to them. Behind it, another canoe waited—May’s, most likely—carefully balanced with their supplies and the travois. Nacoute motioned Morgan into this one and handed him the paddle.

  “You can?” May asked anxiously.

  Morgan had never been in a canoe. “I can,” he reassured her, then awkwardly maneuvered his vessel into position behind Nacoute’s.

  Once in the middle of the river, Morgan relaxed and let his body feel the motion of the water, the roll of the canoe, the rhythm of the paddle. The sun beat down on his head and warmed his aching shoulder through the cloth of his shirt; large black crows landed heavily on low-slung branches, cawing loudly as the boats worked their way upstream. To his right, a flash of silver caught his eye as a salmon jumped, startling the elk who’d come down for a drink, and overhead, an enormous bald eagle soared gracefully, following their progress.

  It was beautiful country, with an abundance of wildlife, but also cruel and unpredictable, and Morgan knew that the Indian village they sought might well be long disappeared. Winter could be months away or merely weeks; it was bitterly cold this far north, and there were no marked roads through the wilderness, no signs pointing the way to the nearest town. There were no nearest towns. He was traveling with an injured woman and her newborn babe, with a boy who could not speak, who had killed his stepfather and now ran from those who would make him pay; yesterday morning was a far cry from this one, and never had he dre
amed this would be the day he finally moved on.

  Where are you taking me now, Father? Morgan asked silently, face tipped up to the sun. The answer didn’t matter; he was headed south and the Lord was with him. He did not look back.

  Three

  Grace leaned back against the wall into the looming shadows cast by lamplight. She listened to the toss and turn of anxious sleepers, experiencing an otherworldliness she had not felt since those long nights aboard the Eliza J, the endless voyage from Liverpool to Manhattan. Some nights, in the twilight before wakefulness, she even felt the ship sway, felt the salty winter sea damp against her skin, heard the calls and whistles of sailors, the clang of rigging against the masts. Awakening with a jolt, she would reach out for Mary Kathleen, who lay … not beside her in the narrow ship’s bunk, but on a cot in a row of cots lined up uniformly across the hospital ward.

  Grace checked her daughter—sleeping well, sleeping better every night, thank God, and talking during the day. She and Jack had stayed by Mary Kate’s side for nearly a week, and soon the girl would be well enough to leave this place, well enough to go home. Grace let the images of cabins, houses, rooms, inns, wagons, boats, ships, file through her mind—in how many different places had they laid down their heads, and where would they lie down now?

  She tightened her grip around Jack, slipping from her lap with the sweaty weight of a four-year-old gone dead-to-the-world asleep. He struggled briefly in protest but did not wake up, and Grace was glad. It was hours until morning, and she needed the rest that came when Jack was down for the night. He twitched occasionally, kicked his heels, and Grace knew that he dreamt of the pony left behind, of cowboys and lawmen, the revolving gamblers and preachers who had peopled his life, gunfights and horse races in the middle of town, cattle drives and Indian parties passing on the outskirts. Jack—with his dark sweep of hair and glasses, his little swagger and his true fearlessness—stirred something in everyone and anyone he ever met.