by Ann Moore
Nally squinted into Morgan’s face. “I hear plenty of blame in your words, boy, but it wasn’t me raised the rent when your lovely work come under the notice of the landlord, now was it?” He started walking again. “Those O’Malleys are Protestants—no good can come of their way of thinking, for they’re not guided by God. Patrick’s got a good place, ’tis true, but he pays a high price for it and works like a slave. And he’s as cursed as Job, he is—herself dead and the boy a sickly cripple, his only daughter in the hands of Satan’s agent.”
Reminded of Grace, Morgan felt his breath leave him; defeat settled on his shoulders and he sensed the full weight of it—but only for a moment, and then he shrugged it off.
“We can’t go on as we have, Da.” He glanced at his father’s stern profile. “Either you stay on the land arid help us live”—he paused and took a breath—“or it will be myself runs off to sea.”
Nally stopped again, the girls behind coming up short. “Go on ahead,” he shouted angrily to them. “Go on now.”
When they were out of earshot, he turned to his son and said with menace, “I’ve never run away from anything in my life, boy, and I should beat you down right now for such talk as that.” He raised the herding stick.
Morgan did not flinch. “You leave us when the money gets thin, when it’s too big a burden.” He paused. “Are you not already planning to leave again before winter comes?”
Nally stared a moment, then lowered the stick. He looked away down the road toward town; beyond the mountains was the sea. “I’m thinking on it,” he said quietly. “There’s little money to be got out of the land this year. I can bring more back from working the ships.”
“And when will that be?” Morgan was no longer angry. He saw the stoop of his father’s shoulders and, in the sunlight, the deep lines on his handsome face. “One year? Two? Maybe three, this time?”
Nally shrugged. “As long as it takes, wherever the work is. Whatever I can do to keep the family going.”
Morgan waited until Nally looked at him, and then said quietly, “There’s no guarantee we’ll be left alive here in another year, Da. Rents go up, we starve every summer until the potatoes come in, fever hits.”
“The girls’ll be marrying away soon,” Nally said defensively.
“One goes, one more is born.” Morgan’s voice was hard with the fact of it.
Nally pushed back his hat and put his hands on his hips. “Is that it, boyo? You’re wanting to be married yourself, making your own children like a man?”
Morgan shook his head in disgust. “I care naught for finding a wife. But let you be honest, Da—I run your farm and I’m raising your family. If you want me to keep on, then there’s a price to be paid.”
“Hah!” Nally spat. “Pay you to look after your own mother and sisters? What kind of a Christian are you?”
Morgan ignored the slight. “You’ll pay me in seed and you’ll let me plant what I want on the farm, or I’ll not stay another day.”
“I’m calling your bluff, for I know you’d not desert your own mother.”
“I’ll serve her better by leaving the family and forcing you to stay,” Morgan said firmly. “So, let you give your answer by the time we reach the town or I leave you there and hike the road to Dublin.”
His father stared at him, then growled deep in his throat and started off at full stride, Morgan keeping his distance behind until they caught up to the girls.
They walked on through the clear autumn morning, a sharpness in the air the only hint of winter to come. As the path broadened from trail to lane to road, they were joined by more people driving their animals to the market fair, baskets of goods carried on their heads or tied to their backs, smaller children riding on donkey carts, legs swinging behind. They called hallos and speculated about the prices they hoped their animals would fetch; there was optimism on this morning, even though most of the money would go to make up rent. Women in their wedding clothes—the only good dresses they owned—walked carefully around piles of manure and muck running down the middle of the road. Men in their Sunday shirts and vests, top hats or fedoras, stiff brogans on their feet, clay pipes in their pockets, held out the hope for picking a winner at the horse races that afternoon and enjoying a pint or two from the keg that was sure to be there. The children hoped for an extra penny to spend on sweets or a toy from the woodcarver. By the time they walked into the village, the noise was deafening; already a fiddler was playing alongside the hucksters’ tents and a few men, merry with drink, were trying a jig. Morgan hurried to speak to his sisters, whose faces were highly flushed with excitement and the awareness of glances from all the young men.
“Mind you watch yourselves in this crowd,” Morgan said to Aislinn, who nodded without giving him so much as a look. “Do you hear me, girl?” He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Aye,” she said impatiently. “Of course I hear you with your big voice. Don’t be looking to spoil our fun so early in the day, Morgan, you old man. Aren’t we big girls now?”
“You may be a big girl at fifteen, Aislinn,” he reminded. “And Katie at fourteen. But Maureen is just eleven and Ellen only eight. Keep them tight with you, or leave them with me.”
“I’ll stay with you, Morgan.” Ellen slipped her small hand into his and looked up at him with adoring eyes. She had been the victim of her sisters’ sport more than once, and worshiped her older brother.
“Not me.” Maureen slid over nearer to Katie. She was a stout girl for her age, but with a delicate face, and fine, thick hair.
Morgan sized them up, narrowing his eyes at Aislinn. “All right then. But keep ahold of her, I say.” He looked to where his father was leading the livestock to the sellers’ ring, then down the street to the big office on the end where people were already lined up. “Meet us down near the agent’s at midday and we’ll square up then.”
The three girls turned and hurried into the crowd, skirts swinging over hastily pulled on stockings and shoes, their heads close together in conspiracy.
“Come on then, you,” Morgan said affectionately to Ellen, squeezing her hand. “Let’s go find our da.”
They walked into the ring where buyers were making offers on livestock. Nally was thick in with a butcher from Cork City, sharing a nip from the flask the man offered. When Morgan handled the sale in the past, he almost always got a better price than Nally, but he was not about to step in today.
“Let you go over to the marionettes across the road,” he said softly to Ellen, pointing out the performance that had drawn a small crowd of laughing children.
She looked at him anxiously, shy of letting him go. “Will you come for me?”
He nodded and kissed the top of her head before sending her off. He watched her cross the road and stand near the back of the group, her little shoulders stiff under her blouse and cloak. Soon, however, she relaxed and he was glad to see her laughing along with the rest. He turned his attention to his father, who had gotten down to serious business with the butcher and was now counting coins. They spat and shook hands, completing the deal, and the butcher took away the calf on his lead. Nally looked up and hailed Morgan, then pushed his way through the group.
“We got a fair price for that one,” he said, showing Morgan the little pouch of coins. Morgan counted quickly, hiding his disappointment; he could’ve gotten half again as much.
Nally eyed him, then scowled. “Aye, you think you’re the only one with a head on you.” He was feeling the effect of the whiskey and his face was close up to that of his son. “Well, let you go and sell the pig, then, you who knows so much about everything.”
“I’ll hear your answer first.” Morgan took off his hat to show respect.
“Answer?” Nally looked puzzled, then his face cleared. “Aye, then, my answer.” He paused and pulled back his shoulders, as if realizing for the first time that his son now stood taller. “Myself heads this family, Morgan, and let you not forget that. Yourself has grown into a man without my mar
king it, but that cannot be helped.” He paused, warming to his speech. “It’s not been easy for me to leave your mother and her children, but I’ve done it because there’s been no other way. My own father now, God bless his miserable soul”—he wiped a tear from his eye—“was a one-a-day man: one meal a day, one beating a day, one word a day and never kind, one look a day, to size you up. I’ve not done that to you children, no, I’ve not.” He shook his head vehemently. “I’ve kept food on the table and love in my heart and a kind word in my mouth for herself and the babies. I’ve been a better man than my father was, which is a son’s duty. So don’t pass judgment upon me till you’ve fathered your own and made a man’s way in the world.”
Morgan was unmoved. “Let you give me seed money and I’ll do just that.”
Nally’s eyes hardened and the misty look left his face. “This is my answer, then, boy: Since I cannot bear to break your mother’s heart by robbing herself of her only living son, I’ll give you the money for seed and let you plant as you will.”
“And yourself?”
“I will go out and make a living for my family, best as I know how.”
“Done.” Morgan put out his hand.
Nally shook it once, hard, then let it drop. “Go sell that pig, boy, and meet me at the track. The butcher tipped me off to a sure first.”
“The money.” Morgan held out his hand again.
“Take it out of what you get for the pig.” Nally pocketed the pouch. “Don’t waste the morning bargaining for pennies. Get what you can and meet me afore midday.” He strode away down the street to the field where the horse races were beginning.
The marionette show had ended and Ellen was waiting for Morgan, hands under her apron, eyes anxiously searching the growing throng. The sun was climbing the sky and the day in full bloom. She smiled in relief when he called her name.
“Where’s Da?” she asked, taking Morgan’s big hand in both of hers.
“Watching the horses run.” They could hear the shouts from the field. “I’ve got to sell the pig and buy some seed. Then we’ll eat. Have you not seen hide nor hair of your wicked sisters, then?”
She grinned up at him and shook her head, then pointed a tiny finger. “There they are! Going into the dry goods.”
He turned and was glad to see they still had Maureen with them. When they disappeared into the store, he and Ellen walked on to the pigstye. They passed the first fistfight of the day; two men, stripped to the waist, sweat pouring off their bodies, traded punches while others cheered them on and the odd coin traded hands. The larger, dark-haired man was taking the worst of it from his lighter, quicker opponent; blood flowed freely from his nose, and a cut above his eye blinded him. His lip was split open and his jaw red and swollen, but still he stood, swaying about with a weak swing.
“Fall down!” Morgan yelled as he passed, and the crowd booed good-naturedly.
Further up the street, another group—mostly women and old men—circled a priest who was preaching the virtue of avoiding drink and bad women, and offering God’s blessings to all who behaved in a civilized manner on this day. Young men were strangely absent from this lecture, but Morgan saw the cause across the road behind a huckster’s tent. Looking furtively around, a tall, red-bearded fellow addressed the men in quiet though passionate speech, pounding his fist into his hand, and pointing a finger at the priest across the street, then at the Protestant minister handing out clothes from his doorstep, and at the guards lounging on the steps of the jail, now paying more attention to this particular crowd of young men. Morgan wished he could step closer and hear what the man was saying. He was sure it was recruitment for the new Young Irelanders said to have broken bitterly from the Old over the taking up of arms. He’d heard nothing from them but fighting words and was not eager to join another group of hotheads. Still, he was intrigued and considered stopping to hear this speaker, but the nearness of the soldiers and their narrowed eyes cautioned him away. There would be another time and a better place.
He quickened his step and led Ellen down an alley to an open barn. Here he bartered and bargained and came away, at last, with a price near to what he’d hoped to get. The market was poor again this year and people were holding their money close. He went on to the storehouse and looked through the available seed, choosing turnip, onion sets, carrot, corn, oat, and rye. The keeper wrapped them in brown paper packets, which Morgan pushed deep into his pocket with a pat, thinking of the future.
“Will we find Da now, or the girls?” Ellen asked, squinting at the sun full up in the sky. “I’m hungry.”
“Keep a lookout for your sisters near the agent,” he told her, then spied them coming out of the Catholic ladies bazaar.
“Aislinn!” he hailed, noting the look of annoyance on her face when she saw it was only him waving them over.
“We’ll get Da at the track and have a bite from the basket Mam sent,” he ordered. “Then let you gather the supplies and we’ll rest before walking home.”
“Won’t we dance, then?” Aislinn began to pout and Kate looked over her shoulder at a group of teenage boys winking and whistling in their direction.
Morgan eyed the group, as well. He was happy for his sisters to keep young company, but these were bold boys from the town and he didn’t like the brazen way Aislinn flirted with them. He didn’t think she knew what she was letting herself in for.
“We’ll stay for a bit of dancing,” he said. “But mind you keep hold of yourself in this fast crowd.”
Aislinn gave him one of her dazzling smiles and he marveled again at how rapidly she could change from viper to vixen. She was a queer one and needed a firm hand, but his mother was too tired from the babies, and Barbara could do nothing with her. Nally, of course, wasn’t around, and when he was, he encouraged her nature as he saw in it his own desire for the bold life.
They walked as a family down the street, stopping now and then to greet a neighbor and give out news of their mother. They could hear the excited cheers of the racing field and the thunder of pounding horse hooves. Nally stood near the rail, nearly mad with urging his horse, a strong-looking chestnut bay with powerful legs and a long stride, well ahead of the pack. And then it was down, coming too sharply into the curve, losing its footing in a streak of slippery mud. The rider was thrown and lay on the track before coming to his senses and scrambling out of the way of the oncoming horses. The bay stayed down, her foreleg clearly broken.
“Get up, get up and run, you bloody bitch!” Nally screamed, pounding the rail, spit flying from his mouth with the curses. “Goddamn you to hell, you miserable nag, and your damn fool rider, as well!” His shoulders began to shake and tears coursed down his blotched face.
Morgan told the girls to wait and walked up quietly behind him. “Your horse went down.”
Nally stiffened at the sound of his voice. “’Twas a freakish thing. Never seen anything like it a’tall in all my life.”
“Bet on her, did you?”
Nally turned slowly, his face tight with anger. A shot rang out as the horse was put down, and he winced then, the color draining from his face, leaving behind a pale, shaken old man.
“Aye,” he said, his eyes glazed.
“All of it?” Morgan could barely breathe.
“Most.” Nally wiped a hand over his face. “The butcher said it was the sure bet—wasn’t it his own brother riding the damn beast, and himself betting on her, as well? I knew it to be true!” His eyes sparkled briefly, then faded again in disappointment. “But God would have it otherwise. ’Tis a sign that I should go right away to the docks. This very day. My luck is not on the land.”
“How are we to pay Ceallachan?”
Nally hesitated. “What did the pig fetch?”
Morgan shook his head. “We’ll still be short a pound, and nothing left for the cupboard.”
Nally looked over his shoulder at the dead horse and the weeping owner. His face was grim. “We’ll speak to him … tell him we’ve had bad luck
, sickness in the family. He knows I’m good for it. Haven’t we always paid?”
Morgan held his tongue yet again, swinging Ellen up onto his shoulders as they walked back down the crowded street to the house on the end where hung a brass plate reading GERALD O’FLAHERTY, ESQUIRE: BREASAL CEALLACHAN, AGENT. There was a short line of people waiting to settle their debts; the mood was somber as no one wanted to part with the hard-earned money in their hands, let alone beg for mercy if they were short. The line moved up a step and into the room where Ceallachan sat at a desk, a ledger opened upon it. Behind him stood a broad man in a too-tight jacket, the handle of a gun peeking out above his waistband. Seated in a chair on the other side of Ceallachan was another man, clearly a gentleman by the look of him: clean-shaven with a nary a nick nor scratch across his smooth cheeks, well-cut suit of clothes, polished leather riding boots, heavy wool jacket over his shoulders, and the silver chain of a watch fob stretched across his vest. His hands were clean and unmarked, and he had the good health of one who’d never missed a meal. He was a handsome man, except for yellow hair that curled tightly about his head and collar, and a sparse mustache smoothed often with a finger that bore a heavy gold signet ring. Morgan caught his father’s eye and raised his eyebrows in question.
“Young Gerald O’Flaherty,” Nally whispered. “Cut like his father, but for all that pretty hair and the thing above his lip.”
“What’s he doing here, then?” Morgan kept his voice low.
“Finished at school.” Nally paused to cast a frown at Aislinn, who’d crowded close to listen. “Studied drink and cards, word is. Waiting for a commission from the queen’s army. Got to stay out of trouble till then, I suppose.”
As the line moved forward, Aislinn stood at its edge, pinching her cheeks and smoothing her hair. They were now near the desk.
“Four pound six, Mrs. Galligan.” Ceallachan ran his finger down the ledger.
The old woman counted out her few coins with a trembling hand.