by Ann Moore
“Grace …” he pleaded.
“No.” She held up her hand, then added softly, “I couldn’t bear it, Sean.”
“All right,” he said. “But what I had to say is about Mary Kathleen.” He took her hand. “Your husband has made you believe that a son is everything and a daughter beside the point.”
She started to protest.
“He has,” Sean insisted. “Or why would you keep her at another woman’s breast when your own are aching for her?”
She stood for a long moment, thinking. “Aye,” she said at last. “I must have been out of my mind to send her away.”
“You were,” he said gently. “And isn’t it time now to bring her home?”
Brigid went for Mary Kathleen at dawn, over Bram’s protests. It was too much for Grace to cope with so soon after Michael’s death, he insisted; let the baby stay out to nurse for another month or two, until summer, at least. But Grace held firm. She’d have no milk soon and then the baby would have to stay with the nurse; she’d not know her own mother by that time. The child was a Donnelly, boy or not, and she was coming home. They argued through the night until Bram at last gave up, outwardly disgusted with her insistence, but inwardly unnerved by her refusal to bow to his wishes. He maintained the upper hand by forbidding her to go in the cart over the winter frozen ruts in the road, and she was now savvy enough to concede this point. However, she stood in the doorway the entire morning until Brigid placed the warm bundle of her baby daughter back in her arms.
With Mary Kathleen in a cradle by her feet, Grace took up her needle and finished the burial cloth that would drape her son’s small coffin. She announced that the burial would take place in three days and she insisted they place the tiny body out in the storehouse where it was coldest. No one argued; they could see she had changed. Bram came and went silently, not daring to interrupt the reverie in which she worked. All who glimpsed the casket cloth said it was the most beautiful piece of work to visit the earth. Pale morning stars in gold thread, angels with magnificent wings wrapped tenderly around the children they carried, a hundred mothers’ faces turned toward the sky, garlands of roses and lilies and love-lies-bleeding, intricate banners with God’s promise of life everlasting. And above all, Lord Jesus at the gate, arms waiting to receive the children, His heart in His hand. It was an extraordinary vision, and all who looked upon it came away with wonder.
When the child had been buried and the magnificent cloth folded and put in the chest, there were those who said she would never again do such work, sure and weren’t her hands nearly crippled from holding the needle and cloth for too many hours too many days in a row? And hadn’t her heart been emptied of all its vision in this one burst of grief? Wasn’t it a miracle she’d done the work at all? What, they asked themselves, would happen now to this girl, still so young, whose eyes were filled with such immense sadness, but whose face had become so calm, nearly radiant, in her mourning? There was nothing they could do now but wait and watch, the strangeness of it carried deep within their hearts.
Eleven
MORGAN worked the heavy handcart down, to the bottom of the garden and tipped out the stones he’d dug from the earth, sweat stinging his eyes and soaking through his shirt. The wall was waist-high and nearly done; his shoulders throbbed and his back ached, but he was glad for physical work that left him too exhausted at night to toss and turn. He puzzled the chunks of rock together, stacking them tightly into a sturdy wall that would protect their crop from animals. The gray-green stone framed nicely the chopped and furrowed rows of his garden, where he could now recognize pointy stalks of corn and fragile tomato shoots, the bushy leaves of potato plants near slender onions, feathery carrot tops, delicately tangled peas, the climbing trellis of beans. He was enormously relieved that anything had come up at all, so hard was the soil after a bitter winter, so touchy the weather that threatened a late frost. But Father Brown had encouraged him to follow his instincts, had reassured him that he was on the right track with this kind of compatible, planned farming and soil preparation. The amiable priest had listened to his ideas for hours one night over a short pint and a long fire, and had then suggested that Morgan meet with other young men who also wanted to advance their farming. Morgan had done more reading than all of them put together, he said, and proved himself true when Morgan was voted the leader of two separate groups from neighboring parishes. He met with one group each week to discuss the latest information on soil treatment, seed selection, crop rotation, and irrigation. Throughout the long winter, he distinguished himself by presenting his own theories and was soon considered something of an expert—even though he had yet to plant his own first crop. This was a private joke between him and Father Brown, who told him to remember the Book of Hebrews, which said that faith meant believing in what one hoped for. Morgan repeated this to himself each morning upon rising.
Vision blurred by sweat, he stripped off his shirt and poured a bucket of well water over his head, letting out a fierce yell at the shock of its chill. Heart pounding, he wiped himself off with his shirt, then perched on the completed wall to survey the work. He lifted his face to the sun, and Grace danced into his mind’s eye, but he pushed her gently away, his heart still too raw to dwell on that loss. Now and then, the reality of his terrible mistake in not speaking for her hand washed over him and he nearly drowned in the pain. He confided in no one—would not even talk about it with Sean—and slowly, slowly, the drowning days were becoming fewer.
He had not allowed farming to become his life’s passion, only something on which to focus while passion burned itself out. He hoped that if he worked hard enough and profited enough to satisfy the landlords, he might somehow be allowed to purchase his own piece of ground. He tried his best to ignore the hard fact of a government that would never allow him such advancement, but his heart knew the truth and this fanned the fire of his discontent, a fire readily fueled by the political pamphlets someone had slipped into his weekly bundle of agricultural literature.
“Did you have a look through Martin and Mitchel, then?” Father Brown had asked him casually.
Morgan had been surprised. There were a fair number of Irish who believed the future lay with British rule, and gladly reported subversive conversations to the other side. He did not discuss his views openly with anyone but Sean; Father Brown was either taking a risk, or baiting a trap.
“The articles on fertilizers?” Morgan had pretended ignorance.
But the priest had already gauged the situation, and pressed on. “Change is in the wind, my boy,” he said resolutely. “There’s many of us take note of you—how you head your household, the reading you do, and the way you lead others, your standing among your peers. And don’t they all look up to you? Give it some thought, is all I ask. We could use a young man of your ability.”
Morgan had long flirted with daydreams of revolutionary change, but it now occupied more and more of his thinking. He was not yet ready to commit to the untested ideas of the Young Irelanders, but it was a relief to feel something other than remorse, and there was excitement in change. It opened up possibilities of a life of which he had only dreamed.
On the other hand, it was not just his own neck he stuck out, but the necks of every member of his family. His involvement would implicate them all, and tenants had been turned out for less. They’d had no word from Nally since the market fair, but Aislinn’s work had paid last quarters rent and her wages were helping with the first quarter of the new year. Morgan had traded on his strong back at every opportunity to bring in money or a piece of meat, but the family still struggled. Mary had not been well through winter and they’d had to buy a milk goat for the baby, who in turn became sickly and pitiful. Barbara had been ready to enter the convent and become a noviate, but delayed her plans in order to run the house until Mary was strong again. This was hard on them both, as Mary’s deepest desire was for one of her daughters to join the Holy Sisters, and it was Barbara who most strongly heard this call.
“Have you finished it, then, Morgan?” Ellen asked when she reached his side. She shaded her eyes with one hand and peered down the neat rows. “And isn’t it a beautiful thing to have?” she said enthusiastically.
He laughed. “Won’t be much longer and you’ll be eating carrots and peas, then onions, corn, parsnips, squash …”
“Quish?” Fionna dug her hands into the dirt and squeezed.
“She wants to know what’s squash,” Ellen interpreted.
Morgan shook his head. “I’m not sure myself, wee Fee,” he said. “It’s a gourd, and it’s hardy and you can eat it, according to the pamphlets Father Brown left.”
“Will we not have potatoes?” Ellen asked anxiously.
“Aye. We’ll always have those to fill our bellies.”
“Then why plant all the other things?” She pushed a lank piece of brown hair away from her freckled face.
Morgan regarded her. She knew tales of famine, and sure she was hungry often enough. But she’d never felt the really great hunger itself.
“Well, now, Miss Never-Change,” he teased. “You plan on eating potatoes and only potatoes for the rest of your life, do you?”
She giggled and took his hand. “I don’t know,” she said shyly.
He squeezed her hand. “Change is a good thing,” he said. “It keeps life interesting.” He looked down at Fiona, who was eyeing the dirt in her fists. “There now, you, don’t eat that! Here’s a child not afraid to try new things!” He swept Fiona up into his arms and settled her on his shoulder, his free hand in Ellen’s once again. They stood for a moment looking across the ready garden, down the hill to the road that wound through the trees.
“Who’s that coming up our lane, then?” Ellen asked.
Morgan squinted as the cart drew closer, its driver leaning at an awkward angle over the reins.
“Why, and isn’t it Sean O’Malley making the trip!” he said in amazement. He thought again of Grace, and his heart stopped. She’d lost her boy child three months ago, and what if the daughter had passed now, as well? He swung Fiona down to the ground and put her hand into Ellen’s. “Run, now, and tell Barbara that Sean’s coming in the wagon. Put the water on and see if there’s anything to eat in the house. I’ll go across the field to meet him.”
He halloed and waved; Sean waved back and slowed the horse when he saw Morgan running over the field, leaping fences and jumping gulleys. He was there in a matter of minutes.
“What’s happened, then?” he asked, taking in Sean’s pale face and wide, excited eyes.
“I … I had to come right away,” Sean stammered. “I had to tell you, you’ve got to come, it’s …”
“Slow down.” Morgan climbed into the cart and took the reins, supporting Sean’s back with his arm. “Is it Grace?”
Sean shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that.” He was trying to catch his breath; two small spots of color burned in his cheeks as if he had a fever.
“Your da? Granna?”
“No.” Sean frowned with irritation. “Wait.” He took two deep breaths and relaxed his body. “Nobody’s hurt, you great oaf. I’ve just come from a meeting, is all.” His eyes burned bright and he looked around before lowering his voice. “A secret meeting. And it’s continuing on tonight. They’re waiting for someone to give a talk. A man come to organize us.”
Morgan’s eyes opened in surprise and then he said angrily, “Are you telling me, Sean O’Malley, that you’ve ridden all the way here because you’ve been to a meeting of the Young Irelanders?”
Sean nodded enthusiastically. “Aye, and wasn’t it grand! They have plans, these boys, plans to change Ireland for the good … forever!”
Morgan shook his head. “I know all about it.” He snapped the reins and the horse began to make its way up the path to the house. “They’re low boys with high ideas. It all sounds good, the speeches and the wild cheering, but I’ve not heard anything leads me to think they’re men of action. They have no solid plan at all.”
Sean grabbed his arm. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said excitedly. “They’ve formed small bands, maybe a hundred, spread all through Ireland! This man who’s coming, he’s got military training and money for guns and shot. He goes about from group to group, organizing them. It’s a real movement now, secret though it is.”
“Secret because they’re breaking the law,” Morgan said quietly. “And getting their families evicted in the process.”
“It’s English law, not Irish, and it’ll be the death of us, so why not go down fighting?”
“You think we’ll go down, then?”
Sean looked up at the McDonagh house with its patched roof and ragged fences, boiling kettle of laundry in the yard, Ellen and Fee standing at the stone fence in mended shifts. “It’s not the winning or the losing matters anymore, really, is it? Only the fact that we stand up and fight for what’s ours. This is Irish land.” He looked at Morgan, dead serious. “Wasn’t so long ago you spoke of sedition yourself.”
“Hah!” Morgan snorted. “Wasn’t so long ago, you spoke to me of a man’s Christian duty.”
Sean smiled. “I’m first to admit when I’m wrong.”
“Sure and that’s a terrible lie.” Morgan drove through the gate and stopped the cart. ‘We’ll not talk of this in front of Mam and the girls,” he warned. “Tell them the foxes are after your sheep, and I’m to come trap them out.”
Sean’s eyes widened. “So, you’ll come, then? To the meeting?”
“I’ll come,” Morgan said. “But only to look after your daft self.”
They met in the cave up the hill behind Irial Kelley’s farm. It was twilight and the entrance was hidden behind tree boughs against boards blocking the opening to the cave. It was a struggle for Sean to get up the hill and sweat poured down his face; he’d vehemently refused Morgan’s offer to piggyback, insisting he’d walk in on his own two feet like a fighting man.
The cave was crowded and hot, despite the cool stone walls. Someone had brought in a small keg of beer, and a whiskey bottle was making the rounds, but no one was drunk yet. Indeed, Morgan thought, the mood was serious and sober. Torches and lanterns provided wavering light, many men seemed to prefer the shadows, and each new arrival was greeted with wary glances for fear of spies and reproval. Morgan and Sean were acknowledged with nods from the groups of farmers Morgan knew, the other young men in their parish, and from many of the older men, as well. Morgan looked for a bench and found one in the back; Sean sank gratefully into it, his face strained.
Morgan leaned against the wall and listened to the talk around him. These were mostly Catholic tenant farmers like himself, the older ones remembering a hard-won Catholic emancipation in 1829 and the more recent work of Daniel O’Connell, a brilliant solicitor who’d given up the bar to devote his life to Ireland, a man whose enemies deem
ed his flamboyance vulgar and called him “Swaggering Dan.” His followers were pledged to obtain repeal of the Union only by legal and constitutional means, but the more radical, like the men gathered here, had abandoned those orders in what they felt were desperate times. Some of these men had been to O’Connell’s monster meetings where hundreds of thousands flocked to hear him demand repeal. Had it been only a year and a half since he’d called for the greatest meeting of them all? They were to gather on the fields of Clontarf, near Dublin, where eight centuries ago Brian Boru had driven the Norsemen into the sea. Government waited until more than fifty thousand people had arrived before ordering the guns of Pigeon House trained on Clontarf; warships entered Dublin Bay, and troops occupied the only approaches to and from the meeting place. O’Connell then addressed the crowd, calling out that “human blood is no cement for the temple of liberty” and begging them to go home rather than face mass execution. The crowd, shocked, had quietly dispersed. There had been no meeting and no disturbance had taken place, yet O’Connell was arrested on a charge of trying to alter the constitution by force. He was convicted by a packed jury and sent to prison. The verdict was later reversed and O’Connell released, but his health had been broken and he’d lost his nerve. Ireland had lapsed into this helpless hostility, fed by the British, who maintained a military occupation. Morgan’s father had attended the Great Meeting at Clontarf and had spoken with bitterness about O’Connell’s imprisonment and subsequent change of heart. Tonight, Morgan heard again those same sentiments echoed all around, and the old anger began to burn.
“I’ll find us a drink,” he said quietly to Sean, then made his way across the room to the keg, where Kelley himself pulled two clay mugs for Morgan, blowing off the foam before handing them over.