by Ann Moore
“Who’s this speaker coming tonight then, Irial?”
“Don’t know his name for sure, though some call him ‘Evans.’ He’s known by his yellow hair. Most of the boys call him ‘Captain.’” Kelley sucked the head off his ale. “He’s late tonight. Coming all the way from Kanturk, he is.”
“An Irishman?” Morgan took a swallow of the cold ale. It whet his thirst and he drank again more deeply.
“Hell, he’s a bloody Englishman, if you can believe that.” Kelley’s eyes roamed over the room as he talked. “An expatriate, they say. From Spain or some such place. He’s got money—or friends who’ve got money—and he’s firmly behind us, that’s God’s truth. Came last summer and started moving from county to county, taking toll of our numbers, and making great maps.”
“Trusted, is he, then?” Morgan asked.
“By the best men there are,” Irial told him. “Glad to see yourself here among us,” he added pointedly.
Morgan thanked him for the drink and went back to Sean, who took his mug gratefully. They drank their ale and wished for food, but didn’t complain.
Another hour passed and then there was a commotion near the entrance of the cave. Fresh air swept in followed by a group of men, one of whom wore a heavy cloak and felt fedora pulled down low over his face. This man moved to the front of the crowd and took off his hat, exposing a shock of yellow hair. The talk died at once.
“Gentlemen.” He addressed them in a sure, confident voice. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time.” He paused and looked from face to face. “Nearly six hundred years, to be exact.”
Instantly, the men rose and cheered in one roar. Evans held up his hands for silence.
“The wait is nearly over, now that you have agreed to take up arms against your oppressor. You tried to win their respect with marches and protests, legislation and speeches, but all you won was continued poverty and starvation. Your families have been divided by loyalties to the Old and to the Young, and the British laugh up their sleeves at you. Do not waste time fighting among yourselves, work instead to unite your brothers. Show them the way to victory—you are the men to do it.”
Another cheer swelled, leaving in its wake an excited murmur that quivered throughout the crowd.
“Presently, there are troops posted in every major seaport, billetted in forts or outposted in boarding houses. They ride out regularly for exercise and to keep us aware of their presence here. As if we needed the reminder,” he added with a small smile.
The men chuckled appreciatively and pressed closer.
“This is war, Young Irelanders.” His smile vanished. “And you are now enlisted soldiers. It will take great courage to pull the trigger, but pull it you must.” He paused. “Your target is the British uniform. Do not miss.”
Morgan glanced at Sean, whose face glowed with the intensity of his emotion.
“Captain Evans.”
Heads turned.
“Who’s that?” The Englishman peered into the shadows at the back of the cave. “Step forward.”
The men jostled one another and made way for Morgan to move up, some of them reaching out and patting his shoulder with encouragement.
“McDonagh’s my name,” he said firmly. “And I want to know why you think we Irishmen need a Brit to lead us. Are you not just another superior-thinking European come to rescue the poor, dumb Irish from themselves?”
There was complete silence in the cave. Eyebrows shot up and elbows nudged sides as the other young men looked at Morgan with fresh appreciation. Morgan and the captain locked eyes and each considered the boldness they saw therein. The tension broke at last when Captain Evans laughed.
“Hah! A true man of action.” He crossed his arms and regarded Morgan. “Well, Mister McDonagh, you’ve certainly got a point. I am English, it’s true. And there is much about my country that I love.”
With those words, the men grew suspicious and began muttering.
“But there are also things I cannot abide,” Evans said clearly, his voice riding above their suspicion. “And one of those things is the occupation of Ireland and the domination of her people.”
Eyes narrowed, but slowly the men nodded their heads and whispered, “Aye, ’tis true enough.”
“Then why are you not in England, protesting your government and lending support to the others in power who feel as you do?” Morgan asked.
The captain considered this. “Frankly, there are not many who feel as I do,” he said. “And even fewer whose voices might carry any weight. England is full of people who toil day to day getting their living, just as you do here. They don’t have time to think about the poor, struggling farmer in Ireland because their mind is occupied with their own struggles at home. It’s not that they don’t care, but that they can’t care. Those who are poor struggle against their own poverty, most of those who are rich struggle to keep it that way. There was nothing I could do to change things in my own country, but in Spain, I met others who also felt that the British occupation of Ireland must be dealt with. It is my countrymen who hold your country, therefore I feel a responsibility to pry open their fingers and loosen their grasp. Does that answer your question, Mister McDonagh?”
Morgan looked at the man, minding the fine clothes torn and splattered with mud, the boots run down in the heel, and the thin face lined with fatigue.
“It begins to, Captain Evans.” He looked around at the other young men, who nodded their agreement. “Let you speak now on what you’d have us do, and we’ll all know more.”
Evans ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and unfolded the map he’d brought in his saddlebag. He had two men hold it up, then pointed out the patrol areas in their region, and told them how to organize themselves into groups with one leader per dozen men. They should meet in secret and keep their thoughts to themselves, he said; spies were everywhere.
“Next to the English,” he warned, “your greatest enemies are those among you who seek their favor. And as things get more desperate, that number will rise.”
He urged them to organize as quickly as possible and to meet again the next week on their own. Rifles and pistols would be supplied, he assured, as well as caps and lessons in how to shoot. In the meantime, they must stockpile any arms they could lay hands on and put them under lock and key.
When he was finished, men gathered around Morgan to hear his opinion, but he said firmly that they must make up their own minds. They hesitated only a moment, then began to talk among themselves. The crush was overwhelming. Morgan got Sean to his feet and led him out into the fresh night air, where they both breathed deeply.
“They’ll be gabbing in there till the sun rises,” he said.
Sean grinned. “Captain Evans ignored our strongest asset—we could easily talk the English to death!”
They laughed quietly, then began the steep descent down the slippery hill to the waiting wagon. They weren’t a mile down the road when the bushes parted above them and out jumped three horses.
“McDonagh.” Evans touched the brim of his hat. “I wondered if I might ride along with you and have a word.” He glanced at Sean.
Morgan saw the glance and frowned. “This is my brother in every way but blood. ’Tis himself brought me here tonight.”
“I’m glad of that.” Evans nodded his thanks at Sean, then turned back to Morgan. “I asked about you back there, and they all say to a man that you’re a born leader.”
“I doubt that,” Morgan said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.
“No, you don’t.” Evans was matter-of-fact. “You’ve just never thought about it. You took charge and spoke for the group tonight. I admire that. You’re the kind of kind of man whom others gladly follow.”
“And where is it you’d have them follow me to, Captain? The bushes above the roads in order to shoot a man in the back as he rides along it?” He snapped the rein and the horse snorted in protest. “There’s no fairness in a fight like that … it’s only murder. And I’ll not be
a party to murder.”
“Good God, man, what do you think the English are doing to you right now? Is that not murder? To be slowly starved to death? Men, women, and children? What do you call that, if not murder?”
Morgan’s face was grim.
“And it’ll only get worse, my friend.” Evans lowered his voice. “There’s not been a famine in many years now, thank God, but your people are living on the edge, and if even one year of crop failure happens, you’ll be wiped out. The English will have succeeded in ridding Ireland of the pesky Irish, and they will use your land as a great big back garden for England.”
“It’s God’s truth.” Sean spoke up from the back of the wagon. “You know it is, Morgan. They’ve already cut down the forests, the best pastureland goes to feed their cattle and sheep, they take our grain in great ships back to England. We have only the potatoes year after year to keep us alive.”
Morgan shot him a look.
“Some have more,” he allowed. “But not much. We don’t own our land and we never will. We’re not forced into hedge schools any longer, but the state schools steal away our language, our customs and religion, they take our history and change it to suit themselves, to make themselves look like our saviors. In another generation or two, we’ll all be English—there’ll be nothing left of Ireland but the name.”
Morgan pulled up on the reins and the group of riders halted beside him.
“I know all that,” he said evenly. “I live at the very bottom of that. But when we start shooting back, when we kill a soldier here and there, burn out a landlord, cripple an agent—what will happen to us?” He looked around him. “Are you Christian men, any of you? Captain Evans?”
“I am,” the captain said. “I became one here.”
Morgan nodded. “Then you understand me when I say that it’s not death I fear, but the course of my own soul. I won’t just be killing English soldiers, but men like myself, men with families and lives and faith in God.”
Evans sighed, then reached out and put his hand on the edge of the wagon.
“This is war, son. No one is going to say, ‘We made a mistake, the Irish are fine people, we’ll be off now and they can have their country back. Sorry for the inconvenience.’ Slowly, and without mercy, they will beat you down and wipe you out. Your children will only know an English Ireland.”
“You’re not giving him any news, Captain,” Sean said softly. “And great men do not make hasty decisions.”
“Fair enough.” Evans nodded. “When you come to your decision—and I pray to God it’s the right one—Kelley will help you contact me. Until then, I wish you well, McDonagh. And you, too …?”
“O’Malley. Sean O’Malley.”
“O’Malley?” Evans frowned. “You aren’t Grace O’Malley’s relation?”
Sean nodded. “My sister.”
Evans turned wide-eyed to Morgan. “Then you’re the McDonagh she spoke of so highly!”
“I am?” Morgan was confused.
“I met her at a dinner party at O’Flaherty’s one evening—got to keep up my cover, you understand.” He winked. “Young Gerald was up to some teasing with a maid—your sister, I believe, McDonagh—and Grace came to her defense. I chided her about championing the poor, and she climbed right down my throat in saying what a fine family the McDonaghs were, finer than any at the table that night!” He chuckled, remembering. “I liked her tremendously. Great fire, that girl. I was hoping for more of her company, but they never extended an invitation to call, and I have not seen her since.”
Morgan and Sean exchanged glances.
“Grace was with child,” Sean said cautiously. “She gave birth to twins, but one died. She wasn’t well for some time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Evans said, genuinely distressed. “How did it die?”
Again, Morgan and Sean looked at one another.
“Was it a girl child?”
“No,” Sean said. “A boy. He was weak from the start.”
“Why?” Morgan frowned.
Evans paused. “Donnelly’s got a bit of a reputation,” he said. “Of which I’m sure you’re aware.”
Sean pulled himself up in the back of the wagon. “We know nothing of a reputation for killing babies.”
“You’d best explain yourself, Captain, before my friend here gets himself too worked up,” Morgan warned.
Evans sat back in his saddle and stared at his hands for a moment.
“Ride on ahead,” he spoke to the two men who had been waiting patiently on their mounts behind him. “I’ll catch you in a moment.”
When they were out of earshot, he said softly, “Gentlemen, I carry a secret that I’ve shared with no one until now.”
“If it has to do with my sister, or the man she married, you’d best give it up,” Sean said.
Evans studied their faces in the moonlight. “I was engaged, many years ago, to a young woman called Abigail Dunstone. I loved her very much, but was very slow in showing it.” If he noticed Morgan’s hands tightening on the reins, he gave no sign. “She was persuaded to elope with Bram Donnelly, who, as you know, is a very handsome, commanding figure. Very charming when he wants to be.” He cleared his throat. “Donnelly quarreled with everyone, with his father most of all. Eventually, because of the scandal, he was sent to live here in Ireland and work the family’s holdings. He hated it, but Abigail loved everything about it: the customs, the festivals, the superstitions, and most of all, the Irish themselves. Her first pregnancy nearly ended her life and changed everything for her. Every day became precious—life had enormous meaning. She had begun writing secretly to me, you see, I think at first, out of loneliness, but then because her life had changed so dramatically, and she realized her love for me. I begged her to return to England, but she felt that God had brought her to Ireland to be a voice for the people, who were virtual slaves. In her last letter, she spoke of Donnelly’s rage over her political involvement, and his insistence that she have another child—an heir—of which she was deathly afraid. And then there was nothing.”
His horse snorted and stomped. An owl hooted in the tree above. Morgan and Sean sat as still as they could, waiting for him to continue.
“I went to her family and begged them to bring her back, but they would not. She had made her choice, you see, and had to live with it. My family, too, would not intervene. They had received a letter from the Donnellys saying she was in confinement and that my continually pressing correspondence had greatly distressed her. My family then sent me to Spain on a fool’s errand, and when I realized it, I left immediately for Ireland. By the time I got to Donnelly House, she was locked in her room, having had some sort of breakdown. The servants would not let me see her. She came briefly to the window and stared down at me in the courtyard, but there was no recognition in her eyes and she did not answer my call. I went to Dublin, to find a doctor or a solicitor who might know how to help, but while I was there … she died.” He stopped to collect himself. “It was a long time ago, but I’ve never forgiven him. And I never will.”
“You want to ruin him, then,” Sean said quietly.
“Yes.” He paused. “But after I met your sister, I could not. Watch out for her,” he added. “Donnelly is not to be trusted.”
“I know,” Sean told him, and Morgan stiffened in the seat beside him.
Captain Evans looked at the two of them. “I failed Abigail, but you will not fail your sister. Abigail wanted Ireland to be free, and I have pledged my life to that cause in her name.” He paused. “You will fail Grace only if you do not make the same pledge.”
A light went on in a cabin up the hill; wisps of smoke curled out the chimney. Dawn would soon draw back the curtain of night behind which they hid.
“I must go.” Evans pulled himself upright in his saddle and put out his hand. “Think about what I’ve said, McDonagh. Your people need you.”
“I will, sir.”
“And you, O’Malley.” He shook Sean’s hand. “They
need you, as well.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
They watched him trot the horse down the road, catch up with the other two, then disappear at a gallop around the bend.
The gray sky continued to lighten until they were no longer shadows on the road, but visible to anyone who cared to look out.
“Take us home now, Morgan boy,” Sean said at last. “We’ve work to do.”
Twelve
THE summer was hot and dry; men put aside their shirts and shoes, women tied up their skirts and wore only their vests in order to catch what little air might stir in the afternoon. Babies slept or fussed in the building heat of the day, children played in whatever shade could be found; every movement was slow, made drowsy with the heat. The potato crops—leaves sleek green and lustrous—rose up from dark mounds of earth in promise of abundance. It would be a rich man’s harvest this year and no one minded the final meals of old, rubbery potatoes; there were plenty of berries to pick, the occasional eel or trout from the master’s lake, a rabbit the dog brought in from the wood. They were warm at night, their bellies content. They grew brown in the sun and their faces relaxed with the assurance of what was to come.
Grace kept the baby with her everywhere, nursing on demand, the ache of her loss receding with every healthy ounce this one put on. When she went out to walk, she tied the baby to her with a sling fashioned from old bedsheets. She would stop to nurse under one of the broad oaks and often dozed off there, waking with a start to feel the heavy, sweaty head of her daughter on her arm. She would carry a basket lined with flannel out into the garden, setting the baby in the shade while she weeded and watered, pruned and clipped. Bram insisted she let Brigid or her daughter Moira do that, but Grace had found she needed the garden, needed the growing things. She felt closest to God there, far closer than she did on her knees in her bedroom. And, of course, from this place she could see the stone cross that marked Michael Brian’s tiny grave. In the garden, she had both God and her children near to her.
As June burned into July, the lushness of the land filled her heart, pushing out winter’s ache. Bram, too, was in better spirits. The potato crop looked so well this year that he was sure he would have no problem collecting rents. He did not seem to mind so bitterly anymore that his heir was a daughter—his son forever asleep on the rise—or that his wife had abandoned any pretense of gentility and was now a vigorous gardener, as brown as the earth she turned. He did not complain about her being improperly dressed for dinner, or even whether dinner was on time. Often, he did not return to the house until late, and although his breath was woody with drink, he was peaceful, falling quickly asleep and waking clearheaded and with purpose. They did not talk, Bram and Grace, and he did not come to her at night, as the baby still slept in her room. But neither did they argue nor stand stubborn. They were polite with one another—even cordial—and slowly, slowly, slowly, they put their disappointment behind them.