Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  Patrick flung open the door and embraced her, then looked into her face and said, “It’s the children.”

  Grace went white. “Mary Kathleen?”

  “Thomsy’s worst, yellow and high fever for two days,” he said quickly. “Hit Mary Kate this morning. And I think Aghna is ill, as well.”

  She looked back over her shoulder at the private. “Don’t come in.” Her face was tense and worried. “You know what we’ve got.”

  He stared helplessly as she turned to go in. “Wait,” he called.

  “Go on, now,” she warned. “Ride out of here, quick as light.”

  He hesitated only a moment. “I can help. I watched the doctors at Cork.”

  “No,” Patrick said firmly.

  Grace paused, undecided, then nodded. He climbed down immediately and followed her into the dim cabin, where the smell nearly knocked him off his feet.

  “Open the windows,” he said at once to the shadows that sat near the hearth. “I’ll need sheets and long poles or sticks.”

  Grace put a hand on his shoulder. “I was wrong about you, Private. Forgive me.”

  “It’s Henry,” he said and knelt down to look at her daughter.

  Twenty-eight

  JULIA had warned him, had written to him in excruciating detail while he traveled the south counties rallying support, but now that he was back, Smith O’Brien could see for himself—Dublin was a cesspool of filth and disease. Previously tolerable, despite lack of drainage and sanitation, it now stank of death and decay. The people were filthy; any extra clothing had been sold, and now they wore the same dirty rags day after day. He knew their furniture and bedding had long since gone the way of their extra clothes, and they slept on muddy floors covered, at most, by empty grain sacks or scraps of rag. Any money went for food instead of fuel, so washing clothes and bodies was out of the question. Julia reported that food was eaten half-cooked or raw, which did nothing to ease the constant dysentery; their weakened condition made going to the outhouses nearly impossible, and slippery, bloody filth lay in puddles all through the lanes. They huddled together for warmth at night, further spreading the louse that carried typhus. He had seen them during the day—those who could, even with fever upon them—troop to the soup kitchens where they stood shoulder to shoulder, sometimes two hundred or more sick and infested people.

  It was no secret that typhus had spread like wildfire, killing off entire districts in a matter of weeks. In the papers, Julia praised the courage of the doctors, nurses, priests, and nuns who continued moving among the people trying to stave off further infection, and offering comfort as best they could to those who were dying. It was a labor of love, Smith O’Brien agreed, since not only had they to deal with typhus, but with hunger edema, the disease of starvation that now afflicted most of the population—walking skeletons whose limbs swelled to three times their normal size before bursting and causing a painful death. Scurvy, too, was widespread now that the Irishman’s diet of potatoes had been replaced by Indian corn, which provided no vitamin C; gums grew mushy, teeth fell out, joints became swollen, and legs turned black up to the thigh—“Black Leg,” the locals called it. There was so little in the way of medicine to ease the advancement of these diseases, and because of the highly infectious nature of typhus, doctors and caregivers were dying at alarming rates.

  Writing under the name of Patrick Freeman for the Nation, Julia had blasted the British government for being slow in admitting that Ireland now faced a fever epidemic of immense size in the midst of the third year of famine, and for not immediately reinstating a Central Board of Health to oversee funds for additional hospitals or dispenseries, despite the fact that only twenty-eight hospitals existed in all of Ireland, not nearly enough to serve the hundreds of thousands now desperately in needed of such services. Smith O’Brien had visited some of these hospitals, quickly realizing that they were completely overwhelmed—as caregivers died, fever patients lay naked on the dirty straw, suffering without medicine, water, or heat. It was the same in the workhouses; already overcrowded and understaffed, they had became morgues where the dying and dead lay side by side. As rumors spread that food and water were to be had in jail, people committed random crimes in the hope of getting arrested.

  There were fever sheds, but too often their assemblage was sloppy, amounting to little more than a lean-to on the side of the hospital, where typhus continued to spread. The Times answered editorials condemning the British government by pointing out the success of the new Irish Fever Act, which was leading to the erection of wooden-floored tents in fields and the removal of piles of filth from the streets, cabins cleaned and disinfected, corpses properly buried, and provision made for additional hospitals, dispenseries, doctors, and nurses. John Mitchel’s reply in the Nation was that it was too little too late and that half the population had already been lost. He adamantly opposed any posture of gratitude to the British government, and instead began foreshadowing the resistance, calling for every able body to prepare themselves. While Julia continued to argue in the papers as an intellectual, there was no denying that Mitchel had taken up Fintan Lalor’s impassioned plea, “Will Ireland perish like a lamb, or will she turn as turns the baited lion?”

  Smith O’Brien, well aware of the exhausted state of the people, had been horrified at Mitchel’s inflammatory rhetoric and clung to the hope that the revolution would be bloodless. He cringed these days whenever he opened the pages of the newspaper, and tried as best he could to instill some business sense into the revolution, urging groups to form and report to one another, to organize whatever strength was left in Ireland. Unorganized, and with Britain growing less tolerant and more angry every day, the revolution would be a disaster, and so many more lives needlessly lost. Smith O’Brien could not control Mitchel, but he could organize greater cohesiveness with the help of a few good men. And he had them: Sean O’Malley had been brilliant in planning the October raid, Morgan McDonagh was a hero in the eyes of the men he commanded for his courage and stealth, and Lord Evans had supplied endless cash and years on end to live like a criminal in order that Irish soil might at last be owned completely by Irishmen.

  O’Malley was, even now, poring over maps in the cellar of Smith O’Brien’s Limerick house. With his twisted frame and ill health, he would not survive another winter in Ireland. Evans had arrived with gold in his pockets and instructions that O’Malley and McDonagh be smuggled out of the country immediately. O’Malley was easy enough—he’d nearly finished his work and had been convinced that more could be done from America in the way of raising cash and arms. He was to recruit some of the lads who’d left Ireland years ago with the promise of a homeland once again theirs.

  The United States had already rallied strong in support for the Irish, sending in the past months vessels loaded with grain, corn meal, and clothing. Most of this had been organized by the Society of Friends, and Tammany, the central organization of the Democratic Party of the United States. Catholic parishes and Irish communities across the country had also raised money to be sent for the relief of the destitute in Ireland. Most of this found its way to the right places, thanks to the Quakers, and certainly the suffering had been eased somewhat. But the relief would end in the autumn, as channels began to freeze and ships could no longer make the journey across with food. Now was the time for O’Malley to go and passage had been booked for him on the Lydia Ann returning to Manhattan out of Limerick. There were enough ships in and out of Ireland, enough emigrants filling the hold, that Sean could travel safely. He would board at night and stay below until well out to sea. He had readily agreed to this mission; he was a dreamer.

  However, McDonagh, the realist, could not be convinced to leave before the revolution had taken place. Rumor held that he’d a wife hidden away in the country, and would not leave without her; Smith O’Brien had offered to get her safe passage as well, but Evans had dismissed it as fancy, saying McDonagh would rather die in Ireland than live in America. And that was what Smith O’Br
ien was afraid of. A dead hero might rally the passion of his men and inspire their attack, as Mitchel had so bluntly pointed out, but Smith O’Brien knew it would more likely lead to disenchantment and doom. McDonagh had proven himself a brilliant leader and readily deserving of the praise heaped upon him by the people of Ireland. They thought him invincible, and as long as he traversed the countryside speaking of victory and showing them the way, they continued to hope that the battle would indeed be won. They hid him and fed him, loved him and called him their own son; despite those among them who turned on their own and tried to collect the reward for his capture, McDonagh had remained free—and freed others. Surely God marched with such a man as this, they said, and had McDonagh asked them to swim across the sea and fight England on her own land, they would have done it!

  No, Smith O’Brien shook his head, he could not afford to lose McDonagh to death. Nor could the English, for that matter, but they had become desperate, and were willing to lose the information he had in order to avoid a battle. Smith O’Brien had even heard it whispered that they had offered freedom for O’Malley and McDonagh in exchange for their emigration to America and the traitor Englishman’s identity. It had become a deadly game of cat and mouse, with Mitchel all the while openly baiting the British government and Smith O’Brien trying desperately to buy more time before things came to a head.

  “Smuggle him quietly out of the country,” Sean suggested, when Smith O’Brien sought him out in the cellar. “Not far, maybe to one of the little islands in the North. Or off to sympathizers in Scotland.”

  “But won’t the people think he’s abandoned them?” Smith O’Brien asked, warming his hands on the candle flame by which Sean worked.

  “Can you not do it in secret? Sure and there’s plenty of other clandestine activity about the place,” he replied, that eternal gleam in his eye. “Let him simply disappear, and a few well-planted rumors will keep him alive and well here in Ireland.”

  Smith O’Brien thought seriously about this. It was true enough that rumors flew like sparrows across the land and no one really knew what was true or not anymore.

  “With me rousing the men in America—raising arms and ready cash—and Morgan close enough to advise by letter, can we not have everyone in place come spring?”

  “Have we that much time, do you think?” March seemed a thousand years away.

  “Aye.” Sean nodded. “England won’t be committing more soldiers to Ireland with France tickling their underbelly, and can you not feel the change all over Europe?” He had spent his long days underground with newspapers from all over the continent, and now he warmed to the subject. “Vienna will rise and get rid of Metternich, and Sicily’s putting all kinds of pressure on its king for a new constitution. The Brits are getting nervous with all that rumbling, and don’t we have our own Fergus O’Connor leading the Chartists right there in England herself? Millions he’s got standing behind his demands now and all threatening revolution!” He rubbed his hands together in glee. “Ah, Willy, it’s a fine time to be alive!”

  Smith O’Brien frowned at him.

  “Well, you know what I mean,” Sean amended. “Great change cannot occur without great sacrifice, and the price has been paid in Ireland.”

  “Do you not think that all this discontent might make the British clamp down even harder on us? Revolution in Ireland would be an enormous embarrassment, and surely it would stir up trouble even at their own doorstep.” He shook his head. “There’s no doubt the pot is boiling—the question is, how long can we keep the lid on?”

  “Long enough,” Sean answered firmly. “Keep Mitchel to a dull roar in that paper of his, and we’ll be ready to rise up before summer.” He reached behind to his lower back, kneading out the stiffness, a grimace of pain passing briefly across his face. “Bring Morgan back to Dublin at the end of April, and his appearance after so many months of rumor will make them wild.”

  “Can he be persuaded to lie low until then?”

  “He’s not completely unreasonable, you know,” he said and smiled. “Though hardheaded, without doubt. But hasn’t the man gone without a decent meal and steady sleep in a soft bed for years now? And hasn’t he missed the company of a good woman?”

  “They say he’s taken a wife.” Smith O’Brien watched Sean’s face carefully. “Would you know anything about that?”

  Sean was clearly surprised. “He’s not said a word, and I know of only one woman he’s ever loved.” He paused, thinking hard. “It would be some kind of miracle, if it’s true, but … but I don’t know for sure.”

  “If it were true,” Smith O’Brien said cautiously, “would she be a strong enough person to influence him?”

  Sean dug his long fingers into the hunched shoulder and rubbed. “Aye,” he laughed. “She’s strong enough to pick up a gun and lead the battle herself.”

  “How do I find her?”

  Sean was reluctant. “Have you asked Evans about it?”

  “He says only that McDonagh’s married to the fight, and that’s all.”

  “Could be I’m wrong,” Sean said. “Stranger things have happened, you know.”

  Smith O’Brien ignored the joke. “They say he wears a ring.”

  Sean thought again. “If he’s keeping it a secret, he’s got good reason.” He bit his lip. “What is it exactly you want from her?”

  “Only a letter,” Smith O’Brien said convincingly. “For his eyes alone. Just a letter persuading him to stay safely hidden for now. Would she do that?”

  “Aye.” Sean nodded. “But she’ll be looking for a trap. You’ll have to send Evans. He’s the only one she’ll trust.”

  “He knows her?” Smith O’Brien’s eyes opened wide in exasperation.

  “Well enough, and where to find her.”

  “Could’ve bloody well saved me a lot of bloody time,” he grumbled. “Now, I’ve got to find him all over again.”

  Sean looked at him in amusement. “Everything in the Lord’s time,” he said. “Will you ask Evans to send her a message from me, as well?”

  Smith O’Brien scratched at the heavy muttonchop sideburns that framed his face, eyes puzzled. “From you?”

  “Just that her brother sends his undying love!” He laughed gleefully at the look of astonishment on the other man’s face.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Smith O’Brien said and threw a book at him.

  And so, with that strange combination of irritation and relief that seemed to reside in him at all times, Smith O’Brien sent Evans on one last assignment: to get a letter from an unknown wife in an unknown place and carry it to McDonagh—wherever he might be—in order to convince him to go somewhere else that no one else knew of.

  He smiled wanly, and in his heart he hoped O’Malley was as right about this as he had been about everything else. His greatest fear was that McDonagh would be captured and imprisoned before they got him to a safehouse. All communication would be cut off; there’d be no way to get him out. And, Heaven knew, Lord Evans was not good for much more, though he’d cut the throat of any man who suggested it. One had only to look at the sallowness of his face, the yellow eyes and bloodless lips, the shaking hands and terrible fatigue, to know that he was not long for the world unless he took to his bed and had the constant care of a good doctor.

  “Bloody burning hell,” Smith O’Brien muttered, running his hands through his hair. “The best men in Ireland and look at them! One’ll be dead any day from sheer exhaustion, the other’s crippled and coughing like an old woman, and the third can’t show his face for more than a minute without someone taking a shot at it!”

  He poured himself a large drink. When it had settled to a slow burn in his gut, he knew what to do. He hoped the letter from a beloved wife would be enough, but just in case, he’d send Meagher out to see McDonagh, as well. If ever a man could sway another man with fancy rhetoric, it was Meagher. They’d take him up to the Aran Islands and hide him away like Robert the Bruce until the time was right. Sean was set to go to
America on the next boat, passage paid and the captain bribed to keep him in food and water until they landed, money in his pocket and a list of sympathizers who would take him in when he reached New York. He, too, had been blessed with a fiery way of talking, and a month or two of evenings in the pubs would rally enough young men to return and claim their land. Evans would be sent to the south of France on the pretext of meeting with men who were in the midst of brewing their own kind of trouble. O’Malley’s vision was clear, and word from abroad was that Louis Philippe was preparing for flight, while Lamartine, the poet, was being positioned for Minister of Foreign Affairs. If France indeed revolted and sent their king back to England, Ireland would be greatly encouraged to make her own stand and England, they hoped, too divided to hold her down. In addition, Evans would get the very best medical attention in France and return in the spring with renewed health to witness the fruit of his long labor.

  “That’s it, then,” Smith O’Brien mumbled to himself and stood to stretch, going to the window and looking down into the filthy streets. The sun was coming up on another wretched day and already those who had survived the night were stirring. He watched them, these soldiers-to-be, Fintan Lalor’s words echoing in his head:

  “… unmuzzle the wolf dog,” Lalor had written. “There is one at this moment in every cabin throughout the land, nearly fit to be tied—and he will be savager by and by.”

  “Cabins are empty now,” Smith O’Brien murmured into the chill morning air. “And the wolves have come to town.”

  Twenty-nine

  THE O’Malleys survived the feverish spring, though not without cost. Thomsy was dead and buried in the glen beside the grave of Grace’s mother, and Aghna sat there every day, murmuring and rocking, unable to recover from her grief.

  “Our Aghna’s away,” Granna told travelers who stopped to beg food or a night’s rest.

  “Aye, away,” they’d repeat and nod knowingly, having seen others who’d gone away often enough in these troubled times.