Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  Ryan and Aghna had gone to Galway, despite Patrick’s protests. They’d eaten for a week, and Aghna began to fill out, so she grew more determined to get out of County Cork. Ryan saw no reason to wait any longer, so hopeful was he that, with food, and in the company of the priests she loved so much and her own family, she would at last grow well.

  On the day of their leaving, Patrick followed them out into the lane, insisting they take a sack of bread and potatoes, and then, to their astonishment, he embraced them both, clinging to his eldest son and looking long into his face. Ryan was moved by his father’s farewell and promised fervently that he would see them again, that they’d send word from Galway when they were settled.

  Grace kissed her brother and sister-in-law good-bye, then stood in the middle of the lane with Patrick until the two figures had faded to nothing.

  “They’ll be back, well and strong,” she reassured.

  “No,” Patrick said, staring down the lane. “We’ll not see them again.”

  The days crept by and Grace waited, walking to the door every time she heard someone in the lane, hoping for word from Sean or Morgan. They had enough food to last the fall if they ate carefully, rationing each meal. They did not talk about what would happen when the potatoes were gone. There was no money left now, and rent was due.

  Granna had stopped eating altogether, and would only sip water. She was so weak now that she could barely lift her head from the pillow, and her arms and fingers were mere bones. Mary Kathleen seemed to understand she was going, so she sat for hours beside her bed singing Irish songs in a high, thin voice. At night, she insisted on sleeping with her gran, and it was she who woke Grace one early dawn to tell her the angels had come now and were waiting beside the bed.

  Grace came quickly, and mother and daughter lay down beside the old woman they loved—one on each side—their arms across her thin body, listening as her breathing grew more faint. Grace pressed her mouth to Granna’s ear, whispering her last words of love and devotion. Granna lay still, staring up at the ceiling, her lips trembling with the effort to speak. At last, a single tear fell from her eye and ran away down her cheek, where it pooled against Grace’s lip. Grace kissed her, eyes squeezed shut against the pain, as Granna drew a final breath and slipped away at the moment of sunrise.

  An hour later, Grace woke Patrick and together they dug a grave between Thomsy and Kathleen. Patrick tore down the lower sheep hut to make a rough box and into this they laid her before lowering her into the ground. Mary Kathleen, clutching Blossom, watched while they filled in the hole and read from the Bible. When Patrick closed the great book and put it under his arm, Mary Kate tore at a clump of strawflowers, flinging them at the mound of new earth, before burying her face in Grace’s apron.

  Patrick patted the little girl’s shoulder. “There now,” he soothed. “We’ll miss her true enough, but she’s with the Lord now and happy as a lamb in a spring meadow.”

  Mary Kathleen looked up at him through her tears.

  “And you,” he said softly to Grace. “Have you not buried two mothers, then?”

  She nodded, her mouth trembling.

  He lifted her chin and wiped the spilling tears with his finger, leaving a smudge of dirt that made him smile. “I see both their faces in yours. Are they not, the both of them, standing even now at Heaven’s Gate, gazing down with pride at you—the mother they’ve raised?” He paused, then added, “Don’t ever forget the strong women from whence you came, girl. You and Mary Kate, you’re a part of them and that’s a thing to remember.”

  She tried to answer, but could not, tried to smile, but could raise no more than a tremble. He put his arms around her, then took her hand firmly in one of his, Mary Kate’s in the other, and led them both back down the hill.

  Thirty

  THE cabin was terribly quiet now, without the voices of Ryan, Aghna, and Granna. Grace tried to fill the comers with song and chatter, but rarely got a rise out of her little daughter or her father. Patrick spent his days sitting by the empty potato field, or counting their stores in the bothan; Mary Kathleen played quietly on Granna’s pallet, having claimed it for her own. She was too sad for a child, and rarely spoke, her heart heavy with the knowledge of death and despair. Grace could not even get her to sing the songs Granna had taught her, or say aloud her prayers at night; desperately, she sought for something to make the little child hopeful again. One evening, as they lay together in bed, Grace put Mary Kathleen’s hand on her belly.

  “Can you feel that?” Grace asked.

  Mary Kate’s eyes opened wide.

  “’Tis a baby I’m growing.” Grace looked into the pale face of her daughter. “A wee brother or sister for you.”

  “When will it come?” Mary Kathleen asked.

  “Before Christmastime,” Grace told her. “In December.”

  Mary Kathleen’s large gray eyes clouded and grew sad again. “How long will it live with us?” she asked plainly.

  Grace took the little hand and kissed it. “Forever,” Grace said, and added silently, Please, God, let it be true.

  Mary Kathleen gave the ghost of a smile and put her hand back on the small mound of Grace’s belly, falling asleep without the lines of worry that had so crowded her brow.

  They went on that way, day to day, as the leaves changed from green to red, and the long grass to gold, until, at last, it was the final day of September, chilly enough to have brought the turf fire back to life. When the sun had gone down, there came the sound of a slow horse down the lane, and a knock fell upon their door. Grace’s heart started as she opened it a crack and peered out. When she saw who it was, she stood back and glanced at her father, who remained by the fire.

  “Ceallachan,” he said curtly. “What brings you out on this night?”

  The agent had not fared much better than the rest of his countrymen; his once large frame was haggard and there were dark circles under his eyes. His hands were grimy, the nails ragged and black with dirt, his beard a sparse stubble over his chin.

  “You see, O’Malley, I’ve had a letter from Lord Donnelly himself,” he announced importantly, swaggering past Grace into the room. “And he’s given the order, to throw everyone off the place. Through with supporting layabouts, he says. Time to turn a profit, he says. Wheat is the moneymaker now. Wheat and corn.” He hooked his thumbs into the armholes of a greasy vest.

  Mary Kathleen began to tremble and Grace went to her.

  “It’s nothing to do with us,” she said confidently. “I’ve the word of Edward Donnelly that we’ll be left alone long as we pay what we owe.”

  “Letter said nothing about no promise.” Ceallachan cocked an eye at her, pleased with himself. “Nor nothing about O’Malleys a’tall.”

  “Have you forgotten that I am a Donnelly?” she asked coolly.

  “No, ma’am.” He smiled. “But I think they have.”

  “Well, you’re mistaken, Ceallachan.” She pulled herself up straight and eyed him sharply. “And it’ll cost you your job.”

  Under her gaze, Ceallachan squirmed ever so slightly. “My orders is my orders,” he said plainly. “Everyone is to go out. Starting with this lane here.”

  “I’ll ride into Macroom and send a letter myself,” she announced.

  Ceallachan shrugged. “Won’t do you no good. They’ve all gone abroad for winter, leaving Captain Wynne in charge of affairs.”

  “Then I’ll go to see him first thing in the morning.”

  “Well, and isn’t he off to Dublin to ready a transport of criminals?” Ceallachan was pleased with his game of cat and mouse. “And wouldn’t one of them go by the name of O’Malley? A weak, cripple boy, guilty of conspiracy?”

  Grace’s heart fell to her stomach and she glanced at her father.

  “What do you know of it, Ceallachan?” Patrick challenged.

  “What would it be worth to you?” the agent asked coyly.

  “It would be worth sparing your miserable life another night,” Patrick
said, stepping forward and grabbing the agent’s shirtfront, lifting him off his feet.

  “Bloody hell, O’Malley,” the agent spluttered. “You always were a man of little humor.”

  “Talk.” Patrick shook him.

  “Set me right first,” Ceallachan said, trying to break Patrick’s grip on his shirt.

  Patrick let him fall.

  “I don’t know anything about it a’tall.” The agent made a weak attempt to restore himself to authority, brushing off his clothes.

  “Is Sean in prison?”

  Ceallachan squirmed. “Rumor has it he’s arrested on conspiracy. Sent off to stand trial in England.” He paused. “Then again, he might have gone off to America on some eejit errand for those rebels think they can run things.”

  Patrick’s face grew red. “Which is it, man? And you’d better speak true or I’ll rip the tongue from your mouth!”

  Ceallachan backed against the wall and put up his hands. “God as my witness, O’Malley, I only know what I hear in the pubs! Captain Wynne’s been called to Dublin to organize a transport for some secret prisoners they got. Tongues are wagging about your one being in that group.” He gave them an innocent look, as if it was all beyond his comprehension. “Same men turn around and swear he’s gone to America with money in his pocket and orders to bring back our boys for the fight.”

  Patrick looked at him in disgust, then glanced at Grace.

  “What exactly do you want from us, Ceallachan?” Patrick asked.

  “Money,” he spat, then pulled back, his body tense for another assault.

  “And why would we be giving money to a rat like you?”

  “I’ll buy off the captain for you,” he said quickly. “You’ll still have to clear out, but you can stay through winter.”

  “Haven’t you just told us that Captain Wynne’s in Dublin?” Grace took a step toward him, her arm protectively around Mary Kathleen.

  “So I did, but I can buy off the guard what’s coming in the morning even easier than the captain!” He spoke rapidly. “Aren’t I doing you a favor by all this, and what’s the harm in asking for a bit of gold for all my trouble?” he asked, wide-eyed as though he believed it.

  “We’ve got no gold,” Patrick said. “Nor any money a’tall.”

  Ceallachan cocked his head, and shifted his gaze from one to the other. “Sure, and the widow’s got a little something put by … something against next Quarterday?”

  Patrick shook his head.

  Ceallachan’s face grew stormy. “I could take something of worth, then, and sell it myself.” He looked around at the cabin, long since stripped of anything valuable. “There must be treasure hid about—eating silver or costly plate. Left me nothing at the big house, she did, though by rights it’s mine.”

  “By rights it’s my granddaughter’s,” Patrick said calmly.

  “I know you’ve got money hid away!” Ceallachan exploded, his face turning red in the firelight. “And you better come up with it, Mister High and Mighty O’Malley, or you’ll find yourself tossed out on the road with the rest of them come morning!”

  He glared at them once more, then stormed out of the cabin, jumped on his horse, and galloped down the lane. Patrick let out a long sigh and sank down on the stooleen near the fire.

  “Have you anything left, then?” he asked.

  “No.” Grace shook her head. “I buried three trunks full of treasure among the graves at Donnelly House—for Mary Kate when she comes into it—but there was little money, and what I had has all gone now for food and rent.”

  Patrick nodded. “Well, I wouldn’t let you give it to that filthy rascal anyway,” he said. “He’ll not turn us out. It’s all bluff and blubber.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  “Aye. There’s been no rent paid but ours and he owes money to everyone, especially Donnelly.”

  “Is that not all the more reason to have us turned out?” she asked, pulling Mary Kathleen onto her lap and stroking her hair.

  “What’s the purpose? Donnelly growing wheat here?” He snorted. “And who’s going to run the place? Not Ceallachan, who’s never turned a spade of earth in his life, I’ll wager.” He paused. “No, ’twas just a bit of trickery to get out of you what money he thought you had.”

  “And what about Sean?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “If he’s caught and living in a prison cell, it’ll be the end of him.”

  “Morgan would never let that happen,” Grace said firmly. “I know they’ve got him out of here. He’s in America, sure enough.”

  “I’d say true enough for you, daughter.”

  They sat quietly, and Mary Kathleen fell asleep, as she always did when she could not bear the tension.

  “Where would we go, Da?” Grace asked quietly. “If they turned us out.”

  He stirred himself and frowned. “We’ll not leave this farm, nor this cabin where you and your brothers were born, and no man will take it from us.”

  Grace rocked and thought, and when Patrick stood and announced that he was going to bed, this day had held enough trouble for one man, she nodded and let him go without further conversation.

  An ominous feeling of foreboding stole into Grace’s heart and she looked around the cabin in the dim light of the turf fire. She stood and carried Mary Kathleen to Granna’s pallet, tucking her in with her doll, Blossom. Then she went quietly into the back room and took down from the high shelf her carpetbag, the one she’d married away in and the one she’d used to come home. She opened it and looked inside at the emptiness. “Just in case,” she told herself.

  Back in the main room, she checked Mary Kathleen, then unstuck from the wall the postcards her mother had always loved: the Mourne Mountains, the cliffs at Kilkee, the grasslands of the Golden Vale that her mother kept near her worktable, the sunset over Bantry Bay. Granna’s rag rug still lay on the floor near the hearth, but it was more rag than rug now, and terribly dirty beside. The bawneen curtains were gone from the window, having been used to make bedding for wee Thomsy’s cradle; the luster jugs had been sold to passing tinkers, as had most of the cooking pots and tools. There was Granna’s cashmere shawl, and her mother’s Bible, a glass brooch her father had given Kathleen and put away for Mary Kate, and Patrick’s old clay pipe. Last, she put in the funeral cloth she’d embroidered for Michael Brian. What else, what else, she thought and looked around the room. Only clothes and her sewing basket. Quickly, she gathered up what she needed: Granna’s flannel sleeping shirt and her favorite flowered skirt; Sean’s rough trousers and his muslin shirt; Patrick’s old jacket, full of the smell of rich earth and tobacco; Ryan’s wedding vest and Aghna’s pretty apron; Thomsy’s baby blanket; the quilt her mother had made. Building up the fire, she settled before it and began to cut a square from each garment, turning the edges neatly with needle and thread. When she had a pile of squares, she stitched them together quickly, no pattern in mind, just a simple square with a bit of each of those she loved. She worked all night, and the sun was coming up when she finished backing it with a piece cut from her mother’s quilt. It wasn’t large enough to be of any use, but when she held it close to her nose, she smelled her family and the farm, felt the life of them next to her cheek, and that was all she wanted. She rolled it up and put it in the carpetbag, along with the silver spoons and Mary Kathleen’s baby cup. There was a drawing of her mother and father, done on their wedding day, but none of Gran or any of the others. Finally able to rest, she lay down beside her sleeping daughter, put her arms tightly around her, and drifted off.

  It was Patrick’s hand that shook her awake and told her to gather up the child and come quickly. She rose, rubbed her eyes, and picked up Mary Kathleen, awake and clutching her doll. There was shouting down the lane, and the sound of horses stomping.

  “They’re turning out the O’Dalys,” Patrick said, now searching through the baskets above the kitchen shelf. He pulled one down and took out Bram’s Colt revolver, whic
h Grace had hidden there.

  “Can you fire this blasted thing?” he asked, holding it up gingerly.

  “Aye,” she said. “It’s not loaded, though.”

  She came and yanked down a second basket, tipping out a powder horn and six caps. Quickly, she poured gunpowder into each chamber, then popped in the caps with a practiced hand.

  “Ready,” she said, tucking the revolver into the waist of her skirt. “Let’s go.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Take the child up to the high sheep hut and don’t come down till you see me waving for you,” he commanded.

  “What good am I up the hill?” she asked angrily.

  Patrick put his hands on her shoulders. “Do as I say, Grace,” he said. “You’ve a child to protect. Keep the gun at the ready, and hide yourselves.”

  “What good are you to them now?” she begged.

  “Not much, true enough,” he said, shaking his head. “But I’ll not forsake them. ’Tis my own fault they had no warning.”

  “Da,” she pleaded.

  “I’ve got to get that boy and his wife away from there,” he said firmly. “When they start throwing his things about, he’ll go wild and they’ll shoot him down sure enough. But maybe Neeson and I together can talk sense to him. Maybe the soldiers will see the way things are and leave us a day or two to get ready.”