Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  As wary as they had all been, as careful as they always were, the ambush had been successful and there had been no time to organize a rendezvous. After the arrest, Morgan looked for the chance to catch Evans alone, but had seen him only once, outside the interrogation room door: Morgan shoved in, Evans dragged out. Bloody and beaten, his eyes swollen nearly closed, Evans still managed to raise his head and say weakly, “Long live Ireland,” which earned him a vicious kick from the guards.

  Morgan had not fared much better in the end, reconciling himself to the blows that came when he refused to answer their questions or give up names. He had, instead, unleashed a torrent of insults and accusations at the Irish constabulary, who were participating in the torture of their brothers and hindering the future of their own children. This had not served him well, and it was the last thing he remembered until he regained consciousness in his cell with one of the jail priests in attendance, dabbing at the dried blood on his chin.

  “God be with you, my son,” the priest said when Morgan opened his eyes.

  He shook his head to clear his vision, then struggled to sit up, leaning against the cold stone wall. “God is always with me, Father,” he mumbled around his split and swollen lip.

  “You must keep in mind the trials of Paul, and not give in to despair.” The priest, a black-haired Irishman, leaned closer to examine the gash in Morgan’s forehead. “Even in prison, the Apostle Paul did not dwell on his plight, but set his mind to the future of the new faith.” His hand paused midair from water bowl to wound, and he added pointedly, “You will remember his letters to the flock, and how they were able to carry on, made strong by his words.”

  Morgan narrowed his eyes, then winced with the effort. “Aye.” He watched the priest’s face carefully. “Paul was a devoted servant of the Lord.”

  “Unfailing.”

  They regarded one another, then glanced at the man posted outside the cell; he was turned away from them, but still the priest moved so that Morgan could not be seen from that angle. Stealthily, he pulled from beneath his soutane a small sheaf of papers and a quill. He slipped these under the straw on which Morgan lay, along with a bottle of ink. Morgan understood.

  “I will think on Paul,” he said as the priest stood up. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Shall I hear your confession, my son?” The priest winked. “Or do you need time to reflect on your sins and prepare yourself?”

  “I do, Father,” Morgan answered soberly.

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  Morgan nodded.

  The priest gathered up the bowl of bloody water and the rags, made the sign of the cross, and asked the guard to let him out.

  Morgan did not touch the paper and pen. He would have to wait until the guard moved down the hall or was absorbed in eating his supper, and this gave him time to think. An Irish priest could just as easily be a pawn of the church as an English priest, and lately Rome had taken to disciplining those who acted for the people. Certainly, this priest was no one familiar to Morgan and there had been none of the secret words used to show he was a sympathizer. Tomorrow, he’d want a letter, but to whom was Morgan meant to write? He dared not call out names or write of specific events. Was this to be his salvation, or his damnation? At that moment, he longed for Sean’s ability to reason, or the clear thinking of Evans.

  Cursing his own thickheadedness, he prayed God to show him the way. His aching eyes were closed, and his head hung over tightly folded hands, bruised forehead resting on bony kees. He thought not of Paul, but of Christ in the garden of Gethsemane, facing certain death with faltering courage, pleading with God for strength: “Not my will be done, but Thine, O Father.” The words came to him as they always did when he was deep in prayer, and now he spoke them aloud, although they were lost in the cursing and moaning of other men in other cells. Because of Christ, he need not fear the end … nor would he face it alone. Of that, he was certain. Peace flowed into his soul at last, and then he slept.

  “McDonagh!”

  The whisper, hissed through the bars, shattered his dreams. His eyes opened, rough and blurry in the dark, and he lifted his head, heart pounding.

  “McDonagh, wake up, man!”

  He squinted and saw, in the flickering light of the hall torch, a young soldier he’d not seen here before.

  “What is it?” he asked, his voice scratchy with fatigue.

  The soldier was turned slightly away from the bars and Morgan saw a profile that was decidedly English—slender and straight, shoulders back, neat blond hair and trimmed mustache rising above a familiar uniform.

  “I have a message.”

  First a priest and now an English soldier. Did they think he was a fool? He remained silent.

  “From your wife,” the soldier whispered, urgently. “From Grace.”

  His heart thudded against his chest, but he forced his voice to remain dull. “I have no wife.”

  “Bloody hell,” the soldier muttered. He glanced up and down the corridor, then turned and faced Morgan. “I’ve no time for games, McDonagh,” he hissed. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  Morgan narrowed his eyes and leapt up, moving quickly toward the bars.

  The soldier backed away.

  “Then you’ll have to trust me, as well,” Morgan hissed back.

  The soldier hesitated, then returned to within easy reach of the most dangerous assassin in Ireland.

  “I’ve seen her myself,” the soldier said, measuring the other carefully. “In Cork. She’s well enough, though road weary. Mary Kate and Patrick are with her.”

  Morgan nodded, reluctant to give anything away, a thousand questions on his tongue.

  “They were turned out. Family’s dead or gone.” He paused again, listening to the sounds overhead, squinting into the shadows at either end of the dark hall. “I gave her what money I had and sent her to the nuns.”

  Good, Morgan thought, Barbara will look after them.

  “But she says she’ll come to Dublin as soon as she’s able.”

  Morgan’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “I couldn’t put her off that,” the soldier said, adding, “You know how strong-minded she is.”

  Morgan allowed himself a small smile, which the younger man saw and echoed ruefully.

  “She’s with child.”

  Morgan’s hand flashed through the bars and grabbed the soldier’s collar, yanking his face toward the cold iron.

  “If you’re lying to me, man, or if this is some kind of bloody trick, I’ll break your neck, so help me God.”

  “Let go, damn it,” the soldier spluttered. “Why would I lie?”

  Morgan glared at him in frustration, then suddenly released his grip. “’Tis no safe place, the road … not for a woman alone, not in these times.” His voice was full of anxiety.

  “No.” The soldier understood. “But that’s not it. The child is yours. She was determined for you to know.”

  Morgan eyed him warily, hesitant and confused.

  “She’s a fighter, your Grace,” the soldier said. “As much mettle and pluck as any man …”

  “Unlock the cell.”

  The soldier stepped back, alarmed.

  “Please,” Morgan urged. “I’ll wait till you’re well away before I make any attempt to escape.”

  “I can’t,” the soldier said quietly, though not without regret. “I haven’t the key.”

  Morgan held still, then shrugged, struggling to hide his disappointment. “’Twas worth the asking.”

  The two men regarded one another through the bars.

  Grace loves this man, Henry thought.

  She trusts this one, Morgan told himself. “What are you called?” he asked.

  “Henry Adams. Private, Cavalry.”

  “Will you see her again, Adams?”

  Henry shook his head. “Not unless she comes to Dublin.”

  “She says she will.”

  “She’ll not be able to find me in the chaos.”

 
“She might.” Morgan thought. “Do you believe in God, Adams?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you believe He works in ways mysterious?”

  Henry nodded hesitantly.

  “Then might He not be working through you?”

  “He must be,” Henry answered. “Or why would I risk this?”

  “Help her to see me,” he urged. “If she comes. If she finds you.”

  Doubt welled up in the eyes of the young soldier.

  “And if you cannot, then let you deliver a letter to John Mitchel, who’ll see she gets it.”

  Henry was aghast. “I can’t go waltzing into the office of John bloody Mitchel at the bloody Nation!”

  “Aren’t the English in there all the time?” Morgan argued. “They’ve not passed the Treason Act yet—he can’t be charged with sedition—but there’s nothing to stop them harassing the place day and night, and you know they do!”

  Henry shook his head adamantly.

  “The truth of it is, Adams—I’m a dead man, sure as you’re not,” Morgan said simply. “I can’t bear to think of her hearing it off the street … what with rumors as foul as they are these days.”

  Henry’s heart was conflicted, but he felt a sudden surge of emotion for this man—an enemy of the empire, true enough, but hero of the heartland, truer than even that.

  “Don’t give up hope, man,” he urged. “You’re not going to die.”

  Morgan pressed as close as he could. “Have a listen around us.”

  Henry did. And he heard coughing and moaning from almost every cell down the corridor, the restless tossing of feverish men, retching and gagging, weak calls for water. He knew those sounds only too well.

  “It’s fever, true enough,” Morgan said in a low voice. “Some of the guards are sick with it, as well, though they know it not. No need to beat me to death or hang me by the neck, for sure I’ll lay myself down before another week passes.”

  “You might survive,” Henry insisted. “Other men have.”

  “I’ve no strength left for surviving,” Morgan said matter-of-factly. “I’m starving and tired, cold and beaten. There’s a pain in my chest from broken ribs and an ache all through my body. We’ve no doctor here—no blankets, nor fresh air; we breathe in our own filth. I’m not without hope, Adams, but these last years have made me a realistic man.”

  Henry had no answer.

  “I knew my wife but a moment, and will never know our child. Let me say good-bye to them,” Morgan begged. “Hasn’t God already provided the means, and are you not the way?”

  Henry’s mouth went dry and his mind shouted warnings: You cannot, it said; you’ve stayed too long already. He heard the dull sound of boots on the floor above his head, the keen jangle of keys, the slow drip of water on stone—the risk was too great, he must go now or surely he would spend the rest of his life listening to these sounds. He turned in panic, ready to bolt, but then the full weight of God’s hand fell upon his shoulder and held him fast, searing through his doubts, burning his fear to ash. He had not asked to be here, but here he was. It was part of a plan to bring him to this moment, to provide through him this comfort to an enemy. As this became true for him as no thing ever had, strength grew out of his weakness, his cowardice turned to courage. He lifted his head and looked around him in amazement, seeing for the first time his place in the world. With greater compassion than he’d ever felt for any man, he turned and met openly the weary, troubled eyes of his brother.

  Morgan’s hand gripped the bar; Henry wrapped his own around it. “Write your letter,” he said quietly. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Thirty-three

  SEAN sat at his desk in a small rented chamber above The Harp, a saloon for Irishmen owned by Mighty Dugan Ogue. It was late—Sean was in his nightshirt with a blanket around him—and the sounds of good-natured argument and challenge were punctuated by the occasional shattering of glass. None of it interrupted his thoughts, however, which were wholly concentrated on the paper in front of him and the urgency of his message.

  Dear Grace—he began, alarmed at the shake in his hand. He paused to steady himself—Come right away. If this be the only message you receive from me, let you take it to heart and not delay.

  He dipped his quill in the inkpot and frowned at the window glass, his pale reflection distorted by blowing rain. Should he tell her that his dreams had been filled with nothing but death and disaster since he’d arrived in America? Cabins filled with dying children, all of them with Mary Kate’s little face; a second dream of them running down the road, trying to get away from soldiers who fired upon them and hit their shoulders, their arms, their feet; the dream of them stuffing their mouths with dirt to silence the screams of hunger. But it was the last dream that had been the worst, and he shuddered with the memory of it: Grace lying in a pool of blood by the road, weakly fighting off ravens who tried to pick at her eyes as the child beside her wept helplessly, herself under attack. Sweat had drenched his nightshirt and he’d awakened with a shout loud enough to bring Mighty Ogue himself bursting into the room, waving his pistol wildly at the shadows. That had been less than an hour ago, and he knew he must not waste another minute before urging her to get out of Ireland.

  I know well your reasons for wanting to stay, but rest assured that I am only saying what he himself would say to you. If he is able to travel, he will; if he cannot, know that he will follow in the spring. Don’t wait any longer! Come, and bring our Mary Kate with you, for I have prayed to God to keep her alive through all the suffering. I know our da will never leave, nor Gran if she lives, and my heart aches to know I’ll not see them again. There is only enough to bring you and Mary Kathleen now, but in the spring we’ll send for Ryan and his.

  Even as he wrote, he felt sure that Granna was dead and perhaps Patrick, as well, for they had visited his dreams in the way of Grace’s visions. Patrick’s face had been battered, but Granna bore no signs of a violent death; peace radiated from her hands when she laid them upon Sean’s shoulders and said that he would never return to Ireland. God had plans for him in America, she said, but he must find his sister first, he must bring her away. In the same dream, Aghna wept over a small grave, and Ryan beside her, and then they drifted to sea in an open boat that sailed into the night until it was no more.

  He checked the receipt that lay near his inkwell and wrote again.

  I have booked and paid for your passage out of Cork the first day of November on the American brigate Christina, captained by John Applegate, a man of solid reputation. It is he who customarily pays the commutation fees, but I have advanced this to him in order to ensure your disembarkment. Still, nothing is certain in these uncertain times, so you must be prepared.

  He steadied his hand again, remembering his own horrific voyage on the overcrowded vessel, Lydia Ann. Several of the water kegs had leaked and another was contaminated from wine; the captain had had to ration the meager provisions daily so that a week’s worth of food would not be consumed in a single day. There were lice and fever, and the hold stank with the sickness and filth of its passengers.

  At all cost, you must keep yourself and Mary Kate well, for they will not allow any sickness to come off the boat in New York and will instead send you on to Nova Scotia, which is no good. Dress warmly, laying garment over garment, with a blanket wrapped round as a cloak. Gather what food you can and bring this instead of extra clothes in your satchel, as you cannot count on the kindness of the captain or the measure of shipboard provisions. It will be hard to fire a pot, so think on that, and bring dried fish or fruit, hard bread and cheese, if you can come by these things.

  Ogue’s tiny wife had brought him a cup of hot water with a little whiskey and lemon spice, and he reached for this now, sipping it carefully and warming his hands. He had run out of food five days before sailing into port.

  Get up into the air each day and avoid the rank fever that will spread among those in the hold. Do not tend the ill. Do not risk yourself. Again, I sa
y that you will not be allowed to disembark if you show any signs of sickness!

  He underlined the last sentence, remembering the howls of those who were kept aboard and the riot that had nearly ensued. Out of food and water, having come so far and landed so close, the passengers were loath to put out to sea for the trip north to British America. They had all heard the horrors of landing at Grosse Pointe and were afraid of dying there. He himself—sure to be kept on with his crippled arm and leg, and his terrible cough—had jumped overboard on the last night the brig still harbored. He had snuck up to the deck, avoiding the watch, then waited until a log drifted past before jumping into the water and clinging to it, praying all the while he would not be taken back out to sea. Near dawn, he was picked up in a dory by angels disguised as drunken sailors, who merrily rowed him back to shore and tossed him on the rocky bank.

  When time comes to leave the boat—his pen scratched furiously against the paper—cling fast to Mary Kate and your satchel. Hand it over to no one, even if the man be Irish and convincing. These hooligans are runners, and they’ll speak our tongue and snatch your bag, forcing you to follow them to a crowded, filthy room where they’ll charge you sixpence for a meal and six more for a bed. They are liars and cheats, and will try to wrest the satchel from your hand or worse, Mary Kate’s hand from yours so that you will be obliged to follow. Cling hard and stand fast. I and some of my boys will be on the lookout for you.

  He stopped, worried now that this might frighten her from coming at all. Then he shook his head. Not Grace.

  You’ll not have it as rough as the others coming here with no one to look out for them, and you’ll not have to stay in the cellars, which is where many go. I have a small room above a pub owned by a fine man who has agreed to let you stay next door down. He is a believer in the cause and a good Catholic, so we can pay what we have when we can, for now. It is not as rough a place as some, and Mary Kate will be safe off the street.

  That sounded better—she would be happy to know that. What else could he tell her? He pondered, then dipped his pen again.