by Ann Moore
This is the Land of Plenty, true enough. Walk down any street and there lie crates of apples and tomatoes, squashes, corn, and onions. The butcher’s shop is full of hanging meat—hams and great sides of beef—and there is a bakery on every street with breads, rolls, and cakes. Men with carts full of fresh fish come every few days, and you cannot imagine the abundance of cod and turbot, red snapper, crabs, clams, and mussels. And none of it so dear as to put it out of your head. On the pennies I earn, I have eaten well enough, and you would not recognize me for the flesh on my own face! Mary Kate will grow and thrive here, I promise you. There are plenty of jobs to be had, though the work is hard.
He would not tell her that the Irish were known for taking hard work at little pay, and that they were resented for this by most of the other immigrants. He would not tell her about the shantytowns or the parish burnings, the prejudice and harassment. He would not say that lately newspaper editorials had been calling for the end of the tremendous flow of destitute Irish into their communities.
Please come—he urged—It will do my heart good to look upon the bold eyes of an Irish pirate come flying in from the bog with mud on her feet. Your daughter will have a fine home here, as will your husband, when he comes. And he will come, Grace. Have faith in that. He has loved you with all his heart and God will grant you a life together in this new land until our own is safe again. For now, we must be like the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, but it is a fine wilderness the Lord has provided, and we can all grow strong here. Come right away. I am counting the days until the ship docks.
He stopped and blotted the ink carefully, then read it over. It was too full of warnings and high emotion, but he would send it anyway. It would have to go out tomorrow to reach her by the end of October. If she did not delay, she could sail in November on the last ship out before the winter storms. She must sail then. She must.
The letter had come addressed to William Smith O’Brien at his residence, and when he opened it, there was a second envelope with the name “Gracelin O’Malley” scrawled across its front in Sean’s unmistakable handwriting. He did not think twice, but slit it open and took it to the window to read in better light. He read it once, and then again, and when he’d finished, he set it down and stared out over the browning autumn garden. There was little he could do now, but certainly he could arrange for her to be on that boat. As the light faded from the garden, he resolved that, in this, he would not fail. He owed that much to McDonagh.
Thirty-four
IN the Autumn of 1847, Ireland continued to starve, much to the dismay of authorities who had overseen the influx of food from the United States and Great Britain. Most maddening of all was the decline of communities along the coast who were subsisting on old cabbage leaves, roadside weeds, rotten turnips, and dillisk, an edible seaweed. They ate raw limpets pulled from the rocks, but no one fished the teeming sea that could have saved their lives. Herring and mackerel, cod, turbot, and sole swarmed in the deep, cold waters off the coast, but no attempt was made to catch them. What fishing gear that once existed had long been sold to buy meal, and now the most a determined fisherman could hope for was one of the fragile curraghs to carry him into the ripping currents. Fishing off the rocky coasts was dangerous, but not impossible, and so it was hard to watch many coastal communities, including Galway, continue to starve.
The fisherman of Galway lived in the settlement of Claddagh, where they had their own dialect and their own mayor, a “king” whose word was law and who was strictly obeyed. Strangers were not allowed to live here, and harassed if they dared try. Mothers passed down to daughters the Claddagh Ring, a band of thick gold that signified their membership. They were a strange and clannish bunch—living in clustered, thatched black beehive huts—suspicious and hard to deal with. Even the Quakers had experienced frustration in providing relief to the obstinate Ring Fishermen.
The Claddagh claimed exclusive rights to some of the best fishing in Ireland and they guarded those rights fiercely. Sometimes they would go out and bring in a fine catch of herring, but then they would refuse to go out for days and neither would they allow anyone else to go out. This was their way. But now, they could not go out, because their boats and nets were sold or ruined, and so they lay like the rest of their countrymen, quietly starving in their huts. This was the community Ryan and Aghna came to at last, and this was where they died.
Road fever had hit them two days from Galway, but still they staggered on, Aghna much more ill than Ryan and raving like a madwoman by the time he half carried her into Claddagh. Though people clearly lived in the huts, no one would answer their call for help, or bring them food or drink.
“I belong here!” Aghna screamed, shaking her fist. “Ask the Jesuits!”
Dark faces appeared at the windows, but they were full of suspicion for the strangers who did not speak their dialect and who were yellow with fever.
The sun was high all through the day as Aghna and Ryan wandered among the huts, then finally down to the beach where they sat, exhausted and stunned, on the damp sand. Splintered curraghs were littered around them, and when the wind came up in the middle of the day, they got into one that seemed most whole and lay down together on the warm, salty wood. Fever washed through them; it hurt to move, and the talk that wove around them was only in their minds. No one brought them food or fresh water. No one came to see if they still lived.
Night fell and stars emerged in a perfect, cloudless sky. Ryan opened his eyes and looked up at them, felt the heavy weight of Aghna’s head on his arm, tried to curl it around her more tightly but could not. The tide was coming in; it crept up the beach an inch at a time and finally began to lap against the stern of the small boat, swirling and pooling until the curragh rocked as gently as a newborn’s cradle. They heard not a thousand farewells, but only the one voice calling them home, and when at last they drifted out to sea under the endless night sky, they had already answered it.
Under the same, watchful sky but across the island on the eastern shore, Henry Adams left a boat at Youghal Bay and hired a horse, the fastest horse he could find at this hour of the night and from such reluctant company as crouched over tables in the sailors’ pub. He had been missing now nearly two days, and it would be another two days before he could get back. There’d be questions to answer, but he was not afraid. McDonagh was dead, and the letter to Grace burned a hole in the pocket over his heart.
The road was unfamiliar and he was thankful for a way lit by the bright moon and star-scattered sky. It came upon him that he should have worn something other than his uniform, but he had not thought to change; indeed he had not paused a single minute once word reached the post that the outlaw McDonagh had died of fever in his cell, having made his last confession to the prison priest, not a word of it any use to the British. The strength of conviction that had come upon Henry at the jail had not left him and had, in fact, grown so strong that he had not hesitated when word came, but had gone immediately to his bunk and reached up into the slit in the bottom of the mattress where the letter was hidden. He had written a quick message to his captain saying that one of the hospital doctors was in need of assistance down South, and as Henry had helped before and no current duties held him here, he’d set off immediately. He had added his assurance of the captain’s understanding, and promised to be back in four days’ time. This was not military protocol, but Henry had been called away in the past and the captain had always given his permission. Henry would say, upon his return, that the fictional doctor had died of fever and he, himself, was feeling unwell. He hoped for immediate quarantine, with no time for questions until he’d had time to review.
So caught up in his plan was he as he rode through the night, that he did not hear the muffled shout on the hill in front of him nor sense any danger. He did not notice the men moving through the trees on the uphill side of the road, nor did he find a warning in the growing skittishness of his unfamiliar horse. His soul was right with God, for he was on God’s er
rand, and his heart was finally free from the misery that had muddied it since he’d come to Ireland. Henry was now the man he’d wanted to become, though only days old.
The end of life came not with pain and thunder, nor with torture and despair, but quickly, without realization or the chance to doubt himself. It came in a brief flash of light, barely caught from the corner of his eye, before all light dimmed within him and he toppled from his horse, a single bullet having found its mark.
The terrified horse reared and screamed, then bolted, dragging the body of the British soldier whose boot was caught in the stirrup. Three men and a boy appeared in the road, hands raised to quiet the horse. When they had calmed the frightened animal, they loosed the soldier, dragging him into the bush where they searched through his clothing.
“Take his gun and caps,” a rough voice ordered. “And any silver.”
“Here’s a letter in his jacket pocket.” The boy held up an envelope, white in the moonlight.
“Is he just a messenger then?” mumbled another man. “Throw it away.”
“Nay,” the rough voice spoke again. “Might be important. Can anyone read?”
No one spoke.
“Put it in the saddlebag, then, along with the rest of it.”
When they were done searching the body, they moved him out into plain sight, as though sitting by the road, having a nap against the stone wall. They even crossed his legs in fun, and tipped his hat down over his eyes. Let the Brits find him that way and be warned off this road, they told themselves. Let them know fear as others knew it.
The moon had left the night sky and the last of the stars stood brave against the dawn when they reached the cabin of the old woman who doctored in secret. They rapped on the door and called out the password, then entered and went immediately to warm themselves by the hearth. Here, they squatted, too tired to talk, gratefully accepting the small bowls of runny porridge offered by the midwife’s daughter. They ate silently, then stretched out on the floor to sleep, all except the boy, who picked up the saddlebag and carried it to their captain, abed with a leg blown to bits. The old midwife had skillfully removed his foot and now talked of taking more, as the leg had turned green to the knee and gave off a terrific smell. The boy took a deep breath before entering the small, windowless chamber where the captain lay.
“Morning, Captain Alroy,” the boy said respectfully, peering into the dim room at the shape on the bed.
Abban pulled himself up to sitting and winced with the pain of it. “Has it come again, then, boy?” He turned up the whale oil lantern, casting shadows on the wall. “Well, I’ve lived to see another day. What have you got there?”
“Saddlebag.” He held it up. “We laid for a soldier on the main road, and didn’t we leave him to warn off the others from riding through there?”
“Did you now?” Abban spoke quietly.
“Aye,” said the boy. “We brought back his horse and gun, and there’s papers in here, as well. Might be important to yourself,” he added proudly.
“Bring it here.” Abban held out his hand. “Then go rest yourself.”
“I’m not tired, Captain!”
“Have you not been out all night, and on a fearful errand?” Abban frowned. “’Tis bad enough that men must do such things … let alone mothers’ sons.” He remembered with sudden clarity young Nolan standing alone in the river. “Are we not fighting these battles so the likes of you won’t have to?”
“I’m not afraid to fight,” the boy answered defiantly. “And I’m as brave as any man, with no mother left to mourn me nor no father, as well.”
Abban sighed. “We’d mourn you, boy. And I tell you true, my heart is sick with burying children.”
“I’ll not be left behind to cook and mend,” the boy announced. “I joined up as a fighter, not a sweep!”
“When you joined up, you put your life in my hands, and that is where it now lies, do you understand me?” Abban put as much menace into his voice as he could muster.
The boy said nothing, but did not hide the hurt in his eyes.
“Get some rest, now,” Abban ordered, then added less gruffly, “You’re a fine boy and I want you to live to be a fine man, is all. But you must obey me, for the arm of death has a long reach and you’re no good to us six feet under.”
The boy nodded soberly, respectful again in light of this approach. Abban shook his head after the boy left the room, then reached for the saddlebag, his nose wrinkling in disgust at his own rotten smell. It wasn’t mending, he knew that. Better to have it off and be done with it. If only the old woman didn’t seem so gleeful about her surgeries.
He emptied out the papers, which did not appear to be military, but personal and belonging to a farmer: grain receipts, hog prices, an auction sheet—nothing of any real importance.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled to himself. “They’ve gone and shot a bloody Irish farmer instead of an English soldier.”
He sifted through the papers again, picking up a crumpled envelope, sealed, with no name or location. Frowning, he tore off the end and pulled out a letter, folded into which was a gentleman’s engraved wedding band and two gold earrings. He recognized the earrings immediately and his heart scudded into his throat. It was a hurried message—words had been crossed out and the ink was smeared from folding it up before it had dried. Steadying himself, he brought the lantern closer and began to read Morgan’s letter.
Dear Grace—it said—If reading this you are, ’tis only because I could not come to you myself. I have asked your friend to carry it along, so that you might not hear false tales of it in the street. I know you are with Barbara and that she will comfort you. Weep for me, and then be done with weeping, for I am watching over you now as I never could before.
Abban’s vision blurred and he swiped angrily at his eyes with the rough sleeve of his shirt. He read the letter through to the end, then set it down and stared at the three gold rings in his hand.
Morgan must have died in jail, Abban thought, and his grief was so intense that if God had appeared and asked was he ready to leave this earth, his answer would have been a solemn “aye.” Riding hard on the heels of his grief, though, was the terrible anguish of guilt. The soldier his men had killed had been a messenger between the two people Abban loved most in the world. This soldier had managed to see Morgan and was carrying out the man’s last wishes. Grace and Morgan had somehow wed, and their child was coming into the world, a child that Morgan would never see but that he loved and took comfort in. Morgan had wanted her to know the truth of his sure death before it became distorted into something wildly heroic or agonizingly brutal, so that she might have some peace. And the messenger had been killed by Abban’s own men. His hand clenched into a fist around the rings and he smashed it against the wall, roaring like a bull.
The old woman rushed down the hall. “Is it the pain again, Cap’n?” she asked from the doorway, barely stifling her hopefulness.
“Aye,” Abban snapped.
“Shall we have it off today, then?”
“To ease this pain you’d have to cut out my heart,” he growled.
Her eyes widened in astonishment, and her hand flew to her mouth. He got hold of himself as her look became one of growing anticipation.
“Never you mind,” he said quickly. “I’m not myself. Today the leg comes off,” he added. “But only below the knee!”
“Ah, ’tis a pity,” she said unconvincingly. “I’ll boil the saw.”
“Fine.” Abban grimaced. “Send me the boy.”
She went away, rubbing her hands briskly, calling to the boy, who jumped down from the hay loft and came running.
“You need me, then, Captain?” he asked, breathlessly.
“Aye.” Abban folded the letter carefully and returned it to its envelope. “Wait a moment.” He wrote out a short note of his own, saying only that the soldier who carried the letter had been killed, and that he, Abban, was praying for her. This he added to the envelope. “I have a
n errand for you.”
The boy’s eyes flickered, but he did not allow disappointment to cloud his features. “Aye, sir,” he said evenly.
“I want you to carry this letter to a convent in Cork City. Holy Sisters of the Rose. Give it into the hands of Sister John Paul and tell her to read it in private. Got that?”
The boy nodded. “Sister John Paul at Holy Sisters of the Rose in Cork City. Read it in private.”
“This is terrible important, boy,” Abban warned. He paused, then said in a low voice, “Do you know the name ‘McDonagh’?”
The boy’s eyes widened in awe. “Oh, aye, sir. Doesn’t everyone know the name of the most fearless man in all of Ireland?”
Abban swallowed the lump in his throat. “Do this for him, then, boy. And do not fail him.”
“No, sir, I won’t, sir. You can count on me.”
“Draw no attention to yourself in the city,” Abban admonished. “Take Lewis with you for safety, but go alone to the convent gates.”
The boy listened carefully. “Do I wait for an answer?”
Abban thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “Come back straight away.”
The boy took the letter reverently and put it inside his shirt. His eyes were shining as he stood tall and gave Abban a smart salute.
“Deliver that letter and come back alive, and you’ll have proved your worth as a soldier to me,” Abban said soberly.
“I’ll not fail you, Captain. Nor him.”
With that, the boy left, and a moment later Abban heard him calling to the new man from County Wicklow, heard them go out into the courtyard and ready one of the jennets. They knew the roads, and could make it to the city and back in good time. There had been no need to have him wait, Abban told himself, for how could she ever answer a letter such as this?
Thirty-five
PATRICK, Grace, and Mary Kathleen had been at the convent for nearly ten days, sleeping much of the time and eating the meager meals Barbara brought to them each day. Grace had tried to give her the rest of Henry’s money, but Barbara had refused, insisting she keep it for the trip to Dublin. Tomorrow, they would go.