by Ann Moore
“Ah, there you are now, all hunched over those papers and scowling like bad weather. Don’t mind if I sit, do you?” The handsome young Irishman pulled out a chair, not waiting for a reply.
“How are you, Danny?” Sean smiled at his colorful friend, poor as any man, but always sporting a clean vest and a silk tie around his neck.
“Well, now, myself is just fine, but I hear your Miss Osgoode is home in bed and isn’t that a lovely thing to dwell upon?” His eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Shame on you, Danny.” Sean tried not to smile. “That’s no way to talk about a fine Christian woman like Marcy Osgoode.”
“Certainly not round her father, mind you, but here between two friends such as us, what harm in being manly?” He laughed and picked up Sean’s glass, downing half the ale in a single gulp. “Thanks, boyo. ’Tis warm in here.”
“Not that warm.” Sean retrieved his drink. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Why are you not out working like an honest citizen?”
“I’m my own man, am I not?” Danny puffed out his chest. “I keep my own hours, don’t I?” He glanced out the window. “Well and anyway, ’tis raining, sure enough, and no one stopping to get their boots shined in this lousy weather.” He turned his attention back to Sean. “Are you coming to the meeting tonight, even without your sweet miss?”
Sean grimaced. “I forgot, to tell you the truth, but don’t say that to her father. I’m speaking to a group of dockworkers tonight—mostly Irish—reminding them of their duty back home.”
“Plenty don’t want to be reminded, you know, boyo,” Danny told him. “Plenty just want to get on with their lives, make the best of things here in the new land.”
“I know that. But those who’ve gotten out alive owe it to those who’ve stayed behind to fight. When Ireland is free, they’ll want to be able to say they did their part.”
“They’ll say that anyway, being Irish.” Danny grinned.
Sean laughed. “Fair enough. But I’m still going.”
“You really think we’ll win this thing, Sean? Beat back the English, and reclaim our land?”
“I do,” Sean said with more conviction than he felt. “But not without guns and ammunition, not without food and medicine.”
Danny nodded. “Maybe I’ll skip prayer meeting myself and come along with you tonight, then.”
“And disappoint all those young women?” Sean teased.
“Ah, ’tis true, ’tis true,” Danny sighed with mock humility. “Lord knows I love to inspire my sisters to greater heights of devotion.” He grinned waggishly. “But I’m feeling the need to be with men—Irishmen. I’ll stand in the crowd, and loudly agree with everything you’re saying, like you’ve won me over with your fine persuasion. Inspire my brothers, for a change. Besides,” he said, lowering his voice, “that bastard Callahan’s bound to show up, him and his guards. Thinks he’s the only Irishman good enough to live in this city, always looking for ways to run the rest of us out.”
“That’s the sorry truth of it.” Sean rubbed his arm. “You’d think having an Irishman high up as he is in the police would work to our advantage, wouldn’t you?”
“Naw,” Danny said scornfully. “He’s just like them land agents back home—English on the inside, but Irish on the out and hating anyone who knows it. That’s it. I’m coming. You need a bodyguard, and I’m your man. Get you out of there quick-like if a scuffle breaks out.”
“Ah, you’re a true friend, Danny Young. Come round about seven then, and we’ll go from here.”
“Done!” Danny jumped up from his chair and clapped Sean on the shoulder. “And after, we’ll be making the rounds, eh?”
“Who’s buying?” Sean asked, suspiciously.
“You are, of course. To thank me for supporting you while you give another of your famously long-winded—I mean deeply stirring”—he winked—“speeches about Mother Ireland! See you at seven, boyo, and don’t be holding me up!” He gave a jaunty salute, then worked his way to the front door, slapping the backs of all the old drinkers.
Sean watched him go and thought again how much Grace would like Danny—he was a lot like Quinn Sheehan back home, and Quinn had always been able to make Grace laugh. Grace. His smile faded. He could only hope that William had gotten his letter and had then managed to find Grace and Mary Kate in the midst of chaos. He could only hope they were even now on the ship, drawing closer every day.
He looked down at the papers spread on the table—none of it good news, really. Not about Ireland. “Please, Father,” he silently prayed, “deliver them safely. And if it’s not too much trouble, Lord, would You include McDonagh in that bargain, as well?”
He closed his eyes briefly and for a moment caught a glimpse of Grace dancing with Morgan at their brother’s wedding a lifetime ago— fiddler in the corner, neighbors crowded up against the walls, glasses full of poteen and punch, children running in and out, tinkers leaning in at the windows—and he was filled with a longing so sharp that it made him wince and clutch his chest. He opened his eyes then and looked out the smeary window as he did a thousand times a day, hoping beyond hope to see her face but seeing instead only the dark, forbidding sky of winter.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to the Bellingham Public Library and Wilson Library at Western Washington University for resource materials; to the many fine authors of histories and novels about the Irish famine, most notably Cecil Woodham-Smith and Liam O’Flaherty; to the members of U2 for the inspiration of their music and their politics; to poet William “Bud” Cairns, and metafictionalist Omar S. Castañeda—both gone now, but carried warmly in my heart; to Jean Naggar, literary agent and trusted advisor; to my beloved children, Nigel and Gracelin; to Teri and Peter Smith, Glen and Ezra, constant friends; and last, but most important—great thanks to my husband, Rick, for the thousands of hours he has spent listening, reading, researching, advising, and encouraging in more ways than anyone will ever know—I could never have written this book without his unwavering support.
About the Author
Ann Moore was born in England and grew up in the Pacific Northwest region of Washington State. An award-winning author, Moore holds a master of arts from Western Washington University. Her trilogy of historical novels—Gracelin O’Malley, Leaving Ireland, and ’Til Morning Light—has been published internationally and enjoys a wide readership of enthusiastic fans. Moore and her family live in Bellingham, Washington.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Ann Moore
Map © Virginia Norey, 2001
Cover design by Liz Connor
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7293-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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