The Irish Rogue

by Judith E. French

  He tugged his hat down low on his forehead. "It might come to that. But our neighbors are becoming wary of sitting down to a friendly game of cards with me. And furthermore, I want to put you on your feet. If I leave, I want you to be able to survive without my help."

  "If?" She arched a dark brow. "When you leave, you mean."

  "Don't, Annie. I've told you before: you're far better off without me. Nothing but heartbreak could come of a forever after. Heads and hearts don't mix in marriage."

  "So say you," she answered softly. "But you don't know everything about women. Sometimes, I think you don't know anything at all."

  "There's truth. A woman's one of God's mysteries. I can't decide if he gave Eve to Adam as a reward or as a punishment."

  He tucked his arm in hers and led them down an alley and onto a narrow lane. There were houses here, a few with fences around the small front yards, but most with bare earth or patches of ragged grass. Candlelight glowed through windows, and Anne could hear a screaming newborn.

  "Have you been in Baltimore before?" she asked him. "Do you have any idea where you're going?"

  "No, I've not been here, but I asked directions at the inn."

  They walked until they came to a wagon shed, then followed another lane where the houses seemed to lean against each other for support. They weren't old as much as poorly constructed, and they sat directly on the street without any front yards at all.

  It was nearly dark, and there was much less traffic here. Instead of raw wood, Anne smelled rotting fish. They circled around a huge sow lying in the gutter and nearly collided with a man bursting out of a shadowed doorway.

  "Come home stinking of rum without a coin in your pocket!" A fat woman pounded after him. "Good for nothing!" she bellowed as she tossed the contents of a bucket at his receding back. "How do you expect me to feed these children if—?"

  Anne's mouth dropped open as the formidable female stopped and whirled on her and O'Ryan.

  "What you staring at?" the fishwife demanded. "Nosy busybodies!" She herded a bevy of wailing children back inside, delivered a final curse, and slammed the door, nearly taking the tail off a fleeing tabby cat.

  On the far side of the street, the faithless head of the household shook cabbage leaves and potato peels off his coat and delivered an equally sacrilegious retort. Digging a bottle from his pocket, he uncorked it and drained the last drops. "Ungrateful trull," he muttered before collapsing against a rain barrel. "No respect... no damned respect." His head sagged against his chest and he began to snore loudly.

  Anne dissolved in laughter. "Here? You expect to find honest farmworkers here?"

  "Oh ye of little faith," he teased.

  At the end of the road was an empty lot filled with refuse. Beyond that, O'Ryan turned down another alley that led close to the bay. Anne could smell the water and see the thick mist rolling in.

  "I don't like this," she said. "It was foggy the night—"

  Abruptly, the pealing of church bells cut short her complaint.

  "Just ahead," O'Ryan said. "There."

  Anne could barely make out a squat building ahead.

  "That should be Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Joseph is the priest here. He is the guardian of the Irish community. Through him, I hope to find Sean. He'll know where to find likely men to hire."

  "But what if we can't find Sean?"

  "In County Clare the old people have a saying: 'The only way to cross a bog is one step at a time.' You're among my kind now. Watch and listen. Stay close, and try to keep out of trouble."

  "And trust you?"

  "Aye, darling. Devil or not, I'm the only hope you've got."

  Chapter 20

  "Well, Annie, what do you think?" O'Ryan leaned close to make himself heard above the wild swirl of Celtic music and the stamp of heavy leather boots against the wide plank flooring.

  She didn't attempt an answer. Hornpipe, flute, pennywhistle, drum, and violin spun a fiery tapestry of nearly deafening enchantment that echoed off the massive rafters of the old barn and enveloped them in sound and motion.

  Earlier, at the Catholic church, she and O'Ryan had found Father Joseph and a few parishioners gathered for an evening worship service. The jovial priest had explained that most of his flock would likely be at this barn on the edge of town for a ceilidhe, a night of Irish dancing and music.

  Anne decided that half the population of Ireland must be here, dancing, standing along the walls, tapping toes in worn leather shoes, gossiping, eating, drinking, and singing along with the musicians. Old people, toddlers, and youngsters joined in the merriment. Children darted in and out of the sets of dancers, some keeping time to the beat, others twirling and stomping to their own rhythms.

  All her life, Anne had attended musical get-togethers on the Eastern Shore, but she'd never experienced anything like this. Reel followed reel, interspersed with jigs, and an occasional ballad, sung a cappella in a language Anne guessed was Celtic.

  Sometimes, O'Ryan would tell her the names of the pieces: "Sligo Daughter,"

  "The Soldier's Farewell,"

  "Thrush at My Window," and "Foggy Island Road." Tunes began almost before the last notes of the previous one faded. Some pieces were joyous, but others so sad that they brought tears to Anne's eyes, even though she could not understand a word.

  The bows and fingers of the musicians moved so quickly that it seemed some of the smoke hovering overhead was from the instruments rather than the long clay pipes favored equally by men and women. Anne marveled at the stamina of the assembly, rawboned men and women clad in little more than rags, who laughed and danced for hours without rest.

  Despite the open doors at either end, the big barn was very warm. The scents of boiled cabbage, baked apples, sausages, and mashed turnips vied with unwashed sweating bodies, babies' soiled nappies, tobacco, ale, and poteen, a potent homemade whiskey.

  Men outnumbered the females three times over, so that the ladies were much sought out for dance partners. But when there was no woman available, male volunteers willingly tied a kerchief around their necks and leaped into the breach.

  "When will you ask if any want work?" Anne asked O'Ryan in the seconds between the end of one reel and the start of another.

  "In good time," he replied. "Tonight is for thoughts of home and family. Here for a few hours they can forget defeat and hungry bellies."

  Halfway through the evening, Sean Cleary shouldered through the crowd and flung himself at O'Ryan. The two hugged one another like lost brothers before Sean remembered his manners and snatched off his cloth cap to pay his respects.

  "Missus," he said warmly. "Sure and it's fine as paint you're looking."

  She returned his greetings and asked after his wife.

  "My Nora's here," he answered. "Over by the food tables with the young ones. They heard that there would be sweet cakes, although where the likes of us would find the makings, I'm sure I don't know. Glued to those tables they've been, with eyes as big as a Boyne curragh."

  "Curragh?" Anne asked.

  O'Ryan chuckled. "A round wicker boat covered with oxhide. Trust the Irish to build a boat without bow or stern."

  "Ah, but they be seaworthy enough," Sean said. "I've seen men cross the Devil's own seas in them, waves as high as those rafters. And come to land without a hair harmed."

  O'Ryan settled an arm around Anne's shoulders, and she thrilled at his touch. She kept reminding herself that he couldn't be trusted, that he was an utter rascal, but nothing could prevent her pulse from racing when he brushed against her.

  "Pay no attention to Sean," O'Ryan teased. "He's a champion liar among a race of liars. When Sean tells a story, bait-fish turn to whales, and ha'pence to guineas."

  "And you don't?" Anne laughed. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were speaking of yourself, Mr. O'Ryan."

  "Ahhh." He moaned dramatically and clutched his chest. "The woman wounds me to the heart. See what I must put up with? She's a hard one, I tell you."


  Sean grinned and gave O'Ryan a friendly punch in the shoulder. "What's a man to do?" the Irish craftsman asked. "It's a man's fate to love the colleens with tongues like thorn hedges."

  "For shame," Anne said. "To speak so of your gentle wife."

  Sean grinned at her. "My Nora? Sweet Nora could out-scream a banshee." He nodded. "And she often does just that."

  "Nora came through her lying-in all right?" O'Ryan asked. "She and the babe? You've said nothing of—"

  Sean's plain face creased with pain. "Nay, the mite 'twas stillborn, God rest his little soul." Hastily, he made the sign of the cross over his chest. "Took it hard, she did."

  "I'm sorry," O'Ryan said.

  "'Tis not for us to question His plans. The baby was prayed over and buried in holy ground, and there's an end to it." Sean looked over his shoulder to see that no one was close enough to hear him, then stepped closer to O'Ryan. "If you're here tonight, friend, you got my message—the one I sent from Philadelphia."

  "Yes," O'Ryan said. "I did."

  Sean glanced apprehensively at Anne.

  "It's all right," O'Ryan assured him. "Anne knows what happened aboard ship."

  "I was afraid to stay in that town any longer, folks knowing that you lived with us."

  "Coming here was a wise move. There was no sense in endangering Nora and the children."

  Sean nodded in agreement. "So I thought."

  "Have you had any luck finding work here?"

  "Nah, a day here and there. Nothing steady a man can put bread on the table with. If it weren't for Father Joseph, there'd be more than one Cleary in the churchyard."

  "With that at least I can help you." O'Ryan squeezed Anne's shoulders. "We want you to come and work for us. At my wife's plantation."

  Sean's eyes widened. "For you? Have you room for Nora and the—"

  "For your whole family," Anne said. "Michael has a cottage ready for you. It isn't much, but—"

  "That's news that will bring the roses to my Nora's cheeks. I warn you, though, our young ones are a lively lot. I hope—"

  "Your children are welcome." Anne swallowed the constriction in her throat. "And we need other workers as well."

  "Can you find us eight, perhaps ten men?" O'Ryan asked. "I'd prefer farmers, fishermen, craftsmen. They need to be honest and in good health."

  "They can bring their wives and babes?" Sean's fists knotted and unknotted, and his chest heaved with excitement. "Sweet wounds of Christ, but that's good fortune. I can think of four—no, five already. Father Joseph may know other dependable men. One lad, Owen Conway—just eighteen, he is—has no wife, but he's walking out with Darby Gilmore's Pegeen. You'll want Darby and his brother Patty. Farmers both, and Darby is a mason as well."

  "Good," O'Ryan said. "Why don't we meet at the church at ten tomorrow morning? You bring the men you think I'd want, and we'll discuss wages then."

  "I've got to tell Nora," Sean replied eagerly. "I can share the news with her, can't I?"

  "Wait until you leave. There's many a good man here this night," O'Ryan said. "And we can only take on a few."

  "Aye. If she let a word slip that there were jobs, it would start a riot. Desperate men are dangerous, and drink makes them worse. Some has already had a nip too many. You may have seen the boys escorting Jack Murphy outside. A blow-hard is Jack, and too ready with his fists. None you'd want on your land."

  O'Ryan exchanged a few final words with his friend, then Sean returned to his family. O'Ryan looked down at Anne. "You'll never regret hiring him. His wife Nora is sensible and easy to get along with. She'll be a help to you in the house. She's an excellent plain cook and a skilled dairywoman."

  "How is it that you know these common people so well? You're Irish, true enough, but you're not of the same class at all. How does a gentleman's son come to understand poor men?"

  "Ah, Anne, always the questions. I left off being a gentleman's son when I joined the fight against British occupation of our land. Poor folk like these hid me and fed me many a time. They die for freedom easier than the rich do, because they have so little to lose but their own blood. It opened my eyes, and made me value a person—wench or lad—for what they do, not what they wear or how they talk."

  "That's what gave you sympathy for the slaves."

  "Aye, I suppose it did."

  She looked thoughtful. "Will they be willing to learn new ways, your Irish? Growing tobacco is different than potatoes."

  "We'll not be raising tobacco after this crop is in. I mean to sow winter wheat. We'll send beef, potatoes, and salt-cured cabbage here to Baltimore for the ship trade. These men know cattle and grain. Their wives can milk the herd of cows I mean to purchase, and they can make butter and cheese. Your father said it, Annie. Tobacco is a dying crop here on the Tidewater. The sot weed has bled the soil and drained the strength from too many fieldworkers. If you want to save Gentleman's Folly, you've got to adapt to new times and new crops."

  "And where did you acquire such advanced knowledge of farming?"

  "Some from books, some from other planters like Nate Greensboro. But believe it or not, Abraham gave me most of those ideas."

  "I don't know," she hedged. "It's taking a big chance."

  "Isn't that what you did when you accepted my offer of marriage?"

  "You're full of glib answers."

  "Smile, Annie. You're the prettiest woman here, you know."

  Before she could answer, the music stopped and one of the violinists called out to O'Ryan.

  "You there, fine gentleman! Cleary says you've a fair hand with a bow." He held out his instrument.

  "Aye!" shouted a chorus of voices.

  "Show us what you can do!"

  "Sea!" cried an old woman in the Gaelic tongue.

  O'Ryan glanced at Anne.

  "Go ahead, Michael," she murmured.

  The throng parted to let him through to the crude platform where the musicians waited. A burly redhead offered O'Ryan a hand up, and he took the offered violin and cradled it against his chest.

  "What can you play?" demanded a gray-haired crone in a homespun shawl and men's boots. "Know you the 'Black-water Lament'?"

  O'Ryan drew the bow across the instrument so softly that it was almost a caress, then paused to tighten the D-string. The assembly hushed as he tucked the scroll under his chin and began to play.

  As the first clear notes sounded, Anne shivered. The music poured out, more magic than sound. Michael might be a rogue, but he played the violin like one of God's angels.

  Anne closed her eyes as the sweet, sorrowful melody swept over her. The sheer beauty of the tune touched a chord bone-deep. The dance floor faded, and in its place she could see Michael's green island in the mist and taste the fairy dew on her lips. And as the final notes died away, she could not prevent her tears from spilling any more than she could stop loving Michael O'Ryan.

  "Missus?"

  Anne's eyes flew open. "Oh. I'm sorry," she murmured. It was hard to shake off the enchantment and give her attention to Sean and the gaunt woman standing beside him.

  "Missus." the Irishman said, "I want you to meet my Nora."

  "You great cabbage-head! You might tell the lady that I'm your wife," Nora urged.

  "I know who you are," Anne said. O'Ryan's golden notes still eddied through her mind, and she searched for the right words to make Nora feel at ease. "I'm greatly indebted to you, I understand. Michael tells me that you saved his life during the ocean crossing."

  "And he mine. A blessing that we made his acquaintance. He saved me from worse than death and suffered greatly for the deed."

  "No need to make light of what you did," Sean said. "Nora's a saint, for all her trying to seem otherwise. I was all for minding our own business and leaving Michael to his punishment. It was her what insisted..." He chattered on, repeating the story O'Ryan had told her about his ordeal on the ship.

  Anne was all too willing to let the Irishman do the talking until her husband rejoined them. "That was w
onderful," she said to Michael. "What was that piece you played?"

  "Ah, the 'Lament.'" Sean sighed."'Tis an old tune and a sad one."

  "And none can play it like our Michael," Nora said.

  A thin child with the face of an angel wiggled through the press of dancers and onlookers. "Mam, Johnny's filching sweets off the table. I tried to make him stop but—"

  "Hush, Daniel. Can't you see that your da's talking with someone?" Nora frowned and wiped the boy's mouth with the corner of her apron. "And what is this I see on your lips, Daniel, angel wings?" She took a firm grasp of the boy's hand. "If you'll excuse me, Mrs. O'Ryan, I must see to my greedy spalpeens."

  Mortified, the child stared at the floor.

  Sean laughed. "And you never stole a sweet either, wife?" He brushed back the lad's unruly dark hair. "I'll come along to help," he offered.

  "And probably steal more than all the younglings put together," Nora retorted. The three of them moved away as the musicians began another spirited reel.

  Michael smiled down at Anne. Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips. "Will you do me the honor, Mrs. O'Ryan?"

  "I'm not sure I know how to do these dances—"

  "I'll teach you," he said as he swept her out onto the floor.

  She was light on her feet and quick to learn the steps as they clapped and whirled and stomped with the best of them. After the better part of an hour, she begged him for rest.

  "Worn out, are you?" he teased. "Naturally, a woman of your advanced age—"

  "My age? You're one to talk!" Anne protested. "And I'm only thinking about you."

  Laughing like schoolchildren, they braved the hordes around the refreshment table to procure two mugs of warm stout and retreated to a quiet corner to drink them. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you one of these colleens," he said to her.

  Anne's hat hung down her back by the ribbons. Her hairpins had come loose in the dancing, and lantern light glinted off the coppery strands in her tousled auburn tresses. Damp tendrils curled around her glowing face, and O'Ryan thought she looked good enough to eat.

  "What do you think of my countrymen?" he asked.