An Irish Girl

by Marilyn Hering

  “I assure you I want at least ten!”

  He laughed, held her closer.

  “Well, maybe not ten!”

  “When will your last raid on the British ships be?”

  “The “King John” in Ulster harbor next Wednesday, March l7, and then our men will bring the food to Limerick where it’s needed most. That is, if all works out well.”

  She tightened her arms around him harder.

  “Oh, John, please be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  “I heard there will be two British guards on the ships from now on.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s from a good source. She could not tell him seen had seen Captain Litchfield and he warned her to keep away from that area. He knew her impulsive nature.

  “You can’t imagine the happiness I feel now, John, now that it’s almost over.’’

  “As much as I do, I’m sure.”

  Later, Father Boyle brought in some tea and crackers. After they finished, he left them alone.

  They went to his spare room and made love so passionately both fell almost immediately asleep after the act. McGuire left early the next morning, and a sense of peace came over her knowing it would be the last time they would be separated.

  The next measure they decided to try was using tents. They appeared to be satisfactory; most had boarded floors and were approved by doctors. Yet, thousands preferred to die in their own homes. Many deaths were not recorded because the Irish horror of fever even conquered the bond of family affection, which is the strongest bond in Ireland. In extreme fear parents deserted their children; neighbors who were usually kindly and generous would not cross a threshold of a cabin where fever existed; in lonely districts fever-stricken people died in their cabins, without anyone coming near them, their bodies left to rot.

  The horrors taking place in Ireland were only one aspect of the fever epidemic. As the horrible months of autumn and winter passed and the failure of the potato brought starvation and pestilence, the Irish turned into a surprising direction. Before the famine, to leave Ireland had been thought to be the most terrible of fates. But now, the Irish, terrified and desperate, began to flee a country that seemed cursed. In a great mass movement they left Ireland by tens of thousands to travel the ocean to America and across the sea to Britain. But they did not leave fever behind; fever went with them; and, to their surprise the way to a new life became a path of disaster.

  There was a knock on Father Boyle’s door. He opened it to find Liam O’Brien standing before him. His heart pumped faster. He expected to be punched in the face any minute for Liam must have discovered somehow that Tara was not his child, but Father Boyle’s.

  “Might I come in Father. I won’t be long. I’m home from the asylum for a week on a trial basis.”

  Liam surveyed the room, neat and comfortable looking. A maroon sofa sat against one wall and two moss green chairs were sitting across from it. The floor was adorned with a small, floral rug but most of it showed beautiful, polished wood. On the wall was a crucifix above the sofa and between the two chairs was a painting of the Virgin Mary. Liam could sense a feeling of guilt within him since he had never been in this room before, and certainly had been an infrequent visitor to the inside of Saint Boniface’s Church.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea, Liam.”

  “No, thank you. I’m here to ask you a favor.”

  “If it’s something I’m capable of doing, of course.”

  “Yesterday I went to Dr. Beel’s office. And this is strictly confidential. Right?”

  “Well, it’s not saying it in the confines of the confession box, but, yes, surely if you don’t want anyone to know about it, you have my word.”

  He took a piece of paper out of his pocket.

  “I knew I couldn’t remember the word of what it is so he wrote it down for me.”

  He handed the paper to Father Boyle who read the word “dementia” on it.

  “Dr. Beel explained it to me. I notice I forget most things now almost as soon as I say them, which I explained to him. I told him I wanted the full truth of it. Can I get better? Or will it get worse and worse. He told me that it most likely would get worse as time went on. It’s a disease they don’t know much about.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear this, Liam. I will pray for you.”

  “It’s not so much prayers I wanted to ask you about. It’s Tara and Patrick. If I get really bad, I would ask that you watch over them for me. For all I know I may eventually have to stay at the lunatic asylum.” He frowned. “I’ve got to think of the facts.”

  “We never know what God has planned for us. But one thing I do know. I would be honored to watch over them, if it comes to the point you don’t feel you can.”

  “In truth I haven’t really watched over them for some time. At first I was forgettin’ little things but now it’s like I have all these tangled wires in my head and they won’t get untangled.”

  “I understand.”

  “I was hopin’ when the potato crop comes back, I’ll be my old self again. But Dr. Beel seems to think that won’t matter.”

  “Well, I think you should live one day at a time and do the best with what you still remember. And you have my word, if the time comes, I will watch over Tara and Patrick.”

  “God bless ya, Father. I feel so much better now, to know they’ll have somebody there for them.”

  They shook hands and he left.

  Father Boyle kneeled down upon the floor and folded his hands.

  “Thank you, Lord. Thank you for this not being the visit I was sure it would be.”

  Tara sat musing about her future with John. She remembered some lovely calico in her mother’s collection of all types of snippets and yardage left over from the aprons and dresses she made for her and Tara as well as some flannel for shirts for Patrick and Liam. She dug into it and found some lovely yellow calico printed with daisies which would be perfect for curtains and perhaps some seat pads for her kitchen. She could use some of the other fabric for stuffing them. She was surprised when she heard a knock on the door. It was the mailman with a letter for her. She was overjoyed to see it was from Maureen O’Flanagan, a very thick letter, so thick it had three stamps on it and was post marked Boston, Massachusetts. She was anxious to read it. From what she had heard America was a wonderful place to live, though she could never leave her beloved Ireland. She sat on the front stoop, opened it, and began to read:

  Dear Tara,

  I miss you so much. Coming to America was the worst thing I could have done. We don’t have skills like some of the people who came over do. Because we were so poor we couldn’t bring anything. Because of that with us having nothing to offer in skilled trades on the ship they put us in the lower deck which was not even fit for human beings. They call them cellar dwellings. They are dark and the floors are covered with mud. I don’t see how we can ever be successful in America because we are so weak from the famine and our fate is treated with contempt and hatred. They take us because we are considered “passengers” and the British make more money based on how many are on the ship. Conveying immigrants has developed to the point where larger profits are being made by the passenger trade than by carrying timber or European goods. They are happy about that while we live in the worst conditions down below.

  Once we got to America, it was hard and strange. A lot of Protestants came and anti-Catholics. They said fares have now been made higher to get to the United States. In some states passengers can’t land until an official examines them, to discover if any had been paupers in another country or lunatics, idiots, maimed, aged or infirm.

  All passengers had to pay two dollars ‘head money’ when they landed. The majority of helpless and poor people were Irish, and when we got there we landed in small coves on the coast of Massachusetts and went on by foot.
Many who were said not to meet the requirements were sent back to Ireland.

  Patients on the ship were often left for four or five days without any medical attention and there is only one doctor who happens to be a passenger. Nurses were not available and people were sick and suffering great torture from lack of attention. Bedding was sent down but no planks to lay it on so it became soaked with water and mud. The old passenger sheds that were relied on had never been intended for use as hospitals. They had no ventilation and the smell was awful.

  The state of all the immigrants when we landed was frightening. Many got through the trip in starvation. The official weekly amount of food we get is seven pounds of food a week and it’s not nearly enough. When most got here from America, they had to go to the hospital. Water also was short.

  Eventually, as you can guess, ship fever broke out. The wind had dropped and the ship was only provided with enough food for that amount of time, so the captain had to hold back on our food and water.

  They decided to dock at Grosse Isle but then there was a large bunch of boats, bringing the sick and dead from Grosse Isle. I saw hundreds thrown on the beach, left among the mud and stones to crawl on the dry land as best they could. Boatloads of dead were taken four times a day from a single ship. The bodies were wrapped in canvas and boxed in rough coffins made from planks and left there.

  As news of the fever spread when we finally got to America, we have been dreaded by the people. They are afraid fever came with us and even if we are fit to work as I am, I couldn’t find a job. Almost everyone here avoids us. Thankfully, no disaster compared to what I saw at Grosse Isle occurred in America, though there is great prejudice against us.

  Because of the hatred of foreign immigration as well as anti-Catholic and anti-Irish feelings, riots have resulted in Philadelphia and Boston. I am living in New York City in an area that is all Irish, one poorer than the other. I was lucky enough to get a job as a dish washer and all my dreams of a better life in America are gone. I doubt you would ever get a job as a seamstress over here, being Irish, and you would surely never own a shop. Please write to me soon and tell me all the news of our beloved Ireland.

  Love always,

  Maureen

  Tara folded the letter, put it in its envelope and sat stunned at what she had read. She knew she would never leave Ireland and felt certain John felt the same way. As soon as she could she would write back to Maureen.

  Liam O’Brien sat on the porch of their cottage the week of his trial at home from the asylum watching the sun fall into the sky. Another day over soon. He hardly ever spoke since Kathleen died but the voices in his mind did. It seemed to him the main reason he lived was for her and now he had become a sad, lonely man, though Tara and Patrick did their best to cheer him. But soon they would marry and have their own families and he would be alone.

  He began to think of the past, his favorite way to pass the days. He remembered the first time he met Kathleen when she was eighteen years old. It was at a Friday night dance in Limerick. He didn’t want to go because he was a terrible dancer but his friends convinced him. His whole life might have been different if he hadn’t gone for it was at that dance he met Kathleen. It was love at first sight, for him at least. He thought he had never before seen such a beautiful woman, her long, auburn hair swaying to and fro as she danced with her partner, her vivid green-gray eyes dazzling with joy. If only he had the nerve to ask her for the next dance, which was a slow one and one he thought he could manage. He finally decided he would ask her, thoroughly prepared to be rejected. But to to his shock she said yes. They made small talk as they danced. It turned out she was from Armagh, which was not very far from Monaghan, his home town. At the end of the evening after they had danced every dance together and he fell over his feet many times, he asked her if she might like to have dinner the next Saturday night. She said yes and the rest was history. He was not foolish enough to believe she was passionately in love with him. He knew his limitations ; he was a decent-looking man with good features overall, but when he told her he owned his own home and a rather large area of land she was duly impressed. What she wanted most from a man was security and knew little about love and passion because of her strict upbringing. Six months later they married and a year after that Patrick was born. She always submitted to his lovemaking, but he sensed it was out of obligation rather than a great desire for him. Yet, they were happy enough and she accepted her fate as most of her women friends did.

  But she later learned there was no mistaking of desire, a desire that fell across her face when she saw Father Boyle. But they had no fear of ever having a sexual relationship not only because he was a priest but also because her religion formed the center of her life. In the beginning Liam did attend church, but when Patrick turned eight years old he felt he had given him the foundation of religious belief that was so sacred to Kathleen and he stopped attending Mass after Patrick made his Holy Communion. He was tired of putting on the act that he was a believer when he had little to no faith in the Church. Eventually Kathleen had to accept his choice though it broke her heart. The last few years had been the most difficult of his life not only because of Kathleen’s death and the destruction of his dignity as the provider for his family. But also strange things were happening in his mind. He would look at his potato acreage as he did every day. The leaves were a healthy looking green as they had been in previous years. But he knew how deceiving that could be. He had been stricken with fear for the last few weeks and did not have the courage to pull out a potato from the ground for fear of the black rot again and the mush he would find rather than the beginnings of a well-formed, healthy potato. He decided today would be the day he would do it, for better or for worse. He walked over to the acreage where the potato crop grew. His hands shook as he bent down and carefully pulled a potato plant from the earth. He examined it carefully. It was strong and healthy, the size of a small plum, and showed not one sign of black rot or mushy residue that fell onto his hands.

  He looked up to the heavens, then bent down on his knees.

  “Thank you, Lord. Thank you!”

  He ran in the house and showed Patrick, Tara and Kathleen the potato.

  They jumped up and down with glee. In a month or two it would easily grow the size of a man’s fist.

  He and Patrick ran down to the pub to tell the men there the good news, but not before he stopped at Father Boyle’s house to show it to him.

  Tara had one person in mind when she saw the potato: John. It was Wednesday. the 17th day of March and that was the day John and his men were invading the “King John” merchant ship that night. She must let him know it was no longer necessary, that this would surely be the last time they would engage in raids for food with the potato crop in full, healthy growth. Plus, for days she had been thinking of the look of joy he would have on his face when she told him she was having his child.

  She went to the small closet her father had built to store their clothing. She put on a pair of Patrick’s pants and one of his shirts, both too big, but they would have to do. On the top of the shelf she found a woolen cap and put it on tucking her hair underneath it.

  By the time she rode to the “King John” darkness had settled in. She paused for a moment to observe the ship. She knew immediately it was a merchant vessel that was rather new by the cleanliness of it. She looked at the mizzenmast which the men climbed and the ratlines reminded her of long spider webs. The length of the vessel from bowsprit to stern must have been ninety feet and the width forty feet or so. She could see the Irish men reachng the hold, filling their rowboats containing their precious supply of food and leaving. Only one was left which she was sure belonged to John. The sides of the ship were gleaming which verified her belief it had been newly painted. She observed the main mast and on top of it flew the despicable British flag, blowing in the breeze. She could see the sails were furled which meant they were likely to be in port at least a
few more days.

  She tied Patrick’s horse to a tree. She removed her shoes and then stealthily stepped down the stairway leading to the hold where the Irish were stealing the food for her people, putting them in their rowboats and rowing away to their destination of the Irish people. The supplies the “King John” was shipping would have most likely been sold in England or some country. When she climbed to the upper deck she had seen the Irish rowboats hidden out of view near the back of the ship, most completely loaded with food and rowing away from the ship to their destination of the Irish people. One still remained. She must sneak down to the hold where John must still be for surely he would leave last. She passed the big guns under the main deck and finally reached the hold, which was below the gun deck. She spotted John loading what looked like the last supply of food they were taking. Most of the men were gone, rowing toward shore.

  “John!”

  He turned as he took out his gun ready to shoot until he recognized Tara for most of her hair had fallen from her cap.

  The two British officers had finally seen them and ran to the hold.

  Tara hid by the side of a giant barrel and immediately recognized Thomas Litchfield as he did her. His gun was drawn and he was ready to shoot until he saw who it was. He turned away immediatley, went towards the upper deck and began trying to shoot at the Irish rowers as they fled but they were already out of range.

  “You don’t need to check the hold,” Litchfield said. “No one’s there.”

  ‘’I’ll just make sure.” The second British soldier came down the stairs to check the hold. He could see Tara’s auburn hair as he came closer for it had fallen from her cap. He shot her three times, twice in the stomach, and once in her chest near her heart. Then he was shot three times in the back by John as he ran to Tara whose body had fallen to the floor.

  “Tara!”

  John lifted her in his arms, tears falling upon her lovely cheeks, blood spouting from her wounds onto his shirt and pants as he held her in his arms.