“Let’s savor life while we can, daughter.” He reached for the bottle in a failed attempt to get it back.
Briana ran to her horse and strapped the pouch to the animal’s side. She stood defiantly in front of it, blocking her father’s way.
Irritated by his daughter’s impudence, Brian recognized that he wouldn’t get another sip. His smile faded and his face turned sullen. “Let’s enjoy the present. There’ll be enough time to mourn.”
“There’ll be no future if we don’t save what we have now,” Briana said.
Her father sighed and skulked off. “Stubborn . . . but sensible.”
“We should be off,” Rory said, ending the standoff. “The Kilbanes live an hour or so away. I’d like to turn in early so we can get on the road by dawn.”
They traveled by the light of a half moon until they arrived at the home. Candles flickered through the cottage window. Rory sheltered the animals near the shed and fed and watered them as Briana unloaded the valuable pouch from her horse.
Frankie and the dog welcomed them at the door.
“Would you like something to eat?” Aideen asked as they entered the cottage warmed by the turf fire and the candlelight.
“Thank you, but we’ve already eaten,” Briana said.
“How about a drink of poteen?” Frankie asked.
Brian chuckled as Briana answered, “These two men have had enough of that too.”
“Sounds like I missed something,” Frankie said. “Let’s gather around the fire.”
Rory and her father took a mug of poteen anyway as they talked about the disappointing journey to Westport.
“We’re worried too,” Frankie admitted after hearing their tale. “The travelers that pass by have nothing. We give what we can, but if no one can pay we’ll soon be as poor as they are.” He picked up his silver flute and played a few notes that disappeared on the air.
Aideen strummed on the guitar, but her melody also faded. No one seemed in the mood for a song.
“We should get some sleep,” Rory said, and rose from the dirt floor. “I’m going out to check on the animals.”
A sad air fell over the cottage, which was usually filled with song and laughter. Briana helped the Kilbanes prepare for the night, and when Rory returned they all headed to bed.
* * *
After almost a day’s journey, they arrived at the river south of Carrowteige, about an hour from Lear House. Briana scanned the bank looking for the sceilp the family had constructed but saw only the rushing water and brush waving in the wind. The clouds darted across the sky as Rory pointed toward the river.
“We have to stop here,” Briana said. “This is where they were.”
“I made it a point to remember the spot, and I almost missed it,” Rory said. “Early morning light is different from afternoon light. If you want to look, go ahead.” They halted the horses and Briana jumped down, her heart pumping fast at the prospect of finding the starving man and his family.
She ran to the spot Rory had pointed to. The roof of sod and branches remained over the sceilp, but no one was inside. Only a silent muddy hole, smudged with the imprints of bodies and footprints, remained. A white handkerchief lay atop the muck. Briana bent to pick it up but stopped in mid-reach. A wave of black dots skittered across the fabric. She screamed and jumped back.
“What’s wrong?” Rory called out, alarm in his voice.
“A handkerchief’s been left behind. Something’s on it.”
Rory dismounted and walked to her. He grabbed a stick and lifted the cloth. It twisted in the air as the line of bugs skittered upon it. He studied it carefully. “Looks like lice.”
Brian called out. “You touched that man two days ago.”
Rory nodded. “I’ll be sure to bathe when we get home.”
“In hot water,” Brian added. “And boil your clothes. Briana and I should too.”
Rory dropped the cloth back into the hole. She watched it flutter to the ground and then noticed something in the mud beside it.
“Look,” she said to Rory. A fleck of metal glittered in the light. He took the stick and dug around the object. After a few seconds, he lifted it out on the tip of the branch—a silver band caked with mud.
Briana took the ring and studied it. “Maybe it’s a wedding band. I hate to think . . .” She didn’t want to finish her thought that the ring had slipped off the thin fingers of the man or the woman who had lived in the burrow. The thought saddened her. “This ring may have been all they had and now they don’t even have it.” She tossed it in the hole. “Maybe they’ll miss it and come back.”
Rory tossed the stick into the brush and smiled sadly. “They won’t be back. The ring will do them no good.”
They walked back to the horses.
“I wonder where they’ve gone?” Briana asked.
“Who knows,” her father replied. “Maybe back to the hills . . . maybe to find relatives—anyone who can help them.”
Sorrow swelled within her for the starving family and the loss of the ring. Life was transitory, fleeting, but such symbols proved the family had been alive—they had existed. She also realized that except for the grace of God, her family might be suffering the same fate. Briana crossed herself. “I’m thankful we’re safe.”
“Amen,” Rory said, and shook the reins of his horse.
The trail turned northwest, bringing them ever closer to Lear House. Briana watched Rory as he rode, his body swaying with the horse’s as they bounced over the heath. The ring proved life was too short. She and Rory needed to be married soon. They had known each other since childhood, but there were good reasons they had never married. Her father needed her at Lear House; Rory was farming and taking care of his parents, a job that kept him busy from dawn to dusk; but, most of all, she didn’t want to disappoint her father, who seemed to think she might find a better match than a poor tenant farmer. Brian had high hopes for Lucinda in that respect. But there was more to love than money, and the ring in the mud proved it.
* * *
Despite a chill in the air, Rory thought heating water for a bath was too much trouble. He would have to make two trips to the well, carry heavy pails to his cabin, start a fire, boil the water, then let it cool enough to take a bath, strip, lather up, and pour it over himself. He had been upstairs at Lear House, including the Master’s bathroom, several times while accompanying Brian on his duties. How luxurious it must be to sink into hot water in a mahogany tub, lined with lead. He imagined Briana kneeling next to him in Lear House, handing him a bar of scented soap. However, such thoughts were for the rich, not a tenant farmer. Perhaps in his next life he could afford a tub.
And he was tired from the journey. Caring for the animals, chatting with Jarlath about the trip, and cooking a small evening meal had consumed all his energy. He cautioned Jarlath to remain silent about the failure to bring back Indian corn, because he didn’t want to panic the other tenants. Stocks were running low, but enough food, including the remaining seed potatoes, might carry them until the next harvest.
He stripped off his shirt and threw it in the corner of his cabin. The wool sweater his mother had knitted for him years ago hung from a wooden peg in the wall. He still managed to fit into it—a benefit from work and youth. He dared not put it on until he had bathed.
Sleep would also have to wait until he had scrubbed himself. The scratchy straw that made up his bed was a perfect home for lice. Even his wool blanket would have to be boiled. He looked around his cabin for something to cover him. His cooking towels were too short to stretch around his waist. He would have to carry another pair of breeches and a clean shirt to the beach.
The cabin was slipping into darkness as he stepped out into the brisk wind. He looked west expecting to see a few people, but mostly the fields were empty. The tenants were inside, huddled around the turf fire, supping on what food they had. By daybreak, they would be up, tending to the potato crop they hoped would flourish.
A half moon hung
in the eastern sky, and the stars lay sprinkled in glittering points across the dark expanse. He knew the path to the sandy bay by heart. There, he could swim in the chilly Atlantic waters. If the cold and salt didn’t kill any lice he might have on his body, nothing would.
He sprinted down the road, his bare feet striking against the hard lumps of the pebbled path. Soon he was at the beach. The wind charged in from the sea and smelled of brine . . . and what? Something stirred in the air, or was it his imagination—the promise of a land far away? Adventure, perhaps? The smell of Canadian pine couldn’t drift across the Atlantic. He’d heard of men traveling to Liverpool to sail to America to work the rails or to cut lumber in the forests of Quebec. But that was life in a new world—one he couldn’t afford.
Maybe there was no smell at all except the salty air. Anxiety had fueled this brooding notion. The thought of leaving Ireland hit him like a punch to his stomach. He wanted to stay on the land he loved, to keep his small home and farm at Lear House. The woman he loved was also in his future, along with children and prosperity. He wanted to grow old and die on the land he was born on. Only two other people he knew had the same fervent wish—Briana and Brian. He loved them both for it.
Still he had to face reality. The crop had just begun to sprout. Hopes were high, but some of the tenants had turned the soil over early and the results were frightening. The seed potatoes showed the black signs of decay. He feared another failed harvest lay ahead. If all the remaining seed potatoes were eaten, there wouldn’t be any for the following year.
The bay opened before him in a wide curve facing south and west. He couldn’t go far into the water; the currents sweeping in from the Atlantic were cold and treacherous and could pull a strong man into the ocean to his death. The sea cast up a jagged reflection of the moon in shimmering white triangles that extended across the bay as far as he could see. He breathed in, savoring the salty air, its tangy odor invigorating him.
With thoughts of hunger and death lurking in his mind from the Westport trip, he again sensed the importance of his home and the land that meant so much to him. He had always known it, but this night every nerve in his body tingled with life and anticipation for a better future. Nothing could convince him to give up. He would fight any adversary, be it physical or mental, with Briana by his side.
He stripped off his dirty breeches and shoes and put them a safe distance away from his fresh clothes so there would be no contamination between them. He walked down the sand to the shoreline and stuck his right foot into the water. His toes cramped, numbed by the cold. The bracing wind cut into him. He had swum in these waters often in the early spring, mostly on childish dares. Many times he had joined his friends, after much poteen, for a swim in the bay on the turn of a new year.
He turned, ran up the eastern slope, and stopped. He let out a yell; then, running as hard as his legs would carry him, he thrashed into the bay until he splashed facedown in the brine. The cold shocked his body, paralyzing his limbs and taking his breath away. He struggled up through the waves, chest deep, and sputtered out water for air. He shook from the cold, stumbled closer to shore, and splashed the water over him, rubbing his chest, arms, and legs. He dove back into the ocean once more and swam as long as his body could stand it, then rose, spat out the salty taste, and waded to shore.
A figure in the moonlight, approaching from the southern end of the bay, strode across the sand. Rory shook like a dog and swiped the water from his torso. A man, dressed in dark breeches, white shirt, and jacket, continued his trek toward him.
He had no choice but to display his naked body to the stranger. The man would be by his side by the time he got to his clothes. As the figure came closer, Rory recognized him as Connor Donlon, a Lear House tenant who farmed a half acre farther up the hill from his cabin. Connor was a few years older, married and the father of four children, two boys and two girls. He and his family kept mainly to themselves, but Connor had a reputation as a hothead—a man easily provoked by words and liquor. He was a bit shorter than Rory but muscular of chest and arms.
Connor stopped a few feet away and stared at Rory. “Taking a swim, are we? I see the water’s cold tonight.”
He shook off the insult, grabbed his clean breeches, and stepped into them. “No woman’s ever complained.” He shivered in the chilly wind and reached for his shirt.
“Of course,” Connor said. “How many have you bedded?”
Rory refused to be provoked, knowing that anything he said would get back to Briana. “What’s your game tonight? Why are you walking the bay?” He put his arms into the sleeves.
Connor glanced at the moon. “I was coming home from a meeting with some of the lads—you might like to join us as well—if you have the nerve.”
Rory buttoned his shirt, waiting for Connor’s explanation.
“Are you headed home?” Connor asked.
“Let me get my clothes,” Rory said.
“I’ve heard you wear the green ribbon.”
Rory picked up his dirty breeches, holding them at arm’s length from his body as they headed north along the bay. “Yes. I’m not ashamed. What’s it to you?”
“They’re not our kind,” Connor said, following him. “They’ve done good deeds in the past, and blood has been spilt, but they don’t have our interests at heart.” The path widened near the top of the dune, and Connor strode up beside him. He pointed to the tracts of land surrounding Lear House. “The Ribbonmen couldn’t care less about us. They’re more concerned with the Church and ending Protestant order, driving out the Orange. For the most part, the Ribbonmen have their heads stuck in useless books. The Mollies on the—”
“The Molly Maguires. I should have known.” Rory stopped on the road. “The Tithe Act came out of the Ribbonmen’s struggles.”
Connor stepped closer to him. “That was eight years ago. It doesn’t help us now. Can’t you see what’s going on? How did you get involved with them, anyway?”
“A man from north Connacht.” Rory pulled away from Connor. “An intelligent man who wants the Ribbonmen’s influence to spread. That’s all I can say. You figure it out—use your head.” They walked up the road and stopped a few yards from Rory’s door.
“We’ve had enough war against each other—the Ribbonmen against the Mollies,” Connor said. “Join us and do something that can help the tenants of Lear House. Those northern men have their heads in the clouds.”
Connor’s demanding tone caused the hackles on his neck to rise. He had never considered joining the Mollies, because he questioned their actions. For all the reasoned struggles championed by the Ribbonmen, the Mollies seemed crude in comparison. They sometimes dressed in women’s clothing, blackened their faces, stole farm animals, and threatened landlords and their agents. If nothing else, his relationship with Brian and Briana had quelled his enthusiasm for joining the group.
“I’ll wear the green ribbon,” Rory said.
The man put his hands on Rory’s chest and gave him a slight shove.
His body tensed, but he remained calm. “That won’t work.”
Connor smiled. “I know the reason. There’s a woman and her agent father at play here.”
His adversary was getting too close to the truth. “Leave Briana out of this. She has nothing to do with the Mollies.”
Connor slumped against the sod wall of Rory’s home. “All right then, I’ll beg. We need you because we want a man connected to Brian Walsh—a man who can help us win over the agent.”
Rory shook his head.
“Why don’t we settle this with sport? The winner chooses his allegiance, with any men to follow. The village is in need of entertainment, and there hasn’t been a good fight in many a year.” Connor raised his hands as if seeking approval for his suggestion.
Rory was in no mood for a fight, but he had been challenged. The decision was easy. He would never live it down if he spurned the dare. “Name your time.”
“Two days from this day at twelve o’clock in
the village center. Rain or shine. It’s easy to settle a dispute with a gentleman’s agreement.”
Rory nodded. “I’ll be there.” He watched as Connor skirted a fence before disappearing behind a hut.
He took a towel, gathered his dirty clothing and blanket from the cabin, and threw them by the fence. No one would bother his clothes during the night.
Rory herded the pig inside and lit the candle that sat on the wooden stool near his bed. He lay on the straw and covered himself with it. The straw would itch and he would be scratchy in the morning, but at least he could sleep without the fear of lice. Shadows flickered on the mud walls. He tried to sleep, but an angry Briana filled his thoughts. She would be furious about the fight. He expected to get an earful when he told her tomorrow.
* * *
“You’ve agreed to a fight?” Briana scowled and remembered the time long ago her father had fought. The ugly event brought up childhood memories of her father stumbling about the cottage, his face red and puffy with wounds. Rory was more like her father than she had imagined. Brian had done the same for sport.
She stepped outside and closed the door to the cottage, keeping Rory out of earshot from her sister. She clasped the latch with her hands.
“I’m fighting Connor Donlon tomorrow at noon.”
The fear from years ago, when her father had dragged her and Lucinda to the village, came roaring back. She tried hard to keep from shaking. “I forbid it.”
Rory’s gaze never wavered. His voice was as calm as the sandy bay on a tranquil summer evening. “I have to fight when I’ve been challenged.”
“Ridiculous,” she countered. “Connor is like a ram. He’ll tear you apart.”
“Well, he’ll do it only once, I suppose. Then we’ll be best of friends.” He reached for her, but she flattened her back against the door. “Besides, it’s been a long time since there was a good fight in the village. Maybe the excitement will keep our neighbors’ minds off bigger problems.”
Briana shook her head. “What’s so important about fighting Connor Donlon? You’ve known him for years.”
The Irishman's Daughter Page 6
