Bridie's Fire

by Kirsty Murray

  Suddenly, they found themselves down by the docks, where the masts of great ships stood black against the blue morning sky. People lined the quays. Soldiers stood guard, their bayoneted guns ready to fight off the crowds as great sacks of meal and grain were loaded on board ships bound for England. Everywhere she looked, there were soldiers standing guard over the food supplies.

  Further along the quay, a boat was casting off. As it moved away from the dock, the passengers lined up along the deck reached out their hands and called to those they were leaving behind. There was a tumult of weeping, grieving families, crying out for their departing relatives. An old woman fell to her knees beside Bridie and Brandon, keening as if death was all around them, crying out for her children who were sailing to America, knowing that would be the last she’d see of them.

  Brandon stood staring up at the masts.

  ‘Are we going to get on a ship, to take us to America?’ he asked, and for the first time his voice had a spur of hope in it. ‘We could go to Aunt Mairead. We could find Uncle Liam. I want to go there, Bridie. I want to go to America.’

  Bridie wanted to box his ears, even if he did look like an angel. ‘Those ships, you know what they call them? They call them coffin ships. You want to go and be buried in America?’ she said scornfully. She grabbed him by his scrawny wrist and dragged him away from the quay.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘We’re going to find shelter,’ she said, taking the road out of Tralee.

  8

  Black dogs and broken houses

  Ragged people were pouring into the town. Bridie and Brandon passed hundreds of people, like ghosts, drifting along the roadways. Some just sat by the wayside and stared vacantly into the pale sky. Others were wild-eyed, moving their gaunt limbs with fierce intent.

  Bridie felt better just being away from the town, with the open sky above her head and green fields and drystone walls stretching out before them. In the late afternoon they came to a roadside inn, a lone building at a crossroads where the road forked in three directions.

  ‘Let’s try our luck,’ said Bridie. ‘We’ll beg a crust from the innkeeper.’

  They crept around the back of the building and looked in through the kitchen door. A big cauldron of mutton broth was cooking in a pot over the fire. Bridie stood patiently in the doorway, but as soon as she realised there was no one about, she put a finger to her lips and whispered to Brandon, ‘You’ve got your spoon, boyo?’ He nodded and pulled the spoon out from under his clothes.

  ‘Then we needs both be quick.’ The two children tiptoed into the kitchen and dipped their spoons into the hot broth. There was no time to blow on the spoonful to cool the soup. Neither of them cared if their mouths were scalded. Bridie looked around frantically, searching for something else to take away with her, but then the kitchen door swung open and a big woman stood glaring at them.

  ‘Please, ma’am,’ begged Bridie. ‘It was just a taste we were after.’

  The woman sighed and pushed the two of them towards the door. ‘Not safe in my own kitchen, from thieves and beggars.’ She looked down as she was about to slam the door and suddenly she softened. She darted back inside and came out, thrusting a small loaf of bread into Bridie’s hands.

  ‘Be gone with you,’ she said.

  Bridie thanked her and slipped the loaf into the front of her ragged dress as they walked away. The crust felt warm against her skin. Carefully, she broke a little piece for herself and Brandon.

  ‘We’re going to make this last and last,’ she told him.

  They didn’t make much progress that day. They spent a long time picking blackberries from a bramble that sprawled over a fence by the roadside. The juice stained their lips so their faces seemed even paler with their dark mouths.

  They came to the broken village as the evening came down around them. There was nothing left of it. Someone had torn the lintels from the doorways and the houses had collapsed in on themselves.

  ‘Do you think there are ghosts in this one?’ asked Brandon, looking around at the ruins of the hamlet.

  Bridie swung a leg over the remains of a cabin wall. There was still some peat beside the fireplace. She pushed through the pile of ashes in the hearth.

  ‘It’s not that long since there were folk living here,’ she said. She knelt down in the ruins of the house, raking through the debris. Strewn among the rubble were dozens of St Brigid crosses, fallen from the rafters. Bridie picked one up and cradled it in her hand. All those crosses, from years and years of prayer and hope. All the promise of a safekeeping come to nothing.

  They found a corner of the ruins where there was just enough shelter to keep the night damp from settling on them, and curled up together among the stones. Brandon fell asleep quickly with his head on Bridie’s shoulder, but Bridie lay awake a long while, gazing between the splintered rafters at the cold and distant stars. She thought of the night she’d gazed up at that same sky by her father’s side, and puzzled at how quickly all the wonder could drain out of something so beautiful.

  In the morning, they ran through the village and climbed down to a nearby brook. They knelt on its banks, their hands cupped, and took long drinks of the cold water. Bridie broke some more off the loaf and they sat listening to the peaceful flow of the brook.

  Next morning, they reached another village, but there the lintels were still in place. They’d been walking for only two hours and already they felt weak with exhaustion. Bridie looked across at her brother and knew they couldn’t keep travelling like this. They sat side by side on the edge of the road. She’d nearly given up hope of their moving anywhere that day when she noticed a small cart laden with barrels moving slowly down the main street.

  ‘Here’s a chance for us, bucko,’ she said. While the carter was waiting for the crowds to thin, Bridie gave Brandon a leg up onto the back and then scrambled up after him. She prayed no one would alert the driver. They slipped in between the barrels, which smelt strongly of oily tar, and each found themselves a little pocket of space. The wood chafed against their skin, but the slow rhythm of the cart gradually lulled them to sleep.

  Bridie was struggling to wake up, struggling to free herself. In her dream, a banshee was dragging her down into a dark, murky pool, but when she woke it was the carter, pulling her out from between the barrels, shouting crossly at her in English.

  He dragged a struggling Brandon out as well and held them both by their ankles. Bridie kept her arms wrapped tight across her chest to keep her loaf of bread secure but Brandon yelped and struggled so the man dropped him in a heap. Slowly, the carter lowered Bridie to the ground.

  She brushed at the dirt on her ragged dress and tried to stand tall before the broad-shouldered man.

  He said something else in English. When Bridie and Brandon looked at each other and shrugged sullenly, he tried again, this time in Irish.

  ‘So what were you hoping for other than a hiding, sneaking into my cart like that?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re going to the east,’ answered Bridie. ‘To find a workhouse.’

  ‘But there’s one in Tralee.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have us. They’re full to bursting – with dying people. It’s not a workhouse, it’s a death-house. They’ve got the fever bad there. Things might be better in the east. Dan O’Connell is in the east and my dad said he’d tried to make Ireland a better place for all of us.’

  ‘He did, did he?’ said the carter. ‘Well, I don’t know that Dan O’Connell will be able to help you. There’s a workhouse I know of that maybe’s got a place for two fleas like yourselves. But we can’t be standing here all the day, jawing on like this. The road’s a dangerous place these days and I’ve got to get this load to town before dark, so let’s be moving along now.’

  They climbed up and sat either side of the carter on the bench.

  ‘You’re not carrying anything that thieves would want to steal, are you?’ asked Bridie.

  ‘Desperate men will do
desperate things in desperate times,’ he said. ‘Why, you can’t leave poor old Nellie for a moment. Only yesterday, I found some men sticking thorns in her and sucking out her blood. I should have beaten them for causing my Nellie grief, but the buggers were a whisker away from death anyway. As if drinking the old nag’s blood would save them.’ He shook his head disbelievingly.

  As the afternoon wore on, a low mist settled over the road. Up ahead, dark animal shapes moved mysteriously in a bank of fog. The carter moved the reins across to one hand and reached beneath the seat to draw out a big, thick stick with a hard knobbly end on it.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Bridie.

  ‘Wild dogs,’ said the carter, his face set hard.

  He climbed down with his staff and took the horse’s halter, leading her into the fog. The dogs began to howl.

  ‘They won’t harm us, will they, Bridie?’ asked Brandon. ‘We’re ÓConchobhairs and they’re our friends. Dad always said that’s what our name meant – friend of the wolves.’

  Bridie ignored him and kept a firm grip on the reins. The driver called back to them. ‘You two keep jawing, they don’t like the sound of us talking – make as much noise as you can.’

  ‘Should we sing?’ asked Bridie.

  ‘That’s a grand idea, girl,’ said the driver.

  Bridie began to hum one of the songs her mother had taught her. Then she sang of the beautiful girl whose true love was stolen by the fairy queen and who then had to search all of Ireland for him. Brandon sang too. Their voices sounded eerie, muted by the heavy fog. Every now and then they could hear a low growl from the wild dogs circling the cart. In the short silence that followed the end of the song, the first dog took its chance and leapt out at the carter. He was ready for it; the knobbly end of his stick met the dog’s skull with a sickening crack. Then other dogs came out of the fog, leaping at the horse and snapping at her throat. The carter was swinging his stick wildly now, standing in the middle of the roadway and knocking the rangy hounds to the ground. Nellie whinnied frantically and shied away. Bridie pulled hard on the reins and gave the horse no head, but it was straining to break free. Suddenly, Brandon scrambled past Bridie and jumped lightly onto the horse’s back, murmuring into her ear and stroking her head. When the carter had beaten the last dog away and two lay dead by the roadside, he turned and looked at Brandon with astonishment.

  ‘Well, if you two haven’t turned out to be a bit of luck for me,’ he said cheerfully, lifting Brandon off Nellie’s back and hoisting him onto the bench.

  Brandon looked at Bridie, aglow with pride, and for the first time since they’d left Dunquin Bridie laughed out loud.

  9

  Pilgrim souls

  Bridie saw it from a distance: a long, tall building, four storeys high, with tiny windows all along its length. She tried to make herself feel glad that they were at last going to find shelter, that their fortunes were changing.

  There was a crowd of people gathered around the gate of this workhouse too, though not so many as at Tralee. As the cart drew closer, Bridie saw a tall, thin man in a black coat, followed by two helpers, crossing the workhouse yard to the gate where the people were waiting. A chain bound the gates shut. The black-coated man turned a big key in the lock and opened the gates.

  ‘There you go,’ said the carter. ‘Just in time, they’re taking some in.’

  Bridie jumped off the cart, but Brandon didn’t follow. ‘Climb down, then,’ she said. Brandon didn’t move. He stared ahead with a hunted expression.

  ‘Can’t I keep with you a while longer?’ he asked, turning to the carter. ‘I could help you with Nellie. I wouldn’t be much trouble.’

  The carter’s face suddenly closed over. He gave Brandon a little shove.

  ‘You’ll have to get off here, boy,’ he said, looking away.

  ‘Brandon,’ Bridie said crossly. ‘This is what our mam wanted, for us find a safe place, and now we’ve found it. Get down.’

  ‘But what if they won’t take us and we die in the ditch?’ asked Brandon.

  The carter sighed and leapt down from his vehicle. Grabbing each of the children by the wrist, he pushed his way through the crowd to the front of the gate.

  The man in black was shouting at everyone, gesturing for some to come in and others to wait, but the carter pushed Brandon and Bridie ahead of him and shouted at the workhouse porter to get his attention. They stood arguing with each other fiercely.

  Bridie couldn’t understand what they were saying. It seemed the whole world spoke this ugly language. She looked from one face to the next as the carter angrily pointed at the porter and then at the children. In the confusion, a tall, fair-haired girl sidled up and smiled at Bridie, resting one hand on her shoulder. She felt too bewildered to shrug the girl off. Suddenly, the carter was pushing them towards the porter and mumbling a hurried goodbye. The big gates of the workhouse started to swing shut again and Bridie and Brandon and the fair-haired girl were swept down the path towards the workhouse.

  Inside the big doors, another man in a black coat was asking questions of the people and scribbling things down in a big ledger. Bridie listened carefully, trying to guess what the questions were by listening to the answers that the people ahead of her gave.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Bríde ÓConchobhair, agus deartháir Bhréanainn ÓConchobhair,’ said Bridie, drawing Brandon beside her and pulling herself up to her full height.

  The man looked up from his ledger and sighed.

  ‘Speak English, girl,’ he said.

  Bridie didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure how to answer. She’d heard so little English that she couldn’t think how her own name would sound in that strange tongue. Suddenly, the tall pale girl stepped up behind Bridie. She said something that Bridie recognised as her own and Brandon’s names. Bridie realised the girl must have understood the argument between the carter and the porter and joined her because of it.

  Bridie looked up at the girl, bewildered. She looked to be a couple of years older, perhaps thirteen, and she wore her hair in a long golden plait down to her waist. She was so fair that even her eyebrows and eyelashes were a pale silvery-gold colour that merged with the whiteness of her skin. Her bones showed through the worn fabric of her clothes, and her fragile hands and feet were suffused with blue. Bridie listened carefully to the girl’s answers and understood her name was Caitlin Moriarty.

  When the questions were over, Bridie tried to thank the girl for her help, but she simply shrugged.

  ‘You made it easier for me to slip through the gate, so I’m paying my debt. You’ll have to learn English. The Irish won’t serve you well in here.’

  Bridie couldn’t imagine making sense of the new language. Caitlin saw her distress. ‘You will learn,’ she said, repeating her reassurance in both English and Irish. Bridie mouthed the new words, trying to fix them in her mind.

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Not this workhouse, but others. First with my family, and now, I’m on my own,’ said the older girl grimly.

  They passed through the big, dark entrance hall of the workhouse. The flagstones were cold beneath their bare feet. Another tall man in a black coat stood watching the new arrivals with a stern expression.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Bridie.

  ‘The Master of the workhouse,’ whispered Caitlin.

  ‘There’ll be no talking,’ snapped a thin woman in an apron. ‘You, with the lads,’ she ordered, shoving Brandon towards a group of dishevelled boys. ‘You girls, with the lasses.’ She pointed Bridie in the opposite direction.

  ‘I have to keep with my brother,’ said Bridie, following her.

  ‘Out of my way, girl. Get in line,’ snapped the woman.

  Caitlin put out a hand to draw her back. ‘You must mind what they tell you and do as I do, or there’ll be nothing but misery for you here,’ she said.

  Bridie watched Brandon as he followed the other boys up a flight of stairs. At the top, he looked back
at her. Their eyes met and that moment was like a thorn in Bridie’s heart. She took a fold of Caitlin’s ragged skirt in her hand and hung onto it as the girls walked in single file to a long, open courtyard, where they were made to strip off their clothes and scrub at open troughs of cold water in the fading afternoon light. Then they were given the workhouse uniform. Bridie tried to keep her spoon, the last remnant of her old life, but it was swept away with her clothes. An angry-looking woman led them from one part of the workhouse to another, explaining the rules in shouted English. The words washed over Bridie in an incomprehensible tide.

  Towards the end of the afternoon, they were marched into a room with a long table and given a bowl of stirabout, a thin porridge full of yellow meal, and a piece of dry bread. Some of the girls ate like wolves, but Bridie tried to savour every mouthful and ate the bread slowly, dipping it in the porridge so her gums wouldn’t bleed when she ate it.

  The girls climbed another flight of stairs that led to the top floor of the workhouse. Inside the main room was a long walkway, almost like a trough, with raised wooden platforms running along either side. The platforms were covered with a scattering of straw and hundreds of women were already crammed onto them. The room was full of coughing and whimpering as the women tossed and turned. Bridie and the other new girls were herded to the end of the room, where a small area of fresh straw lay waiting for them. Every second girl was handed a thin blanket to share. Bridie stayed close to Caitlin so they got to share a blanket. As they lay beside each other in the straw, Bridie stared up into the rafters and wished she had the open sky above her still. Even though it was good to be warm, the air here was close and thick with noise and rank smells.