Brigit sighed, tucking her straying curls under her linen cap. “Then why are you becoming a soldier of the Queen of England, Mr. O’Connor? What peace is there in that?”
“Why, woman, ‘tis stopping the Revolution, I am.”
“I never thought I would see the day when a member of me family would be fighting for the English,” she sputtered in exasperation. “And possibly getting killed for it!” But there was nothing she could do to change his mind.
After a few months, Daniel returned home to Long Point with the rank of sergeant. “Not much fighting. Only half an hour’s worth at Montgomery’s Tavern in Toronto. The rebels are pretty much scattered. But I may be called out again at any time.” He went on to tell Brigit how it was good that, in spite of his Reformist leanings, he had joined with the authorities in quelling the rebellion, as he had seen many houses which belonged to rebels and reformers burned to the ground. “Any of those homes that were burned could have been ours,” he said.
The call to muster came again in February 1838, and for the next few months Daniel was often with the militia at Furnace Falls, drilling the men and directing shooting practice. Then in the autumn trouble came again. An organization known as the Hunter Patriots had formed to assist the rebels.
“Those Hunters are a band of rogue Freemasons,” Daniel told Brigit. “They have widespread support in the northern border states from Vermont to Wisconsin. They aim to invade Canada and lead an army of insurgent Canadians against the British colonial government. We’ll be there to meet them.”
It was in the chill of a November morning that Daniel and Charles marched south-east to confront the rebels and the Hunters. Daniel milked the cow before he left. As usual when he went away, he had sent word to Widow Hacket to come and stay with Brigit and the children until his return. Not that Cousin Kitty did much to help, but at least she could keep the babies from going too near the fire when Brigit’s back was turned. Meanwhile, Joanna offered a great deal of assistance for such a small lass. Joanna minded the wee ones after their breakfast of porridge as Brigit ran outside to check the fire in the smokehouse on the hill, where their ham and sausages were being cured. Clutching her shawl about her against the chill, she chanted to herself the Fáed Fíada, the lorica or “breastplate” of St. Patrick, praying that the same mystical garment of protection be placed upon Daniel.
I bind to myself today
The power of Heaven,
The light of the sun,
The brightness of the moon,
The splendour of fire,
The flashing of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of sea,
The stability of earth,
The compactness of rocks.
She fed the fire with several long hickory chips in the old hollowed tree, which served as the smoke house. Then turning she saw Kitty Hacket ambling down the road, belting out Sliabh Na MBán as if her heart were breaking. “Or perhaps she’s had a drop too many,” Brigit thought to herself. It was certainly possible. “Well, at least she can walk.”
“Kitty!” Brigit called and waved. Kitty raised an arm in acknowledgment. “Na leanaí are in the cabin! Will you watch them, please? I must be a-gathering the eggs! And could you send Mick out to me with the basket?”
Kitty nodded and stumbled in the direction of the cottage. Brigit hurried towards the hen house. She opened the barrel full of dried cracked corn which Daniel insisted on feeding the hens in addition to what they foraged for themselves. She scooped handfuls into her apron as the chickens came running towards her from all directions. Then she began to sprinkle the feed on the ground. Soon Mick appeared with the basket.
“Son, gather the eggs as I taught you,” she told him. The knowledge that they could keep the food they raised never ceased to fill her with awe. In Ireland they had to hand over most everything to the landlord, or sell it for cash, leaving not much left to eat but rotting potatoes. Thinking of potatoes, she recalled that she had to go and dig them up. With Daniel gone, there was no one else to do it.
“Now don’t go breaking the eggs, Mick me lad,” she said to the scampering five year-old, whose basket was now full. “Take the basket to Cousin Kitty, and tell her I’m going to dig for praties. Ask her to keep stirring the pot of stew on the fire. ‘Tis what we’ll be having for dinner.”
“Yes, Mammy,” said Mick, as he started to walk stolidly towards the cabin.
Brigit grabbed a shovel from among the tools in the barn and headed towards the potato field. Daniel’s hound Rory followed, sniffing the air with zealous caution. Brigit breathed in the crispness of autumn and the sweetness of the earth as she began to dig, tossing the emerging potatoes into a bushel basket after she had shaken and brushed off as much dirt as possible. Although it was not yet noon the gray clouds gave the day the quality of twilight, with streaks of rose gold at the horizon. The wind gave a lonely sigh. Rory began to bark, and Brigit realized that she was not alone.
Coming out of the woods was a small girl with long black scraggly hair and a very white face. Brigit jumped and crossed herself, thinking at first that she saw one of the faery folk, until she saw the child’s dirty face, bony legs and ragged, filthy dress.
“Ó, mo chroí!” cried Brigit. “Where did you come from?”
A tear trickled down the child’s pallid countenance, as if it were the last of a deluge which had been bitterly spent.
“My—my Ma is—is sick, and my brother—ther, too. Please m—ma’am, we need—need help,” stammered the child.
“Sweet Mother mo chroí!” exclaimed Brigit, taking off her shawl and wrapping it around the child. “Come to the cottage and warm yourself, and have a bit of stew.” With her arm around the small bony frame, she took her to the cottage. The noise of laughter and shouts met them from several yards off, although the windows were shut tight.
“Come, darlin’ and have no fear,” said Brigit as they went in. There she saw Kitty, sunbonnet askew, in the rocking chair by the fire with Baby Mary Ann on her lap as Mary Ann nibbled curds from a small clay bowl. The stew was simmering in the pot and had been lately stirred by the looks of it. From the rafters above the fireplace hung ropes of dried apples, along with bundles of flax and herbs. Joanna was in the corner, dipping the candles as she had been told. Mick, having put the basket of eggs on the table, was taking his turn churning butter with his short sturdy arms. Katy was sitting on floor near the hearth playing with the wooden alphabet blocks that Daniel had carved and listening to the story Kitty was weaving.
Kitty gasped as her bleary eyes fell upon the girl. “Glory be to God! Now that’s a desperate-looking wee one, for sure! Where did ye find her, Brigit?”
“She found me,” declared Brigit, “whilst I was digging for praties. She says her family has fallen on hard times. Let’s feed her.”
“The stew’s ready and there is a bit of champ left over from the morning. I put that on to warm in the small pot there. And I brought a sack of me own oat cakes.” Kitty sniffed. “Poor lass. She’s probably crawling with bugs by the looks of her.”
Brigit sat the child in one of the chairs at the table, all hand-carved so masterfully by Daniel. “There now, darlin’. Have a bit of food.” She turned to Kitty. “I went to the well this morning. There is enough water in the buckets left for a bath, and plenty of hot water in the kettle besides.”
In moments the girl was partaking hungrily of a maple trencher laden with stew and champ, wooden spoon in hand, with a steaming clay mug of tea as well as a plate of oat cakes covered with maple syrup off to the side. The other children gathered around her, eyes wide.
“Slowly, now, mo mhiurnen,” warned Brigit. “No good having it all come right back up.”
“I must get back to my family,” she said with food in her mouth.
“She’s an American by the sound of her,” Kitty ascertained. “Lots of Americans have come this way of late and most of them are squatters.” She waved the others away. “Children,
don’t hover so close!”
“Where is your family, mo mhiurnen?" asked Brigit.
“By the lake over yonder. On the stony point, under the pines,” the child replied.
“But that sounds like it’s near me own Mr. O’Connor’s land!” cried Brigit.
“Squatters, they are! I thought so,” nodded Kitty. “It sounds like they are camping right on the Red Horse Lake.”
Brigit hastened to the little girl, who had stopped eating, her eyes wide with fear. “There now, eat your food,” soothed Brigit. “You have no reason to be afraid of us. What is your name?”
“Susannah, ma’am,” the child said. “We live by the lake. My Pa went to town one day and never came back. My ma and my brother and I have been living on roots and berries after all our food ran out. Then the gang came….”
“And which gang was that?” asked Brigit.
Susannah’s frail body began to quiver with sobs. “I don’t know. But they came with clubs . . . and muskets . . . and burned our tent over our heads. My Ma was burned getting us out, and one of the men hit her with a club.”
“‘Twas those Orange bastards, I have no doubt,” declared Kitty in disgust.
Brigit knew that the Tories were still on guard for American squatters coming over the border, although to her it sounded like a bunch of local ruffians acting on their own. She wondered if the O’Kelly had anything to do with it. She had remembered that a few days ago they had smelled smoke coming from the lake, but they thought it was an All Hallows’ Eve bonfire lit by one of the neighbors.
“Well, I had best go and see what the trouble is,” sighed Brigit. “Kitty, could you please bathe the child while I am gone?”
“Aye, I’ll scrub her down with some good lye soap.” said Kitty, putting the baby on the floor and rising to her feet. “But Brigit lass, ‘tis no place for you to be going alone, out to the Red Horse lake. They say a creature lives in the lake, you know, a water horse. And what of the wolves, begorrah? Not to mention the Orangemen . . . .”
“Mr. O’Connor has the gun so I’ll be taking the dog with me. Have no fear, Kitty, it is several hours before dark. Just please keep the baby away from the fire. And feed the children their dinner, if you please, dearie.” With these words she pulled on a shawl over her head, pinning it under her chin.
“Muise, muise!” moaned Kitty. “‘Tis yourself you need to be worrying about, Brigit.”
Brigit scooped up some lard from an earthenware jar. She wrapped it in a cheese cloth and put it in a large basket with a jug of whisky, a jar of honey, a tinder box and some clean linen strips that she had set aside for bandages. She threw in the rest of Kitty’s oat cakes as well, and then covered the basket with a clean linen cloth and an extra shawl. She filled a leather water bag with fresh water from the bucket and slung it across her shoulders. She turned to her children.
“Joanna, help Kitty with the baby and watch Katy. Mick me lad, keep the cat away from the buttermilk and don’t be going outside, except to use the outhouse. But then come right back inside! Katy, be a good girl, now! Come kiss your Mammy!”
Katy’s chubby arms went around her neck as Brigit kissed her plump little cheeks. Then she hugged the other children, and headed towards the barn to saddle the horse. Daniel had taken one horse but had left the other for her. She decided it was safer to be mounted in case she ran into trouble.
“Come, Rory!” The hound came panting up behind her. He sniffed at her basket and looked askance at her, wondering where she was going. She saddled Maeve, her mare, whom she had last ridden when she and Daniel had taken the Katy and Mary Ann to the priest to have them christened, each holding a child on the saddle before them. She strapped the basket on to the side of the horse.
“We’re going on an adventure, Rory, you and Maeve and I. Come along!” Brigit rode towards the woods, looking for the path Daniel had made to the lake. He used to go fishing there every Thursday, but he had been too busy with the regiment of late. She found the path easily, recalling that it was marked by a large birch. The floor of the forest was carpeted with leaves and yet enough of them remained on the branches to make a red-gold canopy. The trail wound amid the trees and the boulders; the silvery November light rendered the shadows grey while the bright foliage gave everything a tawny cast. Silence cloaked the forest except for the panting of the hound, the rustle of the leaves in the breeze and the muffled crunch of the horse’s hooves. Occasionally a bird would warble or there would be the rustle of an animal scurrying off. Rory stopped and smelled the ground a few times before going forward with alert deliberation. Brigit felt secure in the knowledge that if danger lurked nearby the dog would warn her of it.
Finally, she could see sky peering through the trees as she drew nearer to the lake. The path sloped gradually downward, and Brigit glimpsed the dark still water. The air grew more damp and chill. The forest grew right up to the rim of the lake with only a narrow rocky shoreline, except where huge boulders jutted out into water. It was on one of these lower and flatter boulders that Daniel went fishing. Rory barked and began to run along the shore. Brigit followed him as best as she could. There was a grove of pines and what seemed to be a clearing up ahead. She dismounted and led the horse, calling “Rory!” Rory came running back to her excitedly. He then led her into the clearing.
There were the charred remains of a tent sunken and sodden upon the ground. Some of the surrounding trunks of the pines as well as their lower branches were blackened as well. If not for the dampness of the wood then the fire would surely have spread, thought Brigit. Then she gasped, for her eyes fell upon two figures prone upon what seemed to be a pile of dirty rags and bloodied blankets. They lay near the remnants of a fire, which had long grown cold. Brigit hurried over to them and found a woman and a small boy.
The woman had a huge purple welt on her head and burns showing beneath her singed linsey-woolsey dress. Her head was bare and the hair matted. So still was she that at first Brigit thought death had taken her until the woman groaned and opened an eye. As for the boy, he was as white as parchment, his breathing quick and labored. Brigit had seen such a pinched and emaciated countenance many times before. It was the face of death, death brought on by hunger.
“Poor wee one!” cried Brigit. She felt his forehead. It was burning. She took the other woolen shawl from the basket. When unfolded it was large enough to cover both mother and child.
“Susannah!” The mother called faintly in a hoarse voice.
Brigit took her hand. “Ma’am, I am Mrs. Daniel O’Connor. Susannah is safe. She is with me own children in the cottage at Long Point Farm. I have come to do what I can for you.”
Drawing out the water pouch, she poured a few drops into the boy’s parched lips. He swallowed and opened his eyes, which were blue and beautiful in spite of being glazed with fever. He moved his lips slightly, as if he were trying to speak; he could not have been more than nine or ten. Brigit gave water to the mother as well. She gathered some sticks and branches and soon had a warm fire going. Then she brought the rags, whiskey and lard out of the basket. With the water and whiskey she cleaned the woman’s bruises, covering them with honey and lard and bandaging them securely. She carefully washed the burns with water then anointed them with honey. Gently, she wrapped the afflicted parts with the clean linen strips. The woman’s right side was burned as well as her hands and parts of her arms; Brigit was glad she had bought with her the many strips of cloth.
As for the boy, although she gave him more water she sensed that he was beyond her aid; all she could do was keep him as warm and as comfortable as possible. She took him in her arms so that his head was on her lap and she murmured some Aves over him. “Poor lad,” she sighed, “if only you could have had some of me fine butter milk, even a day ago, you would not be dying.” She recalled being a small hungry child herself, watching the butter being sent to the landlord and the milk given to the sheep to fatten them up for the hanging gale. Meanwhile she and her family were left with water,
salt, potatoes, and an occasional herring, on which to live. In her mind’s eye she saw her mother giving her food away to Brigit and her brothers, growing thinner and thinner all the while, until the typhus overcame her at last. “Mammy!” she cried out into the forest. Then Brigit began to sing the “Song of Fionnuala”:
Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?
When will heav'n, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
She remembered seeing her mother’s frail form wrapped in a linen shroud so that there seemed little or nothing left of her, the large gray eyes were closed forever. So many people had died of the typhus in the village that they were buried together in one big pit. She held her Pa’s hand as her tears poured out like water. She wondered if she would ever see clearly again. Or would everything always be a blur of sorrow.
It was then that she was filled with visions of the ship, of the voyage across the sea that she had tried to forget, of those moments when she had thought she would die for sure. There were rats and lice in the steerage and the smell of urine was something she thought she would never get out of her nostrils. She could never tell whether the vomit in her hair was her own or someone else’s. During the fiercest storm she clung to the hand of a girl her own age, a girl named Siobhan. When she woke in the morning the hand was ice cold and the Siobhan’s eyes were vacant. She had trouble freeing her hand from the grasp of death and had screamed until the sailors threatened to throw her overboard. Even now, her sleep was disturbed by the memory of that empty stare.
The Paradise Tree Page 11
