Toward the Sea of Freedom

by Sarah Lark

  “We, we don’t have anything to give,” she explained briefly. “I’m going to offer my aunt comfort and company.”

  Ian laughed. “I could use some of that as well,” he teased her. “So if you’d like to offer me a bit, there’s still a spot open next to me.” He knocked on the box.

  There was also a bench in the back of the two-wheeled cart where Kathleen would have much preferred to sit. But saddlery and tools lay strewn about, and beggars could not be choosers. So she climbed onto the box and took a seat next to Ian. He had the horses trot onward again. Behind the cart followed two more horses and a mule.

  “And, and you?” Kathleen asked, though she was not at all interested. “Where are you going?”

  Ian raised his eyebrows. “Where does it look like? Do you think I’m taking the nags for a walk? The horse market in Wicklow. Early morning in the square off the wharf. I hope I can make some money from these three.”

  Kathleen glanced at the horses. She knew one of them.

  “The black one isn’t young anymore, is he?” she asked.

  That horse had pulled the cobbler’s cart since Kathleen was a little girl. Or was she mistaken? Wasn’t the cobbler’s horse already gray around the eyes? And didn’t it have a saddle sore on its back that was white? The horse that was now behind the cart was a gleaming black.

  “That one? He’s six years old and not a day more.” Ian acted insulted. “Look at his teeth if you don’t believe me.”

  Kathleen shrugged. The teeth would not have told her anything, but she could have sworn she had picked dandelions when it was waiting for its master in front of the cobbler’s workshop. Those were better days, when people did not cook the weeds on the roadside into soup. The horse had a sort of twirled mustache over its nostrils. Kathleen had never seen that on an animal before, and the cobbler must have thought it peculiar, too, or he would not have called the horse Blackbeard. But Kathleen did not want to argue with Ian. She was much too happy about getting a ride for that. The dappled horses trotted merrily onward. Surely, it was not more than an hour or so to Wicklow.

  So Kathleen tried to move the conversation from the horses to more innocuous subjects. She asked about Ian’s father, whose business, according to Ian, was going rather badly.

  “Doesn’t have any money at the moment,” Ian said casually.

  This surprised Kathleen. Ian’s father was a tenant of Lord Wetherby too, but he was in a much better position than the others. Patrick Coltrane was not working off his rent, since he paid it with his income from livestock trading.

  “At least not from cows and sheep,” Ian added, almost contemptuously. “What would they eat anyway? People are digging up the last roots themselves, after all.”

  “But you can sell horses?” Kathleen wondered.

  Ian laughed. “There are always a few rich gentlemen. In Wicklow and Dublin, some still need a horse—or want one. You just need to make it clear to them that a horse’ll make a lord out of a chandler. And in the country, the nags are cheap now.”

  Kathleen wondered just how much these chandlers knew about horses. They might well buy old Blackbeard once Ian made them believe it came from Lord Wetherby’s stables.

  “But I won’t be staying here long,” Ian ultimately revealed to her. “Not much money in this country. Enough to live, but if you want a bit more, no, I’m off overseas. I want to make a fortune.”

  “Really?” Kathleen asked, suddenly interested.

  Ian was the first she’d heard speak of emigrating out of true excitement rather than pure need.

  “A, a friend of mine also talks about that,” she said. “And I, I . . .”

  Ian looked at her curiously. “You want to as well? Well, that makes you the exception. Most of the girls you talk to about the colonies only tremble in fright.”

  “Well, there is the crossing.”

  Ian snorted. “The crossing. Fine, it’s not going to be cozy, and there won’t be much to eat. But compared to what you get to eat here, it would likely be better. Although you seem to me to be eating rather well, sweetheart. You are a lovely maid. And one with such vitality.”

  They rode on for a while in silence. Then Ian looked at Kathleen, who was shaking with cold, with new interest.

  “You cold, sweetheart?” he asked, seeming concerned. He produced a blanket and put it around Kathleen’s shoulders, pulling her a little closer as he did. “Come now, I’ll keep you warm.”

  Kathleen was relieved they had just passed the sign for Wicklow.

  Ian’s hand wandered underneath the blanket, across Kathleen’s shoulders and toward her neckline.

  Kathleen pushed away from him.

  “Could you, could you let me down here, please?” she asked.

  Ian laughed. “Here? But we’re still practically in the wilderness, sweetheart.”

  Indeed, this was a suburb in which cute cottages and gardens lay between small fields. They might still be a mile or two from the town center, the wharf, and Barney’s Tavern.

  “My aunt, she lives around here somewhere,” Kathleen claimed.

  “Oh right, the aunt,” Ian mocked her. “Shouldn’t I take you to her door?”

  Kathleen shook her head. “No, no thanks. You’ve done enough; that is, I’ve had enough; I mean, I’ve imposed enough on your kindness. I can walk the rest of the way. Thank you very much, Ian.”

  Ian arched his brows and tugged on the reins. The team stopped at once. “If you insist, your wish is my command. And perhaps we’ll see each other around.” He tipped his cap.

  Kathleen clambered down from the box, forcing herself to smile at him. “Sure, on Sunday in church, if you’re ever there.”

  Even if she were going to be back at the village for church, Patrick and Ian Coltrane often spent their weekends at livestock markets. This was the reason Ian likely did not know about her situation with Ralph Trevallion. Otherwise, he surely would have teased her about it.

  Ian saluted once more before bringing the horses back to a trot. Kathleen desperately hoped never to see him again.

  On the horse cart’s box, she had been nearly as cold as on foot. Now she had to force herself, quite stiff and exhausted, to put one foot in front of the other. But surely, it could not be much farther.

  Indeed, it was not even completely dark when Kathleen reached High Street. She asked the very first passerby about Barney’s Tavern.

  He pointed out the way to her. “You can’t miss it, child, just after the first turn. But what do you want with that place? You could earn more in others.”

  Kathleen could have died when she realized what the man had thought she was. She hastened her steps even more. When she finally reached the tavern, she was out of breath. She was hardly cold anymore.

  Sighing with relief, she pushed the door open and was assailed by a gust of warm, stale air reeking of whiskey, beer, and tobacco. Kathleen struggled against the nausea that slowly gripped her. It did not seem that the baby inside her wanted to grow into a man who spent half his life in a tavern.

  “What splendor in our poor hovel.” A small, rotund man greeted her from behind the bar. “Golden tresses, alabaster skin, and eyes as green as Irish fields. If you’re an illusion, lovely, you can stay, but otherwise this place is just for the boys.”

  Most taverns did not let women inside.

  Kathleen forced another smile. “I’m Kathleen O’Donnell,” she introduced herself. “I need to talk to Michael Drury.”

  The short, fat man eyed her in recognition. “Barney,” he introduced himself. “You’re the girl he wants to run away with? All due respect, but you could’ve caught a better man. How about me, cutie? At least I can offer you something. A tavern always has business.”

  Kathleen felt her anger rising. That was the last straw. She did not want to smile or play nice anymore. She wanted to see Michael.

  “Listen,” she said in a commanding tone. “I need to warn Michael. The redcoats are after him. So no games now, please.”


  The fat man grew serious at once. “Soldiers, girl? Damn it. I knew something was wrong. But no, ‘Just a room for a few days, Barney! Just till my girl can break free. It’s not easy, you know, for a girl like that, saying good-bye to her family.’ He talked with a silver tongue, that one. And I got taken in. And in return he brings the English lobsters to my tavern?” Barney turned and roared into the room behind the barroom. “Michael!”

  When he got no answer, he ran back there. Kathleen did not hesitate long. She followed him through the greasy kitchen and into a hallway that led to several doors.

  “Michael!” Barney’s call could not be ignored, and indeed, one of the doors finally opened. Michael stepped outside.

  “Could you yell any louder, Barney?” he asked grumpily, but then he saw Kathleen behind the fat barman.

  “Kathleen! I take it all back, Barney. She justifies any loudness. Aye, trumpeters and drummers should precede her wherever she goes, that the unworthy may turn away their gaze before they’re blinded by too much beauty. Kathleen, that went faster than I’d dare dream.” Michael moved to take her in his arms, but she forced herself to push him away.

  “Michael, there’s no time for that. They’ve arrested Billy. And he’ll talk. We have to go!”

  “They have Billy? Damn it, that little idiot. Couldn’t put down the bottle, could he? And I warned him, I—”

  “Michael!” Kathleen almost screamed. “Does he know about this hiding place?”

  “I’d also like to know if he does,” Barney said with the look of an angry bull terrier.

  Michael shrugged. “I might have mentioned it. At least, well, we were here Saturday, right? If he names all the pubs . . .”

  “I’m ruined!” cried Barney. “I have to get rid of the bottles. If they find them here, let alone if they find you . . . Just get out of here, Michael Drury!”

  Michael began to gather his things. But while he was still tying his bundle and Barney was hurrying down the hall with his second armful of moonshine whiskey bottles, a young boy shot through the kitchen.

  “Barney, Da sent me. You know, from The Finest Horse. The lobsters are there about the whiskey. And Michael Drury. You should . . .”

  Barney cried out for heaven’s help and ran all the faster while Michael looked around like a cornered beast.

  “Kathleen, we need to get out of here. Fast. The Finest Horse is two doors down. When they’re done there, they’ll come here. Listen, you’ll go first. From here, through the barroom.”

  “And you?” Kathleen stood there as if frozen.

  “I’ll go out the back door. We’ll meet at the wharf. I’ll find you.” Michael tossed his bundle over his shoulder, but then something occurred to him. He rummaged a purse out of his pocket and pressed it into Kathleen’s hand. “Here, take that. Quick, what are you waiting for?” Michael pushed her into the hall.

  “But, but . . .”

  “No buts. Go, Kathleen. We’ll meet later.” Michael put a coin in the boy’s hand. “Here, Harry. Take the lady to safety.”

  Voices could now be heard from the barroom. Loud voices, used to giving orders. Michael ran down the corridor. Little Harry, a smart, red-haired boy with the gentle, round face of a cherub, pulled Kathleen in the other direction. She had just enough time to cover her hair with her shawl before she found herself standing in front of two soldiers. The redcoats shoved her aside rudely and began tearing open the doors to the back rooms. As if numb, Kathleen followed Harry into the barroom, where immediately a wave of nausea swept over her again. This time it was because of not only the stench but also her fear.

  Two more soldiers held the drunkards in check. “No one leaves the room until we know who you are and where you come from,” one of them growled.

  A few men fished for identification papers; others stumbled through explanations. Kathleen went pale with horror. She had no way of proving who she was. They would arrest her; they would find out where she came from and lock her up as Michael’s accomplice.

  Cries could be heard from the yard behind the tavern. But Michael had run away. Still Kathleen trembled.

  But then she felt Harry’s small, warm hand in hers. “Let’s go, Ma. He’s not here,” said the little boy with a sweet voice. “Only the soldiers are here. Ma, just look at the pretty uniforms they have.”

  The little boy looked at the men with innocent admiration—pinching Kathleen’s hand at the same time, however.

  “Cry,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

  Kathleen sobbed. It was much easier to do that than it had been to produce the forced smiles of the previous hours.

  Harry pulled her toward the door. “Good sirs, let us pass!” He turned to the square-shouldered soldier guarding the door. “We didn’t find my da here. But we have to keep looking; otherwise he’ll drink away all the money Grandda gave us.”

  The boy tugged emphatically on Kathleen’s dress. She had to play along. She could not leave it to the child alone to lie their way out of there.

  Kathleen whimpered. “He wanted to bet it on horses,” she complained. “Can you imagine that, good sirs? And yet it was for our debts. And the farm, dear sirs. If we don’t find Paddy soon, our landlord will throw us out on the street.”

  Now Harry cried too. His howls could have softened stones. The soldier cleared the door. The wailing likely played on his nerves, and he showed no interest in the woman. So Billy did not seem to have mentioned Kathleen when he had betrayed Michael. That was something, at least.

  “Well, get going, woman,” the soldier grumbled. “And I hope for your sake you find the man, but that’s how they are, your Paddys and Kevins. Drinking and gambling good-for-nothings, the lot of them.”

  Kathleen was no longer listening. She hardly managed to stammer a thank-you as Harry pulled her out of the tavern with many a “God will reward you for it, sirs.” Outside, his wailing stopped at once.

  “Where to now?” Harry asked Kathleen.

  Michael fled through the hallway. The back door was easy to find—after all, Barney had been running back and forth through it with the whiskey bottles. However, the door did not open to freedom but to a high-walled yard.

  Michael squinted in the twilight as he hastened outside. There had to be a door or a gate. But the yard was filled with junk—empty bottles and barrels, old tables and chairs. Barney seemed to toss everything there that he could no longer use but did not want to throw away. Michael kept looking in the half-light and finally saw the gate.

  Michael ran at the solid wooden gate, throwing himself against it—and found it locked. In desperation, he looked for the handle. Perhaps the key was already in the lock.

  “Barney!”

  It was useless. Barney was either back in the tavern, claiming innocence, or he had already escaped through this gate himself, knowing full well that he was throwing Michael to the wolves when he closed the gate behind him.

  Back in the building, the redcoats were going through the rooms. It was only a question of time before they would come into the yard. Michael had to make a quick decision. Hide, or try to escape over the wall? The first was nonsensical; the men would search the whole tavern. Not to mention the space in the yard; where else would one hide moonshine? But there might be a way out over the wall if he climbed onto one of the barrels—or better yet, a barrel on top of one of the old tables.

  Michael worked frantically. The first table broke under the barrel, but the second held. Michael quickly climbed on top of the table, but to get onto the barrel from the table required a balancing act. And the soldiers were already there. Michael prayed they would not spot him immediately in the near darkness, but the two men carried lanterns.

  “There he is!”

  Michael clambered onto the barrel with the courage of the desperate and heaved himself up so he could climb over the wall. A shot rang out. Michael smelled gunpowder smoke, but he did not let up in his efforts.

  Yet—it was too late. One of the soldiers was already beside h
im and kicked the table and the barrel out from under him. Michael tried to hold onto the ledge of the wall, but the stone was slick from icy rain that had recently fallen. Michael’s fingers slipped, and he fell hard on the ground.

  “Michael Drury?” the soldier asked, pulling him to his feet.

  Michael did not say a word.

  “I don’t know. Aren’t you supposed to be looking after me?” whispered Kathleen. “To, to the wharf. If Michael . . .”

  “If they don’t nab him,” Harry mused pessimistically. “Better find that out first. Before he tells them you’re waiting at the wharf.”

  “He would never betray me!”

  Harry shrugged. As he did, he seemed to come up with an idea. “Listen, lady, follow me. I’ll take you to Daisy’s. You won’t stand out there—well, a bit, the way you look. But it’ll do. Just don’t show her your purse, or you won’t have it anymore.”

  The boy pushed her energetically into a side street, but Kathleen resisted when she heard a loud noise from Barney’s Tavern.

  A pop. A shot.

  “Michael! Michael! I need to go to him,” howled Kathleen.

  Harry held on to her dress with unexpected strength. “No way! I just got you out, and you want to go right back in? Are you mad? They’ll probably hunt me down, too, once you give yourself away.”

  “But I . . .”

  Harry was just as curious as Kathleen was desperate, but he held her out of sight. The two of them peered around the corner at the pub, from where they heard more noise and shouting. And then the door flew open. Two redcoats dragged out a man. He was resisting. Michael was in chains but seemingly unhurt.

  “I told you they’d catch him,” Harry said. Then he took Kathleen’s hand. “Come on, you can’t do any more for him. They won’t hang him right away. Tomorrow you can ask where they took him. But for now, we need to get away.”

  Kathleen could not think anymore. She was frozen with fear and horror over Michael’s fate. What would they do to him? They would not hang him right away? Surely they would not hang anyone for stealing three sacks of grain.