by Sarah Lark
The guards in Wicklow Jail would have preferred to be rid of him sooner rather than later.
At the beginning of March, Michael and the other prisoners whose deportation was planned for that spring were ordered to the prison doctor. Only healthy and halfway hardy men were sent away. The traveling conditions were not easy, after all, and England did not want to be accused of causing the deaths of prisoners. However, one always had to reckon with losses. The oppressive compactness on the ships and the insufficient food and fresh water encouraged epidemics, infections, and fevers.
Dr. Skinnings—a tall Englishman who, with his red hair and freckles, could also have passed for an Irishman—examined and cared for the bloody welts on Michael’s back.
“Those will have to heal before we can send you to sea,” he said. “Open wounds quickly become infected there.”
Michael laughed bitterly. “Then tell your friends the guards to spare me their attentiveness for a couple of days. It’s not my fault the wounds don’t close, believe you me.”
While the doctor examined him, listening to his lungs and heart, Michael looked around the infirmary. He had been thinking about escape for weeks—since he had left the dungeon, in fact—but Wicklow Jail had proved a modern and secure prison. The walls were high and thick, the guards alert. So far, no opportunity for getting away had presented itself.
The prisoners, some of whom had been in Wicklow for years, confirmed Michael’s observation. Since the prison’s renovation ten years before, no one had escaped. But Michael was not prepared to give up easily. He had hoped that perhaps the doctor’s office would present an opportunity, but things did not look good here either. If he had correctly figured out the prison floor plan, the infirmary did not include a wall facing outside. Even if he had been able to flee out a window, he would only have found himself back in the prison yard. Moreover, the window in the doctor’s office was barred just like those in the cells.
A few things had stood out to Michael and awakened his interest. There were pencil and paper in the doctor’s desk, as well as a notebook and a pen atop the medicine cabinet beside the scale.
As Dr. Skinnings turned to write Michael’s information in the notebook, Michael seized his opportunity. Quickly, he made the pencil and two pieces of paper disappear into the pockets of his wide prisoner’s trousers. When the doctor turned back toward him, Michael smiled obediently.
Dr. Skinnings looked severe. “What did you just take?” he asked with a firm voice. “Don’t lie. You took something. You can give it back to me, or I’ll call the guards. The latter would not be good for the healing of your back.”
Michael felt his face becoming red. Now even this doctor would think him a common thief. Wordlessly, he pulled the paper and pencil from his pocket and laid them on the doctor’s desk.
Dr. Skinnings furrowed his brow. “Paper and pencil? Nothing from the cabinet?”
Michael looked in surprise at the bottles and pill boxes on the shelves. “What would I want with them?”
Dr. Skinnings shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Get drunk? Kill yourself? The men are always trying it—and yet most of them can’t even read what the bottles say. But that’s not the case with you, now, is it?”
“I could read them,” Michael informed the doctor. “But that’s about it. That’s Latin, right?”
“Latin and sometimes Greek. Well, well, you can recognize that. You’ve a clever head, Michael Drury. What a shame you seem only to want to make it through the wall. Why do you want the paper and pencil? Do you hope someone outside will free you? Do you belong to some organization perhaps planning an assault on the prison ship? You can tell me, or the guards will beat it out of you.” Dr. Skinnings eyed Michael with arched eyebrows.
Michael laughed. “No one beats anything out of me, Doc,” he said. “I can keep quiet—and die, if it comes to that. But there’s no dark secret here. I don’t have any friends with magic weapons. Just a girl in a village on the Vartry who is pregnant with my child. I’d like to write her a farewell letter, to give her a little hope.”
Dr. Skinnings shook his head. “Hope for what, Drury? Do you think you’re coming back? My God, man, be reasonable. No one comes back. You’ll spend the rest of your life in Australia, in Van Diemen’s Land, likely. But that needn’t be so bad. You’re still young. You have a ten-year sentence to serve, of course, but after that, you can apply for land as a free settler. Over there is more land than anyone knows what to do with, Drury. As for those ten years, I’ll mention in my report that you can read and write. That’ll make you valuable. You’ll be employed in more skilled jobs than just clearing the land. Only if you behave, of course. Use these ten years, Drury. Get to know your new country. Don’t see this punishment as an exile but a chance for a new beginning.”
Michael shook his head. “And what should I tell Kathleen?” he asked. “I promised to marry her.”
The doctor shrugged. “Forget the girl. It sounds harsh, but it’s the best advice I can give you. You won’t see her again. And now, feel free to take paper, a pen, and some ink, and write her a beautiful letter. Tell her to take care of herself, but don’t give her any hope.”
Dr. Skinnings permitted Michael to write his letter in the office while he examined the next patient. The doctor promised to send the letter himself—free of charge. A few of the corrupt guards did post letters but demanded a horrendous charge, and Michael did not trust them.
He couldn’t be sure that the doctor would send the letter without reading it first, but Michael did not want that to dictate what he wrote to Kathleen: “Trust in my love, Mary Kathleen, and pass it on to my child. Though I don’t yet know how I’ll manage it, I’ll come back!”
A few days later, the prisoners condemned to deportation were loaded into prison wagons and driven to the wharf. Michael once again hoped for an opportunity for flight, but the guards were on alert. Plus, troublemakers like Michael had their hands and feet restrained and had to be dragged, with their chains clanking, into the wagons. Then the chains were pulled through special rings attached to the beds of the vehicles. In order to flee, the prisoners would have had to dismantle the wagons.
Billy Rafferty was sobbing again as he sank next to Michael onto the filthy straw that covered the bed of the wagon.
“Now it’s final,” he wept. “They’re sending us away. We’ll never see our home again.”
“I will,” said Michael assuredly, grasping Kathleen’s lock of hair, which he had hidden securely in the sleeve of his shirt. “I’ll see Ireland again and marry Kathleen. They can’t keep me in chains for ten years!”
Chapter 7
Kathleen’s pregnancy could no longer be hidden. Her mother had stopped screaming at her, and her father didn’t hit her anymore. It would not do anything, after all. The first months, in which a merciful hand could still have led to a natural loss of the child, had passed. Kathleen’s parents and siblings punished her with silence and disdain instead of fighting and lamenting. In the village, people whispered behind her back.
After the worst of the winter was over, the tenants’ lives shifted back outside. They had had enough of the oppressive crowdedness of the small, smoky huts. Kathleen left the house as rarely as possible, and she was often alone in the stuffy cottage.
Kathleen, who always felt tired, spent whole days lying on her mat—dreaming about Michael, mourning for him—until, one day, her mother said something that forced her to her feet.
“Make yourself useful,” she ordered angrily, pointing to the spinning wheel. “Or shove off with your bastard. It’ll cost us enough.”
Kathleen dragged herself to the spinning wheel, but when her mother went outside, she pulled Michael’s purse out from under her straw mat and counted the money once again. Spring was coming; ships would be sailing for America. If only she could summon more courage and strength. But it seemed the baby in her womb was robbing her of the last of her energy—or perhaps it was the contempt and cruelty of the people around
her that exhausted her. The only one in the village who showed Kathleen any kindness was Father O’Brien. The old priest had, no doubt, seen his share of women fall from grace, and he seemed to recognize that recriminations would do no good.
When Kathleen confessed the whole story to him in tears, he even tried to intervene with the prison chaplain in Wicklow.
“If Michael’s willing to marry you, perhaps the chaplain will do it,” Father O’Brien said. Kathleen had some hope, but just a few days later the response arrived: the chaplain strongly advised against marrying a prisoner before deportation. His opinion was clear in his letter to Father O’Brien:
No blessing lies in sealing a union that can no longer be consummated. On the contrary, we would be encouraging sin thereby. The young man will remain in the colonies forever, and the young woman in Ireland. Is she to remain chaste her whole life? Naturally, we might wish for that, but the flesh is weak. A marriage before his deportation would, moreover, nourish the hope that he might return. Thus, he would not integrate himself in the colonies. We would be fomenting recalcitrance and resistance, not to mention that Michael Drury is not counted among the obedient and God-fearing. It would be better if this Kathleen O’Donnell was to accept her fate and view it as expiation for her sins. May she serve as an example to the other girls of her village.
Father O’Brien expected tears from Kathleen as he read his colleague’s opinion. But her eyes remained dry—and the priest recognized more anger than sorrow, let alone remorse.
“And what about the baby, Father?” she asked harshly after a pause. “Whom the church is denying a father and an honorable name? Should I have it baptized with the name ‘Example’?”
O’Brien shrugged his shoulders. He could have admonished her for disparaging the church, but there was no point. In his heart of hearts, he agreed with her.
The first days of March were sunny, and Kathleen remembered her happy days by the river with Michael. She would have gladly left the dark hut to enjoy the outdoors, but her mother brought her plenty of wool to spin, enough to keep her busy all day.
Kathleen was just considering whether she should move the spinning wheel out in front of the cottage and whether that would invite the scorn and mockery of the passing villagers, when there was a knock at the door. When she opened the door, she was amazed to see Ian Coltrane standing there.
The young horse trader smiled at her. “A good day to you, Mary Kathleen O’Donnell,” he said formally.
Kathleen bowed slightly and returned his greeting. “What brings you here, Ian?” she asked, not unfriendly but reserved. “We don’t have any horses to sell, and my father doesn’t mean to buy any.”
Ian grinned. “No, nothing about a horse,” he said. “I didn’t come for that. I wanted to see you, Kathleen. But should we go inside or to the village square? It could put you in a bad light if a passerby sees you talking with me here.”
Kathleen wondered if he was serious. “You can’t sully my name any more; that’s been done already,” she said casually. “I don’t care what the people say. So, what brings you here, Ian?”
Ian smiled. “Well, I need to get back to Wicklow in the coming days. And I wanted to offer you another ride. In case you’d like to visit your aunt again.”
Kathleen sank her head. Was he mocking her? Well, she would not show any reaction. She would not be shamed by him. “My aunt got better a long time ago.”
Ian shrugged. “Good for her,” he said with a note of sarcasm. “But perhaps something else takes you to Wicklow. They say a ship is sailing soon, for London.”
Kathleen frowned. “Ships are always sailing from Wicklow,” she said.
Ian nodded, and something flashed in his black eyes. Was it mischievousness? Cruelty?
“But not every ship has condemned lads on board on their way to Australia. And I’ve heard one of them sailing on this tub has some connection to you.”
“To London?” Kathleen blurted. “They’re sending Michael to London? And thence on to, to . . . Do you think I could see him one more time?” In her excitement she grasped Ian’s arm.
“I don’t know,” Ian replied curtly. “I only know I’m driving to Wicklow early Monday, to the horse market. And if I meet you somewhere outside the village, then I’ll gladly take you with me.”
Kathleen thought it over. There would be plenty of trouble if she ran away without telling her parents anything. They might refuse to take her back in afterward. But that would certainly be the case if she told them about the ride. And what exactly did Ian Coltrane have in mind with this offer? He would not drive her to town out of pure neighborliness.
“What do you get in exchange, Ian?” Kathleen asked distrustfully.
Ian shrugged. “I’ll get to see golden hair blow in the wind and green eyes shine. Perhaps I’ll even hear a thank-you from tender red lips.”
“Oh, enough,” Kathleen said. “You don’t need to flatter me. And I’ll tell you right now: I don’t have more than a few looks and a few words to offer. Whatever people say.”
Ian bowed gallantly. “I would never have thought of asking anything indecent of you, Mary Kathleen,” he said. “On the contrary, I admire you. Such a dutiful girl who is always on her way to act as a nurse for her old aunt.”
Kathleen pressed her lips together. Her instincts told her it was not a good idea to take Ian’s offer. But her heart yearned to see Michael once more, even if she couldn’t speak with him.
“I’ll think about it,” she told Ian.
He laughed. “I’ll wait for you on Monday.”
At barely first light on Monday, Kathleen heard Ian’s cart rolling through the village, and she slipped out of the house while her family slept. Ian and his two-wheeled cart, with two donkeys attached this time, were waiting at the edge of the village.
“You didn’t have to think long,” Ian teased when Kathleen climbed onto the box. “I can understand someone finding it lovely to watch the ships sail. But how much lovelier it would be to sail with them.”
“If you’re eager to go, you only need to take three sacks of Trevallion’s grain,” she said impudently, “and they’ll book you passage free of charge.”
Ian laughed. Then he began to talk about the horse market in Wicklow. It was early spring, the time of year when people bought work animals. He hoped the donkeys would fetch a good price. At least, that was what he told Kathleen. She cast a fleeting glance at the animals and thought she recognized the gardener’s donkey as one of them. Lately, old O’Rearke had cursed about the animal all the time. It was old and lame. Now, however, it seemed quite nimble and did not drag its leg. Ian Coltrane seemed to have a talent for rejuvenating his wares.
He laughed uproariously when Kathleen remarked on this.
“Aye, you could call it that,” he said and then began to brag shamelessly of his success.
Kathleen did not listen. She had no desire to converse. Her thoughts were only with Michael, and she guarded as a treasure the letter Father O’Brien had given her the day before.
“I should not support it,” the old priest had said, almost with remorse, when he stopped Kathleen after Mass. “My brother of the cloth, who sent me this, advised me to throw it away. But alas, I have a too-soft heart.” With that, he had pressed a letter into her hand, furtively and quickly, so her parents would not notice.
Kathleen had waited hours to open the letter. She knew it was from Michael, and she wanted to be alone when she read his farewell. His words warmed her heart: He had not forgotten her. He would come back. And surely it would be a comfort to him to see her in the crowd when his ship sailed. Michael’s letter was the final push toward accepting Ian’s offer.
Ian let Kathleen off at the wharf before proceeding with his donkeys. He would pick her up on his way back.
“Excuse me, sir, which is the ship bound for London?” Kathleen shyly asked a sailor who was just unloading a cutter. The man grinned at her.
“The prison ship?” he asked meaningfu
lly. “Can’t miss it, lass. See there where all the people are standing? They’re also hoping to get a last look at the rascals bound for Van Diemen’s Land. Is it your brother or sweetheart, my dear?”
The sailor let his gaze wander over Kathleen’s body. “Oh, the husband, is it?” He grinned. “Well, you won’t see much more of him in this life. But if you’re looking for a new one, I’d be happy to have you, sweet. Such a pretty thing, a fellow’d gladly take the stowaway as part of the trade.” He nodded toward her belly and reached for her arm.
Kathleen pulled herself free and ran in the given direction. Some fifty people were already waiting there, Gráinne Rafferty among them.
When Kathleen moved to join her, Gráinne spat.
“Well look here: the whore who dragged my Billy into misfortune,” she shrieked. “Fine little Mary Kathleen who could have had the steward but took the worst rogue. Trevallion don’t want you no more, that it? They should send you away, not my Billy who never did a bad thing in his life.”
Gráinne cursed and howled as those standing around looked rather compassionately at Kathleen. Finally, she managed to get away from the old cook—without learning where Gráinne and her family lived now or how they were doing.
It had turned not into a radiant spring day but rather a gray, rainy morning. Kathleen was freezing in her thin maternity dress. It had belonged to her mother, who had worn it through all five pregnancies. Now it was ragged, and Kathleen’s shawl did not keep her warm either. And she was getting hungry. She hadn’t had breakfast before sneaking out of the house. The baby in her womb kicked in protest.
