Chapter 43
The Fields
As much as she abhorred Mr. Galloway, she was grateful for his presence when she discovered Caitlin and Davin were still alive.
While she rubbed her sister’s and brother’s arms and then legs to bring them warmth, the Englishman and his driver split several of the wooden crates and started a fire as rain began to pound against the roof. They also carried in all of Clare’s belongings, and he even parted with a couple of blankets and a stew pot, both of which, he opined, could have brought a bounty of lace.
But following these gestures of reluctant kindness, Mr. Galloway informed her his pressing business required that he depart before the rutted roads got any muddier and more difficult to navigate.
Before leaving he dusted off as much as possible of the black soot on his clothes. Then he offered some last advice. “Make sure you don’t feed them solids for at least a week. Only broth. You’d kill them with a full meal in their condition. They look stronger than most and should be fine.”
“I owe you much,” she said before he left, giving him an awkward hug.
He nodded and panned the room with pity in his eyes. “To better days, young lady. May God have mercy on you and your people and forgive us all for our sins.”
He left, just as the rain picked up to a torrent, so much so Clare never heard the carriage leaving. Yes. God did have mercy on her. She thought nothing was more important to her now than the breaths of her two precious siblings.
“Thank You,” she whispered. Clare was filled with an inexplicable sense of joy and contentment. If this was what her life was to be, she would make the most of it, and a good life it would be. She would pour her life into these children, and each day would be a blessing compared to the horror of being without them.
Clare held tightly to the spindly bodies of her brother and sister for a long time, unwilling to release her grasp for fear they would drift away forever. Eventually, she would need to start nursing them if they would have a chance of surviving.
Fumbling through her luggage, Clare pulled out her dresses, which now embarrassed her to think of how much they cost. She fashioned a makeshift mattress, placing Caitlin and Davin gently on top and then covering them with blankets.
Running her fingers through her sister’s stringy hair, a tear dropped from her eyes to Caitlin’s sunken cheek and Clare wiped it away. She caressed Davin’s face and kissed him on the forehead, which was covered with sores.
“I’ll never leave you again. This I promise you.”
Then Clare scrambled to her feet and her instincts took over, stoking the fire, washing their faces, squeezing water from a cloth into their mouths, and nurturing them with every ounce of her being.
Clare was convinced she would never sleep again until they were back with her, but the exhaustion of travel, the drain of emotion, and lack of rest finally overwhelmed her at some point in the night. When her eyes opened, the fire was out and the morning sun could be seen leaking through the cracks in the doorway and windows.
Hearing a dull moaning coming from Caitlin, Clare crawled around Davin and peered longingly into her sister’s eyes, which were open but vacant.
She mumbled something incoherent.
“What? Cait. It’s Clare.” She pulled her sister’s hand out from under the blanket and rubbed it.
A smile crept over Caitlin’s pale, skeletal face.
“Father,” Caitlin breathed. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, Cait. Clare.”
“Father. I knew you’d come back from the field.”
After restarting the fire and trying unsuccessfully to feed her sister and brother some broth, Clare agonized over the thought of leaving them, especially since she already knew what she would find. Despite his shortcomings, her father would have never left his children alone to die.
Once she made the decision to go outside, it didn’t take Clare long to find Da’s body.
His gnarled, stiff form was at the far end of the field, not visible from the road for those who passed by. In his hands was a burlap sack, and inside it were tuber sprouts, with a line of them freshly planted leading up to where he had succumbed to his lifetime battle.
“You know your old man as well as anyone.” Father Quinn stood next to Clare and looked over the freshly turned dirt at the corner of their field. “When it was clear to the others to leave for the workhouses and live closer to the soup kitchens, he was one of those who refused.”
Clare could hardly recognize the priest, who seemed to have aged ten years since she last saw him, his hair graying and body gaunt.
“I’m so sorry, Clare. Liam swore he would send the children away to live with their aunt. I never thought he would lie about such a thing.”
“It’s not your fault.” She held his hand.
He didn’t seem to agree with her. “Your father was notified of eviction a few weeks ago. I thought he left.” Father Quinn looked around at the neighboring farmers. “I’m surprised the wreckers haven’t been through this neighborhood yet. It could be any day now, I’m afraid.”
“Where has everyone gone?” Clare asked.
“Dead for the most part. The fortunate few made it out alive.” Father Quinn shook his head. “I should have known. Liam kept rambling on about the Flight of the Earls.”
“Oh.” Clare smiled. “That story.” Her da wasn’t much on Irish history, since there weren’t many victories to boast. But he did talk about the Earls. Hundreds of years before they had fostered a rebellion against their enemies, the English. But, finally, under cloak of darkness, they disappeared from Ireland, with rumors being they would return accompanied by a mighty foreign army.
That day never came. Her father always thought the tragedy was that they ever left. That they abandoned their land. There was nothing that mattered more to Liam than the land Clare was standing upon.
“No. My father would never leave this farm.”
“You know,” Father Quinn said cautiously, “he had a family plot in the cemetery. Why . . . ?”
“This was his church,” she said.
They stood silently for a while, as the wind whistled in the background.
“What about you, Clare?”
“I’m going to stay here. We’ll make a go of it unless they drag us out. Even then, it won’t be without a fight. My father had made a good start to the planting. As soon as Cait and Davin are about, we’ll carry on.” She looked around the farm. “Yes. It’s nice to be home again.”
Father Quinn put his hat on his head, obviously displeased with her answer, but he must have remembered her well enough to know there was no bother pressing the subject further.
“All right, Clare. Well. You’re several good miles from neighbors now, of those who remain. I don’t come in this area much anymore. We’ve all been stretched, you know. But I’ll check on you when I can.”
“I know you will.” She smiled at him.
“It’s good to see you, Clare,” Father Quinn said. “If only it was in brighter circumstances.”
Even though she asked God for permission, the first chair was the most difficult.
Clare had carried it out of her neighbor’s house three times, only to pause in the front of their yard before turning around and returning it to where she found it. She felt like a fox with a hen in her mouth. For Clare, stealing was stealing, even if her neighbors were never coming back.
Finally, she grabbed the chair, and then another, and brought both of them to her home, glancing over her shoulder as a thief would the entire way. When she got it into her house, she closed the door behind her and latched it, as if someone was in dark pursuit.
Then she sat down in one of them and, looking at her siblings, all her guilt melted away. This was the start of her new mission.
Within a f
ew days, she had visited most of the vacant houses around her and now had scavenged a fine collection of tables, cabinetry, pots, shovels, a winnow, mattresses, shelving, and even a large stack of turf, which now burning in the fire, gave her home a familiar smell.
It was the table she coveted the most but saved for last because it was heavy, and she had far to travel. But after finding a wheelbarrow, the subject of her true affection became claimable. She finally wheeled the table down the road, and after unloading it carefully and dragging it through the front door, she looked up and gasped.
There propped in a chair was Caitlin, pale and pasty, but up and alert. When she saw Clare, she struggled to her feet.
Clare interceded just in time and grabbed her sister before she fell. Now in her grasps, Clare began to bawl.
“Caitlin. Oh, my dear Cait.”
“Look, Davin.” Caitlin’s voice warbled. “It’s Clare.”
Sitting up against the wall was her brother Davin. The couple of weeks of broth had already begun to round out his face.
“Davin!” Clare carried Caitlin over to him and the three embraced without words for many minutes.
“Does Da know you’re home?” Caitlin asked, finally breaking the silence.
“I have so much to share with you.” Clare could see the weariness in their eyes. “But first, you need to rest for me some more.”
Disappointment creased their faces, but they hadn’t the will to fight, and soon their eyes were closed again. Clare tucked in beside them under the blankets.
It wasn’t until the evening hour that they started to stir again, but this time, the two seemed even more alert and full of energy. While Clare heated the soup, they both stood and seated themselves in chairs around the table.
Clare set bowls and a spoon down for the three of them and filled each bowl with a steaming ladle full of turnip and carrot soup. She sat down, tucked in her chair, and then, lifting her spoon, nodded at them and began slurping her soup. She glanced up to see them staring at her aghast.
“What?” Clare said. “Are you not hungry? Do you not like it?”
Davin crooked his head at her in confusion. “Why, we haven’t said our graces.”
Clare laughed. “I am so terribly sorry. Davin, would you do us all the kind favor of offering our petition?”
Her young, curly-haired brother sealed his eyes and lowered his head in full sincerity.
“Dear God. We thank You for this our daily bread. And for answering our every night prayer that You would bring Clare home to us.” He glanced up and smiled at Clare. “And here she is. Just as You promised. Although we still are praying some man will take her. I think she’s pretty enough for it.”
Clare expected an “Amen,” but he wasn’t finished.
“And we thank You for Ma being with Kevan again. And Ro too. But don’t let them play all of the games without me, ’cause Cait just plays with dolls. Keep Seamus from trouble. And Da. I hope he gets his taters back. Amen.”
Davin opened his eyes wide and saw Clare sobbing. “Did I forget something?”
“Oh no,” Clare said. “That’s perhaps the loveliest of prayers. You’ve reminded me how to do it, that’s all.”
That night, Clare shared her gifts with them, and each she allowed one small sweet.
They spoke for hours about many things, although much Clare decided not to share until later.
When they went to sleep, Clare took a walk in the cool Irish air, and her thoughts drifted to Seamus. She felt deep empathy for him as she more clearly understood his pain, his yearning to be significant in his father’s eyes. All the while, her father was only leading them to a lonely death in the field of earthly desires.
Just as she did, Seamus was trying to draw from a well that would never be deep enough to satisfy.
Clare pondered Davin’s prayer. Was there to be a man in her life after all? Would Nanna Ella’s prayers for a godly husband ever come to be answered? She wished it would have been Andrew, but as her heart was now healing, she was feeling less dependent on that dream.
Perhaps she had found what God called her to be. A mother to the motherless.
Two weeks had passed before Father Quinn visited again as promised, and this time he paid only a short visit, with the purpose of bringing her some bad news.
“The word is the landlord is coming any day soon, and there’ll only be a short notice.”
“Well, he can come today,” Clare crossed her arms across her chest and raised her chin, “and he will face the full wrath of a woman.”
Father Quinn seemed amused but unconvinced. “These are hard times, Clare. You’ll need to be practical for the benefit of the children.”
“I think I’m done running. My father had a few things right.” The words seemed foreign to Clare, but she embraced them as her own. “This is our land. Our people.”
“Hmmm. Did you know that your father received a letter from Seamus?”
“What?”
“Yes, he did. A letter posted from Mexico that I delivered myself. It must have had money in it, because all of the sudden your father was buying provisions. And given the choice to buy food for his family, he spent just about all of it on those tuber roots. Despite two seasons of failure.”
The words stunned Clare for a moment. “I hear what you say, Quinn. But this seems to be our best chance. This is what Hanleys do.”
He gazed at her with sadness and sighed. “Suit yourself, Clare. But there’s one last thing. The tinkers have been spotted in the area. Not too close to here, but you must be on guard. You worry me something awful being all alone out here.”
“We’ll be fine,” she said.
Clare watched the young priest walk away. The wind howled around her, and for the first time since she came back, she felt afraid and alone. Trying to shake it off, she picked up a hoe and headed out to the fields to continue her father’s work.
A raven’s foreboding caw captured Clare’s attention, and glancing up, she saw a dark cluster of clouds heading their way.
Later in the evening, long after her siblings had fallen asleep, Clare found herself alone, staring into the fire. Outside the rain and wind punished their stone hovel, and steady drips flowed from the roof to buckets and bowls scattered along the floor.
Clare rocked gently in the chair she had acquired just the other day. It reminded her of Grandmother Ella, as did the Bible which lay in her lap.
But as the drips plopped, the fire crackled, and her chair creaked with each sway, Clare realized how lost she had been. The anger inside, the disappointments in her life; they had all conspired to push her away from this book.
Inside, there was a question that ripped at her soul.
She sat there for the longest time before she could find the strength to ask God the question buried deep within her heart.
Do You remember me?
As soon as she asked, an instinct, a vibration, or some inner voice alerted her that something was amiss. Her pulse surged and she saw Caitlin had experienced it as well, as her younger sister awoke and sat up stiffly in her mattress, looking to her with alarm.
She signaled to Caitlin with a finger over her mouth to be still, and with her senses raging, Clare tried to discern anything above the hammering of the rain outside. Nothing. Nothing.
Then. Rap. Rap. Rap.
In a panic, Clare went to the door, and as quietly as she could, she slid the wooden bar into the latch. Then she scrambled to the hearth. After pulling a poker off of its hook, she positioned herself between her siblings and the door and squatted down to stay out of the window’s viewpoint.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
A man’s voice muted by the walls and downpour sounded as if he was shouting to another in the distance.
Davin was now up and was clingin
g to Clare’s leg and whimpering softly. Caitlin pulled her brother tightly to her.
“Are they here to take the house?” Caitlin whispered.
“No.” Clare wished it was the house wreckers. “It wouldn’t be them. Not at this time in the night.” But Clare was all too well aware of who it was.
She grasped the iron rod in her hand. Whoever it was would be walking into a real donnybrook. Clare was tired of being run over and was determined to defend her siblings to her last breath.
Clare was ready to take a final stand.
Another shout echoed but this was more distant and trailing.
“Are they leaving?” Caitlin said.
“Let’s find out.” Clare unwrapped her brother’s grip from her calf. Then she crept to the window and slid the curtain back ever so cautiously, fearing at any moment she would be face-to-face with her enemy.
She eased her head up to see outside.
Slowly.
Finally able to look out, she saw a man preparing to step into the passenger seat of a wagon, which had a canopy protecting them from the rain.
The full moon brought enough glow through the drenching rain that she hoped she would see who it was, but the stranger’s back was to her. Then in a flash, the man turned as if to look at her house one last time and then mounted his seat, and the wagon lunged forward.
“No!” she screamed. “Wait!” Her feet bare, she ripped open the door and tugged at her hems and skittered through the mud in mad and unbridled pursuit.
“Andrew! Andrew!”
But the wagon, which had several lanterns on either side, had already gotten a good start down the road. Clare picked up her pace, ignoring the splintering pain caused by the rocks in the dirt digging into her soles.
The ruggedness of the road worked to her favor as the cart labored to make it down the road. But it was one of these same divots that caught Clare’s foot, twisting her ankle and causing her to tumble into the rain-splattered mud.
Now on her knees, the torrent from the angry clouds coming down on her and pain thrashing through her body, she screamed again. “Andrew!”
Flight of the Earls Page 33
