The Irishman's Daughter Page 26

  * * *

  That afternoon, in a secluded spot, they ate the dried fish Jarlath had given them. The wind stung less sharply here but was potent enough to send shivers racing over their arms and legs. Lucinda, sullen while she ate, said little. Rory, nearly as glum, made small talk about the rest of their journey.

  After a few more hours of bumpy travel past the boggy hills, they stopped the cart south of the Kilbanes’ deserted cottage, which Briana only dared glance at. That night she stared at the starry veil above as she struggled to sleep in the cart bed next to Lucinda. Rory slept on the ground guarding the bags stored underneath the cart.

  The next morning, after a journey where the alder, sycamore, and chestnut thrust their leafy branches toward them like embracing arms, they stopped to eat near Mulranny. Like Carrowteige, silence pervaded the village. Briana marveled at the beautiful bay below the cliffs. To the south, the distant profile of Croagh Patrick stood like a slumbering god clothed in purple.

  As they neared Westport, the starving plodded down from the hills as if a line dividing tranquility and despair had been crossed. Many had already died by the side of the road, their skeletal arms stretching into the air as if seeking the good graces of heaven. Others, pallid and half-dead, clutched each other in throes of agony, their emaciated bodies fused together as if corpses had risen from the grave to embrace. Briana covered her mouth with her handkerchief, repelled by the fact that she could do nothing about the suffering. Lucinda, who had never seen the ravages of the famine so clearly, gasped and closed her eyes.

  Rory stopped the wagon at the river across from The Black Ram. He tethered the animals to a front wheel so they could graze and drink from a pail of cold water. “Wait here. I’ll get a room for the night.” He strode off to the public house.

  The establishment seemed oddly quiet for a late Saturday afternoon. Perhaps no ships were in harbor; however, the SS Warton was scheduled to leave at ten the next morning, a Sunday.

  “Only a year ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead staying in such a place,” Lucinda said in a wistful tone and shook her head. “I’ve seen this public house when traveling from Westport to England and barely given it a look.”

  Lucinda was learning a lesson—one Briana had recognized for years: Nothing should be taken for granted, because loss came too easily from the hand of God. He was best served by doing good and being grateful for every blessing that came one’s way.

  “Times have changed for both of us,” Briana said. “We’re lucky to have each other.” Her mind flashed to the journey ahead, and she drew her shawl tight around her body to stave off her apprehension about Boston.

  Her father had told them that the Irish lived in particular sections of the city, and those enclaves were often segregated by the county. Emigrants from County Mayo might live on one street, while former residents of Roscommon might live a street away. He’d learned this from one of the tenant farmers who had received a letter from a relative already in America who had moved on to work the rails in Pennsylvania. The Walshes knew no one in Boston and would be making their own way.

  Scowling, Rory returned from The Black Ram. He stopped short of the wagon and said, “They have no rooms, but there’s a barn out back where we can spend the night. It cost only a few pence.”

  “What?” Lucinda broke into high-pitched English. “Spend the night with animals? In the hay? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  “Exactly,” Rory replied in Irish. “Before you get too upset, there are no animals, only a few stray dogs and cats.”

  “Charming.” Lucinda shivered. “What will we do in the meantime? I was hoping to freshen up.”

  He hitched his thumb toward the door. “Have something to eat and drink. The proprietress says the Warton comes in at four. That’s why they have no rooms. The English crew already paid for them. I imagine the pub will be a ruckus after that. We may be glad we’re not spending the night above the pub. And the horses can spend the night in the barn with us. I won’t have to worry about them being stolen.”

  Briana laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. The thought of her sister sleeping in a barn with two horses drove her into uncontrollable laughter.

  Lucinda scowled at her, her eyes smoky with anger. “What is so funny? I find nothing amusing about this situation.”

  “Wait until tonight,” Briana said, controlling her mirth. “The sailors will be drinking and rowdy. Rory is right, we will be better off in the barn.” If the men relieved themselves on the barn, as she recalled from her first unfortunate visit to The Black Ram, the sound and smell alone would keep them awake.

  * * *

  Rory studied the barn, noting a few small gaps in the roof, and hoped it didn’t rain. In the worst case, they would sleep under the cart, which fit comfortably inside. A small hay rick was attached to the back wall. The oak planking had a few holes that could use patching, but nothing so bad that drafts might disturb their sleep.

  “Are you still hungry?” He offered Briana a last piece of corn bread because he hated how thin she’d gotten. Lucinda, too, but she wasn’t pregnant.

  “No, you eat it,” Briana said. “I’m fine.” She cocked her head toward her sister. Rory offered it to Lucinda, who gladly took it, broke it apart, and popped the pieces into her mouth.

  Rory considered what he’d do for the rest of the evening before they all went to bed. The horses were safe after pulling the cart inside. They munched on the few remaining mounds of hay left in the rick.

  He sat in the corner and watched his wife fussing with the blanket and tarp. Lucinda pulled a book from her bag, but it was too dark to read in the dim light. There were no candles or oil lamps here.

  The thought of Briana’s leaving filled him with a sudden fury. They were going to be separated because he was forbidden to leave Ireland. The landlord’s face popped into his head, and he wanted to thrust his fist into his handsome smile. Another insidious notion forced its way in. What if Sir Thomas Blakely would do anything to sabotage his marriage to Briana, including asserting to the Constabulary that he had shot him? After all, the owner did seem to force his attention upon Briana, preferring to interact with her rather than Brian, his agent. It suddenly all made sense. He struck the thought from his mind, because his wife was leaving for America and nothing could be done about that. Besides, Blakely couldn’t get his hands on her in Boston. His mood soured as the light faded in the barn.

  Rory lifted his bag from the back of the cart and slid it under the seat. As the women talked, he took out the pistol and positioned it between his stomach and the waistband of his breeches. His shirt concealed the weapon’s grip.

  “I’m going over for a quick pint,” he told Briana. “I need some air.” The real reason, of course, was that he wanted to lift his spirits.

  She looked at him with dismay, distressed that he would leave them alone in the barn. “You’ll be all right,” he said to soothe her. “I promise I won’t be long.” He boosted himself on the front wheel, leaned over the sideboard, and kissed her on the cheek.

  He secured the door and stood in the muddy lane that led to the pub. Near the side wall, the pungent smell of urine filled his nose, and he breathed out forcefully to rid himself of the odor. The sun was setting over the Atlantic and, as he had predicted, the drunken revelry in The Black Ram had begun.

  Laughter and the roar of men’s voices grew louder as he approached the pub’s door. Inside, the sailors smoked pipes, drank, and played cards. Most, he presumed, were from the Warton, although a few were in service uniform. They looked as if they had stepped out of the English countryside: Their bodies were long and sturdy from good food and drink, their faces ruddy with the warmth of hearty eating. Their jocularity bounced off the walls and ceiling, dozens of conversations being carried on at once. But it wasn’t these men he was interested in.

  His eyes focused on a man he spotted seated at a table in the far corner. Trying not to draw attention, Rory sauntered toward the oak bar and ordered an a
le. He peered right and knew the face. Daniel Quinn. He was drunk, but the Englishmen were paying him to sing and be the fool as they scooted ale and scraps of fried fish to him across the table.

  Rory leaned against the bar, glancing sideways at Quinn when he could, not wanting to start a conversation with the poet. Quinn’s clothes were rumpled and worn, and his black hair was longer, wilder than usual, but he seemed in much better spirits than when he’d disappeared from Lear House a few days after the shooting. The poet even cracked a smile under the concealing feature of a beard, swaying in his chair to the ribbing of his English comrades.

  “Sing us an Irish tune, Paddy,” one of the men shouted over the others.

  Rory crept closer to the table, keeping his ears open.

  “No, a poem and a song,” another man shouted.

  “Throw me a coin,” Quinn yelled to the amusement of those at the table. “I’ll honor the one who throws the most money.”

  The man who had asked for a poem and song reached into his pocket, withdrew a coin, and tossed it across the plates of fish. Quinn grabbed it greedily and thrust it into his jacket pocket. “What I wouldn’t do for a smoke for my pipe,” the poet lamented while the others roared with laughter.

  “You’ll get nothing more from me but a fist if you don’t give us a poem and song,” the coin thrower said.

  “All right, all right,” Quinn conceded. He cleared his throat as the men at the table quieted, and after placing his palms on the table he started a lengthy poem about the life of a wandering poet, thrown into madness by a famine. Quinn contorted his face, threw his hands in the air, and grimaced at the crowd. Rory was impressed with the poet’s talent, but the words that caught his ears came near the end of his verse.

  A man from nowhere came

  And fired the pistol, but who’s to blame

  For no one but God on his throne

  Would curse the man who killed an Englishman

  A chorus of boos and jeers greeted the poet when he finished. Several of the men spat ale at his feet.

  “It’s my best work,” Quinn protested, reaching underneath his chair and drawing out a silver flute. The instrument glinted silver in the candlelight as the poet brought it to his lips. Quinn broke into a slightly drunken version of an Irish jig while the men clapped their hands in time to the music.

  Where did Quinn get the flute? He remembered that the last time he had seen one, silver like the one the poet was playing, was at the Kilbanes’ before they were murdered. Frankie had played while Aideen strummed the guitar. The thought unsettled him, but perhaps it was another flute, or even if it wasn’t, maybe the Kilbanes had given it to him. No, it made no sense. Frankie would never have given up the flute he so loved to play for his guests. Was it engraved? He didn’t remember. He tried to slip closer to see the instrument as he finished his ale and then stopped, wondering whether he should drink another.

  The room had grown hot while he sipped the warm drink, and he wiped the sweat from his brow. The ale, the smoke, and Quinn’s poem disturbed him. He’d had enough of The Black Ram.

  “Want another?” the proprietress said when she noticed his glass was empty.

  “That’s it for the evening,” Rory said.

  The proprietress answered with a wink. “Enjoy your stay in the barn, love,” she said. “I’ll try to keep them from pissing on you.” Her laugh echoed over the men in the crowded pub.

  He looked again at the corner table, but Quinn had disappeared. So like him to vanish in the blink of an eye. As he snaked his way to the door, Rory wondered if Quinn knew more about the Kilbanes’ deaths than he had told when they nursed him back to health at Lear House. Perhaps it was worth mentioning to Davitt—if the man could ever get his hands on the poet.

  He made his way back to the barn. A man was urinating on a bush, but not on the side of the barn. Rory grunted at him as he passed. He opened the door as quietly as he could, took off his jacket, and slipped under his blanket on the dirt floor. Behind him, the horses rested on their folded legs. The air was warm and filled with musky scents of the animals.

  Briana stirred in the cart and Lucinda uttered a slight groan, but both seemed to be in the throes of sleep.

  He tossed and turned during the night, sometimes from the noise but mostly from the stark reality he would have to face in the morning. He counted the hours and stared through the holes in the roof at the clouds scudding overhead. All he could think about was seeing his wife and sister-in-law off at the wharf as the Warton sailed for America. Although he tried to push the horrible thought from his mind, he wondered whether he would ever see Briana again and come to know their child.

  His hands were clutched at his sides like claws as dawn broke.

  CHAPTER 15

  For a few pence more, the wan-faced proprietress provided them with a proper breakfast of oats and bacon. The woman, with her stringy hair and disheveled brown dress, looked as if she had never been to bed. The pub smelled of stale smoke and an ale-soaked floor, but when the food arrived it was flavorful and well prepared. The woman worked hard, Briana thought, but she was surviving the famine. There would always be men who could find money for a drink.

  After breakfast, they fed and watered the horses, and they bathed from pails drawn from the Carrowbeg. They boarded the cart, and Rory prodded the team west toward the harbor. Briana sat on the bench by her husband, while Lucinda took her place next to the bags in the cart bed.

  As they passed the imposing stone mansion, Rory said, “I saw the poet last night in the pub.”

  “Ungrateful wretch, disappearing like he did after you saved him,” Lucinda chimed in over the rattle.

  “He disappeared last night as well, after some disparaging verse about an Englishman.”

  “Really?” Briana clutched the railing as the cart jiggled through a shallow puddle. “What did he say?”

  “Something about killing an Englishman.”

  Lucinda shoved her head between them. “An Englishman!”

  “I already thought of it as I lay awake last night,” Rory said. “I’ll notify the Constabulary here in Westport, and I’m sure they’ll pass my suspicion on to Belmullet. At this point I have no proof. It’s my word against his—it could have been anyone, and, despite that, it was my pistol. But it’s important for me to clear my name.” The bag containing the weapon sat at his feet.

  Briana slid closer to Rory after Lucinda regained her seat. Tears creeping into her eyes, she clutched his arm. “I don’t want to cry—if only you could come with us.”

  Rory loosened his grip on the reins and patted her hand. “I thought about that as well last night. Would it be easy to get onboard?” He lifted his chin and stared at the wharf buildings coming into view. “I’m sure every ship steward has my name, but there’s a better reason for not leaving. Family. I don’t want to leave your father and my brother alone. You and Lucinda should make the voyage. It’s best for everyone . . . including our child.”

  She nodded, knowing that he was right, but that didn’t allay her sadness. Someone had to look after their stubborn father. No amount of arguing could convince Brian to leave Ireland, and Rory had always been protective of his brother.

  They rolled up to the massive stone buildings that lined the harbor. Black smoke poured from some of the stacks, but the strong west wind pushed the swirling lines of sooty vapor east toward town. A few smaller sailing ships were anchored next to the quay, but a steamship lay farther out, rocking upon the waves of Clew Bay.

  A pair of uniformed dragoons leaned on the closed doors of a warehouse, watching the comings and goings of harbor workmen. No starving people loitered at the port—most remained clustered near the edge of the city. Briana wondered if they had been driven from the bay because supplies were heavily guarded and could be obtained only by theft. The dragoons, if necessary, would shoot to kill.

  Near a wooden booth large enough to hold one person, they found the ship’s steward. In a few minutes, Briana had purchas
ed two one-way passages with money provided by her father.

  Briana gazed at the Atlantic, which ended in a thin, gray line on the horizon. The immensity of the journey hit her with a sudden force, rocking her on her feet. The book of her life was opening up before her and, while frightened, she clung to the hope that this voyage might lead to a better life for her child and, later, her husband and father.

  The skiff that would take her and Lucinda to the ship was rocking in swells at the quay. When the steward announced the boarding call, she clutched Rory for as long as she dared without bursting into tears. She wanted to be strong, not only for herself but for her husband. The wind rushed over her, filling her senses with the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves.

  “I will miss you as if all my days were without you.” Rory embraced her in a hug that nearly took her breath away. Behind her, Lucinda sniffed and blew her nose in her handkerchief.

  Briana touched his face and then caressed his arms, committing his features, the scent of him, to her memory. “You and Father will write us when we find an address?” she asked, knowing that any letters exchanged wouldn’t arrive until spring because there were no winter crossings.

  “Yes. I promise.” He stepped back as Briana and Lucinda boarded the skiff with other passengers. “Go. Be safe—and send word when the baby is born.” His face sagged under the sad truth of his words.

  The two crewmen pushed off from the wharf, and soon they were cutting across the choppy waves toward the Warton. Rory faded until he was a speck standing with the misty peak of Croagh Patrick behind him. A lump rose in her throat as she turned toward the ship, unable to bear the loss of her husband. Lucinda held on to her hand.

  They boarded from a lowered gangplank that was tethered to the skiff and soon found their quarters—a small but comfortable sleeping cabin with twin berths. Briana placed her bag on the floor and patted the stuffed mattress, which seemed like heaven to her compared to the straw pallet at home. However, the close walls and the low ceiling crisscrossed by pipes soon had her craving the open air.