The Irishman's Daughter Page 32

  “The Carlisles,” he marveled after Lucinda finished. “They’re nearly as wealthy as the Cabots.” Declan told them about all the new homes being built on Beacon Hill, including the one for the Cabots.

  Finally, he came to the reason for his visit—to inquire about the medicine he had delivered. Briana recounted her visit with Addy and Quinlin but made no mention of the unexpected appearance of Mr. Carson.

  Declan frowned and gazed at the table, his mood shifting from one of congenial conversation to sadness. “I’m sorry to hear about the boy. Life is so unsettled now—it’s the main reason my wife and I have not had children. We find it hard enough to live on our own, let alone with extra mouths to feed. Why bring a child into the world when it’s destined to die?”

  Lucinda gasped and straightened in her chair. “But what about the Church, and our Lord’s proclamation to ‘go forth and multiply’? You do believe those words, don’t you?”

  He leveled his eyes at Lucinda, and a fire simmered underneath his cool gaze. “I beg your pardon, but hang the Church. You have no children to care for. Wait until you do—wait until one of them is sick or dying—then you’ll find I speak the truth.”

  Lucinda lifted her napkin and dabbed it against her lips but said nothing.

  Briana broke the awkward silence, thinking of her own child and how she and Rory had taken precautions that failed. “My sister meant no harm, I’m sure. She was only trying to understand your way of thinking. Isn’t that right, sister?”

  Lucinda nodded and added in a low voice, “This is not the place for such talk, but I do know I will care for and protect my sister when her time comes to deliver.”

  Declan dropped his defenses and smiled. “I’m sorry. I had no right to speak to you like that. But it enrages me to see children die when there is so little we can do about it. We Irish are stifled at every turn. It’s as if our lives don’t matter—in our home country and here in Boston. We suffer no matter where we go, and I’m tired of it.” He gathered his hat from his lap and stood up. “Excuse me, but I must get to work.” He looked at Briana. “I sincerely hope the medicine helps and the boy lives.”

  He was about to say good-bye when Briana stopped him with a question. “Have you ever heard of a man named Romero Esperanza?”

  Declan looked puzzled. “No. Why?”

  “He stopped me on the street and offered me a job. He wanted to know if I spoke English and could add and subtract. The card he presented said he was a ‘Purveyor of Fine Goods.’ He offered me ten dollars a week.”

  He put on his cap, his face colored by Briana’s words. “I assume you declined his offer?”

  She folded the napkin on her lap and peered up at him. “For the moment.”

  “A man who offers ten dollars a week to a woman he’s never met is up to no good. I’ll check around and let you know if I find out something. In the meantime, I’d avoid him.” He doffed his cap, wished Lucinda good luck with her work, and left.

  After breakfast, Lucinda was in such a good mood she suggested that the two of them walk the city. They spent the sunny day wandering the banks of the Charles River, exploring the adjoining streets where every new building promised a life of wealth and ease. The construction, the bustle, the clack of the carriages and whinny of the horses energized them both, but as she walked, she found herself thinking of Rory, wondering what he was doing thousands of miles away, and with a pang of jealousy imagined the thought of another woman in his arms. After all, she had “noticed” Declan Coleman. Any woman in her right mind would be attracted to a handsome and kind man. What if Rory was missing her so much he had to find solace in another woman? Her eyes grew misty. Lucinda stopped her and asked what was wrong. Briana told her that the baby was making it uncomfortable to walk. After lunch at a small café, they returned to the house so Lucinda could read and Briana could rest.

  * * *

  True to his word, Declan left a note at the desk that evening, which Briana picked up.

  My Dear Mrs. Caulfield: Mr. Romero Esperanza is famous for all the wrong reasons. The goods that he purveys, according to my boss, are unsavory. They include liquor, bets, and payments from English gentlemen for protection against Irish thugs and, sometimes, the services of women. The Carson brothers may work for him. I’m glad that you were able to leave him without obligating yourself. Any job offer from him could result in disastrous consequences. Not wanting your sister to be alone in her employment, I inquired on your behalf at our company. We may need an assistant to our bookkeeper. The pay is not nearly as much as Mr. Esperanza offered, but it is, at least, wages offered without stipulation. Please call tomorrow morning at this address:

  Briana crushed the note to her chest and breathed a sigh of relief. She had hoped and prayed that she would be able to find work, up until the time she delivered her child. With Lucinda and her working, the future looked much brighter. She bounced up the stairs, eager to tell her sister the good news.

  CHAPTER 18

  Rory and his father-in-law had slept the night of the eviction in the sodden debris of the cottage. Constructing a shelter meant cutting what few branches they could find and placing them over the shattered timbers to make a lean-to that offered scant protection against the elements. Fortunately, it hadn’t rained the day of the destruction. The constable and the dragoons camped nearby to make sure no one tried to break into Lear House or rebuild their homes.

  Breaking into the manor had been on Rory’s mind, and, in fact, Brian had mentioned it as well, but it was impossible with the dragoons still on the estate. If he and Brian could hold out longer than the soldiers, they might be able to get into the manor.

  By the next morning the skies opened and the rain came down in cold sheets. Rory clutched the crumbling sod of his cabin and squeezed the mud through his fingers. It dripped in a slimy mess down his hands to the ground. The sight of his home awash in ruin enraged him. He wanted to wring the constable’s neck and those of the men who accompanied him, but such desperate thoughts of revenge would do no good. The Maguires had been rendered ineffective as well. Saving their families’ lives rather than skirmishing with an armed force was foremost on the remaining men’s minds.

  So Jarlath and his wife and son decided to walk to Dublin. Rory and Brian would try their best to find work at Westport. They strapped their meager possessions to the sides of two ponies, leaving the other three animals to fend on their own. They had no choice, and Rory doubted that the two work horses and the other trotter would be there if they ever returned to Lear House.

  Brian shed a tear as they looked down from Carrowteige upon the desolate and abandoned manor.

  They spent a cold, rainy night shivering in the hills near Carrowmore Lake before stopping the second night with his brother and family in the crumbling home of Frankie and Aideen Kilbane. The house bore little resemblance to the first night Rory and Briana had stayed there: The walls were stripped to the bare stone and sod, and the thatched roof had split, letting the unrelenting rain fall into the back room. Nothing of use remained—every pot and pan, any of the Kilbanes’ personal belongings, had been plundered. They managed to light a turf fire and eat a meal of warm mush. Despite the rain, Rory sheltered the two ponies as best he could in the other room.

  The adults knew the Kilbanes had been murdered, but the story had been kept from Jarlath’s son. As night fell around them, even with familiar company sleeping nearby, Rory sensed the murdered couple watching him, as if their souls still lingered on the land that had been their home.

  The next morning, under a leaden sky, Jarlath and his family said good-bye. Jarlath decided to retrace their steps north on the trail to Bangor, then head west to Ballina and the three-day journey on foot to Dublin. Brian gave Jarlath as much money as he could, saying it should last them for a month in Dublin in a decent lodging house.

  Rory tried to keep the tears from falling but was unsuccessful as he embraced his brother and family. Except for the occasional trip to Westport or separat
e forays into the heath surrounding Lear House, they had never been apart. The parting time was bitter. Brian put a steady hand on his shoulder.

  Filled with anger at God, the government, and the English, Rory fell to his knees as they walked away. Instead of three confident, healthy individuals, nourished by the land that had borne them, Jarlath, his wife, and son stumbled away, thin, black-clad figures as colorless and bland as the muddy trail upon which they trod. A feeling of dread, like the hand of Death, fell upon him as his brother and family disappeared over the top of a hill. He suspected he would never see them again.

  That day, Rory cleaned out the Kilbanes’ fire pit and gathered berries and nettles for Brian to eat. They each had a water pouch. With the recent rains there was no scarcity of it to fill their stomachs. He wandered through the brambles far into the swampy land to find the last of the summer blackberries and edible roots. Everywhere he looked, the muddy prints of those who had gone before him were set into the bog. Many others had scoured the area as well.

  That night there was little to say as they sat around the turf fire. After stewing the berries and roots in a tin cup he found behind the house, Rory stepped outside and looked up at the breaking clouds. A crescent moon splashed silvery light upon the road and across the land as far as he could see. The tranquility, the silence that surrounded him, pleasures that would have normally delighted him filled him with a building panic. His heart raced as fast as his mind. The silence goaded him—he must do something about their situation, something drastic, or he and Brian would die.

  He found his father-in-law slumped against the wall, staring into the fire pit. With his balding pate, the feathery wisps of gray hair that flicked in the wind, the deep-turned mouth, Brian looked old beyond his years. The man was dying before his eyes. What could he do to keep him alive? He stuck his hand past the door to gauge the wind. Cold prickled upon his arm despite his shirt. Summer was passing into fall. The sharp, frosty smell in the air convinced him that the winter would be long and hard. How would they survive?

  * * *

  A man who called himself “Orange” arrived at the door the next morning. Rory judged him to be about his age, but surprisingly he was stouter than most men who roamed the countryside. His hair was almost the same color as his name. A rather rotund body added to the apt description. His clothes were well worn but looked as if they had been mended by someone with a flair for the needle. Rory wondered if Orange was a deserter from the dragoons, or even the English army, because he was well fed. The man seemed jolly enough, of a pleasant disposition with his greetings, but Rory was curious about his intentions

  The man did have news, however, and, once spoken, Rory’s estimation of him softened.

  Orange called him to the road, away from Brian, and lit his pipe. “Have you heard of the Maguires ?” he asked as he puffed, his lips smacking against the stem. The whitish smoke encircled his head and then bounced away on the wind.

  Orange asked the question with an innocence that confused Rory. Was he asking because he didn’t know about the group, or was he trying to get Rory to admit to his own participation? He took another moment to judge the man and then decided to tell him that not only had he heard of the Maguires, he was a member.

  The man guffawed and slapped him on the back before announcing, “Good to see a fellow brother for the cause. Praise be to God to send us more like you than the soldiers who keep us from our rightful food.”

  “You look as if you haven’t missed many meals.”

  Orange patted his stomach. “I’ll take that as a compliment to my resourcefulness.”

  “Where are you headed?” Rory asked. He was full of questions for Orange, who seemed content in his role to tease him with bits and pieces about the Maguires.

  Orange tilted his head, then turned as if on the lookout for prying ears. Spotting none, he continued, “Blacksod Bay. A ship will be in tonight. We need men aplenty to carry back supplies.”

  “You’re going to raid a ship?” Rory asked. “What if it’s armed?”

  Orange opened his coat and pulled a pistol from the waistband of his pants. “We’ll be armed too.”

  Rory stifled a laugh because he knew that a group of men armed with pistols would be no match for a heavily armed English ship. There might even be cannon onboard to shoot them out of the water. He knew Blacksod Bay—about a half day’s walk to the northeast from the Kilbanes’ cabin.

  If he decided to take part in this scheme he’d have to backtrack on the trail he had taken since leaving Lear House. He wondered where the ship would be docked—in the bay, off the coast between Achill and Belmullet, near the islands to the west of the peninsula? Inishglora lay off the coast. The island was known as the burial spot for the Children of Lear, who had flown there after their banishment ended. They had crumbled to dust when they returned to human form. The thought had its own ironic amusement, for, in their own ways, Rory and Brian were crumbling to dust along with thousands of others who didn’t have food.

  “What’s in it for me?” Rory asked. “I get no pleasure out of killing other men.” He considered the suspicion cast upon him by Sir Thomas’s shooting.

  Orange rubbed his stomach. “Food. Your share. All you’ll need to keep you and your father”—he pointed to the cabin—“alive for months. Who else in Ireland can offer you that? You’ll find only disease and death in the poorhouse. The relief projects aren’t any better. Do you want to break rocks, as well as your back, for half-pence a day only to find there isn’t food to buy?”

  Everything Orange said made sense. They would be lucky if they could find work in Westport, and if they did, Brian would be unsuited for the hard tasks he might be assigned. He had doubts about his own strength in a weakened state, let alone his father-in-law. He needed to take drastic measures to survive. What choice did he have? It didn’t take long for him to make up his mind.

  “Give me an hour,” he told Orange. “I have a few things to do before I can join you.”

  The man smiled, displaying a crooked front tooth. “Give me your hand,” Orange said, and extended his own.

  Rory shook it and then headed to the cabin to tell Brian he would be gone for at least a day, maybe more. “I’m going to get food,” he told him.

  Brian raised his arm slowly, the bone showing underneath his skin. “Who is he?”

  “A Maguire who promises us food.”

  His father-in-law’s mouth stretched into a tight frown revealing his teeth and gums. “I don’t like them, Rory. Is this dangerous? What will happen to me?”

  Rory knelt before him and took his hands in his. “Stay here. Someone has to watch over the ponies.” He hated to leave Brian, but staying might mean death for both of them.

  * * *

  He and Orange started off after making sure that Brian was settled into the cabin for the next few days. Rory gathered what few roots and edibles he could find in the bog, filled the water bag, and left the tin cup behind. There was plenty of peat for the fire. He loaded his pistol, gathered his own supplies, and said good-bye with a promise that he would return with food before they headed to Westport.

  Soon he and Orange stepped off the road that would have led them to Bangor if they had continued. Orange pushed onward, cutting across the low bog lands that surrounded Blacksod Bay. The big man followed a trail in the sodden earth stamped with footprints of the men who had trod before them. The path, dotted with tussocks, allowed them to cross over the low marsh and inlets that cut into the land. They stopped in the mid-afternoon for a smoke, which Orange shared with Rory, and a bit of stale bread and cheese that the man pulled from his kit.

  Night was falling when they finally stood on the western edge of a spit of land that cut into the bay. Thirty men had camped at the site, and Rory was surprised to find that Connor Donlon was one of them.

  “A sight for my sore eyes,” Rory said, and hugged his friend. Connor offered him a drink of poteen. Rory guzzled the drink, which set his parched throat ablaze.<
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  “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Rory asked him. His friend motioned, and he followed him down a path away from the fires.

  “Most of these men are Maguires,” he said. “I see you met Orange.”

  Rory nodded. “I’ve been so consumed with my family that I’ve thought little about them.”

  Connor poured another drink from a flask. “We don’t know how many men are on the ship, or if there are soldiers, but we do know they have food. Our Irish goods go out to England while Indian corn comes in from the government and then goes to the depots, where it disappears. We’re cutting out the middle men.” He pointed across the bay to the small islands to the west. The stars peered through the deep twilight that inked the clouds to the east. “The ship is past the islands about ten miles out.”

  Rory was astounded. Thirty men, ten miles out in canoes?

  Connor read his mind. “Two men to a curragh with enough room in the middle to haul whatever we can take.”

  Rory looked back at the fires, which had been carefully concealed by hillocks. In the flickering light he saw men stripping and donning women’s dresses to conceal their identities. Others took off their shirts and smeared mud on their faces and chests. He grabbed the cup from Connor and drank another helping of poteen. The liquor hit his head and gave him a surge of confidence. As strange as the whole evening seemed, he, like the other men, was ready to loot the ship. “Are we armed?” he asked his companion.

  “As much as we can be,” Connor replied. “We have a few pistols and rifles to keep us protected.”

  “Then we should be off,” Rory said under the influence of the poteen, which had undermined any rational thinking about tactics.