Escape From Home Page 2

  “But with all my struggles I have saved enough so as to pay your passage and the children’s passage beyond the sea to America so we will—God willing—be together at last and in peace again.”

  “Dear, sweet Jesus!” Mrs. O’Connell cried, pressing her hands to her chest to suppress a cough. Maura, with a sob, turned to her mother, knelt, and hugged her about the neck. Patrick clapped his hands in glee.

  “I am sending money herewith to Father Mahoney, knowing him to be an honest man who will see you get this. The draft of money is on the Provincial Bank of Ireland. Fifteen pounds.”

  “Fifteen pounds!” Mrs. O’Connell exclaimed in astonishment. “The man’s become rich!”

  “Father Mahoney will help you. Send to the address I give here the name of your ship and when you are coming, and it should be to Boston City. Then I will surely come to meet you, for I reside not so far. You must keep well in spirit and in health, and so I embrace you, dear wife and dear children, writing as I do from America.

  Your faithful husband until death,

  Gregory O’Connell”

  All but laughing with pleasure, Father Mahoney lowered the letter. Mrs. O’Connell began to weep outright as Maura hugged her closer and kissed her wet face. Patrick looked down at his bare feet, at his mother, at the letter, each in turn and over and over again, trying to absorb these great tidings.

  “And here,” the priest cried, allowing himself a rare laugh as he held up the second piece of paper, “is the very bank draft your husband spoke about. Fifteen pounds!”

  Patrick stared at it. If the paper had been a brick of gold, it could not have been more wonderful. As far as he was concerned, he could live forever on that!

  “Now then,” Father Mahoney said, “I congratulate you on your good fortune. Once you walk to Cork City, you’ll take the boat for Liverpool, England. From there it’s the packet boat straight over the sea to America. That’s the way it’s done. Your husband’s money will see you through in perfect safety. Not even four pounds for full passage. Less for Patrick, I’m thinking. You can count on me to make arrangements.”

  “To America,” Patrick echoed with excitement.

  “America, to be sure,” the priest said. “And Mr. O’Connell’s place of residence is set down right here. Fifty-four Adams Street, Lowell, Massachusetts. Sure then, it must be a fine place for living.”

  Mrs. O’Connell drew her hands from her eyes. “But it’s not a Catholic country. And God knows,” she groaned, “I can’t go so far from the grave of my perished Timothy.”

  “Mrs. O’Connell,” the priest said gently, “you have my sacred vow. I’ll be here in Kilonny, looking after him.”

  “Mother”—Maura held her tightly—“Mother, we need a place that lets us live. Haven’t thousands gone before?”

  “It’s just as Maura says,” the priest agreed. “Put your minds to a whole new life. You know the likelihood that Mr. Morgan will tumble all.”

  Mrs. O’Connell shook her head again. “It’s as much as your life is worth to go journeying beyond the western sea.”

  “Mother,” Patrick cried, “Da wants us with him!”

  “Mrs. O’Connell, your husband is now a prosperous man.”

  “Father Mahoney,” said Maura, her voice firm, her heart beating madly, “you shall write to Da. Tell him we’ll be coming to that place called Lowell as soon as possible. And may heaven be kind to us all.”

  Gray clouds hung over Kilonny Village. The sun, low in the east, floated in the sky as if it were a holy wafer. A cold mist, like the wet fingers of a water witch, poked and prodded into every nook and cranny.

  Within the O’Connells’ hut, the turf fire was dying. By the open entrance stood two small bundles, each tied with bulky knots. They contained all the family’s possessions. Mrs. O’Connell, occasionally coughing, more often weeping, knelt on the earth, saying her beads. On either side, Maura and Patrick tried to soothe her anxiety.

  “Now that it’s time, I’ve not the heart for leaving,” their mother whispered. “I don’t, and that’s God’s truth.” She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross.

  Maura, irritated in spite of herself, struggled to stay calm. “Mother,” she said with barely suppressed urgency, “you know perfectly well what’s about to happen. It’s impossible to stay.”

  Mrs. O’Connell shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s true, Mother,” Patrick cried, with a look over his shoulder toward the entryway. Had it been up to him, he would have left an hour ago.

  “Mr. Morgan is on his way,” Maura reminded her mother. “We’re not the first to be tumbled, and heaven knows we won’t be the last.”

  “Besides, Mother,” Patrick urged, “haven’t we promised Da we’d go? Didn’t Father Mahoney buy the tickets from the people and write to him, telling him the name of the ship we’re taking and even the day we’re getting there?”

  “Aye, but, children …”

  “Mother, we no longer have the choice!”

  As if to prove Maura’s point, a boy stuck his head into the hut. “The agent’s coming,” he cried. “With soldiers and constables!” The message delivered, he bolted away. They heard the message repeated—like a fading echo—as he went on to their neighbors.

  The words were too much for Patrick. “Mother,” he shouted, “we have to go this minute!” He and Maura pulled their mother up.

  “I can’t. I can’t,” the woman kept saying, coughing and weeping.

  Next moment it was Father Mahoney himself who entered. “Mr. Morgan has arrived,” he announced. “And with reinforcements too.”

  Patrick snatched up the bundles and ran out.

  “Patrick!” Maura cried, but he was gone. “Mother,” she pleaded, “do you want to be buried alive in rubble? For God’s sake, you must move!”

  Mrs. O’Connell, as though blind, groped her way out of the hut.

  “Ah, Maura,” Father Mahoney said, “you must be leaving too.”

  “Father,” Maura whispered, “will you give the place a final blessing before I go?”

  The priest nodded in understanding, lifted his hand, and spoke softly but quickly. Maura, eyes cast down, hands clenched before her, waited until he was done. Then she said, “Go now, Father. I’ll be there in time.”

  He took her at her word and hurried to give service elsewhere.

  Her blue eyes blurred gray with tears, Maura stood in the middle of their barren home. The floor was as cold to her bare feet as her heart was hot. She looked about to see if anything was forgotten only to realize the uselessness of such an effort. Whatever possessions they had had were long gone—sold, or broken, or taken. With an angry snort of self-mockery, she pushed the hair out of her face and wiped her eyes dry with the heel of a hand. Intense anger swept through her. “A curse on this land,” she whispered, “and may I keep angry with its memory!”

  Hurriedly now, she scratched at the floor and gathered enough dirt to pour over the tiny turf fire. The last ember was extinguished. Without another glance, Maura ran out of her home.

  Kilonny Village looked like an anthill overturned. People were frantically rushing in and out of their cottages and huts, trying to save what they could. With cries and shouts, with wailing and curses, they piled boxes, bundles, and pieces of furniture on the muddy road in an unruly mound.

  Barely a quarter of a mile away, atop the bluff that overlooked the village, Mr. Morgan sat tall on his chestnut horse. He was a proud, stiff man, with the long face of a wolfhound. Dressed in black hat, flaming red jacket, and jack boots, carrying a whip in hand, he looked like a general surveying the site of a coming battle.

  He was surrounded, on foot, by four constables and twelve soldiers. In the slanting rays of the dawning sun, the soldiers’ muskets and bayonets sparkled. Each constable held a ladder. All were ready to charge on Kilonny. Mr. Morgan restrained them.

  “Patience, boys, patience,” he cautioned. “Show some remorse for the poor sods. The
beggars are losing their homes.”

  It was not long before the thirty men, women, and children of the village, few dressed in anything more than rags and with bare feet like the O’Connells, completed the removal of their goods. Once that was done, they grouped themselves about Father Mahoney by the side of the road, their faces turned toward the man in scarlet.

  “All right, boys,” Mr. Morgan said softly, “they’re ready. Don’t be pushing too hard. They’re agitated and might even be spoiling for a fight. The smoother, the better, and all in all the less price to pay.”

  The agent touched his heels to his horse. Saddle leather creaked. The mare, her nostrils blowing a mist of warm air that made her seem like a smoke-breathing dragon, cantered smartly down the slope. The constables and soldiers trotted by her flanks.

  “Good morning!” Mr. Morgan cried cheerily as he approached the villagers and saluted them by lifting his beaver hat high. “A very good morning to you all!”

  The crowd around Father Mahoney stared at the agent with sullen hatred.

  Mr. Morgan settled his hat on his head and returned their hard looks with deliberate congeniality. “I bring you heartfelt greetings from Lord Kirkle himself, whose land agent, as you know, I am. He has begged me—out of his graciousness—to make known that it grieves him greatly to tumble these sometime homes of yours. But these are troubled days. All must make sacrifices. Rich and poor suffer alike. These dwellings that you have rented must be returned to his lordship if he’s to reclaim the land for increased productivity in the interests of greater good. You may trust in his superior judgment that it’s best for all.

  “Notwithstanding, his lordship deeply regrets your current inconvenience and begs, as a token of his deep esteem, that each of you will accept two shillings as traveling money for your pains.”

  There was some nervous shifting among the villagers, but most simply stared at the agent.

  “Come, come!” the man urged, his voice turning to a sneer. “I can offer the gift but once. Willy-nilly, we’ll be tumbling these dwellings, so don’t be standing on false pride, now. Here’s your good queen’s fair coin. You’ll be needing it.”

  Still, no one stirred.

  “You there, Father Mahoney.”

  “Your Honor.”

  “You should be teaching your people submission and the acceptance of charity. Charity is no sin. But surely pride is. I suppose even a papist knows that,” he added sarcastically.

  The priest, struggling to control his anger, replied, “Your Honor, these people have no place to go.”

  “Now, now, my good man. It’s general news that Mrs. O’Connell has a husband who went out to America and has become rich. Hasn’t he sent them money to go?”

  “They are the only ones,” Father Mahoney said.

  “Ah, with hope, Father, it’s only a start. One goes and gets rich and sends a remittance. Now three shall go and gain greater riches yet. No doubt the four will send money enough until all of Kilonny settles in America. It’s the promised land, they say.”

  “Mr. Morgan,” the priest cried, “you are cruel to speak so.”

  The agent tapped his hat down so it sat more securely. “None of that, Father!” he cried. “None of that. You’re edging close to insurrection! Orders are orders, money is money, and the law proclaims it so.

  “Now then,” he pressed, “who’ll take Lord Kirkle’s generous gift? All right then, a double gift to the first one who steps forward. Four shillings! Four shillings now! Come along, pride goes before the fall!”

  He held up his hand to show the shining coins.

  A grizzled old man, cloth cap in hand, hobbled out from the stony-faced crowd and moved toward Mr. Morgan. The agent saluted him. “Well done, Mr. Foggerty!” he cried. “Well done! Here’s your four shillings, and welcome to them you are.” He leaned down from his saddle and dropped the shillings into the shaking uplifted hand. For Maura, the chink of each coin was like a church bell tolling a death.

  Old man Foggerty folded his crumpled fingers over the coins, replaced his cap, and, without a backward look, set off down the dirt road.

  “No one else?” Mr. Morgan called. “Last chance.”

  A woman came forward. She also took the coins. Then slowly but surely the rest followed until they were standing as a group behind Mr. Morgan. Only the O’Connells were left.

  Patrick, who had been staring at the ground in a torment of frustration over the money, glanced up at Maura. Thinking her gaze was elsewhere, he took a step forward, only to have her reach out and pull him back.

  “No!” she hissed under her breath. “It’s Judas money.”

  “But we need it!” Patrick said.

  “No!”

  “All right then,” Mr. Morgan cried. “Constables!” He pointed to the O’Connells’ hut. “In America, I’m told, they live in grand places. So I’ll venture to say the proud O’Connells will have no more need for that. We’ll start there.”

  While the soldiers stood on guard, muskets across their chests, the constables darted forward and set their ladders against the walls of the hut. In a trice they scrambled up and began pulling away the old thatch and tossing it on the ground as if it were so many handfuls of weeds.

  The crowd, looking on, uttered a moan, as if witnessing an execution in which death had come at last.

  The sight was too much for Patrick. He ran to the side of the road, picked up a stone, and hurled it at Mr. Morgan. The agent, astride his horse, was keeping one eye on the crowd, one eye on the tumbling. The stone struck him on the arm. Red-faced, he spun his horse about.

  “Arrest that boy!” he shouted, pointing right at Patrick with his whip. “Arrest him!” Two of the soldiers turned toward Patrick. The boy tore down the road.

  Father Mahoney lifted his hand in horror. “Kneel!” he cried. When the villagers did as he urged, he began to pray.

  “Mother, come!” Maura said. “We must leave!”

  The deeply shocked woman staggered to her feet. Patrick was far along the road. Maura and Mrs. O’Connell hurried after him but could not keep themselves from twisting back to see if any soldiers were following.

  Mr. Morgan spurred his horse upon the road. The two soldiers ran by his side. The agent barked an order. The soldiers halted; then each kneeled on one knee and aimed his musket.

  A horrified Maura and Mrs. O’Connell froze. “Jesus protect us!” the woman cried, her hand to her mouth in terror. “They’re shooting!”

  The soldiers fired. The bullets sped harmlessly by.

  Maura, gasping for air, realized they had been aiming over their heads. And indeed, when they lowered their muskets, they laughed and turned away. Mr. Morgan, however, galloped down the road to where Maura and her mother still trembled.

  He reined in and shook a clenched fist at them.

  “Begone with you!” he cried in rage. “And if you are not out of this country in two days, I’ll have that boy arrested and transported!”

  “But, Your Honor,” Maura cried, “our ship does not leave till then.”

  “Two days!” Mr. Morgan replied. “Two days! I’ll be coming to look for you!” So saying, he whirled about and rode back to the tumbling.

  “Don’t look again,” Maura said to her mother. “Our home is gone. We must hurry!” They scrambled along the road toward Patrick.

  Annie O’Connell did look back. And Maura did too. Thus it was that they saw the walls of their hut, with very little effort, come thudding down.

  Furious at Patrick and angry at herself for watching the tumbling, Maura touched her dress where all their money and the tickets Father Mahoney had purchased were pinned for security. With a resolution stiffened by rage, she turned from Kilonny and stared down the road as if America itself were just beyond the horizon.

  Mother and daughter were breathless when they caught up with Patrick beyond the first hill.

  “And now what do you intend, Patrick O’Connell?” his sister demanded. “Mr. Morgan says he’ll arrest yo
u if you’re not out of Ireland in two days.”

  “I had to do something,” Patrick said with indignation. “That Mr. Morgan has no heart.”

  “It’s not a heart he’ll be using if he intends to arrest you.”

  “The man’s a coward, Maura,” Patrick insisted. “You’ll see. He’ll never come!”

  “But think of what you’ve done,” Maura went on. “We’re all at risk. Look at Mother.”

  An exhausted Mrs. O’Connell sat by the side of the road, fingering her beads. Now and again she coughed. Tears ran down her sallow cheeks. Her bleak eyes were staring back toward Kilonny.

  Struck with remorse, Patrick swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t think.”

  “Faith then,” Maura snapped, “if we’re ever going to reach America, you’d best begin to. You’d also better be praying that Mr. Morgan has no time to be chasing after the likes of you.”

  “I’m only a boy,” Patrick pointed out. “What would he get by chasing me?”

  “What does he ever gain by his general meanness?” Maura replied hotly. “It’s what the English are. High and mighty, all of them. We’ve nothing in common. Oh, Mother of God,” she said in weary exasperation, “let’s be finished with it. It’s over and done. We need to be going.”

  Patrick held out his hand to his mother, and following her halting steps, they started slowly down the hill. Maura carried one bundle, Patrick the other.

  The morning mists were melting, but cold gray skies remained. Though it was only twenty-five miles from Kilonny to Cork, none of the O’Connells had ever made the journey. The dirt road they followed, crooked as a lazy snake, was full of ruts and holes. Stones were sharp on Maura’s and Patrick’s feet. The view was hilly, with fierce streams splashing through bottomlands past empty, often blighted fields. Only now and again did truly green fields appear, patches of heaven on the hide of hell. Once, twice, Maura saw a sheep, each bleating as if lost.

  As they made their way, Patrick—hoping his sister wouldn’t notice—kept stealing looks back for signs of Mr. Morgan. The farther they traveled—with no sign of the agent—the better he felt.