Escape From Home Read online

  “Maura,” he said after they had gone a fair bit, “where do you think the others will go?”

  “That’s their own business.”

  Patrick looked up at her. “Don’t you care?”

  Maura tossed her hair back. “I’ve but one head, and it’s full of caring for us.”

  “How long will it be till we get to Cork then?” he wondered.

  “We’ll get there when we do,” Maura snapped. Then, regretting her harsh tone, she added more softly, “It shouldn’t be more than two days if we can keep a steady pace.” She gave a knowing nod toward their mother.

  For a long while they did not speak. Then Patrick said, “There, you see. Didn’t I tell you Mr. Morgan wouldn’t come.”

  “Well … God help us if he does.”

  Two hours of walking brought them to a T in the road. They halted. A white stone marker indicated Cork was to the left, eighteen miles away.

  Since they had not eaten that day, Maura untied one of the bundles and pulled out a small sack. From it she scooped a handful of sour cooked cornmeal. She placed a small portion in her mother’s hand and did the same for Patrick. A last bit she took for herself.

  Patrick studied his helping. “It’s not even fit for pigs,” he said.

  “There’s no good complaining,” Maura reminded him. “Father Mahoney said our food must last till Cork. Once on the boat, they’ll feed us. It’s part of the ticket price.”

  Patrick ate reluctantly. “What kind of food do you think they eat in America?” he asked.

  Maura held out some cornmeal. “They say this comes from there.”

  Patrick screwed up his face. He hated the dry, gritty texture of the meal. “Maura,” he said, “is everyone in America rich?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Patrick grinned. “I intend to be rich. Can you guess what I’ll have when I am?”

  “No.”

  “Heaps of decent food. And a horse.”

  “And what, Patrick O’Connell, would a dirt-poor boy like you do with a horse?”

  “I’d gallop past Mr. Morgan and clop off his hat!” Patrick said gleefully.

  Maura snorted. “I’d leave that for others if I were you.” The reminder of what had happened made her anxious. She stood up. “Are you ready, Mother?”

  Mrs. O’Connell did not budge. “I have to rest awhile,” she whispered. These were the first words she had spoken since leaving Kilonny.

  Maura and Patrick exchanged looks. “Mother,” Maura urged. “We can’t stay here. We truly must hurry.”

  Mrs. O’Connell shook her head. “It would be better for me to die at home. The earth will know me there.”

  Patrick felt his stomach tighten.

  “Mother,” Maura said gently, “you know as well as I, there’s nothing left.”

  She coughed. “Father Mahoney will be looking after things,” she said. “He promised.”

  “Mr. Morgan will push him out too, Mother,” Maura said. She took her mother’s arm and lifted her forcibly. “Besides, your husband is waiting.”

  At that Mrs. O’Connell allowed herself to be pulled up. The three started off along the bigger road.

  They began to meet other travelers. Though most were walking, some rode carts being pulled by people. All were leaving Ireland. A few hoped to settle in England, others to find their way to Canada. Most, however, set their hopes on America.

  “There’s the place for work and food for all” was the reason always given.

  Being with travelers like themselves raised the O’Connells’ spirits. People gossiped about all they had been told of emigration: rules and regulations, what to do, what not to do. Some of it made sense to Patrick; some did not. It hardly seemed to matter. All that mattered was that they get there. When one of the cart haulers offered to let Mrs. O’Connell ride rather than walk, and she accepted, Maura’s spirits soared. Everything seemed possible if they could only get to Cork. Mr. Morgan was forgotten.

  All that day they trudged. As they walked, more and more people joined until they became almost a traveling village, some forty or more people. That night they slept by the side of the road.

  “It’s like a pilgrimage,” Patrick said to Maura as he stared into the night sky.

  “That’s true,” Maura agreed, trying to be hopeful, “and to the promised land.”

  They were up at dawn. But it was not until the middle of the afternoon that they reached the crest of a hill. From it they looked down into a valley. Before them was the river Lee and the ancient city of Cork. What they saw astonished them.

  Cork lay upon a tear-shaped island surrounded by river. At the most eastern point of the island, a multitude of ships were moored. More were anchored beyond where the river widened as it flowed east. The travelers could just make out St. George’s Channel and the sea, glimpsed along the eastern horizon.

  But the city was their immediate concern. What they saw hardly seemed real. Squeezed close together were too many houses to be counted. Black smoke drifted up from hundreds of chimneys and mingled with the river mist. Piercing this dense air, church spires reached like fingers pointing toward a brighter place.

  As the travelers gazed at the city in wonder, bells began to peal from the churches, clanging and banging. The noise brought bursts of birds pinwheeling up and around.

  “Who would have thought that one place could keep so many people,” Maura murmured.

  Mrs. O’Connell shut her eyes against the vision and crossed herself.

  Patrick, gazing openmouthed at the scene, hardly dared to breathe.

  The travelers—awed into silence—started down the hill, crossed the river over the arching wood and stone of North Gate Bridge, and entered Cork with trepidation. Everyone felt woefully out of place. Hundreds of signs, bills, placards, notices assaulted their eyes. Buildings towered over their heads and seemed likely to topple at any moment. The sheer number of people on the muddy streets was daunting. Stores, stalls, and carts were crowded with goods. The O’Connells were wonder-struck by the quantity of food. Where did it come from? Patrick’s mouth watered. How he wished he’d taken Mr. Morgan’s money!

  The three stayed as close together as they could. Amazed by all they saw, they kept reaching out to touch one another lest they be pulled apart.

  “Look there!” Maura cried with excitement.

  Mrs. O’Connell and Patrick stopped to look where she was pointing. It was a poster on a wall. Bold black letters blazoned:

  CORK AND LIVERPOOL STEAM PACKET COMPANY

  DIRECT TO LIVERPOOL

  On the poster was a picture of a ship at sea, its smokestack pouring forth a black cloud, side wheels clearly churning. Below were smaller pictures of other boats next to times for departure. At the bottom of the bill, in the biggest letters of all, it read:

  10 SHILLINGS ONLY!!!

  “Are we to go on one of those?” Patrick asked.

  Maura, after first looking about to make sure she was not watched, reached into her dress and removed the pins that held the packet containing their money and tickets. Sorting through the papers, she tried to find the right tickets.

  “Aye,” she said nervously, a finger resting on one line of the poster. “The Queen of the West,” she read. “Six hundred and thirty-six tons. Three hundred and fifty deck passengers. That’s the very one,” she said, thankful Father Mahoney had taught her how to read.

  Mrs. O’Connell turned her eyes toward the steady flow of people passing. “Are they all going?” she asked in wonderment.

  “I think so,” Maura said.

  “There will be no one left in Ireland,” her mother whispered sadly.

  Patrick said, “Hadn’t we better find the boat?”

  But Maura had no idea where to turn. The streets of Cork were so close, the buildings so tall—Patrick counted some of five stories—it was impossible to see any distance. Maura worried that if the other two knew how tense and confused she felt, they’d abandon their journey in an instant. She led
them blindly. Suddenly Patrick halted. “Look!” he cried, pointing ahead along the street.

  It was Mr. Morgan, and he was moving in their direction. With him were two armed soldiers.

  “Merciful God, help us now!” Maura exclaimed. Pulling their mother along, they dived into a narrow side alley and ran its length. Mrs. O’Connell coughed and gasped for breath. The alley emptied out upon a large avenue on which a crowd of emigrants was milling with their bundles, boxes, and wagons full of possessions. Maura, hoping they would not be noticed among them, led her brother and mother into their midst. She was afraid to look at her mother. Instead, she glanced at Patrick. He was grim, white-faced.

  As the crowd pressed forward, Maura began to wonder if anyone knew where he was going. Then they turned a corner. The river—some two hundred yards wide here—was before them again. To the right were many ships tied to the quay. Some had funnels smoking like the ships on the poster. The quay itself was piled high with barrels and crates. Cattle and horses were also there, milling about. Above, gulls swooped and squawked as if scolding people for their confusion.

  “Do you see Mr. Morgan anywhere?” Maura asked.

  “Not a sign,” a thoroughly chastened Patrick replied.

  Maura searched desperately right and left. To buoy their spirits she kept saying, “This way,” and continued to move with the crowd along Merchant Quay.

  It was Patrick who sang out, “Look over there!” Across the river a wooden sign had been erected. It bore the name they were looking for:

  CORK AND LIVERPOOL STEAM PACKET COMPANY

  “Blessed Saint Anthony,” Maura cried in relief. “That’s where our ship should be.”

  They hurried back across the river, over the same bridge they had traveled before, then moved on to St. Patrick’s Quay.

  Sitting behind a small table beneath the sign was a burly, ill-shaven man dressed in the wrinkled uniform of a ship’s low-ranked officer. His cap was perched high on his bald head. An unlit cigar dangled from his mouth. On the table before him lay a ledger and a pocket watch. A long line of raggedly dressed people filed past him, each showing him a paper ticket. Sighing with boredom, the man scrutinized the tickets, dipped the nib of his steel pen into a bottle of red ink, ticked off a number in his ledger book, then waved the people past, apparently happy to be rid of them. Every now and again he turned, spit into the water, consulted his watch, and bellowed. “Queen of the West leaving for Liverpool in one hour.”

  The Queen of the West—a little farther along the quay—was some two hundred feet in length. She was flat decked but for her midships twin funnels from which black smoke drifted idly. There were two auxiliary masts with reefed sails. Great paddle wheels in cowlings rose on either side of the ship. They would drive her forward. On the cowling of the port-side wheel, a small deck was mounted. From this place the captain or first mate would give his commands.

  After waving along another group of passengers, the ship’s officer cried: “Queen of the West leaving for Liverpool in fifty-five minutes.”

  “When we’re on board, Maura,” Patrick asked, “will Mr. Morgan be able to get us?”

  “Let’s pray not,” Maura told him as she readied their tickets. Once she had them in hand, they started forward. Halfway there Mrs. O’Connell halted.

  “What’s the matter?” Maura asked.

  “I need more time,” their mother replied.

  “More time for what?”

  “To think of what I’m doing.”

  “But Mr. Morgan—,” Patrick began.

  Mrs. O’Connell shook her head. “By the Holy Mother, I can’t go on just yet,” she said, and slumped to the ground.

  Reluctantly, Maura put the tickets away and led them across the street from the quay.

  Patrick, unable to suppress his agitation, stood on guard, searching the street in both directions. He noticed, almost over their heads, a huge sculpture atop a large stone building. It portrayed a man in ancient costume. He was slaying a dragon with a spear.

  “Maura, look up,” he urged, and pointed.

  “It’s blessed Saint George,” Maura whispered, her eyes wide.

  “The dragon looks alive!” Patrick said in awe. He fancied the idea that he was the one with the spear. “And, sure,” he said, “doesn’t the dragon look like Mr. Morgan himself?”

  “Well, it’s not,” Maura scolded, and turned him around. “It’s this way you should be minding, Patrick O’Connell. Haven’t we got some real dragons to be dealing with?”

  Patrick stole another glance at the sculpture and shook his head.

  The man at the table called, “Queen of the West leaving for Liverpool in forty minutes.”

  “Shouldn’t we be getting on?” Patrick asked. “We’re like to be left off if we don’t.”

  Maura did not respond. She had thought she felt sure of what they were about to do. Now that the ship was right before them, wanting only to be boarded, hard truth took hold. She was swept with grief and uncertainty.

  Should they go? The voyage would be dangerous. America was unknown. They were cutting themselves off from all they knew, both bad and good. Then she reminded herself that Da had done it and had called upon them to follow. And here was Mr. Morgan looking for them, wanting, no doubt, to arrest Patrick. They had to leave Ireland.

  Using every bit of will to suppress her turbulent thoughts and feelings, Maura bent over her mother. “Mother, are you ready now?”

  Mrs. O’Connell, saying her beads, shook her head and coughed. She was weeping.

  Maura stroked her mother’s hair and in so doing tried to soothe herself.

  “Don’t you think we should be getting on now?” Patrick asked.

  “Queen of the West leaving for Liverpool in thirty minutes.”

  “Maura, if we wait too long, we won’t be able to board,” the boy worried. He could not believe the numbers of people clambering onto the boat.

  “As soon as Mother is ready.”

  Mrs. O’Connell, who had hardly spoken that morning, suddenly said, “I’ll not be going.”

  A spasm of fear stabbed Maura. Patrick stared at his mother, the boat forgotten.

  “Now, Mother,” Maura said, trying to make light of what she’d heard, “you’ll wear my heart down to a pip with all your nay-saying. Am I to push you every inch of the way?”

  “I’ll not be going,” the woman said again, her voice firmer.

  “Queen of the West leaving for Liverpool in twenty minutes.”

  “But we have to!” Patrick cried. “We can’t stay here.”

  “It’s you and Maura who will go,” Annie O’Connell said. “I’ll go back to Kilonny, and there I’ll stay.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Maura cried in exasperation. “You know as well as anyone, there’s no Kilonny to go back to!”

  Mrs. O’Connell stood up. The look on her face was of grief and exhaustion. Maura recognized it as the same as when her brother Timothy died.

  “But what about us? And Da?” Maura asked, feeling full of tears.

  “You’ll ask my husband to forgive me. I cannot do it. God grant him power to understand.”

  Patrick, clutching his bundle, looked anxiously from his mother to Maura. “But, Mother, you have to! We can’t go without you!”

  “Queen of the West leaving for Liverpool in fifteen minutes.”

  “Go, and Jesus bless you both,” Mrs. O’Connell said, gazing at each of her children, touching their stunned faces with the palm of her hard hand. Abruptly, she turned away and set off with an urgency and energy she had not shown in weeks.

  Maura ran forward and grabbed one of her mother’s arms. “Mother, you can’t do this!”

  “Let me be!” Mrs. O’Connell cried as she pulled away with a strength that caught Maura off guard. “I’m telling you to go.”

  “Queen of the West leaving for Liverpool in ten minutes.”

  “Mother!” Patrick choked, tears starting. “You have to come. You have to! You do!”

&nb
sp; But Mrs. O’Connell was running, her black shawl fluttering behind like the broken wings of a frightened bird.

  The boat whistle let forth an ear-piercing screech. “Queen of the West leaving for Liverpool in five minutes.”

  Maura turned back from the sight of her retreating mother to where Patrick stood. “Mother!” the boy screamed. “Mother!”

  Maura made her decision. She rushed to her brother’s side, scooped up the other bundle, and all but dragged him—weeping, straining to see back over his shoulder—to the man at the table. He was already standing, stuffing his watch into a pocket. Maura and Patrick were the last ones.

  Fumbling frantically, she tore the tickets from her dress and offered the crumbled wad to the man. With a grunt of disgust he sorted through them, plucked out two tickets, and flung the other papers back at Maura.

  “Move yerselves!” he ordered.

  Still pulling at Patrick, Maura lunged for the boat and ran up the steep ramp. Even as they stepped on deck, the gangway was yanked free with a rattle of chains. The boat whistle shrieked. Black smoke surged from the funnels. The two great side wheels began to turn while overhead gulls screamed hideously.

  Patrick, wrenching free from his sister, broke through the crowd, shoving and pushing until he reached the outer rail. “Mother!” he screamed again. “Mother!”

  Mrs. O’Connell was nowhere in sight. And the Queen of the West was sliding down the river Lee.

  Gulls coasted and turned, now and again screeching out their mock good-byes. The passengers who filled the entire deck of the Queen of the West stared silently at the passing countryside. Some were in tears. Others prayed. No one laughed or sang.

  Patrick and Maura hunched down together. They looked at nothing, not at the passing shore, not at the people about them. It was hard to distinguish their own heartbeats from the monotonous pounding of the ship’s engines, which shook every timber of the boat relentlessly.