CHAPTER 3
True to his word, Rory arrived early the next morning with his supplies, ready for the journey. The sunless sky, still harboring its misty stars, hung over Briana as she stood in the chilly wind. She held a full pouch containing soda bread, potato scones, and cheese. Her father, puffing on his pipe, stood next to her, holding additional bags of food and water. The burning tobacco glowed red. Ashes sputtered into the air in orange arcs and fell in black specks on the dew-slickened steps.
Once they had gathered, they walked to the stable on the northeast side of the house and loaded their supplies on the three ponies selected to make the trip. Her father called them “bog trotters” because they were good horses to ride on the open heath. The animals instinctively knew how to avoid the brambles, the furze, and the watery stretches of bog by stepping from tussock to tussock, the high mounds of dry grass that dotted the heath. Briana had been around horses since childhood and had learned to ride at an early age. At one time, Sir Thomas had been proud to call Lear House home to more than fifteen of the animals. But over the years, as costs increased and revenues decreased, a good number of the horses had been sold or traded. Only five remained—the three trotters and two working animals.
They struck off down the lane that led to the village road. Briana wrapped her shawl around her head and shoulders and eased into the rhythm of the horse. The tenants’ homes slipped past them. Candlelight flickered in the few cabins that had windows. White smoke from the turf fires whirled from the openings cut into the structures.
A long two-day journey to Westport lay ahead. It would have been easier for them to travel to Belmullet and then take a ship to their destination, but Rory said he knew of no ships in the harbor since the one carrying Lucinda had departed.
Briana looked back as Lear House, dark and imposing, fell away. The quiet cottage where Lucinda still slept, after a promise from her father not to wake her, faded from view as well. She and her father had eaten a breakfast of oats and buttermilk, taken from the manor stores. Supplies, once abundant, were running low. Many grains, even though stored in jars with lids, were under attack from insects and mice as if the lowly creatures hadn’t enough to eat as well. Margaret would never have allowed such unpleasant incidents to occur.
“It’s too bad we couldn’t take Ariel and a wagon,” Rory shouted back at her. Ariel was Jarlath’s donkey, but hauling three people over the rough roads would be arduous for the animal.
They would start on the high bog lands near Carrowteige and descend to a river crossing. The road would take them past the east side of Carrowmore Lake, crossing the bridge at Bangor, past Ballycroy, skirting the valley below the green and rusty hues of the Nephin Beg Mountains. The final miles would lead them through the expansive hills that bordered the coastal towns of Mulranny and Newport before they finally arrived in Westport.
After forty-five minutes on the horses, a bruised purple light scattered across the eastern horizon. Rory led the way, Briana in the middle, and her father bringing up the rear. The heath dropped away into a black cut in the land. Rory slowed his pony and looked for the shallow point of the river that allowed the crossing. He shielded his eyes as the sun rose, its rays infusing the sky with yellow and pink.
Majestic swathes of blue encircled the coursing, patchy clouds. Briana was lost in the splendor of the bracing air, the clean scent of the water, when something startled her horse. The animal pitched sideways, nearly knocking her from her saddle.
A man’s bony hand, all withered skin and sinew, knuckles protruding, grasped for her leg. He shouted at her, and at first she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Rory and her father circled around as the horses trotted to a stop.
“Do you have food?” He repeated the question several times, his voice piteous, raspy, in its pleading.
Rory gave a knowing look to Briana, a signal to keep her mouth shut. “We have no food. We’re on our way to Westport to see what might be done for our own families.”
The bearded man’s jacket was coated with mud, his breeches shredded near the ankles, his naked feet slopped with muck. His clothing shivered on him like rags in the wind. If a man of Rory’s strength squeezed him too hard, he might break in half.
“Please, please . . . have mercy,” the man begged.
Briana dismounted from her pony.
“Daughter!” Brian rose on his horse.
The man’s mouth wrenched into a frown.
“My wife, my children,” he pleaded. “We have nothing to eat.”
When she peered deep into the brush that lined the swift water, the family appeared. There, as if animals hidden by the branches, a woman and two children crouched in a hole by the bank. The thatched boughs that formed a crude roof over their heads shadowed their faces. She walked toward them as six piteous eyes stared at her. Their hollow gazes seemed an exact measurement of their despondency, their bodies devoid of joy. Anguish stung her heart. Never had she seen such suffering.
“What can we do?” she called to Rory. Her gaze shifted to the provisions strapped to the side of the horse by straw ropes.
His eyes followed hers. “At the moment, nothing,” he said with little emotion. He jumped from his horse and walked toward the sceilp. “Where are you from?”
The man tottered on his feet. “Clanwilliam.”
“Evicted?” Rory asked.
The man nodded.
“How long has it been since you or your family have eaten?” Briana asked.
“My wife and children last ate two days ago. I’ve had nothing going on four.”
“My God,” Briana said to Rory. “We must give them food.”
He took her arm, turned her away from the man, and walked a few yards along the bank. “I understand your sympathy and I feel bad as well, but think of what you’re offering. If we help every beggar, soon we’ll have nothing of our own.”
“Beggar?” She looked at him with fresh eyes, questioning his charity to his fellow men. This was a part of him she’d never seen. She stepped away, quelling her rising anger. “This family is from Mayo. They deserve better. We would do it for anyone who lived on the estate.”
Brian walked up from behind and heard Briana’s words. “Be cautious, daughter. These are bad times.”
She understood what Rory and her father were saying, but she couldn’t ignore the pathetic state of the family who stood before them. “We can go back—get something. . . .”
“No,” her father replied in a soft but firm tone. “We’re more than an hour from Lear House. We might as well forget getting to Westport in time to meet the ship if we turn back.”
“Anything . . . anything you can give us,” the man shouted in his hoarse voice. “We would be in your debt.” He was like a sad apparition, watching them with sunken eyes from his spot near the river.
“Yes, I can give you something.” She went to her pony and lifted the cover of the pouch. Rory sighed behind her as she turned to see her father’s frown. She pulled out two scones, two slices of soda bread, and a small hunk of cheese.
She was about to give the food to the man when Rory stopped her. “No!”
“Why not?” she asked, irritated by his command.
“Let me.” He took the food and handed it to the starving man.
“Thank you,” the man said. Tears welled in his eyes. He took the bundle, staggered toward his starving family, and collapsed in the sceilp. Briana saw the man’s wife question him as he tore the food into small bits. The woman’s voice was so weak Briana could not hear her, but she appeared defeated, on the verge of fainting.
Rory scrubbed his hands in the river before mounting his horse. His eyes narrowed as he approached Briana. “That was a mistake.”
He helped her back on the pony. “It was no mistake. It was the right thing to do. We can’t let them starve.”
“What if we have nothing to give?” Rory asked. “What will we do then?”
One of the man’s small sons had crawled from the hole and, with his dirty thumb stuck in his mouth, stood on the side of the river staring at them. “Look at him, will you,” Briana said. She flushed with anger at the sight of the child, his face and neck sunken, his skin flattened against his skull like a wizened old man. The boy shifted in the sun and she noticed something that horrified her. The top of his head was nearly bald, but a coating of fine hair covered his face, as if he were changing into an animal, a wolf of sorts. She looked at Rory for an explanation. “Why did you stop me from handing over the food?”
Rory turned and waved to the boy, then mounted his pony. Before he shook the reins he said to Briana, “Look at that child. I’m sure the hair on his face comes from starvation. We’ll see more like him now that food is scarce.” He paused. “Something was crawling over that man’s skin. I couldn’t let you touch him.” He urged his horse onward. “You don’t know how desperate I feel. I want to do something . . . anything that will make things better. But I won’t sacrifice my family for others.”
Her father gave Rory an understanding look as the horses trotted off together.
A flush rose on Rory’s neck. “I’m sorry. I’ve spoken out of place. I’m not part of your family . . . but that man, and the others like him, are why I wear the green ribbon. We’ll stop on the way back if we have more to give.”
Rory’s voice was filled with an urgency that Briana had never heard, and she realized he had protected her and her father despite her irritation with him. Many years ago in Westport, she had seen dragoons marching near the quays. The commanding officer had sounded the same. The thought of Rory turning into such a man dismayed her. However, she had seen only his reticence at first and mistaken it for a hard heart. She was wrong.
Her heart sank as she looked back toward the family. After they crossed the river, the sceilp was no longer visible. The family had vanished like sad, thin shadows to be blotted away by clouds. Something plucked at her arm; the wind perhaps. When she turned to look again upon the heath, a sad specter ran behind her, a leering harlequin with a skeletal face dressed in a jester’s garb. He held a potato in both hands. As she watched, the potatoes melted into a mass of black, putrid liquid. She shook the vision from her head and then turned her attention to the road.
* * *
After four more hours of traveling, they stopped at Bangor, a village of stone buildings lining the Owenmore River. Briana, Rory, and Brian ate their food near the cold, blue waters as the horses drank and munched the spring grass. Brian, as a surprise, had procured meat and eggs from a rather dingy public house. Then they traveled another three hours before arriving at their stop for the night, the stone cottage of Frankie and Aideen Kilbane, who lived south of Ballycroy on the strip of heath bordering the western slopes of the Nephin Beg. The Kilbanes earned their living by hosting travelers traversing the boggy road between the southern inlets of Blacksod Bay and the mountains. They tethered their horses to a picket line near a small shed and fed them from their supply of oats. Plenty of fresh water was available for the animals.
That evening, they shared scones and potato bread in addition to a watery carrot soup provided by Aideen. The couple, Briana noticed, looked in good health, as if the blight had not affected them. Frankie played the flute and guitar after dinner while Aideen sang. Frankie told them of the skeletal travelers, the famished animals, they had seen on the road outside their door. They could not help everyone, he said, and often they had to shelter their own livestock in the house to protect them from being stolen.
Soon, Briana nodded off in the warmth of the log fire. The Kilbanes pulled rush mats into the main room for sleeping, while she and her father retired to straw beds in a separate area reserved for travelers. Rory slept near the door, not far from the stone fireplace, with the Kilbanes and their long-haired hound at his side. The dog barked once during the night at something that rustled outside. Rory checked on the horses, and nothing was amiss.
They left early the next morning after a good breakfast and payment to their hosts.
Warm sun and the pony’s rocking motion nearly lulled Briana to sleep as they traversed the rolling hills to Westport. The land rose and fell across cultivated farms, until the road led them high over the wind-swept bay at Mulranny. After brief stops and more hours of hills, the cloudy peak of Croagh Patrick, where the Saint had fasted for forty days fourteen hundred years earlier, appeared as they rounded a curve. The base of the purple and green mountain, the Reek, shimmered in the late morning sun. Her father had told her the Saint’s story years ago upon her first visit to Westport.
Westport, with its towering monument in the center of the village and its graceful stone, arched bridges, was only a few minutes away. They crossed the brown, iron-laced waters of the Carrowbeg River and ascended the top of a hill to the south of the village center. The harbor, shining and blue with white-capped waves, lay to the west. Near the horizon, far past the end of the quay, the spars of two tall ships pierced the air like black arrows. Another ship was harbored as well: a sleek steamer, a vessel Briana had never seen before, outfitted for sail or engine power.
“The steamer’s in,” her father said. “I hope we’re not too late.”
“Never too late,” Rory said. “If they’re not onboard they’ll be in the public house.”
As they watched, one of the tall ships set off in Clew Bay, veering toward the open Atlantic. Its lower sails caught the northwest wind, and soon it was cutting across the hard, blue waves and out to sea. Briana saw several sailors, as tiny as ants, climbing hand over hand up the masts. What must it be like to be on one of those ships or on the exciting new ship called a “steamer”? Lucinda had said little about her voyage from Liverpool to Belmullet except to complain about her cramped cabin and her bouts of seasickness.
Lucinda loved her travels; Briana was happy at home. The familiar cliffs at Carrowteige, the bracing freshness of the air, the feel of the boggy earth underneath her bare feet, were all she needed. The ever-shifting Atlantic provided the only change of scenery she required. Lear House, despite its troubles, was home—worth keeping and fighting for. She imagined herself as an old woman sitting by the cottage fire with Lear House standing solidly by. Would her life be different from what she pictured it to be?
After traveling west, past a large stone house—a mansion of greater size than Lear House—they arrived at the quay and its row of multistoried buildings. Men hustled through the port to the doors of various merchants while donkeys pulled wagons loaded with boxes and wooden chests. Several single-mast sailboats creaked against the stone quay. From the signs, she could tell most of the shops were related to the sea: a sail maker, a mast carver, merchants specializing in the shipment of goods. An apothecary business that claimed to sell food as well as medicine was shuttered. A chain hung heavy and morose across the door of a grain merchant.
Rory tethered the horses to iron spikes driven into the quay rock. Brian dismounted and fed the hungry animals from their dwindling supply of oats.
Rory placed his hand between the brim of his cap and his eyes. His gaze was soon directed at the steamer anchored in the bay. “It’s the Tristan. I’ll see if I can find the Captain.”
Briana got off her horse and stood by it. Several English sailors dressed in white breeches, dark jackets, and blue caps stared as they walked by. They whispered what she suspected might be salacious words judging from their sneering looks. Would they have spoken such words in front of a lady in their home country? She focused on the Reek, while her face flushed from the unwanted attention.
Rory arrived a few minutes later with a satisfied look on his face. “A sailor from the Tristan told me the Captain and most of the crew are at a pub called The Black Ram. We can get water and food there for the horses.”
They mounted the animals and retraced their route, past the mansion, to the village center.
“I’m sure it’s not hard to find,” Rory said as they descended the hill by the monument. Before crossing the bridge again, they found a lane that ran east along the Carrowbeg. The sign of The Black Ram, a devilish animal with curled horns painted over a white background, swayed in the wind.
A group of sailors congregated on the benches outside the pub’s door. They talked, laughed, and smoked their pipes while tipping their cups.
Swells of laughter boomed from the establishment. The door stood open, and the intermingled smell of tobacco and stale ale struck her as they traveled past. Other unsavory odors filled the air. Several sailors emerged from the shadows at the back of the building, buttoning up their breeches as they walked. She held her breath for a moment, hoping that Rory would let her go with him.
“Wait here with the horses,” Rory told her.
“No. I’m coming inside. Da can stay here if he wants.”
“Not me,” Brian said. “I could use a drink.”
Rory secured the animals to a tree near the river. “All right, but stay close. We don’t want any trouble with the English Navy.”
Two windows were set into the pub walls on either side of the door. Through the wavy glass, Briana saw a room full of sailors conversing at tables and leaning on a long wooden bar against the back wall. She walked into The Black Ram between Rory and her father, Rory leading the way. The sailors hushed when she entered. The silence lingered for more time than she would have liked, as two dozen pairs of eyes ogled her; but soon the men resumed their chatter.
A hazy cloud of pipe smoke obscured the room. Rory craned his neck looking for the Captain. Briana supposed the officer might be dressed differently from the others, but no man stood out from the crowd. As they weaved around the tables, Rory headed toward a chair draped by a long jacket with split tails. A tall man with wavy black hair dressed in white breeches and a cuffed white shirt leaned against the bar. He was older than the other men, more seasoned, with a ruddy, weathered face. Briana believed he might be the Captain. Apparently, so did Rory. He approached the man, who gave him a wary look.
She moved behind Rory to hear the conversation. Her father hitched his thumb toward the bar. “I’ll leave this to a younger man,” he shouted at her.
“Are you the Captain of the Tristan?” Rory asked.
The man put down his cup, turned, and thrust his elbows back on the bar. “Aye, sir. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve come for a favor,” Rory said.
The Captain studied Rory, sizing him up for what the request might be. Rory leaned close to the man.
The laughter and songs echoing through the pub blocked Briana from hearing more. A woman in a black dress and long, dark hair stood behind the counter and poured her father a mug of poteen. Brian paid the woman and leaned over, intent on talking to her. She smiled and casually drifted away from him, more concerned about serving her large contingent of sailors than chatting with an older man.
Briana caught her arm as she walked from behind the bar. “Do you have a pail for water?” She was eager to get out of the pub, away from the smoke and the raucous laughter.
The woman scoffed and pushed Briana’s hand away. “Fool, do I look like I have time for that with all these Englishmen thrashing about?” She cocked her head. “Don’t get me wrong. Business is business.”
“We’ve come from Lear House at Carrowteige. Our horses need water.”
The woman’s eyes brightened, and she pulled a battered metal pail from under the counter. “Oh, I have a soft spot in my heart for animals. I can’t keep track of all the stray dogs and cats. I feed them when I can. There’s plenty of water in the Carrowbeg with the rain we’ve been having. Help yourself to the pail—just bring it back.” After handing it to Briana, she went about her business of flirting with the sailors and taking orders.
Rory was involved in his conversation with the Captain, who seemed to have loosened up enough that he was laughing now. Briana threaded her way past the tables, out the door, and into the sunshine. It felt good to be out of the close, smoky bar and into the fresh air. She walked past the men and made her way to the river. Several women were washing clothes near stone steps that led down to the water. Briana slipped past them with a “hello” and dipped the pail into the brown water. The chilly current washed over her hands.
She gathered the pail and returned to the animals. They drank greedily, lapping at the cool liquid with their pink tongues. A shadow fell across her horse.
“A real Irish lass,” a man said in English. The shadow weaved behind her. “I’ve been watching your horses so no bastard takes them.”
Briana turned her head to see a red-faced sailor lolling behind her. His eyes had sunk into his head from too much liquor. She wanted to ignore him, but he staggered toward her, his face bloated from the drink. He locked his arms around her waist, squeezed, and fitted his pelvis against hers.
Still holding the pail, she said in English, “I appreciate you looking after our animals, but get away from me or you’ll be lucky to have children.”
“Ah,” the sailor cooed in her ear. “I hear Irish country girls are the best.”
Briana steeled her body, twisted, and threw the remaining water in the sailor’s face. He yelped and sputtered backward. The shock seemed to temporarily sober him up. His cheeks flushed with rage. Before he had a chance to speak, Briana kicked him in the groin and sent him sprawling to the ground. She stared at him defiantly.
He rose on his elbows, recovered enough to spit out, “You little bitch! I’ll have you in the mud!”
But before the sailor could rise up, the Captain’s black boot came down upon his chest. “Enough, you idiot! Get back to the ship and clean yourself up, or you’ll be in the brig.” The sailor, his lips quivering, gawked at his Captain. The officer lifted his right leg and stamped it close to the sailor’s face. Rory, bristling with his own rage, rushed to the officer’s side. Briana knew he was aching to thrash the sailor.
Moaning, the man tried to lift himself from the ground but fell back. The Captain grabbed the sailor by the left arm, lifted him, and shoved him toward the ship. The other sailors, some whistling and catcalling at their mate, watched as he staggered down the lane.
The officer approached Briana and extended his hand. “I’m Captain James. I apologize for my man. I make no excuses for his behavior, except that he may have had too much of your fine Irish whiskey. How can I make up for his poor manners?”
She shook his hand and, without hesitation, said, “You can give us food.”
Captain James nodded. “The least I can do, miss. If you give me an hour, I’ll gather some. Let me get my coat.” He turned and walked inside.
“Are you all right?” Rory asked after the officer left. “The Captain and I were coming out the door when we saw the water fly. By God, you didn’t need my help.”
“I had to take matters into my own hands,” Briana said. Her father had taught her to defend herself because he knew how much she loved to roam the countryside. Brian, a slight man who fought like a hellion, had given her the means to save herself from a sailor intent on doing harm. With no mother to guide his daughter, Brian had done his best.
Rory kissed her hand and held it to his chest. “I’d always like to be around to protect you.” His words were sincere, and she realized that life outside Lear House had become perilous. Fortunately, fate had handed her a sailor who was an easy mark, drunk as he was. The thought of a sober man attempting the same chilled her.
The proprietress stood smiling in the doorway. Her father peered over her shoulder, his face cheerful with a tipsy smile. Briana returned the pail to the woman, thanked her, and grabbed her father by the arm. “Come on, Da. You’ve had enough.”
“You’ve got a hell of a daughter, there,” the woman said to her father.
Her father had consumed more than his share of poteen and seemed giddy with delight. “I haven’t had such a grand time in ages.” He kissed the woman on the cheek. “We should come to Westport more often.” The proprietress scoffed and swiped her fingers against her cheek, dispersing the kiss. She disappeared into the smoky room.
The Captain returned with his coat. Its brass buttons shone against the blue wool, gleaming like golden spheres in the sun. “If you wouldn’t mind me using one of your horses . . .”
“I’ll accompany you,” Rory said. They mounted the animals and rode off toward the Tristan.
Briana and her father sat near the river, enjoying the warm sun. None of the sailors bothered them, although their voices became increasingly loud as the drink flowed. After an hour, another sailor returned with Rory. He dismounted from the pony and said, “With the Captain’s compliments . . . and his humble apology.” He handed a large leather pouch to Briana and then walked back toward the ship.
Rory and Brian waited with eager smiles for a glimpse of the contents. Her father whistled when she opened the pouch. The Captain had given them dried meats, biscuits, several cakes—all neatly wrapped—and a bottle of French brandy.
“We’ve been handed the pot o’gold,” her father said, eyeing the brandy.
Rory took a look as well, salivating over the biscuits and cakes. “Yes, but I’m not happy how it happened.”
“Hands off.” She slapped their fingers away and closed the pouch.
This time it was Rory’s turn to whistle as he turned his gaze toward the road that led to the quay. “Would you look at that.”
A squad of dragoons, attired in their red vests and long breeches, marched over the bridge alongside wagons loaded with bags of oats and other foodstuffs. They were headed toward the port. The soldiers, muskets slung against their shoulders, were positioned on either side of the cargo. The drivers appeared to be Irishmen who had been paid to haul the goods. They looked neither left nor right at the silent men and women who stared at them as they passed.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” Briana said. “The very food we grow is being taken to the port—leaving Ireland.”
Rory turned, his eyes dimming. “I’m afraid so. That’s why the Tristan is here—to make sure that this food gets out safely . . . to feed the English.”
The dragoons couldn’t be fought, nor could the laws regarding exports be changed. Tenants needed to make money to pay their rents. They could do that only by selling the food they grew.
“I’ve had enough of this spectacle,” Rory said. “We’ll eat before we get to the Kilbanes’. I don’t want to deprive them of their food.” He sneered at the wagons and the dragoons trudging away from them. They mounted their horses and trotted north on the road leading out of Westport.
The afternoon shadows had deepened, and Briana noticed something had changed since they had come into Westport that morning. People—fifty of them at least, men, women, and children—lined the road out of town. They looked like sad ghosts in their dirty clothes. Briana rode up next to Rory, unsettled by the sight.
“They’re going to Westport, perhaps Castlebar, looking for food and work,” Rory told her.
They were sad ghosts. Families clad in worn clothes huddled along the side of the road. Nearly everyone was barefoot, many clutching a satchel of belongings. The ghostly walk, the sunken faces and eyes, the pitiful lethargy, reminded Briana of the family she had seen living in the sceilp.
The starving people watched them from the road with eager eyes searching for food, seeking hope in a world of misery. Briana looked at the pouch of food given to them by the Captain and wondered how long a family could exist on the treasure they carried. A week? Perhaps longer if the food was properly rationed. As the town and Croagh Patrick faded in the distance, and the northern hills came into view, the stream of ragged people thinned. They had, like animals, disappeared in the brush.
As she rode, she saw only the vacant stares of the starving. Rory was right—she couldn’t save them all, but perhaps she could help the man who had stopped them at the river. If she had her way, he and his family would enjoy some of the prized food they’d received from Captain James. But there were others to think of as well—the tenants, Rory’s brother, and his family. Hard choices would have to be made with so little food available.
Briana took one last look back. Westport had disappeared under the swell of hills, but Croagh Patrick’s peak still towered on the southern horizon.
How could the government let this happen? How many would die? She shivered, although the sun warmed her shoulders. Fear had spread its icy fingers over her. This wasn’t a dream. The dragoons were escorting food out of Ireland. How long would it be before this disaster touched her and her family?
Her mind swirled with thoughts of how to save them, but there were no easy answers. How could she fight an enemy she couldn’t see who robbed them of their strength? She straightened in the saddle and vowed to carry on, to protect her father and Lear House as best she could. Her father’s horse trotted ahead. She fought back tears. Brian’s stooped back already showed the physical and emotional toll the blight had taken, and this was only the beginning.