CHAPTER 11
Briana searched the house looking for the Kilbanes’ guitar and flute. Frankie had played the flute and guitar while Aideen sang on the first evening Briana, Rory, and her father had stayed there on their trip together to Westport. The night had passed in a blur of food and song. The Kilbanes would never have given up their musical instruments willingly for anyone.
She and Rory talked briefly about the murders after they ate, but the topic gave her the chills despite a roaring turf fire. Rory was certain the instruments had been taken to be sold. He had inspected the shed and found the Kilbanes’ livestock to be gone as well.
That night, Briana kept one eye focused on the door as she catnapped her way through the hours in a corner opposite the fire. Every creak and pop rattled her nerves and set her stomach tumbling.
Her husband had done everything to make their stay as comfortable as possible, including building a fire large enough to keep the cottage warm and lit throughout the night, propping a chair against the door to keep out unwanted animals and intruders, and sheltering the horses in the traveler’s room.
When dawn’s tepid light seeped around the door frame, she fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of leering, emaciated faces.
When Rory shook her awake, she felt hot from the fire, tired from not getting enough sleep, and irritable from the prospect of the impending journey. They heated the last of their mush and soda bread and ate it before saddling the horses. The sun was blocked by thick clouds, but the mist no longer fell.
Briana said a prayer for the peaceful rest of the Kilbanes’ souls as the horses trotted away from the cottage. She hoped they wouldn’t have to spend a second night in it on their return to Lear House.
* * *
Several hours later, they were within sight of the purple-hued peak of Croagh Patrick. The road had become clogged with a mass of people who flowed toward Westport like fall leaves fallen into the Carrowbeg. As they had done at Lear House, families burrowed into the earth, but here the shelter was less substantial. Sod and wood were scarce, having already been depleted. Thin men, women, and children in ragged clothes scattered about the road. If not in the burrows, the families trudged toward the village with eyes cast toward the ground.
From the mountains, from the hills, from the farms, they came to Westport looking for food and work. Those who could walk appeared to be half-dead, their emaciated legs barely able to support them. Their clothes were ragged and torn, the skin of legs, arms, and backs showing through ripped fabric. A few reached out for them as saviors on horseback—faces twisted by the excruciating pain of hunger. Those who were able rushed toward them, begging. They clawed at the ponies’ sides and pulled at the animals’ reins as if to devour the horses themselves.
“Get away!” Rory lashed out with the straps, slapping some people across their hands. They groaned and staggered away, unable to gather the strength to stop the animals.
Briana cringed at their destitution and her husband’s violent action, which seemed like a whip in a slave owner’s hands. “Must you be so rough?” she yelled.
Rory turned on her, his cheeks red with rage after they had passed the crowd. “Rough? If I don’t fight them off, we’ll be lucky to get to Westport. They’d eat the animals out from under us, if I didn’t stop them.” Fury flared from his eyes. “Do I need to remind you that we have twenty pounds in our pockets—a fortune by any man’s measure. I’m sure the Kilbanes were murdered for less.” He pointed down the road. “Do you want us to end up like that?”
Briana craned her neck to see what he had spotted. The village buildings were coming into view through the hills. In the distance, Croagh Patrick’s peak stood obscured by drab striations of ash-colored clouds.
He thrust out his hand again, and this time she saw.
Bodies. Some blended in so well with the trees and earth that she had to look twice to spot them. Corpses. Scores of them strewn across the fields like bloated seeds.
The bodies lay in crumpled heaps, while around them black and tan specks whirred in the underbrush. She strained to see, unable to trust her eyes. The men, women, and children who walked in silence behind them, or stood complacently in the ditches, also seemed unaware of the dogs that were devouring the corpses, snapping at the tattered clothes, ripping flesh from the bone, eating the dead to keep themselves from starving.
She gasped and uttered a prayer, the horror too much to take in. “My God” was all she could say.
“Rough? You don’t want me to be rough?” Rory’s voice sliced through her with its bitter edge. “Look what our English governors, our protectors, are allowing to happen. It’s good the wind is blowing off the sea or we wouldn’t be able to stomach the smell.”
“Please, Rory,” she said as a nauseous despair filled her.
He lifted from his horse, and his chest heaved in a monstrous moan as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Briana sidled next to him. The immensity of the famine, the pressure of holding everything together, including fearing for the lives of his brother’s family, had caught up with him. He needed to mourn the deaths of their countrymen, not bottle up his rage. The word struck her like a hammer blow as she rode beside him. Rage had hastened his entry into the Mollies. Now it was driving her husband, and she feared that its savage power might consume him.
The starving, standing in shadowed doorways, hunched by the side of the road, lying in ditches, quietly shuffling down the street, remained a constant presence as they entered the city.
Dishes clattered in The Black Ram, the public house where Briana had been accosted by the sailor. A cluster of starving Irishmen, beggars seeking scraps of food, huddled near the door but did not venture in. Inside, English sailors sat comfortably smoking their pipes and eating breakfast, less raucous than they would be later in the day when liquor flowed freely.
“Poor devils,” Rory said as they passed their countrymen. “Begging for food, looking for work, or maybe transport to the Continent. No English sea captain is going to hire a starving Irishman unless it’s for swabbing slops off the decks.”
Traveling above the village, past the stately mansion that looked to the east, they made their way to the port seeking the Captains the landlord had mentioned.
The Tristan, Captain James’s ship, was not in port, but another, the Cutter, a three-masted steamer with sails folded, rocked in the swells of Clew Bay. Briana remained on her horse as Rory dismounted and made his way down the dock. Two seamen attired in white pants and tunic shirts talked to him for a short time. When he returned, he smiled and patted her horse’s flank.
“Our friend, the Master, seems to have everything worked out,” he said with gentle sarcasm. The breeze off the bay swept through his hair. “Miller is the Captain of the Cutter. He’s in his quarters, but I do expect he will see us. Even the crew knows who Sir Thomas Blakely is.”
They sat for a time watching sailors offload sacks of meal from a smaller ship that had dropped anchor in the bay. Two dragoons, attired in their high boots and stiff capes, guarded the navy men. The job was routine, organized and leisurely, as if the famine didn’t exist. For all their nonchalance, the crew might as well have been in a port half a world away. Sailors hefted sacks across their shoulders; some hauled the goods in wooden carts to awaiting wagons. A few emaciated Irishmen hovered at the corners of the stone port buildings like dogs looking for a handout. Rory stuck his hand in his pocket and fingered the money given to them by Sir Thomas. Briana noted his nervous gesture, which led to her own anxiety about who might be watching them. Uneasy, her eyes snapped around the quay.
After a half hour, a sailor invited them to board the Cutter. The ship was anchored far out from the shallows to avoid being grounded at low tide. They boarded a skiff manned by two men who rowed them, bouncing over the waves, to the Cutter. One of the sailors helped Briana climb the rope ladder before escorting her and Rory across the top deck to a small door that led to a flight of narrow stairs. “The Captain’s quarters are up top,” the man said. “He’s expecting you.”
As he left, Briana looked out across the deck. The view was magnificent. On the eastern horizon, the village sat in the hills beyond the imposing stone buildings of the port. To the south, Croagh Patrick thrust its peak into the clouds. To the west, the bay swells gave way to the infinite stretch of turbid Atlantic waters.
The staircase led to another dark, wooden door inset with a circular portal of wavy glass. It provided the only light in the enclosure. Rory knocked, and a gruff voice responded, “Enter.”
Captain Miller sat behind a large mahogany desk, his back to a wide expanse of windows looking north across the bay. He was corpulent, much like a fighting dog, older and stouter than Captain James. He wore a buttoned-up waistcoat and breeches of white, his stern face lined with scars from a lifetime on the sea. However, his eyes twinkled with a hint of benevolence from under his white hair, as if he managed to hold two contrasting personalities. Briana had no doubt after meeting him that the Captain adhered to strict English discipline. He invited them to sit and then waited for them to speak. Rory looked to Briana to tell the story, apparently hoping that the officer would be more amenable to a woman’s charms.
“Sir Thomas Blakely has asked us to come in the hopes—”
He stopped her with a wave of his hands. “I know what you’ve come for, and I’m sure Sir Thomas is prepared to pay for it.”
Briana nodded. “The better part of fifteen pounds.”
The captain’s lip curled in a crafty smile. “I’ve known the man and his father before him. I’ve sailed with their textiles out of Liverpool for many years. Yes, I know how the family operates. They get their way.”
“We’ve come to ask for—” Rory said in English.
The Captain’s hand went up again. “You’ll be getting ten sacks of oats, ten sacks of meal, three generous ham hocks, and if I feel unselfish, two large wheels of cheese. That’s all fifteen pounds will buy these days.”
Rory’s face turned crimson, and he clutched his chair.
Briana feared that her husband might erupt in front of the Captain.
“That will barely feed Sir Thomas’s guests for two weeks,” Rory said. “We’ll need twice that amount to get by for a month.” He slid forward in his chair, barely hiding his contempt for the officer. “Where is all the other meal going?”
“It’s really none of your business, but as Mr. Charles Edward Trevelyan, the assistant secretary, has pointed out, the English government has but one obligation to the Irish—the purchase and distribution of Indian corn to be placed at various depots by the commissariat.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “Does that make sense to your provincial minds? Have I made myself clear?”
“Quite,” Briana replied in a stuffy English accent. For once, she wished Lucinda were in her spot to spar with the Captain.
“You can thank Sir Robert Peel for the purchase of the meal. Most of it is going to the supply center for the Killeries in Connemara County where it will eventually be distributed.”
Rory took the currency out of his pocket and tossed it on the Captain’s desk. “I’ve heard enough. We’ll be on our way as soon as we can be assured that the supplies will be shipped to Belmullet and then on to Carrowteige.”
“You have my word,” the Captain ordered, and deposited the money in his desk. “It’s good you didn’t come with a wagon. The less those poor Irish blighters see, the better. It would be best for you not to be seen with supplies. Something unfortunate might befall you.” He tapped a pistol on his desk. “Good day to you.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, looked down at an entry book, and began writing.
As they waited for the skiff to take them ashore, a sailor approached them carrying a satchel of oats and two hunks of cheese. Shortly, the ship’s first mate, carrying an object wrapped in black satin, appeared at their side.
“With the compliments of the Captain,” the mate said, and handed it to Rory. “He says you might need this.” A note was pinned to the satin, which Briana read aloud: With good wishes to Sir Thomas Blakely, friends by blood, Captain Cedric Miller, HMS Cutter.
“They must be related,” she said. “He’s being generous.”
Rory scoffed. “This food won’t last through the summer, depending on English appetites. What will the landlord do then?”
“I suppose he’ll buy more.”
“Yes, as Lear House goes down, he and his guests will dine in splendor while Irish food leaves our shores.”
One sailor took the oats and cheese and descended the rope ladder like a trained monkey. Briana was second, her shoes slamming against the ship’s hull as it rocked with the waves. The sailor clutched her legs as she neared the skiff and guided her to its bottom. Clutching the satin parcel, Rory was next, followed by the second sailor.
The saltwater leapt in silvery bursts over the bow as they skimmed across the bay. Sitting on a plank seat, Rory opened the satiny folds of the object given to him by the first mate. “Hello, what’s this?” He whistled in amazement. “It’s a . . . pistol.”
Briana peered at the burnished metal and the flame-patterned wood resting on the satin.
“He’s given us the complete package,” Rory said in amazement while poking at the cleaning rods, flints, balls, and powder flask that had been concealed by the satin. He lifted each item and inspected them separately. He returned them to the cloth and said, “I’ve no idea how to use this.” He picked up the pistol and held it by its barrel. “I suppose I could hit someone over the head with it.”
The sight of the weapon chilled her, and she wished the Captain had left it on his desk. She preferred not to imagine a scene conjured by the Captain: the starving grabbing at the horses or throwing themselves in front of them in an attempt to steal anything they had. Rory would have to load and fire and reload while people swarmed over them. She was familiar with the long guns passed down through inheritance to a few lucky tenants, but her father had never kept a hunting rifle, because there was no need. Lear House had provided all the food the family needed without having to hunt, and Sir Thomas was not a particular fan of the sport. “Please put that down,” she said. “What if it’s loaded? You could shoot yourself in the leg. Besides, the note says the pistol is for Sir Thomas.”
“I might forget to give it to the owner. After all, it’s for our protection.” He maneuvered the pistol until it was aimed toward a port building on the horizon. “I think this has to be pulled back in order to fire.” He pointed to the hammer, but then flinched, apparently unnerved by the thought of suffering an injurious blast. He rewrapped the firearm and held it carefully in his lap.
Soon they were ashore and the skiff was headed back to the Cutter. Rory fed a portion of the oats to the horses. Briana stashed the remaining grain and cheese in her saddlebag. The cheese was heavy and thick, and the aromatic scent of cultured milk made her mouth water.
They shook the reins, and the horses trotted through the wooded lane until they arrived at The Black Ram. While they were stopped, Rory filled their leather flagons with water from the public house as the animals drank from a pail and munched on grass.
The men who had crowded outside the establishment earlier had disappeared. Briana had no idea where they had gone. After a closer look, she spotted them in other doorways along the road, but shrunken, hidden like insects avoiding the heat of the day. In the short time she and her husband had been in Westport, the poor souls had withered to nothing, as if the additional hours with no nourishment had sapped their strength. These people had no fortitude left to stop ponies, let alone fight for food.
Heading north, they left Westport behind. The animals picked up their pace, refreshed by the oats and water. The overcast lifted and the lighter skies cheered her, for she had no desire to spend another night in the Kilbanes’ cabin.
“We can spend the night outside,” she suggested gently, hoping he would take the hint. She was more than willing to curl up with him and the animals under the stars. It would be uncomfortable but preferable to spending the evening in the cottage befouled by death. The pistol added little comfort, although it would be nearby if they needed it. Neither one of them knew how to fire it.
Rory found a brook running southward through a level field a short distance from the Kilbanes’ home. He tethered the animals to the scrub brush that lined the water. The horses grazed while she and Rory ate cheese. Exhausted by the day’s ordeal, they curled up in the shelter of a grassy hillock. Now that night was falling, Briana couldn’t wait to get home. Still, the famine was foremost on her mind. How long could these trips to Belmullet and Westport continue before their luck ran out? Would they even have the strength to make more journeys?
As night fell, she marveled at the luminous hooves of the horses, made that way by the bog insects crushed in their path. Sleep found her as she snuggled against Rory under the cover of their saddles, the horses close by.
* * *
In the middle of the night, Rory’s hand gripped hers. By the tightness of his fingers, Briana could tell the gesture wasn’t one of romance but rather one of alarm. Another finger crossed her lips, indicating that she should remain silent. As the cold night breeze swept over them, one of the horses snuffled. Rory stiffened as someone stepped coolly around the horses.
A hand touched the tip of her toes, and she screamed.
Rory lunged toward the intruder.
Briana could see little in the dark, moonless night except the nebulous form of a man who staggered backward from her husband, apparently as shocked about the situation as they were.
“Get away!” Rory said as he collared the man. Briana feared the intruder might be armed—the pistol the Captain had given them was lying between them. “Why are you sneaking around at this hour?” Rory berated the stranger as he cornered him.
“I meant no harm,” the man said in a strangled voice.
From his accent, Briana could tell he was from Mayo, not from Carrowteige but probably from the surrounding mountains. Briana jumped up, ready to defend her husband and to harangue the man for being a thief. She swiveled, suddenly aware of her surroundings. The land spread out in a flat, gray line to the black mountains. The only light came from the glow of the stars. What if he’s not alone? If only I knew how to use the pistol. She shuddered at a newly formed thought of using a weapon to protect herself and her family.
“Who are you?” Rory demanded, and flung the man down on the sod, his dark form flailing like a leaf in the fall wind.
The man steadied himself on his elbows and said, “Clan O’Keevane. Malachy O’Keevane. I’ve been wandering for days trying to get to Westport or Cork to board a ship to Liverpool. They say there’s railroad work in England. I had to leave my wife and children behind.” A coughing spasm ended his speech, and he rolled on his side, head to the ground.
“Have you got the fever?” Rory asked, his tone gruff with suspicion.
The man raised his head. “Not that I know of. I’ve felt cold of late.” He groaned and then straightened his body.
“No food?” Rory asked.
“I thought someone might be dead by these animals,” Malachy said. “One never knows these days. I was hoping to find food. If not, I thought I might kill me a horse.”
“I’m glad you didn’t, Mr. O’Keevane. My wife and I need these horses to get back to Lear House.”
“Lear House?” Malachy asked, astonished. “My traveling companion told me about Lear House.”
The hairs on the back of Briana’s neck stood on end. She moved closer to the man.
“This is my wife, Briana Walsh Caulfield,” Rory said. “We just came from Westport.”
“Who is your companion?” Briana asked the man, trying to shake the flutter in her stomach.
“He joined me yesterday on the road. At first I thought he was mad, but I think he’s only suffering like I am. He says he’s a poet living off what others have to offer, but no one has anything to offer these days. . . .”
“Daniel Quinn,” Briana said, and Rory nodded. “There can be only one poet who knows Lear House. Where is he now?”
“He’s not told me his name. He only calls himself the ‘poet.’ We’ve camped out in a deserted cabin up the road.” He pointed toward the Kilbanes’ cottage. “Nothing much is left there—a few old pots and pans that aren’t worth much if you have nothing to eat. A place to rest the head. That’s all. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d take a walk to keep my mind off me stomach.”
“Go back to the cabin,” Rory said. “We know where it is. I promise, we’ll give you a bite of what we have in the morning.”
The man rose and staggered toward them. “You do have food! Oh, praise the Saints. It would be wondrous to eat a meal again, something to tide me over until I can get to Westport.”
Rory shook his head. “We have little. Get some sleep. We’ll stop by at daybreak.”
The man left them, and Briana walked back to the hillock; Rory joined her after checking on the horses.
She looked up at the white haze of stars arching overhead and thought of those sleeping in burrows with no food for their stomachs. How long did they have before they collapsed from starvation? That question led her to wonder what it would be like to die. Would she be standing at the gates of heaven or hell? So much death surrounded them, but perhaps they could help this man and Daniel Quinn.
She grasped Rory’s hand after he had settled beside her and said, “There’s one thing I want to do when we get home.”
Her husband cuddled close and whispered, “Yes?”
“Learn to shoot that pistol,” she said, half thinking it might be necessary.
* * *
After daybreak, they freshened up and then mounted the horses. Briana wasn’t looking forward to stopping at the Kilbanes’ cabin, but she wanted to help the man who had found them in the night.
Malachy was sitting by the door when they arrived, puffing on an empty pipe. The sun cut across his face, and Briana was able to see his features clearly for the first time. His cropped, black hair fell forward on his head. He might have been in his thirties, but he looked older due to his sallow complexion, shrunken cheeks, and watery blue eyes set in their dark hollows.
The man nodded and sucked in one last breath as Rory alighted from his horse. “No tobacco,” he said. “At least I can smell the old plug.” He took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it against his knee.
“Is Quinn here?” Rory bent over Malachy, who answered with a nod and hitched his thumb toward the cottage.
Briana wondered why he was so close to the man, but her husband soon turned and whispered, “No lice, no fever.” Rory ducked inside, leaving the door partially open. Briana was left with Malachy, who told her that his family came from the mountains east of Ballycroy. “Not a lovelier spot on this earth,” he was telling Briana when Rory reappeared.
The early morning rays struck her husband, and she realized how much Rory had aged in the weeks they had been married. Flecks of gray dotted his red beard, his face had grown thinner, and his eyes were bleary and red from distress.
“It’s Quinn, all right,” Rory said. “What’s left of him. He doesn’t have the fever, but he’s all skin and bones.”
“He needs food and water,” Briana said, and reached for her satchel.
“We all do,” Malachy said. “We hope God will provide.”
She thought of the crucifix in her father’s room and her conversation with Father O’Kirwin before she and Rory were married. How much did God care about Ireland? The priest had expressed similar misgivings. Had the Creator deserted them? She supposed she would never understand why the famine had stricken them, any more than she could understand why the stars kept their places in the heavens.
The morning light filtered through the door, partially erasing the gloom inside. Quinn, wrapped in a blanket near the fire pit, moaned and raised his hands to shield his eyes.
Briana grasped four handfuls of oats from the satchel while Rory stoked the fire and collected water for boiling. Soon the cabin was filled with the smell of burning peat and the warm, toasty odor of simmering oatmeal. They had no buttermilk to pour on the oats, so they settled for hot water. Rory cut a thin slice of cheese for each of them, adding a little more sustenance to the meager meal.
After a prayer, Malachy propped Quinn against the mud wall and fed him. The poet could hardly open his mouth to eat and several times he choked on the oats. Briana held his lips open as best she could as the man placed the spoon on Quinn’s tongue. Briana managed to get cool water down his throat. Finally, the poet could take no more, and he slumped to the floor despite Malachy’s continued urgings to eat.
“He’s had enough,” Briana said. They finished their oats and cheese as she thought about the times at Lear House when Quinn had entertained the family with song and verse. How far he had fallen—this time further than all the previous bad times put together. He was a kind man who had been thrown out of his family at a young age for being “useless.” Briana’s father had been fascinated by the poet’s knowledge of Irish music and history; thus the two had struck up an intermittent friendship after meeting in a public house in Bangor.
Soon, Malachy rose, thanked them, and strapped his small kit to his rope belt. “I’ve no idea what lies ahead, but it’s time to go.”
Rory shook his hand. “Look for the Cutter and Captain Miller. Talk to the sailors and mention Sir Thomas Blakely. The name might not get you onboard, but it can’t hurt.”
Malachy repeated the Captain’s and Blakely’s names. Briana noted a genuine note of happiness in his face, something her husband had lacked of late. “I thank you for your kindness,” he said, and ambled toward the door. He turned and looked back at Quinn, who had fallen into a fitful sleep on the blanket. “You will take care of him? He’s not a bad man, I think, just a bit mad from hunger.”
Briana nodded. “We won’t desert him.”
They watched from the door as Malachy headed south toward Westport. The man’s shadow flickered over the bog as he disappeared down the road. Briana pushed the hair back from her temples, poured warm water into a pot, and rubbed it over her hands; the dusty smell of burning peat covered her clothes and skin. A bath would be wonderful, but that would have to wait.
She washed the pots while Rory tended the horses, making sure they were fed and watered. There was no reason to put out the turf fire; it would burn itself out in the pit. She placed the utensils on their hooks and straightened the few things left in the cabin, knowing that Aideen’s spirit, like any Irish woman, would be pleased by her tidiness. The chore was minor but left her feeling satisfied.
Despite the poet’s presence, a shiver raced over her from the ghostly memory of the murdered family. She ran from the cabin and stopped near the road to catch her breath. Rory was nowhere to be seen. In a panic, she called out his name.
He appeared, a few moments later, shoes in hand, from behind the cabin.
“The bodies are still there—undisturbed.” Rory squinted in the sunlight. “Who would do such a thing? I’m sure they didn’t have much.”
“Someone desperate,” Briana replied. “Get the poet. My father would never forgive me if we left him here to die.”
Rory stepped into the cabin and returned with Quinn in his arms. “He’s light as a feather,” he said while positioning him over the horse’s back.
Briana took another look at the cabin as she mounted her horse, flushed with the strange feeling that she would never again see the cabin as it stood now. If squatters didn’t make short work of it, the elements would, because without repair the sod walls would eventually crumble.
The Kilbanes’ home dropped from sight as they rounded a curve in the road. Rory held on to Quinn’s back with his left hand and guided the pony with his right.
Soon the sun and the rhythmic stride of her horse lulled her into a pleasant sense of security she wished would never end. Lear House was only a day’s journey ahead. Then the thought of Sir Thomas Blakely entertaining his English guests while others starved demolished her pleasure.