The first spikes of the morning sun caught every colour of the convoy: the riders’ uniforms of green and blue, yellow and scarlet, their helmets and the swords in their scabbards, the flashing polished brass of the horses’ harnesses, the rifles of the infantry.
The line of wagons was the longest yet to leave Cork Harbour, thirty of them piled high with grain, the pulling teams pounding at the ground, the crack of whips over their heads and the shouts of the wagon masters urging them on. People lined the roads to watch them pass but no one cheered. Who could applaud such a precious cargo that was on its way to somewhere else? How could they believe there were others hungrier than themselves?
Kate saddled her mare and watched the column until it was out of sight. As she left the stable yard, Dr Martineau came from the house and stood in her way.
‘These are dangerous times, Miss Kathryn,’ he said in his soft and silky way. ‘Is it wise to leave Cork?’
‘I have left it too often to wonder now whether it is wise or not,’ she replied coldly.
‘Indeed you have,’ he said coming closer. He held the bridle as she mounted.
‘And I know the road so well, Dr Martineau, that I shall not need your escort to follow me today.’
‘Dear me, Miss Kathryn! I’m surprised that you should take offence at what is only my concern for your safety …’
‘An escort with a spyglass?’ she interrupted him.
‘Indeed. With a spyglass and a pistol too, which he has orders to use without hesitation should there be any risk to your safety. I wonder that you protest so much.’
‘I shall tell my father you have me followed.’
‘As you wish.’ He ran his hand along the mare’s neck. ‘I can only hope he will not press me for details of your little excursions, innocent though they may be. It might worry him nevertheless.’
She wanted to bring her whip across his smiling face. Angrily, she pulled hard on the reins and, with a kick of her heels, she cantered away out of the yard and onto the track that led up the road to Kinsale. A minute later the cobbles echoed again as a rider in a black cloak followed, a spyglass and a pistol in his pockets.
The rendezvous had been arranged. She was to meet Una Fitzgerald by the ferry at Glanmire and from there they would ride together the twenty miles to Kinsale and meet with Keegan and the children.
The sun was already warm and at Ballygarvan they stopped to water their horses. Una had brought a basket of her father’s oatcakes and a small flagon of his homemade ginger beer. They sat by a stream and ate breakfast.
‘Una, I’ve asked this of so many others but let me ask you too. Why have the Irish always been so dependent on the potato? Why don’t they grow wheat? Why don’t they bake bread?’
Una reached out, touched the tips of Kate’s fingers and began the rhyme: ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man … Kate, I’m running out of fingers. You’ll marry a beggar man.’
‘Una, don’t play. Answer me.’
Una rolled on her back. ‘Kate, you’ll not see bread baked anywhere from Valencia to Malin Head. An oven is unheard of in any village in the whole of Ireland. There’s scarcely a woman among them who knows how to cook anything but a boiled potato.’
‘But they could be taught.’
‘And what would they bake?’
‘Bread, of course.’
‘And you bake bread with …?’
‘With flour, of course. What else?’
‘And where would they get their flour?’
‘Una, you’re teasing me.’
‘No, Kate! It’s just that you assume too much. How can they afford to buy flour when they can barely find the money for their seed potatoes? If they have enough land to sow wheat or barley or oats, it is to sell to pay their rents. They can’t afford to eat them. They call the potato the lazy crop but what else can a poor man grow to keep his family alive? All he needs is a quarter acre, a spade and a pocketful of faith.’
‘I’m sorry, Una. You must think me stupid but I know so little of the Irish. When I was in England I thought of you all as foreign. Now I am the foreigner and I’m struggling to understand. Why are there so many extremes here? Kindness and hatred all in the same mix.’
Kate waited for her to answer. Una ate the last of her cake and blew away the crumbs. A small bird, yellow and blue, hovered and dropped into the long grass in search of them. Una turned and lay on her stomach.
‘I was born among these people, Kate. All I can ever remember is their fun. They were famous for it. They would help build each other’s cottages, all coming together, the women and children too, gathering the wood and the stones and the thatch. The tenant brought the food and there was always a lot of drink. If he could afford it, he’d have music and as long as it was light they would work to the fiddler’s tunes. There was always a song then, always singing, whatever the reason. A child was born, a girl was married, an old man buried. There was a fiddler at every wake and sometimes even a piper. They would have poteen and whiskey and tobacco for the men, talk for the women. There was such kindness. They would never close a door on a stranger. There’d be a plate of potatoes for him, a jug of buttermilk and a stool for conversation. But it’s all gone and how I miss it! I wonder if it will ever come back.’
Una stood and brushed off the grass. ‘Come, Kate. It is time to meet your lovely schoolteacher. Let’s be off. We’ll go the pretty way.’
The wicker basket, hidden in the long grass, was forgotten. Who would stumble on it? Who would find the few oatcakes and a little of the ginger beer inside and thank the Lord for His many miracles?
‘As sure as God made them, He matched them.’ They were Tom Keegan’s words and Kate would always remember them. The old man had come to the schoolroom that morning because his son was afraid he could not cope on his own with Una’s arrival. He would instead rely on his father, with his flow of easy words and warm ways, to charm her. Old Tom would take the awkward stiffness out of it all.
Young Keegan had woken early and had fussed every minute thereafter. He was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the schoolroom floor a second time even before the sun rose. He had tramped the hillside, picking the tallest fern fronds which he had placed in stone jugs in the four corners of the room. The fire was burning in the hearth, water for tea was simmering in the kettle that hung from the hook above it and peat was neatly stacked by the door. The children’s slates and sticks of chalk were placed in a row along the bench, in line and exactly spaced, like toy soldiers on parade.
Keegan was worrying that there was still more to be done when he heard the sound of the riders arriving. Old Tom was first out the door to greet them. He grabbed hold of Una’s bridle.
‘Céad fáilte romhat. Go mbeannaí Dia thú agus fáilte romhat. Is mór an onóir domsa agus do na leanaí tú a theacht inár láthair. Cuireann sé áthas an domhain orainn.’
‘Father, father!’ Keegan shouted above the old man’s greetings. ‘Have you forgotten? When Kate is here we speak English?’
‘Oh! Dearie dear. A hundred apologies!’ The old man repeated it twice over. ‘Forgive me, Kate. We are a little flustered at the sight of you both. It’s the expecting that’s done it. But you’re welcome. You are so welcome.’
He helped Una from her saddle, bowed and shook her hand. ‘I am the father of this young schoolmaster you’ve come to meet. We are honoured to have you here. We have tea brewing and we shall have some talk. The children will be coming soon and there’ll be little time for chat when they do.’
Keegan had barely slept all week, worrying about the words he must find and the ways of saying them to the daughter of Sir Robert Fitzgerald. Would she be as Kate had been to him at their first meeting? He thought not. Then Eugene and his wounds had been the bridge between them. The drama of that day had been the reason for them coming together and it had held them as friends since. The prospect of meeting Una had unsettled a normally confident Keegan. It had occupied him and irritated him. But that morning, to his surprise, he and Una did not meet as strangers meet.
The children arrived together. Eight of them had brought a penny. They paid it to Keegan once a week for their schooling. There were times when some did not, and they brought sods of peat instead. Eugene was first at the schoolroom door. Kate introduced him to Una. He shook her hand and showed her his book of Irish poems, translated and carefully written in English with a quill and blackberry ink. The other children followed and those who had shoes took them off and left them outside.
Keegan, in his worrisome planning for this special day, had given their mothers fifteen pence to search the market for food to cook for him. At ten o’clock, they left the steaming covered pots by the door. It was time for breakfast.
Old Tom arranged the seating. The four sat in a circle on the floor, surrounded by the children. The children closed their eyes and clasped their hands as the old man said prayers. The potatoes were hot and they danced them from hand to hand as they skinned them. Then Tom mashed them in a bowl filled with buttermilk and nuggets of coarse salt.
‘Now, ladies, gentlemen and little folk,’ he said as if he was addressing an association dinner. ‘We have an Irish speciality known only to those who can afford nothing else. It’s our boxy: mashed-up turnips with fern leaves and dandelion. I see the mothers have done us a favour and added a sprig of mint so we’ll have a banquet! Now God bless us, every one of us.’ The children crossed themselves and mouthed their amens.
Keegan had indeed been wise to have his father attend. He could never have managed the morning on his own. The old man turned breakfast into a party with his talk and tales of Jack-o’-Lantern, the banshees and the mysteries deep within the fields of fairies. The children sat and listened to him, entranced and as still as statues.
‘Father,’ Keegan said, laughing, ‘enough of your banshees and Jack-o’-Lanterns. It’s all nonsense, you’re dumping rubbish into this classroom of mine. This is a place of learning.’
‘Nonsense, is it?’ the old man replied, attempting a scowl. ‘Are you asking for a pishogue?’
‘What is that?’ Kate asked.
‘It’s a curse and the worst one,’ the old man said. ‘You can be cursed by a fairy or a saint. The Irish saints are forever putting curses on people and no county is more cursed by them than Cork, though Limerick might compete. We’re full of our silly stories and Irish bellies would be emptier still if we didn’t have them.’
‘Do we have time for one of them?’ asked Kate.
The old man laughed. ‘If I tell you one, I’ll tell you a dozen.’
‘Start with one, then.’
‘Well, let me think and, son, you will put it into Irish for the children?’ He scratched his head and winked at Kate. He loved an audience and none had ever been as lovely as this. The children quietly pushed their way closer. The old man was going to tell them a story. No one had ever sat with them like this and they had never known such a thing as a story.
The old man began and his son, sitting beside him, whispered the translation.
‘There was once a poor man who worked hard all day. But he couldn’t sleep at night because he had no bed. He had to sleep on the cold stones and that made his bones ache. He couldn’t even afford to buy straw to sleep on because he had to give it all to his donkey. You see, if his donkey couldn’t sleep, it wouldn’t work. And if it did not work and pull the cart then the man would starve. But his bones ached so much that one day he built himself a cot. Then he put legs on it to raise himself off the cold ground. That night he was warm and he slept well. But when he woke he found his donkey dead. He reckoned the saints had put a curse on him for impudently raising himself above his station. So he buried his donkey and burnt the cot.’
‘Poor donkey,’ Una said and wiped her eyes in mock sorrow.
‘Poor donkey,’ the children shouted in a chorus, repeating it in English.
‘I bet you haven’t heard of the headless horseman of Limerick?’ the old man said.
‘Is it right for the children?’ Keegan asked.
‘They’ll have seen worse themselves,’ Tom replied.
Una put her arms around the children either side of her. Kate did the same. Keegan poured more tea. Tom began: ‘There was once a coachman on his way to Limerick. The city was under siege by the Dutch and the coachman gave them information about where the Irish defenders were hidden for a reward. All but one of them were killed and when the survivor reached the city he told them of the treachery. When they caught the coachman, they cut off his head and stuck it on a pike on Thomond Gate. Then, on Halloween night, the feast of the dead, they threw the head into the Shannon and cursed his spirit, so it would ride around the city forever. But then the good people of Limerick asked the fairy king, Rí na Sideog, to be lenient. If the coachman ever found his head as he rode his rounds, he would be forgiven.’
‘And did he find it?’ Kate asked.
‘No one knows,’ the old man answered. ‘Nobody’s ever dared to look because if you see him, you are cursed to ride with him too.’
The children were not frightened by it. They laughed as old Tom moaned like a ghost and held his head in his hands. He looked about him for applause. He saw his son was at ease and he was pleased. He waited for the moment.
‘Young Keegan,’ he said. ‘The horses will be needing some water and grass. Be a good man and look to them.’
Keegan rose and went to the door.
‘And maybe,’ his father continued. ‘Miss Una might like to see a little of the valley. You have the time.’
When they had gone, Kate took the old man’s hand.
‘Are you the cunning matchmaker, Tom?’ she asked.
‘Just a little bit of mischief,’ he said, smiling. ‘My boy’s a shy one but I’ve been looking at him. Did you see his face? The way he looks at her? All he needs is a bit of a shove.’
They rode from the village a little after midday and Kate knew Una would soon be returning to it. Old Tom’s last words echoed – the ones he had whispered to her as they left: ‘As sure as God made them, He matched them.’
Kate stopped on the ridge overlooking the village, so that Una could see the view for herself.
The air was suddenly still. There was no rustle of a breeze as it turned the grass. No leaf moved. No birds sang. It was a strange silence.
‘What is it, Una?’ Kate asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe summer’s on the turn early.’
‘Keegan said we mustn’t have rain before September.’
They were a half an hour’s ride from Cork when they saw them in the distance. They could not count how many because they were spread so wide, like a battalion of infantrymen. But they were not soldiers. Una halted.
‘We should go another way,’ she said.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I don’t think it’s wise to get too close to them. I’ve seen men on the march like this before. They’re looking for food and work and it’s best not to confront them. They can be frightening.’
They turned and cantered away until they came to a narrow gorge. Kate knew it well. It would lead them across country in a wide semicircle beyond Ballinaboy and back onto the Cork road. They would be well away from the threat of the men.
The gorge that split two hills and they were only halfway through it when they were suddenly surrounded by gangs of men running down the steep slopes either side. Rough hands caught their bridles.
‘Get off your horses and empty your purses,’ the leader shouted. ‘Now, before we do it our way.’
He was a large man, tall and big-boned, but the skin around his neck hung in loose folds and his eyes were sunk in shadow. He held his fist to Kate’s face and she saw the bare wrist was covered in sores and scabs.
‘Do as we say!’ he shouted again. ‘And we might let you walk home, the way we have walked all the way from Skibbereen and Baltimore. Now give us what we want and if we cannot sell your horses, by God, we’ll eat them.’
The men roared their approval but none moved to pull the girls down. The leader coughed and spat and Kate saw blood in his spittle.
‘If I give you money,’ Kate said, ‘will you promise to let us through?’
She saw the hatred in his eyes. ‘I don’t have to promise you a damned thing, missy. We have been promised food from the depots and work on the roads and we are still looking for it.’
He grabbed her stirrup and as she lashed out with her whip, he shouted, ‘At them, boys, and do what you bloody well like. But for Christ’s sake don’t let the horses go!’
Then the rock above his head exploded and tiny splinters hit him in the neck and head. Blood trickled into his eyes and he fell to his knees. They heard a voice above him.
‘Fall away, Gleeson. Your men, too. I’ll aim better the second time.’
Three horsemen side-stepped their way down the hill. The leading man held a pistol. Cloths covered half their faces but Kate knew the man who had fired the shot. He was the same rider who had come with Moran on Fivemilebridge, the day he had brought the news that Shelley had been killed. There was no mistaking his eyes. He looked at her and nodded. He might have been smiling, mocking.
‘Perhaps you didn’t expect your day to turn out to be so dangerous, Miss Macaulay,’ he said. ‘But haven’t I already warned you to stay out of our affairs and keep yourself safe in Cork?’
She pulled on her reins. ‘Riding from Kinsale to Cork is no affair of yours and God forbid it ever will be. We shall ride where we like and when we like.’
‘Which is obviously not true, not when there are men like Gleeson in your way. And I warn you that he has a more gentle nature than some you are liable to meet. Ireland has become a land of hungry men and hunger makes them a different sort. So take heed of what I say and stay in your father’s house. You too, Miss Fitzgerald. I know of your father and your brother and I’ve much respect for them both but I wouldn’t be doing them any favours letting you gallivant around the countryside in times like this.’
He kicked his horse and came closer to Kate.
‘We’ve come from Cork and we have seen the ships there full to the gunwales with food. Your father is pleased with himself, least so I’m told. But he’s a fool if he thinks any of it will find its way into Gleeson’s belly or any man here, because they haven’t the money to buy it. Ships are leaving full of Irish grain and meat, off to feed foreigners while Irishmen here starve. You ask your father the justice of that. These men have followed the shoreline all the way here, eating seaweed to stay alive. The beaches are bare from here to Cape Clear. Isn’t that right, Gleeson?’
The big man struggled to his feet and nodded, holding his head. Blood trickled through his fingers.
The masked rider continued. ‘You tell your father, Miss Macaulay, that there’s worse to come, much worse, and it’s not far off, not a day’s ride away. Tell him that.’
‘Now may we pass?’ Kate said defiantly, as if she had not listened to a word. She saw him stiffen.
He backed his horse away. ‘Yes. Go! But I cannot promise to rescue you a second time.’
‘I cannot say I want you to,’ she replied.
‘You are a very cocky young woman!’
‘And you are a very impudent young man.’
His eyes were fixed on her, unblinking, grey-green, almost translucent. He paused and said nothing. Then, ‘Let them pass. And I’ll blow the hand off any man who touches them.’
The men parted, leaving a narrow corridor for them to ride through. Kate turned in her saddle and looked down at Gleeson. She took the silk scarf from around her neck and gave it to him. ‘Wrap it tight and it will stop the bleeding.’ She took her purse from the saddle bag and dropped it into his bloodied hands. He clasped it tight but he did not look up.
They rode off and put five miles between themselves and the gorge before they stopped. Kate waited for her pulse to slacken and the throbbing in her head to stop.
‘Who are they, Una? How can they ride about the country masked and armed like that?’
Una shook her head. ‘He said it was none of your business and he is right. It is not.’
‘It is my business,’ Kate said. ‘I’m certain he is the man who was with Moran when he told me Shelley was killed. He knows who’s to blame. You must tell me.’
Una hesitated. ‘He’s known as ‘the Rebel’ but he has another name.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Coburn, Daniel Coburn. He is the leader of the Young Irelanders. Once they followed O’Connell but they left him because they thought he was too old, too sick, too patient. Coburn is different, full of talk about freeing Ireland from the English, full of threats. He has many supporters and there are rumours that they are arming themselves. My father says it’s only talk and maybe that’s all it will ever be.’
‘What will happen if the government catches him?’
‘They will hang him. Which is a shame.’
Kate thought of the soft voice behind the mask and the grey-green eyes and said nothing.
They cantered on following the river’s bends as far as the crossroads near Sligga Bridge. Then they climbed the shallow rise of a hill until they came to its brow. Here again the air was cold and still, as if all of nature’s sounds had been silenced. The horses kicked the ground. The entire valley below was covered in a thick white mist and, as they watched, it rose before them until even the sky was hidden. And from it came a smell, the evil, sickly stench of corruption.
‘Dear God,’ Una whispered. ‘Oh! God save us.’
‘What is it, Una? What’s happening? What is it?’
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Can’t you hear them crying? Women and men too, down there, inside it. Smell it. Smell it, Kate. It’s what Coburn meant. He said there was worse to come. He must have seen it already.’
‘What, Una? What did he see? Tell me.’
Out of the blanket of white came an old woman, her apron covering her head, wandering blindly and wailing. Una turned to Kate and there was fear in her eyes.
‘It’s the blight, Kate. It has come back. God help us! The potatoes are dead.’