Escape From Home (3 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, no one stirred.

“You there, Father Mahoney.”

“Your Honor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He held up his hand to show the shining coins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But we need it!” Patrick said.

“No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The soldiers fired. The bullets sped harmlessly by.

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

He reined in and shook a clenched fist at them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.”