Galway Bay (34 page)

Guard. As if anyone around had strength enough for stealing.

Billy Dubh climbed down from his seat next to the driver on the lead cart. He walked over to Michael slowly, shaking his head. “God bless all here,” he started as his eyes went spying and prying around the field. “A fine bit of work’s been done, I can see that. A fine bit, and nothing I would like more than to pay you the price agreed on, but sad to say we are all under the same laws, and when the government speaks, what chance do men such as myself have but—”

“What are you talking about?” Michael asked him.

A voice said, “The poor rates. Under all this fool’s blather is the hard fact of an obligation your landlord contracted, and I am taking his crops to meet it.” A man had ridden up behind the wagons. Jackson.

“You,” I said.

“Who?” Michael said to me.

“It’s Jackson,” I said. “The agent for the Scoundrel Pykes.”

“Former agent,” said Billy Dubh. “Mr. Jackson has taken a more lucrative position in the Imperial Civil Service, collector of poor rates, parish of Rahoon, barony of Moycullen, County Galway. I have been invited to assist Mr. Jackson since I can offer a familiarity with where the men under the said obligation hold land and have crops.”

“Be quiet, you fool,” Jackson said. He turned to Michael.

“Is it because we hold the lease?” Michael asked.

“Your landlord is liable, and Major Pyke is in arrears for hundreds of pounds. We are taking this crop.” He raised his voice and shouted at the harvesters, “A shilling for every man helps with the loading.”

A shilling? We’d promised them six.

The harvesters stood still. The Mayo man looked at Michael. A shilling might be all they could hope for from three days of work.

“Go on,” Michael said. “What choice?”

“Let’s go in,” I said, and reached for Michael’s hand.

“I’ll stand here,” he said.

I stopped. “Then I will, too.”

We watched the men load up the wheat, the haycocks, the oats, the barley—five wagons full.

The soldiers had dismounted and stood with the stocks of their muskets on the ground. Any pause in the rhythm of loading, and Jackson would shout, “Troop!” and the soldiers would pound their muskets on the earth.

I’d left Bridget watching a sleeping Stephen inside the cottage, and the boys were playing behind Champion’s shed. Please God, let them stay there. If Jackson sees our horses, he’ll take them, too.

Billy Dubh walked over to the side of the field where the harvesters had piled their boiling pots. “A few more pence here,” he said to Jackson, pointing at the pots.

“Take them,” Jackson said.

The Mayo man heard. “Excuse me for speaking, Your Honor, but those pots belong to us, sir.”

“And whose tenants are you?”

“No one’s now, sir. Cleared all of us, we signed away our land for the relief.”

“The price for these will go to pay for the charity advanced you.” Jackson nodded to Billy Dubh. “Take them.”

“Touch these pots and I’ll have these men unload the carts,” Michael said.

“You’ll what?” Jackson laughed. He got off his horse and gestured toward the soldiers. “They’ll arrest you. You’re violating the law!”

Michael walked past Jackson and Billy Dubh to a wagon and reached for a sheaf.

“Stop that man!” Jackson said to the sergeant of the troop.

The sergeant didn’t move.

“You heard me. I have the authority. My instructions are ‘to use force to the very edge of the law and beyond’ to collect the rates—the words of Sir Charles Woods, chancellor of Exchequer himself. Shoot that man!”

“I’ll not kill a man who’s not attacking me,” the sergeant said.

“You fool. They’ll be attacking all of us soon enough if you show any weakness.” Jackson pointed at Michael. “Strike him, then, knock him down!”

The sergeant stepped forward.

“Please,” I said.

“Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah!” I heard.

I turned to see Paddy riding toward us on Champion’s bare back, waving Joseph’s hurley in the air. The other four boys ran beside him, shouting, “Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah!” with the foal Macha following along behind.

The soldiers lifted their muskets into firing position, aiming at the clatter of children hurtling at them.

I ran in front of their guns. “They’re children! They’re playing!”

Michael whistled to Champion, and she slowed to a trot and then stopped. Johnny Og, Thomas, Daniel, and Jamesy stood still, staring at Michael, who walked over to them.

The charge had spooked Jackson’s horse. He struggled to hold on as the animal reared, pulling on the reins in Jackson’s hand, jerking his arm. “Down! Down!” Jackson yelled.

I turned from the soldiers to go to the boys and saw the Mayo man head down, shaking, terrified. I couldn’t help him. I had to get to the boys. But then he raised his head, caught my eye, and winked. He turned his face so Jackson and the soldiers couldn’t see him bent over with the laughing.

I took a breath.

I shouted at the boys, “You played a good joke on the soldiers.”

The soldiers are the danger—not Jackson, not Billy Dubh.

I turned to the sergeant. “High spirits. They, uhm, wanted to show off for your soldiers. You might have a fair few recruits among my boys,” I said. “I’m sure there are Irishmen among you. Do you think these lads might have a future?”

The sergeant relaxed. “Muskets down!” he shouted, and the men lowered their guns. “Are you asking me to be the recruiting sergeant?”

“With me as Mrs. McGrath?” I replied.

“As for that, ma’am, Mrs. McGrath’s son didn’t fare that well if you mind the song.”

“That’s right,” I said. “He came home with two sticks for legs, did poor Ted.”

“It happens,” said the sergeant.

“And where are you from?”

“Tipperary, missus.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“I am. Longer than I can say right now.”

Jackson shouted, “Enough, Sergeant! Do your duty.”

“We don’t murder children, sir.”

“No impudence! This man’s horse belongs to the queen. I order you to take possession.”

“Well, sir, we have the crops and I think that will do rightly. Move out, men.”

“The horse! I want the horse,” said Jackson. He pulled his animal over to where Michael stood with Paddy and Champion. “Get off, you little bastard.”

Paddy clung to Champion, his arms around her neck.

“Jackson, Jackson!” It was Thomas. “Over here! It’s me! You’re confused—
I’m
the bastard, and my brother here. You remember us?”

Jackson turned away from Michael, left Paddy and Champion.

Thomas walked over to him. I imagined Jackson thinking: He
is
the old Major’s grandson. What advantage can I get from this?

Michael whispered into Paddy’s ear.

Paddy and Champion took off galloping at full speed right at the stone wall that separated this field from the long meadow.

“Stop him!” I said to Michael.

Michael took my hand. “He’s all right.”

Champion gathered herself and cleared the wall as easily as she’d taken the jumps at the Galway Races. Paddy leaned forward, holding on to her mane, not a bother on him. The foal Macha jumped the wall and went after them.

“Hoo-rah!” I heard from the boys—and the harvesters—and maybe even one or two of the soldiers.

“Chase him,” Jackson said to the sergeant.

“Outside my orders, sir.”

“Then I’ll go,” said Jackson. He turned to mount, but the horse bolted and ran, heading back to Galway City.

So.

Jackson and Billy Dubh got on the lead wagon, and the soldiers escorted our crops away to pay the old Major’s poor rates.

The harvesters filled their boiling pots with pratties and walked off toward their scalpeen shelters.

A bit of our own back anyway, they said to us. Heartening to see brave lads.

Michael clapped each of the boys on the shoulder. “You did well. Faugh-a-Ballagh! Clear the Way! The motto of the Irish Brigade that beat England and the name of a great racehorse. You won the war and the race today.”

The boys shouted, “Faugh-a-Ballagh! Hoo-rah!”

Michael smiled at me.

“Michael, we’ve got to find Paddy,” I said.

“I don’t think he’s gone too far,” Michael said, and he whistled.

Sure enough, the sound brought Paddy and Champion trotting back, the foal trailing behind.

“I didn’t know you could ride like that, alanna,” I said to Paddy.

“I didn’t either,” he said.

“Bring the children down to Bearna, to your mother’s. Jackson might come back for Champion,” Michael said. He mounted Champion. She neighed at her foal, who trotted up beside her.

Michael urged Champion over the wall, with baby Macha jumping alongside them. All were away.

“Our da is great altogether,” Jamesy said.

“He is that,” I said.

But now what?

Chapter 19

I
TOOK THE CHILDREN
to Bearna to stay with Mam and Máire and went home to wait for Michael. I paced and peered out into the darkness that whole long night.

At the crease of first light, I hurried down our lane to the crossroads. I walked a mile out and then a mile back along each of the four roads all day. No neighbor came near me.

Finally, near sunset, Michael appeared, striding toward me on the Moycullen Road. I ran to meet him. He gathered me in his arms.

“I was so worried,” I said.

“I went a fair way,” he said, and we walked up to the cottage, his arm around me. “I couldn’t risk trying to sell Champion and Macha,” he said. “Anyone who could afford to buy a horse would inform sooner or later.”

“So what did you do?”

“Remember the stallion and his herd of Connemara ponies in Ballynahinch?”

“Of course.”

“Champion and Macha are with them now,” he said.

“How did you ever find them?”

“It was Champion led me to the herd. She’s a wonder,” he said as we walked into the cottage.

He stretched out near the fire as I set the pot of pratties before him.

“You must be wrecked—riding out thirty miles and walking back.”

“I didn’t walk,” Michael said. “I was picked up by a Biany coach. They’ve extended the route to Clifden because, the driver told me, the famine is over.”

“But it’s not.”

“The government says it is. Soup kitchens are closed for good. The roadworks won’t reopen. The only relief is the workhouse, paid for by Irish landlords.”

“For God’s sake, Michael, how can they say such a thing? No blight, maybe, but most people had no seed potatoes to plant.”

“I know.”

“Why aren’t you angry?”

“I am very angry, Honora.”

“Jackson stole our crops and that sliveen of a gombeen man led him to us, probably arranged the whole thing from the beginning.”

“Probably.”

“And you’ve lost Champion and her foal.”

“For now,” Michael said.

“How will you whistle her back from a herd of wild horses? I’m surprised the Connemara people haven’t eaten the whole lot of them by now. They don’t have the fine feeling for animals that you have.”

“Honora, I thought you understood. Champion’s—”

“Gone! Everything’s gone—we’re worse off than we were before. It is
your
work and
your
sweat they took. Don’t you feel humiliated? Don’t you want to shout and stomp and strike back?”

“Of course,” Michael said. “But, Honora, we weren’t humiliated. We didn’t let them crush us completely.”

“I’d say it was a close thing.”

“We saved the boiling pots,” he said.

“So?”

“Champion escaped.”

“Hmm.”

“And our own Silken Thomas became a patriot.”

“All very nice. And not one of those victories worth a farthing! Soft words won’t butter turnips and neither will small triumphs. Goddamn it, Michael, we’re fecked!”

“Not quite. I have a position.”

“A what?”

“I am the Bianconi assistant blacksmith. At your service, madam, earning two shillings a day.”

“Michael Kelly, why didn’t you tell me! How could you tease me, let me go on and on at you?”

“I am telling you, Honora. And if Jackson hadn’t come, and if I hadn’t taken that nice ride and met the driver, who remembered my grandfather . . .”

“I love you, Michael.”

I kissed my hero from the sea. Thank you, God. Thank you.

Before we fell asleep on the straw bed, Michael made a tale of his adventure, and I felt as if we were back leaning against the warm rock near Galway Bay and I was hearing about his mother and the May morning dew, about his father the piper, and Murtaugh Mor, the huge blacksmith.

For all your lovely long body and broad chest, Michael, a stór, it’s your way with a story that wooed me and won me and keeps me loving you still.

Michael made me see his journey through the Connemara mountains. I could picture Champion nuzzling Michael’s shoulder before she ran off to join the white stallion, her foal Macha behind her.

“I’ve never told our children the story of Macha’s race,” I said. “So many of Granny’s tales to tell them. Fadó. I promised her.”

Michael kissed me.

“We’re all alone,” he said.

I looked at him. “We can’t. The food’s brought back my . . . well . . .” I stopped.

“You’re right, not a time for risks.” He pulled me to him. “Nice to sleep close together,” he said.

“It is,” I said, settling against his shoulder.

“I do want another child,” I whispered. “A son to call Michael Kelly. But not yet.”

“We’d best have another daughter,” he said. “Nice for Bridget to have a sister.”

“True,” I said. “A sister’s a treasure, no question.” And we slept.

Finally Black ’47 ended and 1848 began. Better for us, but still bad for most. With the pratties and Michael’s two shillings a day, we were among the fortunate. Few enough of us.

Michael returned from the forge every night with news of eviction after eviction, tenants ejected into the teeth of winter with no hope of any kind of relief. We whispered these conversations after the children went to sleep.

“People have some chance at survival when they can get down on their hunkers in their own home place, but when they’re put out on the roads disease gets them, and the cold and rain become a sentence of death,” Michael said.