Scarlett (67 page)

“If we miss our boat, I’ll die,” Kathleen moaned.

“Whist, stop your worrying, Kathleen mavourneen. The captain won’t sail without us; Seamus O’Brien’s a friend of many years’ standing. But he’ll be no friend of yours if you call the
Brian Boru
a boat. A ship she is, and a fine shining vessel she is, too. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

At that moment the carriage turned beneath an arch, and they plunged, skidding and jolting, down a dark, slippery, cobblestoned ramp. Kathleen screamed. Colum laughed. Scarlett was breathless from the thrill of it.

Then they were at the river. The tumult and color and chaos were even more exciting than the precipitous ride down to it. Ships of every size and kind were tied up to jutting wooden piers, more ships than she’d ever seen in Charleston. Loaded wagons pulled by heavy dray horses rattled wooden or iron wheels over the wide cobbled street in a constant din. Men shouted. Barrels rolled down wooden chutes onto wooden decks with a deafening clatter. A steamship blew its piercing whistle; another rang its clangorous bell. A row of barefooted loaders moved across a gangplank, carrying bales of cotton and singing. Flags in bright colors and gaudy decorated pennants snapped in the wind. Gulls swooped and squawked.

Their driver stood up and cracked his whip. The buggy jerked forward, scattering a crowd of gaping pedestrians. Scarlett laughed into the gusty wind. They careened around a phalanx of barrels awaiting loading, clattered past a slow-moving dray, and pulled to a jouncing halt.

“I hope you’re not expecting to be paid extra for the white hairs you’ve put on my head,” Colum said to the driver. He jumped down and held up his hand to Kathleen to help her down.

“You’ve not forgotten my box, Colum?” she said.

“All the traps are here betimes, darling. Go on over, now, and give your cousins a kiss to say goodbye.” He pointed towards Maureen. “You can’t miss that red hair shining like a beacon.”

When Kathleen ran off, he spoke quietly to Scarlett. “You’ll not forget what I told you about the name, now, Scarlett darling?”

“I won’t forget.” She smiled, enjoying the harmless conspiracy.

“You’ll be Scarlett O’Hara and no other on this voyage and in Ireland,” he had told her with a wink. “It’s nothing to do with you or yours, Scarlett darling, but Butler is a powerful famous name in Ireland, and all of its fame is heinous.”

Scarlett didn’t mind at all. She was going to enjoy being an O’Hara for as long as she could.

The
Brian Boru
was, as Colum had promised, a fine, shining ship. Her hull was gleaming white with gilt scroll trim. Gilt trimmed the emerald-colored cover of the gigantic paddle wheels as well, and her name in gilt letters two feet high was painted on them in a frame of gilt arrows. The Union Jack flew from her flagstaff, but a green silk banner decorated with a golden harp waved boldly from her forward mast. She was a luxury passenger ship, catering to the expensive tastes of rich Americans who travelled to Ireland for sentiment—to see the villages where emigrant grandfathers were born—or for show—to visit, in all their finery, the villages where they had been born. The public rooms and staterooms were oversized and overdecorated. The crew was trained to satisfy every whim. There was a disproportionately large hold, compared to the usual passenger ship, because Irish-Americans carried with them gifts for all their relatives and returned with multiple souvenirs of their visits. The baggage handlers treated every trunk and every crate as if it were full of glass. Often it was. It was not unknown for prosperous third-generation American Irish wives to light every room in their new houses with Waterford crystal chandeliers.

A broad platform with sturdy railings was built across the top of the paddle wheel on which Scarlett stood with Colum and a handful of adventurous passengers to wave a final goodbye to her cousins. There’d been time only for hasty farewells on the dock because the
Brian Boru
had to catch the outgoing tide. She blew excited kisses to the massed O’Haras. There’d been no school this morning for the children, and Jamie had even closed the store for an hour so that he and Daniel could come down and see them off.

Slightly behind and to one side of the others stood quiet Stephen. He raised his hand once in a signal to Colum.

It signified that Scarlett’s trunks had been opened and repacked en route to the ship. Among the layers of tissue paper and petticoats and frocks and gowns were the tightly wrapped, oiled rifles and the boxes of ammunition he had purchased in Boston.

Like their fathers and grandfathers and generations before them, Stephen, Jamie, Matt, Colum, and even Uncle James were all militantly opposed to English rule over Ireland. For more than two hundred years the O’Haras had risked their lives to fight, sometimes even kill, their foes, in abortive, ill-fated small actions. Only in the past ten years had an organization begun to grow. Disciplined and dangerous, financed from America, the Fenians were becoming known throughout Ireland. They were heroes to the Irish peasant, anathema to English landowners, and to English military forces revolutionaries fit only for death.

Colum O’Hara was the most successful fund-raiser and one of the foremost clandestine leaders of the Fenian Brotherhood.

T
he
Brian Boru
moved ponderously between the banks of the Savannah River, pulled by steam-driven tugboats. When at last it reached the Atlantic, its deep whistle saluted the departing tugs and its great sails were loosed. The passengers cheered as the ship’s prow dipped into the gray-green waves at the river’s mouth and the tremendous paddle wheels began to churn.

Scarlett and Kathleen stood side by side watching the flat shoreline recede quickly into a soft blur of green, then disappear.

What have I done? Scarlett thought, and she grabbed the deck rail in momentary panic. Then she looked ahead at the limitless expanse of sun-flecked ocean, and her heart beat faster with the thrill of adventure.

“Oh!” Kathleen cried out. Then, “Oooh,” she moaned.

“What’s wrong, Kathleen?”

“Oooh. I’d forgot the seasickness,” the girl gasped.

Scarlett held back her laughter. She put her arm around Kathleen’s waist and led her to their cabin. That evening, Kathleen’s chair at the captain’s table was empty. Scarlett and Colum did full justice to the gargantuan meal that was served. Afterwards, Scarlett took a bowl of broth to her unfortunate cousin and spoon-fed her.

“I’ll be all right in a day or two,” Kathleen promised in a weak voice. “You won’t need to be tending me forever.”

“Hush up and take another sip,” said Scarlett. Thank heavens I haven’t got a puny stomach, she thought. Even the food poisoning from Saint Patrick’s Day is over now, or I couldn’t have enjoyed my dinner so much.

She woke abruptly when the first red streaks of dawn were on the horizon and ran with frantic clumsiness into the small convenience room that adjoined the cabin. There she fell to her knees and vomited into the flower-decorated china receptacle of the mahogany chaise privée.

She couldn’t be seasick, not her. Not when she loved sailing so much. Why, in Charleston, when the tiny sailboat was climbing the waves in the storm, she hadn’t even felt queasy, nor when it slid down into the trough of the wave. The
Brian Boru
was steady as a rock compared to that. She couldn’t imagine what was wrong with her…

… Slowly, slowly Scarlett’s bent head rose from its drooping weakness. Her mouth and eyes opened wide with discovery. Excitement raced through her, hot and strengthening, and she laughed deep in her throat.

I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant! I remember; this is how it feels.

Scarlett leaned back against the wall and threw her arms wide in a luxurious stretch. Oh, I feel wonderful. I don’t care how awful my stomach feels, I feel wonderful. I’ve got Rhett now. He is mine. I can’t wait to tell him.

Sudden tears of happiness poured down her cheeks, and her hands flew down to cover her middle in a protective cradling of the new life growing within. Oh, how she wanted this baby. Rhett’s baby. Their baby. It would be strong, she knew it, she could feel its tiny strength already. A bold, fearless little thing, like Bonnie.

Scarlett’s mind flooded with memories. Bonnie’s little head had fit into her palm, hardly bigger than a kitten’s. She’d fit into Rhett’s big hands like a doll. How he had loved her. His wide back bent over the cradle, his deep voice making silly baby-talk sounds—never in all the world was there a man so besotted with a baby. He was going to be so happy when she told him. She could see his dark eyes flashing with the joy of it, his white smile gleaming in his pirate’s face.

Scarlett smiled, too, thinking of it. I’m happy, too, she thought. This is the way it’s supposed to be when you have a baby, Melly always said so.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered aloud. Melly died trying to have one, and my insides are all messed up, Dr. Meade said, after I had the miscarriage. That’s why I didn’t know I was pregnant, I didn’t even notice I missed my time of month, because it’s been so undependable for so long. Suppose having this baby kills me? Oh, God, please, please, God, don’t let me die just when I finally get what I need to be happy. She crossed herself again and again in confused entreaty, propitiation, superstition.

Then she shook her head angrily. What was she doing? Just being silly. She was strong and healthy. Not like Melly at all. Why, Mammy always said it was downright shameful the way she dropped a baby with hardly more fuss than an alley cat. She was going to do just fine, and her baby would be fine, too. And her life would be fine, with Rhett loving her, loving their baby. They’d be the happiest, lovingest family in the whole world. Gracious, she hadn’t even thought of Miss Eleanor. Talk about baby-loving! Miss Eleanor was going to pop her buttons with pride. I can see her now, at the Market, telling everybody, even the bent-up old man who sweeps out the trash. This baby’s going to be the talk of Charleston before it even draws its first breath.

… Charleston… That’s where I should be going. Not to Ireland. I want to see Rhett, to tell him.

Maybe the
Brian Boru
could put in there. The captain’s a friend of Colum’s; Colum could persuade him to do it. Scarlett’s eyes sparkled. She got to her feet and washed her face, then rinsed the sour taste out of her mouth. It was too early to talk to Colum, so she went back to bed and sat up against the pillows making plans.

When Kathleen got up, Scarlett was sleeping, a contented smile on her lips. There was no need to hurry, she had decided. No need to talk to the captain. She could meet her grandmother and her Irish kin. She could have her adventure of crossing the ocean. Rhett had kept her waiting for him in Savannah. Well, he could wait awhile to learn about the baby. There were months and months to go before it was born. She was entitled to have some fun before she went back to Charleston. Sure as fate, she wouldn’t be allowed to do so much as stick her nose out of the door there. Ladies in a delicate condition weren’t supposed to stir a stump.

No, she’d have Ireland first. She’d never have another chance.

She’d enjoy the
Brian Boru
, too. Her morning sickness had never lasted much more than a week with the other babies. It must be almost over now. Like Kathleen, in a day or two she’d be just fine.

Crossing the Atlantic on the
Brian Boru
was like a continuous Saturday night at the O’Haras’ in Savannah—only more so. At first Scarlett loved it.

The ship soon had a full complement of passengers who boarded at Boston and New York, but they didn’t seem like Yankees at all, Scarlett thought. They were Irish and proud of it. They had the vitality that was so appealing in the O’Haras, and they took advantage of everything the ship had to offer. All day there was something to do: checkers tournaments, heated competitions at quoits on deck, excited participation in games of chance, such as wagering on the number of miles the ship would cover the following day. In the evening they sang along with the professional musicians and danced energetically to all the Irish reels and Viennese waltzes.

Even when the dancing was done, the amusement continued. There was always a game of whist in the Ladies’ Card Saloon, and Scarlett was always in demand as a partner. Except for Charleston’s rationed coffee, the stakes were higher than any she’d known, and every turn of a card was exciting. So were her winnings. The
Brian Boru
’s passengers were living proof that America was the Land of Opportunity, and they didn’t mind spending their lately gained wealth.

Colum, too, benefitted from their opened pockets. While the women played cards, the men generally retired to the ship’s bar for whiskey and cigars. There, Colum brought tears of pity and pride to eyes that were normally shrewd and dry. He talked about Ireland’s oppression under English rule, called the roll of martyrs to the cause of Irish freedom, and accepted lavish donations for the Fenian Brotherhood.

A crossing on the
Brian Boru
was always a profitable enterprise, and Colum made the trip at least twice a year, even though the excessive luxury of the staterooms and the gargantuan meals secretly sickened him when he thought of the poverty and need of the Irish in Ireland.

By the end of the first week, Scarlett, too, was looking at their fellow passengers with a disapproving eye. Both men and women changed clothes four times a day, the better to show off the extent of their costly wardrobes. Scarlett had never seen so many jewels in her life. She told herself she was glad that she’d left hers in the vault of the Savannah bank; they’d pale next to the array in the dining saloon every night. But in truth she wasn’t glad at all. She had grown accustomed to having more of everything than anyone she knew—a bigger house, more servants, more luxury, more things, more money. It put her nose decidedly out of joint to see display more conspicuous than hers had ever been. In Savannah, Kathleen, Mary Kate, and Helen had been ingenuously blatant in their envy, and all the O’Haras had fed her need for admiration. These people on the ship didn’t envy her, or even admire her all that much. Scarlett wasn’t at all pleased with them. She couldn’t bear a whole country full of Irish if this was what they were like. If she heard “Wearing o’ the Green” one more time she’d scream.