Escape From Home (2 page)

I
t's Father Mahoney, Maura O'Connell,” came a whispered voice. “Would you be kind enough to let me in!”

“Father Mahoney!” Mrs. O'Connell cried with relief. “He'll be bringing no harm.”

“But he might be bringing a warning, Mother,” Patrick cautioned.

“Don't you speak it,” Mrs. O'Connell said with a vehement shake of her head.

“It's true, Mother,” Maura agreed. “You know how vicious Mr. Morgan is. He may have the father in his pocket as he does so many others.”

“By the Blessed Virgin!” Mrs. O'Connell cried as she pulled herself to her feet and wrapped a black shawl tightly about herself. “Am I hearing my daughter saying such dreadful things? Father Mahoney has been a loyal friend. For Jesus' sake, open the way to him!”

Maura pulled aside the board. “Father Mahoney,” she said, “you're welcome here.”

“God be with you in the morning,” the priest said as he stooped low and entered the hut. His fingers were raised in a blessing. The three O'Connells breathed an “Amen” but were too uneasy to speak more.

The priest set his small lantern on the ground. Rubbing his hands together to ease the chill, he searched for Mrs. O'Connell through the smoky gloom.

“Mrs. O'Connell,” he said, clasping and unclasping his hands, “you'll forgive me my waking you so early.”

“Has something happened?” the woman asked, alarmed by his manner. “Is it Mr. Morgan who's coming? Are we to be driven out?”

“God protect us all from such rough usage, Mrs. O'Connell,” the priest replied. “Though, true enough, I was over to Skibbens way just yesterday, where Mr. Morgan was tumbling cottages. May God witness his cruelty! Faith, it's terrible to see. I'm fearing it'll happen here in Kilonny, and soon at that.”

“Jesus have mercy,” Mrs. O'Connell whispered. “What will the people do?”

“God's love will care,” the priest said.

“I don't doubt it, Father,” Mrs. O'Connell offered with instant humility.

Maura gave an angry toss of her head. “And in the here and now?” she asked.

Father Mahoney, alarmed by this suggestion of blasphemy, looked around with sad eyes. He waited. But when Maura said no more, he turned back to her mother.

“Mrs. O'Connell,” he said, “I tried to talk to Mr. Morgan—him of the Kirkle estates—to secure the unfortunates of Skibbens more time. All the narrow man would say is, ‘Orders are orders, money is money, and the law proclaims it so.' Then I—” Now it was the priest who stopped midsentence lest
he
speak in a way that would bring a rebuke. “But,” he said, smiling now, “I haven't come at such an hour to bring sad news.”

“Pray God, I hope not.”

“No, no. I merely wanted to explain the odd hour of my coming. You see, when I got home from Skibbens, I found the post wagon had left a letter.” He glanced about benevolently, first at the cowering woman, then at Maura—whose look remained hostile—and finally at Patrick, whose eyes were fixed upon him with intense interest.

“A letter?” Mrs. O'Connell said, not sure she understood.

“'Tis true,” Father Mahoney explained. “It was addressed to me, but when I opened it, sure enough, it was for you.”

“Father,” said Mrs. O'Connell, “it's a mistake you're making. Never before have I received such a thing.”

“Well, by the grace of God, you have now,” the priest informed her grandly as he reached into a deep coat pocket. “I couldn't wait for the bringing of it.”

“But who would be writing to me?” she asked fearfully.

Father Mahoney smiled broadly. “It's from America,” he announced.

“America!” the woman fairly shrieked. “God have mercy! Who's it from?”

At the word
—America—
Maura pressed a hand to her heart. Patrick gasped.

“It's your husband,” the priest proclaimed.

“Is it—is it something that's happened to himself?” Mrs. O'Connell stuttered, full of fright.

Father Mahoney, still smiling, produced a creased letter from his pocket. The O'Connells stared at it.

“Patrick, lad,” the priest said. “Point the lamp so all can see.”

Patrick snatched up the lantern and aimed its beam at the paper. Maura crept closer. Mrs. O'Connell, hands over her mouth, edged in too.

“There, you see,” the priest said. He pointed to and read from the paper:

“It's not Mr. O'Connell,” Mrs. O'Connell said. “He was hardly above the making of his mark.”

“Someone could have done for him,” Patrick said.

“But what does it say?” Maura asked in a voice quivering with emotion. “Does it tell how he fares?”

The priest drew himself up. “Gregory O'Connell, God bless the man, has sent the most extraordinary news!”

S
weet Jesus,” Mrs. O'Connell murmured as she sank to her knees, “I thought the man truly lost.”

“The Lord provides,” Father Mahoney reminded her kindly. “And He loves most the ones with faith.”

“I never doubted, Father,” the woman insisted, her eyes glistening with tears as she crossed herself yet again. “But, oh, Father, with all the terrible things that have happened, a body can't help but question.”

The priest held out his hand. Mrs. O'Connell kissed it fervently, then breathed a deep sigh. “Father,” she asked, for she could not read, “would you be kind enough to tell us what Mr. O'Connell has said?”

“I'm proud to do it,” Father Mahoney replied. “Patrick, lad, keep the lantern steady.”

Trying to hold his excitement in check, Patrick drew closer as the priest carefully unfolded the letter. From it, he extracted another piece of paper.

“Now then,” the priest began, “the letter's dated early November past from a place called Lowell.”

“Where is this … Low-ell?” Maura asked.

Father Mahoney looked around. “I don't rightly know,” he admitted. “Somewhere in America.”

“But America is huge!” Patrick objected.

“Shhh!” Maura said, hands clasped together tightly. “Let the father read!”

The priest cleared his throat and began:

 

“To my beloved wife and you my three darling children.”

 

The reminder of her lost child caused Mrs. O'Connell to moan softly. After a moment the priest went on:

“Merciful God!” Mrs. O'Connell broke in. “He did the right thing, and it's done well for him! Work
and
friend. And I feared him lost at sea!”

“Or that savages killed him,” Patrick added.

“There's much more,” the priest said, recalling them to the letter.

“Dear, sweet Jesus!” Mrs. O'Connell cried, pressing her hands to her chest to suppress a cough. Maura, with a sob, turned to her mother, knelt, and hugged her about the neck. Patrick clapped his hands in glee.

“Fifteen pounds!” Mrs. O'Connell exclaimed in astonishment. “The man's become rich!”

All but laughing with pleasure, Father Mahoney lowered the letter. Mrs. O'Connell began to weep outright as Maura hugged her closer and kissed her wet face. Patrick looked down at his bare feet, at his mother, at the letter, each in turn and over and over again, trying to absorb these great tidings.

“And here,” the priest cried, allowing himself a rare laugh as he held up the second piece of paper, “is the very bank draft your husband spoke about. Fifteen pounds!”

Patrick stared at it. If the paper had been a brick of gold, it could not have been more wonderful. As far as he was concerned, he could live forever on that!

“Now then,” Father Mahoney said, “I congratulate you on your good fortune. Once you walk to Cork City, you'll take the boat for Liverpool, England. From there it's the packet boat straight over the sea to America. That's the way it's done. Your husband's money will see you through in perfect safety. Not even four pounds for full passage. Less for Patrick, I'm thinking. You can count on me to make arrangements.”

“To America,” Patrick echoed with excitement.

“America, to be sure,” the priest said. “And Mr. O'Connell's place of residence is set down right here. Fifty-four Adams Street, Lowell, Massachusetts. Sure then, it must be a fine place for living.”

Mrs. O'Connell drew her hands from her eyes. “But it's not a Catholic country. And God knows,” she groaned, “I can't go so far from the grave of my perished Timothy.”

“Mrs. O'Connell,” the priest said gently, “you have my sacred vow. I'll be here in Kilonny, looking after him.”

“Mother”—Maura held her tightly—“Mother, we need a place that lets us live. Haven't thousands gone before?”

“It's just as Maura says,” the priest agreed. “Put your minds to a whole new life. You know the likelihood that Mr. Morgan will tumble all.”

Mrs. O'Connell shook her head again. “It's as much as your life is worth to go journeying beyond the western sea.”

“Mother,” Patrick cried, “Da wants us with him!”

“Mrs. O'Connell, your husband is now a prosperous man.”

“Father Mahoney,” said Maura, her voice firm, her heart beating madly, “you shall write to Da. Tell him we'll be coming to that place called Lowell as soon as possible. And may heaven be kind to us all.”

G
ray clouds hung over Kilonny Village. The sun, low in the east, floated in the sky as if it were a holy wafer. A cold mist, like the wet fingers of a water witch, poked and prodded into every nook and cranny.

Within the O'Connells' hut, the turf fire was dying. By the open entrance stood two small bundles, each tied with bulky knots. They contained all the family's possessions. Mrs. O'Connell, occasionally coughing, more often weeping, knelt on the earth, saying her beads. On either side, Maura and Patrick tried to soothe her anxiety.

“Now that it's time, I've not the heart for leaving,” their mother whispered. “I don't, and that's God's truth.” She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross.

Maura, irritated in spite of herself, struggled to stay calm. “Mother,” she said with barely suppressed urgency, “you know perfectly well what's about to happen. It's impossible to stay.”

Mrs. O'Connell shook her head. “I can't believe it.”

“It's true, Mother,” Patrick cried, with a look over his shoulder toward the entryway. Had it been up to him, he would have left an hour ago.

“Mr. Morgan is on his way,” Maura reminded her mother. “We're not the first to be tumbled, and heaven knows we won't be the last.”

“Besides, Mother,” Patrick urged, “haven't we promised Da we'd go? Didn't Father Mahoney buy the tickets from the people and write to him, telling him the name of the ship we're taking and even the day we're getting there?”

“Aye, but, children …”

“Mother, we no longer have the choice!”

As if to prove Maura's point, a boy stuck his head into the hut. “The agent's coming,” he cried. “With soldiers and constables!” The message delivered, he bolted away. They heard the message repeated—like a fading echo—as he went on to their neighbors.

The words were too much for Patrick. “Mother,” he shouted, “we have to go this minute!” He and Maura pulled their mother up.

“I can't. I can't,” the woman kept saying, coughing and weeping.

Next moment it was Father Mahoney himself who entered. “Mr. Morgan has arrived,” he announced. “And with reinforcements too.”

Patrick snatched up the bundles and ran out.

“Patrick!” Maura cried, but he was gone. “Mother,” she pleaded, “do you want to be buried alive in rubble? For God's sake, you must move!”

Mrs. O'Connell, as though blind, groped her way out of the hut.

“Ah, Maura,” Father Mahoney said, “you must be leaving too.”

“Father,” Maura whispered, “will you give the place a final blessing before I go?”

The priest nodded in understanding, lifted his hand, and spoke softly but quickly. Maura, eyes cast down, hands clenched before her, waited until he was done. Then she said, “Go now, Father. I'll be there in time.”

He took her at her word and hurried to give service elsewhere.

Her blue eyes blurred gray with tears, Maura stood in the middle of their barren home. The floor was as cold to her bare feet as her heart was hot. She looked about to see if anything was forgotten only to realize the uselessness of such an effort. Whatever possessions they had had were long gone—sold, or broken, or taken. With an angry snort of self-mockery, she pushed the hair out of her face and wiped her eyes dry with the heel of a hand. Intense anger swept through her. “A curse on this land,” she whispered, “and may I keep angry with its memory!”

Hurriedly now, she scratched at the floor and gathered enough dirt to pour over the tiny turf fire. The last ember was extinguished. Without another glance, Maura ran out of her home.