Flight of the Earls (45 page)

Still, the emotion of returning home to the land and people she loved carried Clare to a tearful reunion. And as the clipper slipped into the bustling harbor, she embraced the approaching island of her heritage as a lost friend.

Her return journey across the Atlantic had only heightened her trepidation. The stories of the plight of Ireland ran deep and dire as told by the crew and passengers who had witnessed it firsthand. The descriptions of rampant famine and the deaths of tens of thousands were like none she had heard in the newsroom of the
New York Daily
.

Which is why as the ship crept toward mooring, the activity on the docks was stunning and nothing like she expected. Rather than seeing a lifeless harbor of a population on the brink, there instead was a vibrant flurry of commerce.

Being driven into the open arms of loading ships were herds of cattle, sheep, and pigs as well as wagonloads of wheat, barley, and oats.

“Strange sight to behold,” said an older man of affluence, wearing a white jacket and pants, leaning his considerable weight on a gold-tipped cane.

“Yes,” Clare said weakly, trying not to encourage further encroachment. Through the course of crossing, she already had her fill of Mr. Galloway, a Londoner who was an Irish lace trader on a mission to tell everyone there was still good business to be had in Ireland.

“Where is it going?” Clare asked, surrendering to politeness.

“Mostly across the Irish Sea to the Motherland. Some perhaps to France. Proof that your people can be productive.”

“But I thought there was famine.”

“Oh,” he said. “That you'll see plenty of to the west.”

“Then why are they sending the food away?” she said. “I don't understand.”

“Where are you heading?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject of conversation.

“Branlow. County Roscommon.”

“Pretty country. Although, in the heart of devastation, I'm sad to say. How are you getting home?”

Clare wasn't sure she wanted to answer the question. “I've only thought the trip out this far, to be honest.”

“You don't say! Well, here's an idea. I have chartered a cargo carriage to County Mayo. I'll have plenty of room, and having a lady aboard will take the edge off the boredom.”

“I wouldn't want to burden you,” Clare said, warming up to the prudence of accepting his offer.

“Nonsense.” He tapped the tip of his cane on the deck of the ship. “It's practically on my way. Why, we can both provision in the city and be on our way.”

“Oh. I won't have anything to purchase in town.”

He tilted his head. “You haven't been home for a while, have you? The supplies are terribly scarce where you're heading. You'll want to get as much food here in Dublin as you can. I have a spare crate you can use.”

“That is most kind of you.” After all she'd been through, could she trust another man? She tried to think of other options, but this was the immediate way for her to get back home. And now, the draw of her family was far greater than any of her own personal fears.

“In fact.” He leaned in as if he was sharing a trade secret. “Whatever you buy here will get you ten times the rate out west.”

Clare was reminded the largest pain may be the weight of conversation, a stiff price to pay for her ride, but she would just have to endure. Once the great ship settled to final rest, her heart surged in anticipation and trepidation of what lay ahead.

The spacious carriage was pulled by two sturdy geldings, strong enough to handle the heavy load of luggage, crates of produce, tradable supplies, and raw materials for the production of lace. Clare had heeded Mr. Galloway's advice and spent nearly all of her money on bags of oats, wheat, and Indian corn. She also couldn't resist the temptation to splurge on some gifts of clothing and sweets for her family.

The cabin of the carriage was plush with an exquisitely upholstered velvet interior. Clare sat across from Mr. Galloway, who had a basket of apples on either side of his seat. She thought it strange, but didn't bother asking why for it would lead to some endless dissertation.

After leaving Dublin, which was overrun with beggars, the crippled, and the infirmed, the rain came hard and they traveled against an influx of Irish driving livestock and pulling wagons loaded with produce and grains. The farmland on the outskirts of this historic city also appeared to be bountiful and teemed with laborers.

But with each mile they drove deeper inland, the shadowy hand of contagion began to show its might. The stream of impoverished stragglers increased alongside the road, and Mr. Galloway responded in a way that was difficult to determine whether it was more charity or sport.

Snapping back the fabric window of the carriage, he would stretch his hands and head out and fling apples at those he passed, drawing delight from both his accuracy and the scrambling of those who responded to his volleys.

Clare declined his offer to join in and instead grew mortified by the scenes of tragedy unfurling before her eyes.

Clare cried softly to herself as she watched the horrific tapestry of starvation. A nation hobbled, thread born and tattered; empty stares, bones protruding from skin pocked with sores; and the limping, listless shuffle of hopelessness. Babies clinging onto their mothers shriveled breasts; children naked, filthy, and starved. Many either sleeping or dead on the sides of the road.

As they passed, hands were held out, families screamed for help; some youth tapping their remaining strength in a futile effort to chase down the carriage.

Mr. Galloway insisted it was unsafe to stop and would pound on the wall if his driver slowed too much when the roads thickened with the famished.

He spoke incessantly through it all and seemed disappointed with Clare's lack of participation in conversations about his solutions to the “Irish problem.”

Mercifully, he succumbed to the incessant swaying of their wagon and fell asleep with loud snores.

Clare stared into the abyss of her people's burden and desperation, and when she could bear no more, she drew her curtains shut.

Two excruciating days had passed in the journey, with Mr. Galloway generously covering the cost for Clare's room at the inn where they stayed overnight. She tried to repay him with as much dialogue as she could bear, but as they entered the boundaries of County Roscommon, the undeniable confirmation that her parish would not be spared from the devastation consumed her with grief and guilt.

How did I ever fall prey to my uncle's deception? Why didn't I pay more attention to the rumors of tragedy back home? Why isn't this story being told?

They were only about twenty miles away from her home when they heard shouts and desperate pleas, and looking ahead she saw a large gathering of men encircling a house, like wolves surrounding their prey. As they approached she could see people being dragged out from inside. On the thatched roof of the mud house, two men had climbed up and were tying a rope to a center beam.

“What's happening?” Clare asked.

“Hmmm? Oh. They're tumbling a house.”

“What do you mean?” Clare asked as they rolled past the confrontation and she continued to watch as it trailed behind out of view.

“It's a much more profitable use of land. With the potato failing, the landlords are clearing farms for ranching. Cattle is good business.” He chuckled. “Of course, there is the unfortunate issue of getting the people off the land.”

“What are those men doing on the roof?”

“The house wreckers? It's actually providing good jobs. They hitch to the center beam just so. Give it a good pull.” He made a popping noise with his mouth. “There she goes.”

Other than providing directions, Clare remained silent for the remainder of the journey. All around her was desolation, devoid of people or activity, as Branlow appeared to have been abandoned.

The roads became more difficult, slowing the progress of the carriage as it jarred and bounced the last mile. Finally, they rolled up to the gateway leading to the Hanley farm.

Clare was relieved to see her home still standing, although as she stepped down from the carriage, only the winds greeted her, and the eerie stillness chilled her spine and buckled her knees.

Am I too late?

She trembled as she moved forward, each step heavy with foreboding. The land was green and beaded from fresh rain, but there was no evidence of a crop emerging in the field. Hearing orders barked behind her, she glanced back and was pleased Mr. Galloway was busy directing the driver on which baggage to unload.

She was alone.

There was no smoke coming from the chimney, nor the smell of peat burning. The front door of the house creaked as it bowed with each gust. No laundry was hung to dry, and the once ever-present baying and cooing of the neighbor's livestock was noticeably absent.

Clare pulled on the rusted handle, and when this was insufficient, she gave it a firm tug and it freed itself from the warping frame. As the door yielded, the foulness of illness and death surged to her nostrils.

In horror, she saw the house had been stripped of all belongings, and perched against the barren wall were the ghastly shapes of two emaciated children, intertwined in what must have been their final embrace for warmth.

“No!” Clare screamed, putting her hand to her sobbing mouth, and collapsed on the filthy floor, convulsing with unquenchable pangs of grief.

“No. No. No!” The accompanying guttural sounds were garbled, and she pounded her fists in the grime of the floor, oblivious to the bloodying of her knuckles.

Behind, she felt the presence of Mr. Galloway and the driver, and they struggled to console her, but she fought their efforts to pull her to her feet.

Clare wanted to lash out and began to swing wildly behind her, but then something caused her to cease the tantrum and freeze. It was then she noticed before her, peering out from the two conjoined corpses—two pairs of eyes watching her.

Chapter 43

The Fields

As much as she abhorred Mr. Galloway, she was grateful for his presence when she discovered Caitlin and Davin were still alive.

While she rubbed her sister's and brother's arms and then legs to bring them warmth, the Englishman and his driver split several of the wooden crates and started a fire as rain began to pound against the roof. They also carried in all of Clare's belongings, and he even parted with a couple of blankets and a stew pot, both of which, he opined, could have brought a bounty of lace.

But following these gestures of reluctant kindness, Mr. Galloway informed her his pressing business required that he depart before the rutted roads got any muddier and more difficult to navigate.

Before leaving he dusted off as much as possible of the black soot on his clothes. Then he offered some last advice. “Make sure you don't feed them solids for at least a week. Only broth. You'd kill them with a full meal in their condition. They look stronger than most and should be fine.”

“I owe you much,” she said before he left, giving him an awkward hug.