Scattered Seeds (2 page)

The tussock gave way and landed on his father’s chest as he fell backward, spitting out dirt. He rolled onto his side, then crawled back to the grave. “Gi’ me the spade.” The moon illuminated his outstretched hand.

Henry handed him the spade.

Father scraped away more of Conyngham’s loamy blanket. The cutting edge of the spade caught on something. “Aye, there it is.” He leaned the spade shaft against the cross, then used his hands to brush off a dark square pressed into the earth. He dug his fingers under an edge to lift it out of the grave.

Henry glimpsed a leather pouch.

“Come on.” Father stood and donned his hat. He clapped the pouch against his chest. “Leave the spade.”

Henry gave no argument. He ran for the gate.

His father wasted no time in heading for Derry. “Bring the bundle and follow me,” he whispered over his shoulder.

They went only a short distance when Father slid down a bank and into another feeble burn. He sat on a rock and motioned for Henry to join him.

“Shh.” He put a finger to his lips, then cocked an ear and craned his neck to look around them. Evidently satisfied they were alone, he said, “I’m gonny talk to ye as I would any man, for after tonight, it’s a man ye are. I know men twice your age who would nae go near a graveyard at night, let alone dig in one wi’oot shite running from their breeks.” He tugged at his cravat. “Ye must think me mad. I canny blame ye, but there’s an explanation for all of this.”

He patted the pouch. “My father gi’d this to me when I was ten.” He opened it and pulled out something wrapped in rotten linen. He tore the decayed cloth away, revealing the most exquisite thing Henry had ever seen—a gold torc that reflected the moonlight and cast a buttery patina on his father’s face.

Henry stared at the carved symbols and the green stone caught between the jaws of two gold dogs. He rubbed his eyes, unable to trust his sight.

“We’re rich,” he whispered. He stood, still staring at the torc, feeling like he might float off the ground. Their problems were over.

Father returned the torc to its pouch, then pulled Henry back down to the rock. His eyes glittered. “Your reaction is the same as mine when I first saw it, and I expect it’s the same as my father’s when your grandsire gi’d it to him.”

“It must be worth a hundred pounds at least.” Henry wondered where in Derry they would sell it. “Why did ye not sell it afore? We could be living better than Uncle Sorley.”

“A sensible question, one I expected.” Father brushed at the pouch, but it did little to clean away any dirt. “It is nae that simple. This torc has been in our line for as long as anyone can remember. It belonged to our ancestor, a king in Scotland named Somerled. Much of his story is lost to time, but early in his life, he freed a dog from a snare wi’oot realizing it was a witch. In return for saving her life, the witch gi’d him two torcs, this being one of them. She promised him that dogs would serve and protect his line forever, and indeed, they say King Somerled was ne’er wi’oot at least one great grizzled beast.

“His descendants are many, and scattered like windblown seeds. Many of them rooted in Scotland, some floated across the sea, and some, like us, blew into this godforsaken muckhole called Ireland.”

He handed the pouch to Henry. “It’s yours now. If I can trust ye enough to tell ye about it, then I can trust ye enough to own it.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Your mother would nae be pleased, God rest her.”

Henry felt faint. “Mine?” He fingered the pouch, which was much heavier than he’d expected. His mind went on a journey and returned with images of all the things he would buy. He’d have an apprenticeship, at last. Although, as rich as he was, he probably wouldn’t need one. He’d join the goldsmith’s guild, wear a powdered wig, and sit on plush furniture like Uncle Sorley’s. Why, everything would change for the better. Of course, it once belonged to a witch, and witches were trouble. At least that’s what George Ewing said, and even the good reverend respected George’s opinion on witches.

There were two torcs.

“Where is the other torc? Does Uncle Sorley have it?” It would explain his uncle’s immense wealth.

Father shook his head. “No one knows where the other one is. Only your Uncle Sorley and I know about this one . . . and now ye, I reckon. Sorley always coveted it. Father passed him o’er and gi’d it to me. Him the eldest, too. Has nae sat well wi’ him.”

Henry often wondered why Uncle Sorley so cruelly—and so often—raised the rent on his own brother. His motives were clear now.

“He wanted to force ye into selling this to him, no doubt,” Henry said, feeling protective of his new gold. “My grandsire was wise to gi’ it to ye and not to him.”

“He knew Sorley would sell it first chance he got, which would have doomed us all. Ye see, there’s more . . . more I have nae told ye.”

“If ye tell me the witch is coming back for it, I’ll shite my breeks.”

Father’s teeth flashed in the dimness. “No, but mayhap this is worse. There’s a curse attached to that thing.”

A curse. Of course there was a curse. An item once owned by a witch would only come with a curse.

“It’s important that when ye have sons of your own, ye take great care to gi’ it to the one who will protect it, as my own father did. As I hope
I
did.” He stood and blocked the moonlight. “I’m trusting ye wi’ this, Henry. Take it to heart.”

“What if I have no sons?”

“Ye will, lad, dozens, but if they’re like your Uncle Sorley, then ye must choose a relation from under another McConnell roof. It must stay in McConnell hands. Mind me, son.”

“And if it does nae?”

Father looked around again, as if the witch might be listening from the shadows. “No one can remember the whole curse, but the part that matters goes like this:

‘Blessed be thou wi’ many sons.

Fine lairds to thee I’ll send.

But let them fail to keep my torcs

and all wilt come to end.

Thy name wilt fade like fog from morn.

Thy blood be smote from lore.

And on that dire and dreadful day,

thy seed wilt be no more.’

“It can only mean our line will disappear. I did nae always believe it,” Father said, “but as I said, my luck changed the day that thing left our hoose. And since we’re no longer lairds and barely anyone can remember the king called Somerled, we must assume we’ve already suffered some measure of that witch’s wrath. I canny imagine the calamity that would befall us if it left our hands entirely.”

Henry stared at the pouch on his lap, knowing it contained the answer to his prayers, something that could solve everything . . . if he could sell it. Owning something so valuable—and so completely unsellable—seemed to be a curse of its own.

“It’s aboveground now. Mayhap our luck will change.”

“It’s my hope that wi’ that torc in new hands, we have a fresh start. Now hide it in your bundle and try to look like there’s naught in there but worse tatters than ye’re wearing.” He slid his hand under Henry’s armpit to pull him to his feet. “Keep your ears and eyes open.”

Henry followed him up the bank, his arms aching from pressing the bundle against his chest. “Where are we going? West?”

“Aye.”

“To Connaught?” Most of the poorest folk lived there.

“A bit farther west than that. We’re going to the New World.”

Chapter 2

The New World.
The words reverberated in Henry’s thoughts as he trudged behind his father on the path ascending Sheriff’s Mountain. His mind teemed with questions he longed to ask, but sound carried far on still mornings. He tightened his grip on the bundle and held his tongue.

Some of their neighbors already sailed to Philadelphia, his Uncle William among them.

John MacFarlane’s cousin, Alexander, wrote letters from the Province of Pennsylvania, and since none of his intended recipients could read, they often asked Henry to oblige them. Henry never minded the favor. The MacFarlanes always fed him, and their house was grand, thanks to the coins Alexander sent with his missives. Besides, Alexander’s letters were chock-f of adventures from the wilderness, where he traded with the Indians and operated a clandestine gunsmithing business. Alexander never failed to beg his relatives to join him, assuring them that across the sea, a man could prosper.

“Filthy today, Henry,” Father whispered as they crested Sheriff’s Mountain.

Henry peered around the older man’s shoulder. Along the River Foyle below, Derry’s spires thrust up through a blanket of soot. The river was prickly with masts, the ships’ bellies bloated with unfortunate souls desperate for a better life.

His stomach lurched. He didn’t know the cost of full fare to the Colonies, but he was sure his father didn’t have it. The hearth tax and tithes had likely robbed them of their last savings. They would have to enter into indentures, which meant selling themselves into slavery. Before the day was over, they would be chattels. Things. Things with a witch’s gold torc.

The stench of the city assaulted him before their feet touched the cobblestones on Bogg Road. Most of Derry’s inhabitants still lazed in their beds, leaving the streets eerily quiet despite the city’s size.

A cur, their only company, skulked ahead of them. It lifted its leg along the city wall, then trotted off into an orchard.

Henry heard muffled voices and looked up. Two soldiers in crimson coats leaned over a bulwark wall next to a cannon barrel.

Lobsterbacks.

They glared, and he instinctively lowered his gaze.

“Keep walking,” Father whispered.

Henry caught the first noises of the quay. Frenzied gulls sounded like a thousand laughing children. Barrels and chains knocked and rattled, and captains and first mates barked orders in strange tongues.

They passed through Shipquay Gate into the walled city, where women augmented the pervading stench by emptying chamber pots and buckets of dirty water into the gutters. In contrast to the city’s filth, the shops flanking Shipquay Street were well maintained and wedged between fine Georgian houses.

Inside one of them, a bakery, a woman looked up from kneading dough and smiled at them.

Henry’s mouth watered. “Imagine a slice of fresh—”

A man leapt from a narrow side street. “Here’s an interesting pair.” He tipped his tricorn to Father as he side-eyed Henry. His fine garments mismatched his swarthy face.

“Good day to ye, sir.” Father tried to brush past him.

The man outmaneuvered him and blocked his way. He smiled, revealing a row of teeth resembling burnt houses.

Father’s hands, always a reliable indicator of his mood, balled into fists. His knuckles turned white.

“I mean ye no harm,” the man said.

“Then get oot of our way.”

The man held up his palms, and the frills at his wrists fell back over the cuffs of his coat. “Sir, I believe we are at odds. Allow me to apologize and start anew.” He swept his tricorn off his head and flourished it as he bowed. “I offer assistance to the men of Ulster.” He returned the hat to his head and scrutinized their clothes. “It is a sad day when a gentleman such as yourself—for I recognize a gentleman even when he is wrapped in tatters—is reduced to such a lowly station. These are perilous times, desperate times. Oh, the suffering of Ireland is beyond measure.”

“By the looks of your coat and waistcoat, ye know naught of desperate times.”

“Ah, but I do.” The man thrust a finger into the air. “I was once dressed in tatters myself.”

“Save your words for the foolish, for I know what ye’re at.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Starve then!” He backed away.

“Spirits,” Father muttered, charging past him. “Lowest of the low, taking advantage of the destitute by spiriting them away in the bellies of boats wi’ the promise of riches. He’ll earn naught on the likes of us.” He twisted around as they walked, and Henry noticed him inspecting the words painted on a window. “Caldwell & Son will nae get the likes of our business today.”

They stopped at the Laughing Cow tavern, where tacked notices flapped like swans’ wings around the doorway. A rat scuttled past, hugging the building’s foundation until it slunk under the door of a storeroom.

Father pointed to the sign above them. “They should have called it the Brown Rat.” He stepped toward the door to scan the notices.

Henry pressed down one of the papers.

WANTED: To go to the flourishing Province of Pennsylvania, as indentured or redemption servants, six healthy men that understand farming and husbandry business; they must be sober, and accustomed to labour. Likewise wanted, several carpenters, joiners, bricklayers, and all sorts of handicraft tradesmen, who will meet with good encouragement and kind treatment, by applying to Capt. Peter Smythe, at Mr. Hooper’s the blockmaker, on the quay, or to Mr. Richard Champton, Merchant, on Bishop Street.

His father flattened a palm over a notice with ships sketched at its uppermost corners and read it aloud. “‘To sail the eighteenth of June next, for the flourishing city of Philadelphia, the well-known good ship
Nancy
, 400 tons, William Mitchell, Commander, only two years auld, built particularly for the passenger trade, has e’ery accommodation requisite for health and conveniency . . .’” He rubbed his temple and tapped the notice with his finger before reading the rest in pieces. “‘Large and roomy . . . Sails fast.’ Feels like that one’s trying too hard.”

He pressed his hand against another fluttering notice and read it silently at first, then aloud. “This one is good, I think. ‘Bound for Philadelphia,
The Charming Hannah
, 250 tons, one of the best sailing vessels belonging to this kingdom. Archibald McElwain, Commander, will be clear to sail for the parts aforesaid by the nineteenth of June next. Any passengers, redemptionists, or servants that intend going on said voyage may apply to David Conyngham, merchant, or the said commander, who will agree with them on reasonable terms.’ Conyngham’s a Donegal man. It was his father’s grave we—”

“Ye need not remind me,” Henry replied.

Father let his hand slip from the notice. “Aye, that’s the one. That’s our boat. Seems only fair to book through him, since his good father kept our property safe for us all this time. Says the office is on Shipquay Street.”

“I saw it next to the chandlery.”

They headed downhill toward the river and quay. The city, now awake, bustled with activity. Henry’s cheeks heated as they passed men and women dressed in the latest fashions. One genteel lady brushed past them wearing a brocade hoop skirt so wide she took up three-quarters of the street. He backed against the milliner’s shop to let her by, unable to ignore the swells above her bodice. He stared at her plump breasts until his father elbowed him.

“Shameless hussy,” his father muttered. “More wealth than sense, if ye ask me, walking around wi’ her paps oot.”

They found David Conyngham’s office facing Shipquay Street. A bell tinkled as they opened the door and ducked inside the pristine building.

Conyngham stood up behind a counter. His white wig had regiments of crisp curls above his ears.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” His refined speech contrasted his Donegal roots. “My clerk is late, may the devil take him.” He slid an assortment of tin goods out of the way and leaned over the counter to better inspect his potential patrons. “I assume you mean to inquire about
The Charming Hannah
. There is a great need in the New World for men such as yourselves.” He looked at Henry. “This is a stout lad. Your son?”

“Aye, sir, he is.”

“Age?”

“Seven and ten.”

“Is he bound to a trade?”

“Nay, sir.”

“Needs a bit of filling out, but he’ll go fast. Let us discuss terms. We will need to see the magistrate for the lad, you understand. I insist on adhering to the guidelines set out by Parliament.”

Henry began to sweat. It was becoming all too real. He set their bundle on the floor.

“There’ll be no need of a magistrate,” Father said.

“Indeed there will. I will indenture no youth without the proper legalities.”

“He is nae to be indentured.”

“Understand, I advertise for redemptioners, but I take few, and those I do still require a magistrate’s seal. Unless a redemptioner has established kin in the New World, he stands a snowball’s chance at fireside of repaying his fare within the thirty days allotted. I only say this because you look to be a sound skin, and a Donegal man, if I’m not mistaken. An indentured servant has the advantage of negotiating the terms of his indenture here, before passage. The redemptioner must negotiate his upon arrival in the foreign port—before he is allowed to disembark. You can imagine how such a man would be at a disadvantage.”

Father nodded. “I thank ye for your candor, sir, and your kind concern for us, but my son and I will travel as neither indentured servants nor redemptioners. We intend to purchase full fare.”

Henry scratched his head. Was his father going to barter the torc? A sickening nervousness roiled his belly. The torc belonged to him now. Shouldn’t he determine its fate? He wasn’t ready to part with it. He’d rather go west to Connaught and live in the open with the Catholics.

The merchant blasted a loud exhale and rubbed his eyebrows.

“How much?” Father asked.

“Look, I don’t have time to—”

“How much?” Father’s hands balled into fists for the second time that morning.

“Seven pounds each.” Conyngham looked perturbed.

“Six.” Father removed the fare from his pocket and snapped the coins singly onto the counter.

Henry stared at the money and wondered how his father came by it.

The merchant straightened like a bulrush. “My apologies. Yes, yes, six.” He swiped the coins into a tin box. “You can surely understand how I might have . . . That is to say . . . when I saw your attire . . .” His face turned vivid red. “Yes, yes, let us go over the terms of passage.” He pulled a sheet of foolscap from a drawer. “Can either of you read?”

“Both of us.”

Conyngham dropped the paper onto the counter and took a quill and ink from another drawer. “Names?”

“McAdams. Edward and Robert McAdams.”