Author: Jeanne Charters
ISBN: 978-1-62420-176-9
Genre: Historical Fiction
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 3
In 1849’s
famine-ravaged Ireland, thirteen-year-old Mary Boland is found lying mostly
dead on the side of the road to Cork Harbor, Queenstown, Ireland. She just
buried her mother and baby sister after they both died of starvation. Now she
is headed for Boston to find her father— no matter what. Raped and beaten by
the evil crew of The Pilgrim’s Dandy, she is rescued by a fifteen-year-old
Negro slave who had been used in like manner for some time and had vowed to
throw himself to the sharks that very night. Together they survive the
harrowing two and a half month trip, helping others as well. Their friendship
is the key to the new world for both of them, carrying them through hardships
and trials, and eventually to happiness.
EXCERPT
Chapter One
May the
road rise to meet you.
August,
1849, County Cork Ireland
Near dawn, others join me on the walk to Cobh.
Silent stragglers they are, a man, a woman, and a wee boy, dragging behind them
paltry gatherings from a lifetime of poverty. At first, their presence is a
comfort, but the shuffling feet send dust into the air and me mouth turns to
sand. I spy a pond in the distance and crawl toward it, but the water's mostly
mud. Back on the road, me three companions are gone.
I fall onto the stones. You win, Ireland.
Killed me like me kin, you did. 'Tis a relief to quit this hopeless effort.
Time drifts by. So this is how it feels to die, is it? Not so bad.
Lying there, I drift into unconsciousness, but
suddenly there are hands, hard hands tugging under me arms and pulling me over
a rough rail into a wooden cart. That gobsmacks me brain some, I'll tell you. I
thought I'd left such things as splintery carts behind me. I close me eyes and
fall into sacred sleep. The sun is high in the sky now, so time has passed, but
I don't know how much of it. I yearn to straighten me legs, but boxes cram
every inch of space. A blacksmith's anvil digs into me spine.
Sweet smells of wildflowers drift into the
cart. 'Tis the wondrous scent of summer in Ireland. Could I move, I'd pick some
to slake the hunger gnawing me belly, but I'm too tired.
A woman speaks, "Look, Tim. The road to
Cork City. We could kiss the Blarney stone." She laughs. "That'd do
us well in Canada."
Canada? She hums a Gaelic song Mam used to
sing. It lulls me back into sleep, but the noisy caw of herring gulls jolts me
awake. Da once said, "Blast those birds. Had I a gun, I'd shoot them all
out of the sky."
This day, I'd do the same.
The hands shake me awake. "Girl, who are
you? Where are you headed?" He is elderly, nearly as old as me father,
with at least thirty years etched on his face, so I try to give a respectful
answer.
"Mary Boland, sir," I say, shocked by
the rasp that is me voice. "I was walking to Cobh, but…"
"The blessings of St. Brigid are with you
this day, Mary," the woman says in a voice soft as a lamb's coat. Her face
glows with kindness, like saints on holy cards. She strokes the hair from me
eyes. "That's where we're headed as well. But the Cork harbor is called
Queenstown now, not Cobh. To honor Victoria's visit."
I close me eyes again. Who's this Victoria?
Bits of their talk mix with the sounds of the
squawking gulls. "She's just a child, Tim. Why is she be traveling to
Queenstown alone?"
"Let her rest, love. Lots of children have
tried to get to the ships. Most don't make it. She's a lucky one."
Night darkens the sky,
and rain pounds on me back. A blanket lowers over me, and I sigh in gratitude.
As the sun reddens the East again, I sit up,
wincing at the soreness in me hip. Biting wooden splinters out of me hands, I
glance up and see them staring back at me. A grin feels silly on me face, but
'tis the best I can do.
"So, you're Mary Boland, are you?"
the man says.
"Yes, sir."
"We're Tim and Moira Donahue," she
says. "Call me Moira and him, Tim," she gestures toward the man.
It is unseemly to call someone her age by her first
name, but I'll do as I'm told. I don't want to get kicked from this wagon.
"Thank you, I will, Moira."
"How old are you, child?" Her voice
is sweet as soda bread.
"What year is this?" I say, knowing
that sounds ignorant. "No one in me village kept a calendar."
"It's 1849, girl," Tim answers.
"Well, I was born on St. Patrick's Day,
1836, but I'm no good at ciphering." I blush, knowing how stupid they must
think me.
"You're thirteen-years-old then," he
says.
Thirteen is it? My,
I'm nearly grown.
"Where are your mother and father?"
Moira asks.
I brace me heart against the telling. "Da
sailed for America a while back. He said he'd send money for us to come over.
We never got it, though. I think the landlord stole it."
"I wonder if he even survived the
trip," Tim whispers.
Me heart stops. "You think me da's
dead?"
"Nah, girl. He's probably fine." His
deep tone reminds me of Da's when he held me on his lap while reading from Gulliver's Travels.
"And your mother?" Moira asks.
I don't want to remember, but must. "Mam
died a week ago, along with the baby, Ellen."
The woman's eyes are brimming when she looks at
me again. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. I can tell she means it.
"What was your village?" Tim asks.
"Kinsale."
"Ah, lovely place," Moira says.
"On the Great Ocean."
"Aye, 'twas lovely," I answer, as
images wash over me, green rolling hills, whitecaps and white sails, salmon
jumping to the nets, sheep, friends, parties, and family – most
of all, family. The memories threaten me speech until hot anger rescues me
tongue. "It's lovely no longer. The ships there fly British flags
now."
Tim grunts. "Since that hoor's melt
English Pope let Henry the Eighth invade us seven-hundred years ago."
"Hush with your blasphemy, Tim,"
Moira hisses, then turns to me, "How did your mother pass?"
I brace me heart against the telling.
"Before he left, Da sold his fishing boat and nets and bought oats to last
us till he could earn money for our passage. When our sheep died, we had no
wool to ship to England. The landlord burned our cottage."
"Most of our village was burned out this
past year," Tim says, shaking his head. "All that remains there are a
few pitiful huts and the landlord's grand house. We knew we'd be next." He
turns to face me. "Why did you not go to the nuns?"
"Mam wouldn't hear of it. 'Bolands don't
take charity,' she said, and meant it."
He shakes his head like maybe his mam was
proud, too.
"When Mam made her mind up, there was no
changing it. So I found us a cave." I shiver, remembering, and then hug
meself so I can go on with the awful next part. "It was cold and wet in
the cave. Da had given me his revolver before he left and trained me to use it.
I was a good shot. I sold the gun for peat to warm the cave. Then, Mam got the
dysentery. I couldn't make it stop though I tried all the old remedies. I think
it was from spoilt soup the British gave us at the soup kitchen."
Tim's murmur is harsh. "Bastards! If they
can't kill us by starving or burning us out, they poison us with their putrid
gruel."
"I tried to make Mam better," I say,
swallowing a moan, "but nothing helped."
Moira touches me cheek.
"When Mam's milk dried," I say,
straightening me back, "the baby passed quick. Mam died soon after. I
think her heart was broken." The fury of watching them die returns in a
rush. Then, the anger turns to grief. Tears won't help, but that doesn't stop
them. I brush them away. I never cried, not even when I took the gold cross
from Mam's fingers and fastened it around me neck. Not when I dug their graves
with me hands and laid them there together beneath the hawthorn tree. Not when
I took the boots from Mam's feet and pulled them on me own. Not even when I
covered the two of them over with the stones.
At once, the memory flips me sadness to wrath,
and I nearly scream. I think of Da's words: “Meter your temper,
Mary. Me mother was an O'Brien. The O'Briens have Banshee blood. Save your rage
for those who deserve it.”
These dear people do not deserve it. The cart
is quiet for a time. I think we all are deep in our own memories, but then, Tim
says, "You walked all the way from Kinsale? That's at least thirty miles
from where you fell."
"I'd have made it the whole way,
but, once down, I couldn't wake up. I'd have died for sure if you
hadn't come upon me."
Moira climbed into the back of the cart and
wrapped her arms tight around me shoulders. "Ah, love," she croons,
rocking me like a báibin. The
kindness of her touch nearly sets me weeping again, but I set me jaw tight as a
badger trap. She taps the man on his shoulder. "Tim, give me a bit of that
bread and the water jug. The child is starved to bone."
When she hands me the bread, I try to chew
slow. Mam said you could pick out a lady from a shanty girl by the way she ate.
But the hunger makes me swallow too fast, and the bread sticks in me throat. I
hiccough like a common drunkard. "Excuse me, please. I ate too
quickly."
"That's all right, Mary. You're hungry.
The good Lord sent us to help you," she answers. "Things will be
better now."
I lean back against her. Her arms feel good,
almost like Mam's. "What was your village?" I ask, and then take a
swig from the water jug, careful not to let it dribble down me chin.
"Killarney," she says. "We held
on through the first year, but when the potatoes came up black again, we
couldn't produce our quota of grain. It was only a matter of time 'til our
cottage would be ashes.
"We've booked tickets on the Sheridan, a
ship headed for New York. Cost us dear, four pounds each, British sterling.
It's all we had left. We sail tomorrow." She turns me around and looks
deep into me eyes. It's as if she's looking for me soul itself. "What
ticket did you book?" she asks.
Can I trust her with the truth? Will they put
me back on the road if they know I haven't a farthing in me boot, let alone
money for a ticket?
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