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BOOK EXCERPT
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Chapter One: Cloonfower
1846
Patrick Quinn picked his way carefully along a footpath not much wider than the fattest snake St. Patrick expelled from Ireland. As he traipsed, he rehearsed his frustrations like an old woman fingering the beads of her rosary. Since dawn he’d been seeking day wages at larger farms in the parish, but without success. It was well past suppertime as he hurried back to his family. Cate will surely be weary of toil and toddlers. I mustn’t add to her worries.
Beside the path, drenched pastures of deep, thick grass smelled of earthworms. Further on, the lush, green meadows were replaced by a brown expanse of bog land, scarred black where the turf pits lay. A midsummer sun forced its way into the evening sky. Through the lingering rain clouds, shafts of gold created and interrupted the lengthening shadows.
He approached their mud-wall cabin, a drooping, gray structure that begged a coat of whitewash. Its roof of tattered thatch resembled an urchin in bad need of a haircut. Cate, nearly seven months pregnant, sat at the threshold and took no notice of Pat’s arrival.
“Ah, Cate, have I missed the children then? I didn’t mean to be so late.”
She nodded and put a finger to her lips. “Please God, you’re home. Did you find any work at all?”
“None for pay. Helped Flanagans birth a calf. No one has work but for his own.” Pat grabbed at tense muscles at the back of his neck, but he managed to force a smile. “I fear I chased away a daydream or such just now. What were you thinkin’?”
Cate didn’t look up. She stared at her dirty, bare feet. “Oh, I’ve been prayin’... beggin’ God ‘tis no mortal sin to have these feelin’s which I do. Here you have six mouths to feed in hard times and I’m cursin’ you with another.”
He reached out and stroked her tear-stained cheek with the smooth back of his otherwise rough hand. “Ach! Are you now producin’ babes all by yourself? Your mind is in a needless dither, woman. ‘Tis all of Cloonfower which is misfortunate! You bring me no curse at all.”
Cate smiled but her furrowed brow did not smooth. Pat sat down upon a large stone mottled with the orange-yellow acne of lichen and washed himself with water from a wooden bucket. He was a lean, wiry type, and not particularly handsome. But he had a marvelous smile and gentle ways that had easily captured Catherine Finan’s heart almost twelve years before. His thirty-one years were beginning to show around his blue-gray eyes and his mouth. Smile lines he called them. Longish, dark brown hair, flecked with a few bits of gray, curled a bit at the back of his neck. He wore his faded shirt tucked into mud-spattered, black woolen trousers that ended in tatters between his knee and ankle.
Life was hard, but it was so for all the cottiers in Cloonfower. Still, things might have been worse if Pat had been one given to despair and bitterness. But he was wont to look away from the ugly face of poverty, happy to believe things would soon look up.
“I’ll bring your supper out here,” said Cate. “Nora brought a pot of flummery on her way to Shanbally and I’ve saved it warm for you.”
Pat dried himself and made no comment. As Cate turned to go into the cabin, he eyed her. Seen in profile, her ponderous belly reminded him of her worry and want. Soon she’d be due with their fifth child. Increasingly, their efforts to put food on the table had to be supplemented by these gifts of oaten porridge from her older brother, Peter, and his wife, Nora. Pat’s pride was wounded in the face of such charity. But neither of them could afford the luxury of resentment. It wasn’t Peter’s fault that he was a generous brother and better placed in life.
Cate returned with his supper and set the steaming bowl beside him. Three years younger than he, she had been only sixteen when they married. She still retained her handsome features—greenish, hazel eyes and long, auburn hair, which when pulled back, revealed a face and neckline of considerable beauty. Pat loved her dearly, but he was shamed by her worn, ragged clothes, by her long hours of work, and by the knowledge he was helpless to give her better.
Cate had been born into modest prosperity. The Finans had long been among the top tenants in Cloonfower, with more acreage and better ground than many. Despite her now reduced circumstances, Cate complained little. But feeding ten-year-old Margaret, eight-year-old James, six-year-old John, and two-year-old Roderick was a challenge each day. With another on the way, Pat knew she must feel that life was closing in on her.
It took but little time for Pat to consume the bowl of porridge. Setting the empty bowl aside, he took Cate’s hand and pulled her to a seat beside him. The late sunset of the Irish summer had gilded in crimson the clouds hung low in the blue-gold sky. Though it was late, they sat and silently watched the glow gradually surrender to inexorable darkness.
As the chill came up, Pat wrapped his arms about his weary wife.
“It shan’t be long now till the harvest. Things will be better then. You’ll see.”
Cate nodded without comment. “Let’s be in then.”
Pat picked up the water bucket and placed it at the threshold. He entered the single room whose darkness was relieved only by a faint glow of a dying turf fire.
Cate quickly washed her feet and left the bucket outside the door. It was now too dark for pitching muddy water into the yard. It might land on the fairies. She would take care of it in the morning.
1846
Patrick Quinn picked his way carefully along a footpath not much wider than the fattest snake St. Patrick expelled from Ireland. As he traipsed, he rehearsed his frustrations like an old woman fingering the beads of her rosary. Since dawn he’d been seeking day wages at larger farms in the parish, but without success. It was well past suppertime as he hurried back to his family. Cate will surely be weary of toil and toddlers. I mustn’t add to her worries.
Beside the path, drenched pastures of deep, thick grass smelled of earthworms. Further on, the lush, green meadows were replaced by a brown expanse of bog land, scarred black where the turf pits lay. A midsummer sun forced its way into the evening sky. Through the lingering rain clouds, shafts of gold created and interrupted the lengthening shadows.
He approached their mud-wall cabin, a drooping, gray structure that begged a coat of whitewash. Its roof of tattered thatch resembled an urchin in bad need of a haircut. Cate, nearly seven months pregnant, sat at the threshold and took no notice of Pat’s arrival.
“Ah, Cate, have I missed the children then? I didn’t mean to be so late.”
She nodded and put a finger to her lips. “Please God, you’re home. Did you find any work at all?”
“None for pay. Helped Flanagans birth a calf. No one has work but for his own.” Pat grabbed at tense muscles at the back of his neck, but he managed to force a smile. “I fear I chased away a daydream or such just now. What were you thinkin’?”
Cate didn’t look up. She stared at her dirty, bare feet. “Oh, I’ve been prayin’... beggin’ God ‘tis no mortal sin to have these feelin’s which I do. Here you have six mouths to feed in hard times and I’m cursin’ you with another.”
He reached out and stroked her tear-stained cheek with the smooth back of his otherwise rough hand. “Ach! Are you now producin’ babes all by yourself? Your mind is in a needless dither, woman. ‘Tis all of Cloonfower which is misfortunate! You bring me no curse at all.”
Cate smiled but her furrowed brow did not smooth. Pat sat down upon a large stone mottled with the orange-yellow acne of lichen and washed himself with water from a wooden bucket. He was a lean, wiry type, and not particularly handsome. But he had a marvelous smile and gentle ways that had easily captured Catherine Finan’s heart almost twelve years before. His thirty-one years were beginning to show around his blue-gray eyes and his mouth. Smile lines he called them. Longish, dark brown hair, flecked with a few bits of gray, curled a bit at the back of his neck. He wore his faded shirt tucked into mud-spattered, black woolen trousers that ended in tatters between his knee and ankle.
Life was hard, but it was so for all the cottiers in Cloonfower. Still, things might have been worse if Pat had been one given to despair and bitterness. But he was wont to look away from the ugly face of poverty, happy to believe things would soon look up.
“I’ll bring your supper out here,” said Cate. “Nora brought a pot of flummery on her way to Shanbally and I’ve saved it warm for you.”
Pat dried himself and made no comment. As Cate turned to go into the cabin, he eyed her. Seen in profile, her ponderous belly reminded him of her worry and want. Soon she’d be due with their fifth child. Increasingly, their efforts to put food on the table had to be supplemented by these gifts of oaten porridge from her older brother, Peter, and his wife, Nora. Pat’s pride was wounded in the face of such charity. But neither of them could afford the luxury of resentment. It wasn’t Peter’s fault that he was a generous brother and better placed in life.
Cate returned with his supper and set the steaming bowl beside him. Three years younger than he, she had been only sixteen when they married. She still retained her handsome features—greenish, hazel eyes and long, auburn hair, which when pulled back, revealed a face and neckline of considerable beauty. Pat loved her dearly, but he was shamed by her worn, ragged clothes, by her long hours of work, and by the knowledge he was helpless to give her better.
Cate had been born into modest prosperity. The Finans had long been among the top tenants in Cloonfower, with more acreage and better ground than many. Despite her now reduced circumstances, Cate complained little. But feeding ten-year-old Margaret, eight-year-old James, six-year-old John, and two-year-old Roderick was a challenge each day. With another on the way, Pat knew she must feel that life was closing in on her.
It took but little time for Pat to consume the bowl of porridge. Setting the empty bowl aside, he took Cate’s hand and pulled her to a seat beside him. The late sunset of the Irish summer had gilded in crimson the clouds hung low in the blue-gold sky. Though it was late, they sat and silently watched the glow gradually surrender to inexorable darkness.
As the chill came up, Pat wrapped his arms about his weary wife.
“It shan’t be long now till the harvest. Things will be better then. You’ll see.”
Cate nodded without comment. “Let’s be in then.”
Pat picked up the water bucket and placed it at the threshold. He entered the single room whose darkness was relieved only by a faint glow of a dying turf fire.
Cate quickly washed her feet and left the bucket outside the door. It was now too dark for pitching muddy water into the yard. It might land on the fairies. She would take care of it in the morning.