Ocean Pathways

Ireland

CHAPTER ONE

Northern Connaught 1842

Katharine sat on the rear seat of the phaeton facing backwards, her legs dangling from the high seat. Her two brothers, Roger and William, were facing the front on the middle seat. Her parents, erect and haughty, she in her cream lacy gown and he tightly buttoned into a black riding jacket and long black, shiny boots, took up the front.

The vehicle was sprung high off the ground on its four slim wheels, the spokes of which shone and gave the impression they were going backwards. Delicate spirals of polished wood curled back and front, giving it a most elegant appearance.

Edward Hammersley, her father, held the reins and drove the two bay horses with confidence. Occasionally he pointed out something of interest to his wife, who paid him little attention, a distasteful look on her prim face, which was shaded by a large pink flowery hat. She kept her head turned away from the scrutiny of the local inhabitants, who all stopped whatever they were doing to watch this fashionable vehicle pass by on the muddy road.

Why, Edward, do we have to degrade ourselves by being here amongst these beggars? I expected an enjoyable trip in pleasant surroundings today, she complained in a thin, high voice. Just look at them, unwashed, ragged urchins, staring at us. But I suppose they have never seen decent people before.

The tone of her speech grated on Edward. Oh do give it up Agatha, he said. You know why we have had to come through here. With potato crops failing I must expand my pasture for cattle. I thought there might have been some land for the taking around here. If I don’t do something we’ll starve like these poor wretches, he said, waving his arm out towards the barren, rocky, unproductive landscape.

Poor wretches indeed, his wife retorted contemptuously. If they did some work they could be all right.

We employ some, don’t forget, Edward replied. Not that he wanted to side with the peasants, but his wife annoyed him so much sometimes, he had to disagree. They are good enough workers, though without the potato crop they’ll get nothing. And they’ve little enough here to work on, however hard they try.

What’s wrong with them having their own plots, growing their own crops? Agatha snorted belligerently, determined not to see the point he was making.

Edward was about to reply, but the reality of the situation struck him, and he closed his mouth without saying a word. For a moment he felt guilty on behalf of his English countrymen, knowing that they were the ones who had been, for two hundred years and more, taking all the good land from the Irish, forcing them into these desolate, boggy places where nothing grew. But then of course, that feeling passed. How would his family have acquired their property if it was not for the plantations by the British Crown? The Irish were simply not strong enough to hold on to their land, so it served them right, he said to himself to justify his earlier thoughts.

His eyes swept over the small, dirty, once-white-washed cottages, their roofs thickly thatched, all surrounded by dirt trodden down flat by the bare feet of the inhabitants. The buildings were close together in an irregular semi-circle, with open grassy ground in the middle that was strewn with large stones and roughly made log seats.

There were muddy puddles laying everywhere, but one or two women were sweeping at the uneven ground-level doorways with straw brooms in an effort to keep them relatively clean. As the horses and carriage approached they all stopped to watch this vision of life as they had only dreamed about. Some had rarely seen such a vehicle with people dressed in beautiful clothes and with shoes on their feet.

William and Roger had been listening to their parents’ conversation. Mostly it did not affect William. At ten, he had other more important things on his mind, like how many eggs the eagle had in its nest on the cliffs, and how he was going to climb down to retrieve them. But Roger, fourteen, was far more serious about his future, particularly as all their holdings would be his in time.

Father, perhaps we should turn around and go back towards home. Maybe the land is better south of this godforsaken place. Or we could try further inland than near the coast, he suggested in his well-educated voice.

His mother gasped. Roger, do not use that kind of language in front of your sister.

He looked at his mother with an air of superiority. He did not bother to remind her that as a man, he could speak as he wished.

A good idea son, said Edward, immediately reining in the horses to turn at a wide level part of the road. He would be relieved to go back where he would not have to listen to his wife’s aggravating voice, nor look at these shabby, accusing locals.

Katharine held on to the sides of her seat as the phaeton was turned around. She had been intensely interested in the bereft people standing by their unkempt cottages. How did human beings get to be like that? she wondered. Why weren’t they clean or wear better looking clothes, and live in better houses? In her English-controlled school, history lessons did not teach her answers to these questions.

She had noticed one boy, a cripple by the look of his skinny legs laying awkwardly over the large rock where he sat. How would he survive now that the potatoes were failing? His parents would have to buy something else to eat, she supposed. But they certainly would not have much coin, by the look of them.

Katharine was twelve. She had been dressed in a pretty blue pinafore for their outing, stockings and her leather, lace-up boots. Her fair hair floated out from under the wide brim of her pale lemon straw hat, which was decorated with tiny blue flowers at the band.

As the disturbing thoughts about the welfare of the peasants chased around in her head, the horses had been turned and were now trotting briskly, taking the carriage quickly back to the edge of the village.

There was the boy still sitting atop the stone from where he had a good view of the road and the children playing behind the cottages. As the phaeton went past, Katharine’s blue eyes, for a moment, met the black ones of the boy. Without hesitation, she drew something from the pocket of her pinafore and cast it high in the air in his direction. As she got further away, Katharine could see the twinkling object arcing directly towards the boy’s outstretched hands. Perhaps this ring I found might help him buy some food.

Then he and the village were lost from sight as the carriage was drawn over a rise and down the other side.

CHAPTER TWO

Robbie Hetherington, as was his custom, had dragged himself with the aid of two thick sticks made into crutches, to his favourite place after Sunday Mass. In the village, far in the north west of Ireland, the occupants kept up the practice of their Catholic religion faithfully, an itinerant priest visiting every other Sunday to say Mass in one of the cottages. The Irish people, forced to retreat to this desolate part of the country in northern Connaught in order to maintain their traditional life style and the Gaelic language, were living in deplorable conditions, starving most of the time.

The men and adult boys hired themselves in England for seven or eight months at a time, as labourers for any work they could find. Others, including some of the older girls worked locally in the potato fields, all barely earning enough to live. When the men came home it was in the winter, and they would perhaps mend thatch, but mostly they were idle during the snowy, wet months. The little money they brought back rarely bought enough food as the produce that was available at the markets was so expensive.

Most children were under-nourished with many developing diseases and constantly suffering with fever. The earth hereabouts was barren. The open, rocky land supported little grass, and was not rich enough to grow anything on a large scale but a few spindly potatoes carefully tended in tiny pockets of earth sheltered by rocks. Some arable land was claimed from the edge of the bogs, and shared by all those in the hamlet. A couple of cows managed a meagre existence on the tough greenery, just enough to supply milk. Some hens scratched about in the muddy earth, precious for the eggs they laid. Here it rained a great deal. Everything was damp and mould grew on the walls of the cottages.

From further to the west the smell of the sea often blew across the land, cold and bleak. In some more northern villages the inhabitants could get to the water to fish, but here if one walked the few miles to the coast, he would find himself on top of enormous cliffs that stretched for miles in either direction. When the westerlies blew in from the ocean there was no standing against it, and the lack of trees allowed the gales to carry salt-laden air for a great distance.

Robbie lived with his affliction, making the best of it. He had had no mother to look after him for years. She died with the baby when she gave birth to a girl, leaving his father with three boys. He remembered his father telling the story of that night when Robbie was five and indeed Robbie remembered it himself, because of the wind. People said they had never seen anything like it before. Such a storm was the wrath of God, some said, but the older and wiser believed it was because of an invasion of English fairies. The ‘little people’ created a violent wind to blow them back to where they belonged. That was the night that Robbie’s mother and little sister had died.

But that night, his father had said, many lost not only their cottages, crops and animals, but some who had hidden coins in the thatch lost them too when their roofing blew away altogether.

His father, together with the eldest brother, who was fifteen, were away working most of the time so Robbie and his eleven year old brother Gavan were left behind. Of course his father brought back what food and wages he could when he returned, but that was never enough to last until next time. After that was gone the boys starved, or depended on the charity of other villagers. It was common for an older adult or a child to die in their sleep, simply because there was not enough food, or because they were too sick with fever.

Robbie was now in his fourteenth year. He had not been able to walk properly since he was five or six, when he had taken ill. The villagers accepted these illnesses as the will of God. The boy’s legs were now knobbly sticks, with very little strength. Near their cottage he had a tiny piece of soil where he tried to grow stalks of corn and diligently planted a few sets of potatoes every year. He dragged himself there daily with the aid of his sticks, sat on the ground and looked at his little garden, willing the plants to grow.

He used to wonder as he grew, why God had made him like this. Why were their lives so poor and why could he not run and play as the other children did? At times even now Robbie felt bitter about it but realised that he could not change things, he just had to do the best he could.

There was little formal education, as by English law no Irish were allowed to be educated. In areas under English rule, the children who were educated were taught in English, the Gaelic language being forbidden as had been the case for two hundred years. In Gaelic-speaking areas like the northwest, parents taught what they could, but their own knowledge was limited. There was no check on this and people were left alone as the usurpers did not think it worth their while to pursue the native population into such worthless country. These Irish were no threat as they were kept under control by the lack of decent land and resources.

One of the women of the village, who had been educated by her parents, taught the children numbers and letters in their own language. Only one or two tattered, old books were available from which to read. They were told stories, mythological tales of ancient times, of St. Patrick and the true history of the English persecution of the Irish people. They were taught to count with pebbles and practiced writing with a stick in the dirt. Robbie was quick to learn and had the idea that perhaps he could in time take over the teaching of the village children, so he listened well.

It was a fine day as he sat on his rock that Sunday, and there was such a sight to be seen. Two beautiful brown horses came over the rise, proudly drawing a carriage. He had seen a horse several times before.

The first time he saw one was a day that Robbie would never forget as he had been determined to see what was beyond his every day horizon. It took hours to drag himself along painfully slowly, to get to that point where the road disappeared over the rise. Once at the top of the small hill, he collapsed onto some grass and gazed at the distant farms, with trees and cows and faraway green fields. The buildings and animals were mere dots except for the horse which was a big, strong animal pulling a plough in a closer field. It was the furthest the young man had ever been from the village and he had been exhausted when he finally made it back home. It had taken him a whole day to see this world where he did not belong.

On two other occasions men had ridden into the village on horses, but they were rough-coated, dull animals, not shining and proud like the two beautiful creatures pulling the open carriage now approaching him. How wonderful to ride one, he thought.

A family of well-dressed people rode in the carriage, looking around and talking animatedly. He noticed the woman in the front because she had such a sour look on her face, looking down her nose at him as she went by.

The eyes of the two smart boys in the middle seat swept over him as if he was part of the rock on which he sat, but right in the back a pretty girl smiled at him. She was sitting facing the way they had come, dangling her feet from the seat, and at times clutching her hat so it would not blow off.

Robbie watched the vehicle making its way along the uneven road. He listened to the clop clop of the horses’ hooves, and dreamt of riding such an animal swiftly, gloriously, floating over the earth.

He saw the phaeton turn and retrace its tracks towards him, then past him again, the horses picking up their feet to move more swiftly. He looked straight into the blue eyes of the girl as she turned her face towards him. She reached into her pocket, and then from her hand flew a small, sparkling object. Time slowed. The object revolved as it arced across the intervening space. He reached out with both hands to neatly catch it. By the time he looked up again, time had righted itself, and the horses, phaeton and family had disappeared over the rise in the distance.

Robbie opened his hands carefully for fear the object might make its escape and fly away. Bending his head lower he peered into the little dark space between his fingers. There lay a silver ring.

Holding it up the young man examined the ring closely. A leafy design decorated the whole circle, light twinkling off the raised pattern, catching his eye. It was not worn at all, and gave off such light. Clutching this wonderful gift tightly in his hand Robbie looked down the empty road, then up in the direction of the village to see who was watching. But everyone had resumed his or her previous occupation. Not a soul saw the exchange and no one knew what he now possessed. A little smile played on his lips. He had a secret; his very own, special secret.

Why would that girl give me this? What am I to do with it and how will I keep it safe?

Robbie slid down the rock to the bottom, picked up his sticks and awkwardly hauled himself upright. He swung off towards his home. His mind was racing. This is like a fairy tale. Why would that rich girl throw me a silver ring? I must find a private place where I can look at it properly. He wondered if she would come back to get it, but then doubted that as they looked like they were in a hurry to leave.

He kept going past several ramshackle cottages and down over a small slope, where, in the sheltered depression at the bottom, was a grove of stunted trees. Here no one would disturb him if he sat out of sight in the thicket of scrubby shrubs at their base.

Robbie scrambled inside his den, sat and carefully opened his hand. The imprint of the ring was pressed deep into the flesh of his palm where he had gripped it so tightly. Now he was able to turn it over, look closely at its design, rub it, hold it up to the light so that it twinkled, breathe on it, polish it and put it on his biggest finger. He was sure it was very old, despite the fact that the design was so crisp, so shiny and new-looking.

He lay back on the grassy earth, closed his eyes, and smiled to himself. He imagined he could feel the ring growing warm, and his mind was conjuring up images like a dream. He sank into it, warm and comfortable, while he watched children play with a dog, a horse stood nearby, and older people walked about. What a lovely dream. It was as if I was there watching. I’ve never had a dream like that before. How I wish I was one of those children.

He sat up. I wasn’t really asleep was I? But that must have been a dream. He slipped the ring from his finger and looked at it. I must not let anyone see this. Where can I hide it so I can get it when I want, and no one else knows of it?

He mused about this for some time. Should he get a thong and hang it around his neck. No! Someone would see it there, and those bullies would take it from him. Was there somewhere he could hide it close to the house? No! He was sure to be seen. Where then?

Climbing back up the hill was always difficult. Sometimes he got down on his elbows and knees and dragged himself bodily, moving his walking sticks up as he went. He was always puffed when he reached the top, as he was today, but when he had caught his breath he got upright onto his sticks and went home. There was nobody about.

He and his brother were sleeping by themselves at the moment as their father and oldest brother were away in England, where they had labouring work for several months. Two beds were in the corner of the room, their father having built them out of old rough timber, one bed on top of another. Robbie slept on the bottom bed on a pad of hay, with an old blanket to cover