The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXII, Issue 19, 12 May 1904, Page 23

The Storyteller

THE LORDS OF THE SOIL

it was Maytime, and . around John M'Garaghy's thatched cottage the hawthoTn bushes were banks of snowy blossoms, and the May evening was laden with a hundred perfumes from the starry flowers that grew thro.ugh the long dew-fed grass of the wild flat meadows, where the crake, crake of the corncrake is heard all day and night. Deep down among t/he sloe-bushes the thrushes were calling to tiheir mates, ami somewhere up among the tall ash the cuckoo was 'carolling its farewell to the dying day, and a late bee was humming drowsily among the tall foxgloves. The last rays of th|e setting sun were disappearing behind Imshmurry lighting up for a moment the rugged face of old Benbulbin. Mary M'Garaghy stood •outside the cottage door, and shaded her eyes with her slender, brown hand as she looked in the direction of the sea where she and her father had toiled all day, like beasts of burden, carrying wet wrack over the hot, round stones, that hurt aird burned her bare feet. Her shoulders ached still, for the coarse sxraw rope and the heavy creel of rack had h;urt them. Kelp fires burned along the shore as the weather had bean favorable since tho May block had come in , and they all burned the wrack early, because ' gale day ' was drawing nigh, and the half year's rent was .due. Mary M'Garaghy, at seventeen, was not a pretty girl. Her featiires were thin and sharp, and her figure aing;ular. She might have been pretty wider happier circumbtances, but the dread struggle for existence intake the expression in her large, brown eyes fierce and sullen. She had never had a sweetheart. Annie, her elder sister, had lovers by the score, but Annie was pretty— Anniewith the sunny bair, the red of t/he rose and the white of the May on her round cheeks : Annie who was the pet of the house, and who idled while Mary worked. Mary was not jealous ; she tho/ught it was only her due If 'only, Mary thought to herself, Annie was going to marry anyone Wut Jack McCabe tihe pam in her own heart would not be so gxeat. The sourtd of a man's voice siaging along the sunflalked boreen made the hot blood rush to Mary's brown face, amd her pulse beat faster. And Jack M'Cabe came into view, his cap tilted on the back of his hea.d, his blue eyes so sunny and his face so happy that Mary envied him. ' Goo;d ovenin', Mary,' and Jack showed his white teeth in a broad smile. ' Good evenin' to ye, Jack ; ye're tavkin' it aisy. I see ye don't take trouble much to heart.' ' I don't see anything to be heartbroken about now, Mary. Wouldn't thfs grand evenin' make ye hajppy in spite iv yerself ? Isn't everything loo»kin' well ? ' ' Aye, Jack, everything is lookin' lovely. Somehow I never thought so nnuch about them before, but I smppp&e it's because I'm goin' to lave them.' 1 Lave them !' ' What do you mean, Mary ? ' And for the first time he heard the sound of cries and sobs coming from the house, and noticed Mary's tearstained face. His own strong, brown face palod, and his rough hand trembldd as he grasped Mary by the arm. • For God's sake, Mary, what's wrong ? Is there anything wrong with .Annie ? ' 1 Why, Jack, haven'y ye heard at home— didn't ye hear ? ' ' Hear what ? ' he half shouted. ' I stayed down at the shore afther the other cockin' the lock iv dhry wrack, so for heaven's sake tell me quick what's up.' ' Only, Jack, we got a notice to quit an' yer father got another, an' every man in every house in sixteen townlattds I .' ' Ah, is that all ? ' and Jack's voice had a tone of relief. ' I thought '—with an awkward laugh—' that Annie was dead or ran away with some other boy yer face was long over it. Sure we often got notices before ; it will cost only half a sovereign or • fifteen shillin's at the outside, so I don't see anything to cry about.' ' I wish I was so snare,' and Mary laughed a short bitter laugh : 'it is not all, Jack. It mattes we will be all turned out this time. The landlord is comin' home, an' he is goin' to build a grand castle here, an' to plant woods, an 1 build homses fox his servants, an/ he wants our land for the place iv them. Come into the house, Jack, an' yell hear all about it.' Jack followed Mary into the little kitchen and looked around him. The suptper of oaten porridge with noggins of sweet milk was allowed to ;cool ufttlasted en

the white scoured table. A few smoky sods smctaldered on t(he paved hearth, and the large pot with the pigs' potatoes was allowed to boil dry hanging on its long crook. Mrs. M'Garaghy sat ,on a tinjee^legged stool rocking her body backwards and forwards, net face covered with her check apron, giving vent to her moans and sobs. Annie sat with her head on ttoe ' settle ' in the corner, her blue eyes red and swollen with -tears. John M'Garaghy just then came in, his face drawn and haggard in the dim evening light. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of about five-and-forty years. The deep lines about the mouth and high forehead showed that his life's journey had been all uphill. He dropped into a seat at..., the door, and covered his face with Ins work-stained, hard, knotty hands ; and for the first time since he saw his only son's coffin carried away, the bright tears trickled thrctagh his fingers. Mrs. M'Garaghy ceased her moans at the sight of her husband's grief, dried her own eyes, and tried to assume a cheerfulness that she did not feel.

' John, asthore, don't give way like that. DM ye get the notice read for ye ? ' she asked, laying her trembling hand on herimsband's shoulder.

' I did, Annie, the schoolmaster read it, an' towld us there was more than fifty of the neighbors there before me. He towld us the same as the man t|hat sarved them — that we have all to go to America. There is a ship called the ' Pomamo ' the Go-vernnKmt is givin' to bring us o|ver. The landlord must 'have the land.'

' Well, there's no use in cryin' anyway,' Jack M'Cabe put nn hastily ; ' we're all goin' together,' looking at Annie, ' an' America is a poor country if our hard ~ work doesn't m*ake a bet'tiher livin' for us than in Ireland.'

' Ah ! ye can talk, Jack,' John MMxarraghy answered bitterly, ' yer young an' only beginnin' life, an' have done little oir nothin' on yer father's farm, but I '—and his voice became choked again — ' I have dhrained, fenced, an' planted mme '; me father built tihis house an 1 outhofuses 1 an' we made the little bit iv out-away bog into a good farm, an' ped the rint up to the day, an' we're goin' to get our reward now,' and the bright tears rolled down his withered cheek again as Jack M'Cabe walked silently out.

Outside a few mild. eyed cows st'opid chewing the cUd in happy ignorance of all human vicissii/udes. Down alomg the shore the smoke from the dying kelp flies Curled in white fleecy clouds t|o the azure sikyi The young May moon in aJI her tender radiance shone out from behind Benbulhin. The lonely sound of the waves or the crake of the corncrake was the only scyunfl that broke the silence, except the laughter of some children from the old road— the music of hearts at ease. Everything was silent, beautiful, and serene.

As Jack M'Cabe walked along the "boreen he felt s>ober and changed, and a great contrast to the singing young mail of an hour before.

' Everything is so grand this evening,' he mattered, and a half sob rose to his throat. ♦ I cajn't believe it,' and he clenched his 'strong hands defiantly.

But it was indeed trlue ! The landlord was coming home to live among his tenantry, 'and the families of sixteen townlands had to go to make room for him. Tho work of eviction went on ; the cabins were levelled! to the grouhd or burned, tire furniture thrown on the road— the poor little things which cost them such sacrifices to buy : the cradles, where their babies were rocked, their wardrobes, their chests, tiheir wedding presents, everything, were flung an the road. Women threw themselves on their knees a*nd called down the vengeance of heaven on the agent and his bailiffs.

It's hard for yer hoftior to carry all lihe Qurses you got to-day,' one of the bailiffs remarked to the agent.

' Well, all I am not able to carry myself my horse will carry for me,' he answered grimly. Only a short time after that he was killed by a fall from his horse.

All the families except a few went on t!he emigrant ship. Those who 1 remained were forced to carry a bag and gather potatoes round the country to support themselves.

Jack M'Cabe stood on the deck of t/he ' Pomano ' trying to see through the thick white fog that covered the sea and land. Annie M'Garaghy had gone below with the rest of the passengers, and 1&e deck was , deserted except for Jack and Mary M'Garaghy. She stood a few yards below him, a forlorh-loolking figure in her coarse linsey dress. Her long black hair tied simply with a strip of braid fell over her shoulder in thick heavy qurls , her fierce black eyes hald a look of sadness, an expression of pain in tiheir depths. She had cried little at leaving her home ; she had nothing there dear to remember, but still it was home, and she felt dull, deserted, and miserable. ' I think it's better we were down aJong with the rest, Mary,' Jack remarked kindly.

1 An ! we'll be there soon enough ; tihere is hardly place to stand— more than three hundred in a little ould boat like this. I heard the people say she was rotten, and wouldn't carry us half the way over I .' There were tears in Mary's voice. ' But Annie an' yer mother will be lonesome without ye, Mary.' 1 It's kind iv ye to be ahvayS' tlunkin' iv Annie,' she answered in a low, unsteady voice ; ' but she an' motner will have something else to think iv now besides me, so I'll just stay here till I see if the fog will clear an' I get a glimpse iv tihe shore before we go refund the bind.' ' Mary are ye,' — the sentence was newer finished. Something black and towering loomed swiftly out of the fog, and then a sound that made m,any a seaman's face blanch. That startling, throbbing, pulsing sound of grinding, splitting timber, and tlhen a shock that knocked Jack oft his feet. The vessel had struck on Bowmore rock. ' Port ahoy,' yelled a hoarse voice. Jack sprang to his feet only to be hurled back agjain. As he fell, his head struck against an iron stanchion on the masts behind, and he sank on tihe deck bilceding from an ugly wound on his forehead. Men rushed on deck and screaming women with their infants in their arms ; men forgot their manhood, hurled them aside to make room for themselves. Men who would have courage under ordinary circumstances, behaved like lunatics. Annie rushed to Jack's side. ' Sa\e me, save me, Jack,' she screamed ' I can't save ye, mavourneen, 1 he answered hoarsely, ' as I can't see where we are, but I'll die with ye.' Annie tore herself from his arms and was lost from JaJck's sight in the half-maddened crowd that thronged the deck. Somel indeed knelt Vn prayer with a calm look on their white faces and waited for their doom. 1 Jack, were goin' down ; will ye give me yer hand,' whispered Mary's voice, and held it tightly. ' Where's Annie ? ' he muttered thickly. ' I don't know , somewhere over there.' Jack made a movement as if to go, but restraining himself said simply : ' May God have mercy on us all.' They stood together on the brink of eternity. Mary felt a great calmness steal over her— a calmness she had not felt for many a day, and Jack could think of nothing. A crackling and a grinding sound, a q,uiver and convulsive shock, and in another minute nothing where the ship had been but the fog and the heaving water. But presently the water became a mass of struggling human beings. Men and women who never swam a Stroike during their lives vainly tried to swim and grasp anything within their reach. Mary M'Garaghy could swim like a fish since she was ten years old. She oofuld sec Jadk's head a few yards away trying to keep above the water. She knew of old how badly he could manage in the water. A few strokes brought her to his side. She grasped his short dark hair in front tightly » and looked into his face. The cut on his forehead had fi*led his eyes with blood ; his face looked ghastly in the dim light of the fog ; she thought he was dead. 'Jack,' she whispered, ' ah ! my Hxdd,! Jack ! Jack ! an' ye never knew how I cared for ye.' Jack M'Cabe opened his eyes and looked into her face, and with the ii/nstinct of a drowning man he stimak up and out. He reached the surface, gasped and panted for breath ; the instinct to fight for life was strong upon him. He was only half conscious, and the loss ot blood had drained his strength. A great black band of Mary's hair swam across his face ; they fought death side by side. They swam forward blindly. Mary's breath was now coming in swift, short gasps ; her nailed boots were filled with water ; her linsey dress clung rotod her limbs and made swimming harder. '•If I only could see where we are, goin' to,' she panted, • wouldn't I save him yet.' Leaden weights seemed to b* dragging her down, her head struck something hard. After that everything was shadowy. She seemed to be drawn out of the water— felt an arm round her and heard voices^— then an absolute blank.

All day long thousands thronged the shore. Every boat along the coast was manned, and sailed about on the lookout for dead bodies. Corpses were carried on doors and carts along the country road every minute to some poor cottage to be waked, and of the three hundred only a few were saved by some fishing boats tihat chanced to be there at the time of the accident. The bodies were washed aslhore every day for weeks—washed back to the little farms they loved and the little cottages where their hearts were centred. Jack WCabe and Mary M'Garaghy were rowed swiftly to shore, as they were only a few miles from it where the ship was wrecked, and were brought to her unlcle's place on a neighboring estate. She saw the three coffins of her father, mother, and sister laid in thd clay * and as she heard the danrp earth rattle on

the lids a cold hand seemed to grasp her heart and sine felto changed and old. Her eyes lost t/heir fierce look and t<he hard expression changed— she went abDUt her work mechanically, a silent, quiet girl— and Jack j she saw him seldom. He cajjie to her .uncle's one day a few months afterwards. He came, lie said, to say good-bye ; he was going to Australia this time, and was paying, his own passage. • There is nothing 'now, Mary, to nmke me stay here,' he said ; ' if ye promise not tio quite forget me, I'll come back some day. If I do, Mary, will I find ye here an' free ? ' Maiy lucid to apeak, bul woids failed to come. She reached out her thin, brown hand silently. Jack held it for a moment and kissed her on the lips , and Mary could only see him through a mist of blinding tears as she walked down the boreen. Seven years had passed and Mary M'Garaghy stood again at her Uncle's cottage door and watched tihe kelp fires along, the shore. The May block was in again, but Mary had gathered no wrack this year, a she had no one to fill or raise the creels. She had seen the years of famine come and go ; had seen her uncle, aunt, and cousins all carted away to the grave, after dying of starvation, and sbe had survived. She had dug the potato ridges all day in the vain hope of finding something to eat, and had satisfied the gnawing hunger with a raw turnip. The people died in thousands, and were thrown into the graves without shroud or coffin. The Government at length awakened to the fact and opened public works and gave tihe men four-pence-halfpenny a day — generous, wasn't it II I—to1 — to support in some cases ten in family. They supplied yellow meal for the use of the starving to some favored individuals, who fed their pigs with it in many cases. Yet with all this generosity one-third of the population died from hunger. Yet the Irish love Ireland, and cling to it as no other race will to any country under the sjin. MaryM'Garaghy, from the awkward girl of seventeen, had grown into a fine woman of twenty-four, but her face was strangely careworn, and had an air of weariness unusual at that age. Her eyelids were discoflored as if with constant weeping, and & few white hairs showed through the dark curls. WJhile gazing peoisijvely at the kelp fires she saw faces and forms of the past, and by-g,one days lived with her still. She was just now thinking of how she was going to pay her rent. Her calf had died, and she feared she should have to part with the one cow left her. The house looked sadly in need of repair — the ropes hung loose on the thatched roof, and a green, slimy moss grew on the once white walls. She had had several offers of marriage, but she refused them all. Jack had never written to her. 'If only I could forget him,' slhe whispered to herself, 'as he has forgotten me. ' I wish— l had gone down along with the rest.' A castle and demesne had sprung up in the place where the evicted tenants had been. The landlord had come home with an army of foreign servants— Scotch gardeners, London maids, and French cooks, who went to church in their carriage. 'Numerous cottages and gatehouses were built for them. Not a trace was left of the evicted tenants whose bones were mouldering in the churchyard or whitening at the bottom of the Atlantic. Mary thought of all these things, and ttfie tears that so readily came fo her eyes now rolled in great bright drops down her cheeks. A car stopping at tihe end of the boreen turned her thoughts into other channels, as she saw a man leap off and walk swiftly in the direction af her house. 'God save us ! What sort of a quare-lookin' man is this,' she half gasped. ' Some lunatic maybe. I'll go in an' s/h/ut the door.' But as she turned to go something in the swinging gait and the erect figure touched a chord in 'her memory, and made her heart beat fast inside her coarse "bodice, and her sight grow dim. The figure was that of a roan, and apparently a foreigner from his light linen suit and his great shady hat that completely covered the upper portion of his face. Mary looked at him for a moment as he stood beside her. 1 Jack,' sihe whispered, ' is it you ? ' ' Yes, Mary, it is I, and I expected a heartier welcome after coming all the way from Australia to see you. Mary, won't you give me a kiss ? ' Mary pulled back shyly as the hot blood dyed her pa'e cheeks. Jack M'Cabe of seven years ago and this foreignlooMng gentleman she thought vastly different. The woman of twenty-four felt more shy and nervous tham did the girl of seventeen. « Ah !— there was scorn and disappointment in t<be short exclamation. ' I see how it is : you are married, 1

4 No, Jack, I haven't married, no,! 1 haven't forgot ye, either,' she answered quickly. ' But Mary, one time I thought yau cared for me —one time you tried to save my life. Am I wrong ? You do not love me after all ?" 1 Jack, I— l '—somehow the word love stuck in her throat. ( I care for ye now as I did then— -eared for ye all me, lite, twit 1 thought you foxgot me long ago.' ' Forgot you ! lorgot you,' and Jack's voice had a happy ring a s he put his strong arms round the trembling girl ; ' forgot you, Mary. I have thought of you for seven long years. I have worked for you like a sla»vc in the mines — 'have exerted myselt, and earned money, that if 1 had not you to think -of I never would have earned. I have dreamt of yoni'in the bush when I had to light a fire to keep away the rats, and have earned thousands and thousands of pounds for you, and have come from t/he other side of the world to bring yo,u back.' ' To biing me back ; why, Jack, don't you mane to stay ? ' ' Stay here ; what is there to stay for ? I learned out in the goliihelds the meaning of the word Ireedojm. If 1 bought land here and built houses, I cquld be thrown out any day as we were before. The more I improved the land the more the landlord would raise the rent, aud 1 would be only spending every year the mjoney I worked so hard for. It was only lately I heard of the famine,' and a dark shadow passed over his face. ' Out there in the goldfields we have little news from ihe autMde world. In my anxiety io get rich I forgot all else but you, as you were the only living creature I knew who thought much of me in the land I left. 1 ' But Jack,' she faltered, ' why not buy land here?' That is the only fault I can find with the Irish, Mary. They are too proud, and look too much to descent. A man's own exertions are not rightly appreciated. Why, Mary, every day I would be pointed out by some old woman as the lad that gathered wrack and was glad to earn a sixpence anyway he tould. But Mary, if you and I live long enough, and the ourse of landlordism is out of Ireland— for surety that day will come — we will come back.' Jack M'Cabe and Mary, his wife, stayed m Ireland after their marriage only long enough to place two white marble crosses in the Churchyard — one over the remains of Mary's parents and sister, and one o l ver the bones of his own. — ' Ang>lo-Celt.'