Peggy

This excerpt of Peggy telling her story might be best enjoyed with a glass of Guinness or Writers’ Tears' Irish Whiskey before a crackling fire. If none of those things appeal or aren't readily available, try listening to my WEB OF LEGACIES playlist (click here). Songs 10-15 are for Peggy. 

​

​

PEGGY MURPHY RALSTON: 1849 - 1918
 

CHAPTER 7

Escape 
 

July 30, 1864, South Boston

 

I’m awake before dawn. It’s cooler as I slip downstairs and out the back door to the privy. Maybe this heat spell is over. The waning moon is setting and casts the backlot in silvery light. I don’t need a lantern. I know each step along the trampled path. 

 

Back in my room, I light the lantern on the rickety table, retrieve everything from under the floorboards, and pack my new carpetbag as Mary instructed. I wash up with water saved in the pitcher from last night, and dress. Then I coil and pin my hair in a chignon—a French word Mary taught me. It’s the new fashion. I briefly ponder wearing my straw hat, a hand-me-down from Mary, but it would look silly perched atop my chignon. 

​

The moon has set, but it’s still not dawn. I double-check my carpetbag. The brooch wrapped in Mary’s handkerchief and envelope of articles are both carefully rolled in the shawl near the bottom of the bag beside Aunt Bridget’s sewing basket. From beneath my neatly folded underclothing, two day-dresses, and a winter coat, I pull out the knotted handkerchief of money. Its heft is reassuring to cradle as I stand by the window watching dawn overtake night. When birds begin chirping and it’s light enough to see Boots slinking along the gutter hunting for his breakfast, I decide it’s time to go. I’m desperate to avoid Beastly Uncle Brian. I’d rather wait at the station for Mary’s train for hours. There’s been no more lurking by my bed or calling from downstairs, but I know it’s only a matter of time. 

 

Suddenly, I’m gripped with fear I’ve tarried too long. Instead of trying to slide the bulky handkerchief of money back in the bag under my neatly folded clothing, I tuck it near the top and fasten the clasp. I put out the lantern, take a last look around my attic corner, home for twelve years, then slip down two flights of stairs to the front door, treading carefully on the squeaky floorboards. I know which ones might give me away. When I reach the front door, my heart is racing. But of course, I’m being silly. My uncle won’t be awake at this hour. Still, I half expect him to come charging down the front hall. I reach up to unbolt the door and freeze. 

 

It’s not bolted. 

 

Cautiously, I turn the doorknob and pull the door open. There he is, sprawled across the front stoop in a drunken stupor. He leans half-seated, half-prone against the railing, a bottle in his hand. 

 

For a moment, I debate going out the back door and around the side alley, but freedom lies just on the other side of Beastly Uncle Brian, and he’s out cold. I decide to chance it. Holding my breath, I switch my bag to my left hand and step over his legs with my right foot. Then I bring my left leg over. Just as I’m breathing a sigh of relief and about to switch the carpetbag back to my right hand, the bag knocks the bottle out of his hand and it clatters down the steps, shattering loudly at the bottom. 

 

My uncle squints at me, snorts, and bellows, “Ere now, girly, what da hell is dis?” He swings an arm out blindly, finds the carpetbag, and grips it. His eyes are red, gummy slits. Wispy tufts of ginger-grey hair stick out in surprising places. Spittle dribbles from his mouth. His next garbled growl is more animal than human. 

 

“Damn bitch! Where da ye tink ye’re goin’?”

 

I pull the bag with all my might, twisting and wrenching it back and forth. The brass clasp pops open and the handkerchief with the money and banknotes tumbles out, landing with a thud and a jingle. Coins roll across the landing and down the steps. No! I should have packed it deeper in the bag! The noise distracts my uncle. His fat, dirty fingers loosen and the bag springs free from his grasp, nearly sending me toppling backwards to the street. I regain my balance, turn, and tear down the steps, crunching over shards of glass. As I run sobbing, fear and regret dog me. But hope and freedom beckon. I manage to refasten the clasp as I run, glancing over my shoulder, terrified my uncle is following. 

 

​