Mairéad

This excerpt of Mairéad 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 1-10 are for Mairéad. 

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MAIRÉAD MURPHY: 1832-1849
 

CHAPTER 2

Something Ancient 
October 6, 1849, Massachusetts Coast

 

Honora plunks down awkwardly beside me and laces her fingers atop her rounded belly, interrupting my ruminations. She’s short, but sturdy and accommodates the encumbrance well.

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“You must be knackered, Honora. Ready to set foot on dry land?”

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“Someone’ll have to tell me when I’ve done it. Haven’t seen my feet in donkey’s years.” She kicks her feet out and waggles them. We laugh.

 

Then she knits her brow. “Mairéad, did ye have yer mam to help when yer time came?”

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“All I had of her was this shawl.” My voice catches. The memory of Mam setting out her shawl for Saint Brigid’s blessings pierces my heart. I take a steadying breath and try to sound more cheerful. “Daniel’s mam called in a midwife. Kindly and skilled, she was. Still, a girl wants her mam at such times.”

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Honora looks downcast. I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze. “But yer strong, Honora. Ye’ll be fine.”

 

The word fine echoes in my head. Daniel had said the same thing —“Yer doin’ fine, my little sparrow, fine.”—before they shooed him off. But I wasn’t. Anyone could see.

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 Honora doesn’t look reassured. “Mairéad, ye may as well tell me how it was with ye. I’ve seen it all with Mam’s midwifery and my sisters’ babes.” She runs her hands around her swollen belly, saying in a small voice, “But they’re not here and there’s no one my age to talk to about such things.”

 

Poor Honora. But how can I tell her how Peigín came into the world? “The hard way,” the midwife said. I cannot speak of the pain, screaming for days through endless waves tearing me asunder. I cannot say how it carried me away in a relentless flood of suffering, drowning me in agony. No, some things—the mess, the stench, the perils—are best not said. Nor remembered.

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But Honora waits. The sea beyond the St. John’s illuminated deck sounds restless. I shiver again. “Some’s hard to recall, Honora. I remember surfacin’ when the pain slackened and hearin’ the midwife tell Mother Murphy to hold me up to help ease the baby out. I remember how the midwife reached inside, pullin’ and twistin’—”

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“Peigín was breech?”

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“She was.”

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“Ah.” Honora gives me a knowing look.

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“I remember when the midwife said, ‘Push now, girl, with all your strength!’ And somehow, I did, bellowin’ like a beast.”

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I glance at Honora. She nods for me to continue. “And, well, now ye’ll be thinkin’ me an awful idiot, but as I pushed and felt Peigín movin’ down and leavin’ my body, I remember feelin’ part of somethin’ … somethin’ ancient and sacred …and powerful, lendin’ me the strength to bring Peigín into the world.”

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“Aye, Mairéad. My mam and sisters speak of it. Feelin’ the mothers of the clans.” Honora’s eyes hold mine.

 

I’ve never confided this to anyone. Not even Daniel. Now it tumbles out. “I felt it again, Honora, when I heard Peigín cry for the first time and when Mother Murphy placed the babe in my arms, cooin’ over her beauty. I ached for Mam … but it seemed she was there, with me. And, it was like ye said, all the mothers of all the great clans who came before were there, too, swaddlin’ Peigín and me in love.”

 

Honora’s face crumples and she bursts into tears.

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“Oh, Honora. I’m dreadful sorry!” I juggle Peigín, now asleep at my breast, and wrap an arm around Honora, weeping into her hands.

 

She lifts her tear-streaked face and sobs. “Mairéad, when my time comes, how will the mothers of the clans find me all the way across the North Atlantic?”

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“Of course, they’ll find ye Honora!” a stern voice says behind us.

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We both start and turn to see Mary Kane. She comes round and stands before us with her hands on her hips, then wags a finger at Honora. “With yer mam being a midwife, Honora Burke, ye, of all people aboard this brig, know full well they’ll find ye when yer time comes.”

 

What would we do without Mary? What would I do without her? We’ve become fast friends, though she’s seven years my senior and we’re nothing alike. Mary’s stouthearted. Like my Daniel. Honora wipes her tears and smiles sheepishly. We scoot apart so Mary can sit between us.

 

“Now, let’s have no more wallowin’ in worry,” Mary says. “What will be, will be, soon enough. Tonight’s for celebratin’ and laughin.’ And laughin’s the best way to keep life’s hardships from loiterin’ when they knock upon yer door.”

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Mary must be the most cheerful soul on earth. Her ready smile and sunny nature lift everyone’s spirits and her lively stories and jaunty songs make the seasickness and gloom below decks more tolerable. She hands Honora a handkerchief. “Let’s fix our minds on somethin’ more providential. Have ye and that husband of yers thought of names for the babe?”

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Honora sniffs and dabs her eyes. “Catherine for a girl. Thomas for a boy.”

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“Ah, a child will do well startin’ life with a solid name such as those.” She smiles at Peigín asleep under Mam’s shawl, “Like our sweet Peigín, named for yer mam and ye, isn’t that so, Mairéad?”

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I nod. “But everyone knew Mam by Peigín, so she’s really named for Mam.”

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“’A proud family name.” Mary says. “With so many souls greetin’ Saint Peter before their time, family lore’s bein’ lost, so ye must keep it alive in yer wee ones.”

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“Mother Murphy said that very thing when Peigín was born.”

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Mary grins. “A wise woman. And what else did she tell ye of family lore?”

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I think for a moment. “Daniel’s da comes from the great Murphy clan of Leinster.”

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“Ah, a noble clan.” Mary lifts a corner of the shawl and peeks under.

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 “And Murphy, Ó Murchadha, means descendant of sea warriors.”

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“Does it now? Well, then, let’s have a look at our precious Peigín Murphy, child of sea warriors.” She lifts the shawl higher. Mary cannot keep her hands from Peigín for long.

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I sigh. “Well, since I cannot swim a stroke, Daniel must be the sea warrior. But, truthfully, Mary, he doesn’t care a jot for family lore. He cares only about gettin’ away from the Sasanach and startin’ a new life.”

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Mary darts me a solemn look. “Daniel’s a good man, Mairéad, but ye must defy him on this …” she pulls the shawl aside and gently touches Peigín’s curls “… for the sake of this darlin’ babe.” Wispy locks of curly golden-copper hair, the color of Mam’s and mine, stray across Peigín’s forehead and tuck under her ears. Her little rosebud mouth puckers and suckles as if she’s still nursing.

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By and by, Honora hands Mary her handkerchief and goes to find her husband among the revelers and queue up for the rations of hard tack and thin soup being offered our last night aboard. Mary and I chat while she pushes the shawl back further to kiss Peigín’s stockinged feet. I watch, pondering the idea of defying Daniel. He wanted to leave Ireland even before the fever took his grandda, a kindly soul who toiled the land his whole life. After he died, wailing into the night about finishing the harvest, not remembering the blight had already ruined the crop, Daniel was even more determined to go. When his Uncle Brian sent word from Boston about promising prospects, Daniel and his da decided we must seek a better life there. I agreed. There was little choice. Death was creeping in from all sides. But Daniel made the decision. He hatched the plan.

 

“Who’s the most beautiful babe in all America?” Mary whispers, tenderly stroking Peigín’s cheek.

 

“Careful now Mary, ye’ll wake her. And we don’t want all the other mothers of America feelin’ insulted before we set foot on dry land.”

 

Mary chuckles. “Aye, she’s a cherub, she is. Tis their sons who’ll need to watch out. She’ll steal their hearts, sure enough.”

Peigín stirs, opens her eyes, and sneezes.

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“God bless ye and the devil miss ye, sweet Peigín!” Mary says. “Now that yer awake, child, come to yer Auntie Mary and let’s discuss the grand sort of life ye’ll have livin’ in a mansion with yer adorin’ red-haired children and grandchildren all about.”

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I sigh again and hand Peigín to Mary. Soon they’re babbling and blowing bubbles.

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“Mary, do ye suppose they’ll be askin’ us to read and sign papers when we land in Boston, like they did before we boarded in Galway?”

 

She looks up with a smile. “If they do, I’ll be there to guide ye. And just think, now ye know how to sign yer name. Ye’ve nothing to fear, Mairéad.”

 

I glance away. With Mary’s help, I did learn to sign my name. Unlike Daniel, though, I couldn’t make heads nor tails how the marks I learned to draw told a person what words to say. The marks in Mary poetry book were just as confounding. But Daniel caught on. Mary said if we’d had another week or two, he’d be reading all the poems in her book.

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Now Mary catches my eye. “I think readin’ comes hard for some, but yer smart as a whip Mairéad Murphy and ye’ve the soul of a poet, a special way of seein’ things. There’s a fire within ye, too. Just need to stir the embers to find yer courage.” I look away again from Mary’s steady gaze. Mairéad, Mairéad, always afraid. Mary’s right about most things. Not this.

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Mary hands Peigín back with a kiss and stands. “Well now, I expect that soup’ll be more like bilgewater and the hard tack probably hazards losin’ a tooth, but I believe I’ll give it a go. God willin’, this is our last meal aboard the St. John.”

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A few stars prick pinholes in the thickening blanket of clouds and a fickle breeze sputters the candles and disturbs the rigging, keeping the crew busy adjusting the sails. The fiddling turns to a slower, less frolicsome tune and Daniel joins us.

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“Would the two most lovely lasses aboard this ship care to dance?” His eyes are merry.

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“We would, but only with the most handsome lad.”

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“Well, that can only be me.” Daniel bows.

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We dance to a plaintive tune holding Peigín, wrapped cozily in Mam’s shawl, between us. I lean in to drink her sweet baby smell and plant a kiss on her forehead. She smiles, curling her tiny fingers around her Da’s big finger. Mrs. Quinlin grins at us as we sway together, bending our knees to oblige the deck’s rocking and leaning against its tilt as the brig heels in the wind.

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Daniel murmurs in my ear, “Tomorrow’s the start of a new life, darlin’ girl, the start of a new clan growin’ strong in a new land. We’ll not be shackled to old ways or the damn Sasanach.”

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I stop swaying. “But, Daniel, to grow strong roots, our children must know their past.”

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He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Yer soundin’ like Mam.”

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 “She’s right! Our children and all the generations to come will be stronger knowin’ the land of their ancestors and who gave ‘em life.”

 

Daniel arches a surprised brow, then chuckles. “Well then, we’d best not tarry, my little Hedge Sparrow.” He gives me a roguish wink. “That’s a lot of children to plant, darlin.’ They won’t be comin’ from thin air.”

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I feel myself go scarlet and punch his shoulder. Not as lightly this time.

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*          *          *

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After we eat, a spitting rain drives us and a handful of families to our berths below, but most folks continue celebrating in the shelter of the mid-deck. I’ve thanked Jesus, Mary, and Joseph our berth is near the stairway and not the stench of the head, but I’ll be glad to quit this devil’s dungeon for good. Daniel, Peigín, and I sleep in a bottom berth, squeezed among our few belongings, now packed. The swell from the stiffening wind rocks us and Daniel’s already snoring. I hope these gusts take us to Boston all the faster. Song and laughter drift down from the mid-deck and the whale-oil lantern hanging near the stairway casts a soft, gently swinging light. As nights go aboard the St. John, this final one is nearly lovely.

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I whisper a prayer of thanks to Saint Christopher and snuggle beside Daniel, pulling Peigín closer in the chill. I wonder what Daniel’s Boston kin—Uncle Brian and Aunt Bridget—are like. I wonder if we’ll see Mary again. I murmur another prayer, asking Saint Brigid to continue bestowing her blessings on us in our new home.

 

I dream of Mam. She calls, distressed, from across a vast expanse. A shrieking wind whips away her words, but I feel the warmth of her love wash over me like a wave. Then she’s gone. Mam! Don’t leave! Something of her lingers, like the scent of a faded bloom, but the shriek grows louder. I sit up in the darkness. Am I dreaming? An explosive, thudding blow, shudders the old brig to her timbers. People scream. Objects crash in the dark. I’m awake. I feel Peigín warm beside me, sleeping through the commotion.

 

Daniel’s spot is cold. He’s gone.