Beyond the Green
Hills
by Tom
Gahan
He walked slowly
at first. Then blending his steps with an awkward jog, he traveled the muddied
path alone. Curls of mist rose from the peat. The morning fog that had kissed
everything with wetness, now lifted with the brilliant sunrise. Seamus
McDonough was on the first leg of a journey that would last the rest of his
life. Times at home had not been good. Not good at all.
His grandfather
had survived the famine and stayed. Nothing much came of that. He was nothing
more than a slave to the landholder of his small sharecropping farm. Wrongfully
accused of poisoning the landlord's horse, he died in prison a defeated man.
Seamus’ father worked Grandfather's farm hard enough to feed seven children.
Other than being blessed with them, he didn't have much to show for his
troubles. His wife died at the birth of his last.
A hay wagon sat
at the side of the lane headed in Seamus' direction. “Going my way, are you?”
he calls out to the driver.
“Where are you
headed, lad?”
“America, I am.”
“I’m not going
that far. I’ll be tuning round at Kilcoole. I was restin’ me horse here for a
bit. She’s gettin’on. I suppose I am,
too. Hop on. I'll take ya that far at least.” The driver motioned to the place
beside him. “Martin Herlihy is the name.”
“Thank you, Mr.
Herlihy. Much obliged.”
“I’m glad for
the company,” Herlihy said.
“I’m even more
glad for the occasion to rest my legs,” Seamus replied as he tossed his bag in
with the hay. Herlihy’s gnarled hands flick the reigns and the dappled mare
pulled against the harness.
“Ah, boyo, I
recall yer face and voice. Y’re in the pubs givin’ them fiery speeches. You
live out beyond the green hills.”
“Well, now, yes t’is
me.” Seamus shifted uncomfortably on the wagon seat.
“Made good sense
to me. What you were sayin’ and all. Even with a belly full o’ potcheen.”
“I don’t touch
it,” Seamus countered.
“It was me self
I was referin’ to. Why don’t you drink?” Herlihy questioned.
“I’d rather be
spending my hard earned bit of money on tools and books. And…this new
adventure.”
“I see. Ah, yes!
You’re the horse-shoer from Wicklow.”
“Yes, a farrier
I am. I remember you and your horse. Shoed her up a couple of times.”
“What’s sending
you to America?”
“A steamship out
of Liverpool. I’ll catch a boat over from Dublin to connect.”
“Right, then.
What I’m askin’ is—what’s chasing you? Have ya thought aboot stayin' and
fightin'?”
Seamus measured
his words carefully. “Sure I've thought about it. We all have. But what's the
point?”
“Right, then.
Don't be forgettin' your homeland, lad. It's made you who you are.”
Seamus thought
about it for a while. “Sure it's true. The dirt under my nails and on the
scruff of my neck is from the turf,” he said.
“The revolution
is what will put this good land back in the hands of its people,” the driver
said.
Seamus was
usually a quiet young man with the ability to read and write very well. His
mother had taught him to read by candlelight. When she died, the village priest
educated him on the finer points. McDonough always wanted more and something
better. It drove him.
“The revolution
is the answer for all that troubles us,” Herlihy said and wiped his stubble
with the back of his hand.
“Those in the
fight will wind up on the losing end of a long rope, courtesy of the crown,”
Seamus argued.
“You’ve already
been involved. Givin’ those strong words in the pubs. Never know when a
constable’s man or a double-agent is listening.”
“I’m careful
about that. I always know who’s in the room.”
Herlihy turned
and looked his passenger square in the eye and said in a low voice, “You can
never tell who might be a turncoat. In these hard times, a little money, a pig,
or the promise of an easier life for a workin’ man’s family can turn the weak.
A man bribed with whiskey could loosen his lips just the same.”
“Right, then.
Just as well I’m leaving. Wouldn’t you think?”
“Probably so.”
Herlihy spat over the side of the cart into the dirt. “Boyo, I’m hoping you set
foot in America long before the Black and Tans even know you’re gone.”
Seamus knew Herlihy
was right. Although he was a skilled tradesman and could likely eke out a
little better living than most if he stayed; it would only be a matter of time
before they caught up with him. His cousin Kate had gone ahead of him two years
ago. She had sent him some money to help with his trip. There was the promise
of a job for him at the house where she worked as a domestic at the estate of
Patrick Sullivan. Kate arranged for Seamus to work in the stables. Sullivan, a
wealthy merchant, was a second generation American. A plan was in place, but
McDonough feared the unknown. Word had gotten to him that his compatriots were
being treated very poorly in America. They couldn’t apply for most good jobs
and were paid lower wages when they did find work.
The two traveled
on in silence. Herlihy spoke first, “You’ll be shoeing horses in America,
then?”
“Hopefully so,”
Seamus replied.
“I hear tell
that motorcars are becoming all the rage in America. They don’t need shoes.”
“Well, there might
be an odd one here or there. My cousin has arranged stable work for me.” Seamus
leaned back in the seat with a smirk. “Of course I’m sure those motorcars will
need fixin’ soon enough. I’m fine with that.”
A lone horseman
approached. Sitting tall in the saddle, he wore the dark green uniform of the
Royal Irish Constabulary.
“Say, old Herlihy.
What's in the wagon?” the constable asked. He spoke in a clipped, staccato
rhythm.
“Hay, of course.
Can't you see? It's as plain as day.” What
a fool, Herlihy thought to himself.
“Mind if I have
a look?”
“Suit yourself,”
Herlihy said and pulled on the wagon’s brake.
“Who's your
passenger?”
“He’s my smithy.
Came along to look after old Nell's hooves, he did.” Herlihy grinned.
“A might well
dressed for a smith, don't you think?” said the constable.”
“Aye, maybe so,
but it doesn’t seem to bother the horse.”
“Don't be a
smart-arse. Hold your tongue, Herlihy. Your face alone is ugly enough to get
you arrested,” the constable said as he dismounted his horse.
“Did you want to
inspect my wagon?” Herlihy jerked his thumb toward the hay pile.
“We've got word
the rebels are running guns through here. What do you know about that?” The
constable leaned his face to within inches of Herlihy.
“Nothing,”
Herlihy replied and turned his head away from the constable’s acrid breath.
“And how about
you, mate?" The constable now glared at Seamus. He unsnapped his holster’s
cover and drew his Webley revolver.
“Easy now.
There's no call for that,” Seamus said. Ashen faced, Seamus held up his hands.
“I'll be the
judge of that. Get down off there and help Herlihy unload that hay.” He pointed
to the load with the gun.
“Right here?”
Seamus asked.
The constable
waved the pistol. “You seem like a sturdy enough young man. Right here. Right
now,” he said.
Seamus and
Herlihy fiercely tossed hay over the sides of the wagon. Seamus prayed that
Herlihy wasn't in the business of running guns along with his fodder. The
constable took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He began to question
Seamus. “The R.I.C.'s barracks up the road were burned the night before last.
I'm told they started the fire with tallow and common straw. You've got enough
here to start quite a blaze. Wouldn't you say? Carrying baggage and dressed as
you are… might you be running away from that job?” He pressed the Webley 450's
cold muzzle under Seamus' chin to emphasize his point. Beads of perspiration
began to glisten on Seamus’ forehead. “You seem a might nervous, mate. You have
all the makings of I.R.A. scum.”
“Sure enough.
I'm hoping all the saints in heaven make sure that gun of yours doesn't go off
by accident,” Seamus said.
“Don’t be so
cheeky. I'll just wait for the next patrol of lovely Black and Tans to take
over the questioning. I’m sure they’d like a word with you.” Seamus cringed at
the thought of the ruthless Black and Tans interrogating him. He knew they had
murdered a local priest in cold blood a week ago.
“If you’re about
shoeing horses; where are your trade tools?”
Seamus changed
the subject. “I'm off to America to see my cousin Kate McDonough of Wicklow.
Perhaps you know of her?”
“Indeed I do,”
the constable answered. “Fine lass. Too bad she went packing for America. Is
she coming back? Her uncle could have used her help at home. What with seven
children and all…”
“Aye, I'm the
oldest of them.” Seamus sensed the tension drop and he backed away from the
gun.
“Nothing to be
proud of. You come from a long line of criminals. Your grandfather died in
jail. And rightfully so, for killing a man’s horse,” the constable said. Seamus
felt the anger rise in his veins and decided to bite his lip.
“As you say,
sir.” Seamus looked to Herlihy, then the wagon’s empty bed and finally to his
interrogator. He held his hands out to the side, his palms turned up. “Will
there be anything else, sir?”
“Looks as though
you’re not carrying any contraband. I guess most everybody’s got a pile of
straw somewhere that could be used to set fire. That’ll be all. Load up and be
on your way.” The constable climbed back on his horse. “Give my regards to your
cousin Kate. I remember her fondly. Let her know her good name and the memory
of her fair face got you off the hook.”
Herlihy dropped
off his passenger on the outskirts of Kilcoole village. He snapped the reigns
and pulled away with a half-dozen American made .30-06 Springfield rifles still
safely hidden beneath the floorboards of his wagon.
Seamus finished
the remaining twenty-five miles of his journey to Dublin on foot. He had only
been there once before as a boy. He had forgotten about the aromas drifting
from the bakeries and pubs. Streets bustling with activity greeted Seamus as he
made his way to the pier. A boat crowded with people waited for the trip across
the Irish Sea to Liverpool.
In Liverpool
Seamus threaded his way through the streets. Sooty smoke spewed from factory
chimneys and the stacks of ships loitering in the harbor. His ship to New York
wasn’t set to sail until the next day. He wandered from the park to a pub and
back again to kill time. He read three newspapers. Night was falling and Seamus
thought about getting a room for the night. His meager pocket money would have
to last until his first paycheck. He reconsidered. The weather was almost mild
enough; sleeping in the park seemed to make sense. He then considered the risk
of being rousted by the police, harassed by pickpockets, or worse. Seamus chatted
up the pub’s proprietor who agreed to let him sit at the bar until closing.
Being amiable, and crafty, Seamus negotiated a deal with him to sweep up the
place, wash the dishes and stock the bar in return for a meal and being allowed
to stay the night inside.
“I’ll come round
first thing in the morning to unlock the door,” the barkeep said and poured
himself one last draft. Seamus sighed in relief. He was in a country that
didn’t take kindly to his lot. Although the owner had a brother-in-law from Limerick,
that was about as far as the diplomatic relations extended. In the morning
Seamus was up and ready to leave before he heard the key turn in the door.
Seamus bounded
up the gangway and produced his papers and ticket for boarding the ship. He had
heard horror stories about the coffin ships in days gone by. This ship seemed
far better than the ones in the tales. It was booked to capacity and steerage
was his only choice for passage. He was okay with that. Making his way below,
he found a bunk and stashed his bag.
In crossing the
North Atlantic Seamus gained an appreciation for the vastness of the world. Sky
merged with the water on the horizon and blended into an indiscernible boundary.
Half way into the trip clouds began to thicken and the winds increased.
Gradually at first, stiffening the flags, and then whipping into a full gale.
What had been a tolerable bobbing of the ship in the sea now changed to an
undulating ride. Green water broke over the bow and coursed over the top deck.
Seamus watched with a mixture of fear and amazement. Best to go below, he thought, this
is no place for horseman. A sudden slash of cold rain chased him down the
steps. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail. He made his way to his
bunk and stumbled in. Women huddled with their children as the ship pitched.
Many heaved with seasickness. Even more prayed for their lives.
The storm kept
on for two more days. During most of that time, Seamus, and most everyone else
aboard, figured they were goners. On the third day the winds dropped, the skies
cleared and the crew announce that New York Harbor was only a half-day away.
The passengers didn’t have enough energy left to express any joy. Lack of bathing
and the effluents of seasickness made the odor below decks unbearable. Seamus
longed for the earthy smell of the farm. Even
the dung heap smelled better, he thought.
They arrived in
New York as the sun set behind the Statue of Liberty. All those in steerage were
transferred by ferry to Ellis Island for immigration evaluation. Given the
hour, they would have to wait until the following day to be processed.
Passengers on the upper decks were granted the luxury of on-board inspection
and immigration procedures and the courtesy of being let off in lower
Manhattan.
“Where are you
from?” a man wearing dark clothes and a thick black moustache asked Seamus.
They sat on the long wooden benches under the vaulted ceiling in the Great Hall
of Ellis Island waiting for their number to be called. Seamus didn’t recognize
the man’s accent. Scores of others sat in the rows. Their accents and languages
echoing off the tiled walls were unknown to Seamus.
“I'm from beyond
the green hills,” Seamus said.
“Which green
hills?” He looked puzzled.
“The ones back
home,” Seamus replied and arched his back in defiance of the hard bench.
“That is good.
Welcome to America, I think, yes? And maybe yes, this will be our new home?”
“Maybe, yes,”
Seamus said.
“Do you have
someone here for you?” The man squirmed and tugged on the number card hung
around his neck. 57612 it said.
“Yeah, me cousin.
Me cousin, Kate. She wrote. Told me to meet her outside Castle Garden in a
place called the Battery when I get off of here. I didn’t know they had castles
in America. Battery must be some sort of village, I suppose.” A uniformed man came and tapped 57612 and he
was gone. Seamus slumped in his seat for endless hours thinking about the past
and wondering what America would be all about. Then he was tapped.
Seamus passed
his physical exam and was processed for entry. He was tired, dirty and hungry.
She was easy to
pick out of the crowd. Stunning and easily the tallest woman within sight,
Kate’s brilliant red hair was bunched behind her head. Her curls tumbled over
her shoulders. Seamus ran to her. They hugged.
“Ah, sweet Jesus.
You look a mess,” she said and began to laugh.
“Aye. It’s been
a rough ride,” Seamus said.
“Surely you’ve
had better days. We need to get you cleaned up.”
“A bite would be
most welcome.”
“Mr. Sullivan
gave me money to see to you.”
“I tip my cap to
Mr. Sullivan. Bless him.” Seamus lifted
his tweed cap with one hand and let it fall back on his head.
“There’s a hotel
up the street. We’ll get you a bath and your clothes cleaned and pressed. I’ll
see to it that you are brought something to eat.”
“Okay, after
that. What’s the plan?”
Kate didn’t
answer the question. “Let’s get you taken care of first,” she said.
They arrived at
the small hotel and Kate paid for the room in cash. She turned to Seamus,
handed him the key and said, “Go up and take care of yourself. I’ll meet you in
the lobby in two hours. I have errands.” She gave the desk clerk a stern look
and instructed him to pick up Seamus’ clothes and send them to the laundry. “Do
whatever it is you have to do to have them back in ninety minutes. We have a
schedule to keep.” She pressed a large tip into the man’s hand. “See to it that
he is brought a decent meal. Am I clear?” The clerk nodded vigorously.
In well under
two hours Seamus bounded down the steps into the lobby bathed, shaved, pressed
and fed. Kate greeted him and handed him a brown paper package. “Feeling
better, are you?” she said. “T’is for you. A compliment of Mr. Patrick Sullivan.
He wants you to make a good impression this evening,” Kate said. Seamus opened
the package. It contained a new silk tie.
“Right, then,”
Seamus said and wrapped the tie around his neck. “Help me with the knot, will
you, Kate?”
“Aye, for sure.
Still dressing the McDonough boys, I am.”
“Where are we
off to? Seamus inquired.
“I don’t want to
talk here. There’s a small pub a few blocks up. We know the owners.”
They walked the
streets of lower Manhattan and Seamus was overwhelmed with its enormity. Much grander than Dublin, Seamus
thought. He craned his neck and gawked at the buildings and the endless stream
of Model T Fords rumbling by. Kate grabbed his hand and yanked him into a
doorway. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the mid afternoon dimness of the
empty pub. “Back here,” she said and pulled Seamus toward a corner booth. An
aproned bartender rounded the bar and approached. Kate waved him off. “Give us
a moment, will you?” Without a word the bartender nodded and shuffled back to
his post.
“Seamus there
are many of us who believe we will one day make a difference and win the respect
of this country. In a short time we’ve already gained control of the police and
fire departments. Some other areas, too. We’re not done yet. It’s a big block
of votes as the bosses say.” She looked at Seamus to make sure he understood.
“We believe that before long one of our people will be in Washington’s
Whitehouse. In the meantime, there’s other work to be done.” Seamus leaned
forward as Kate lowered her voice. “It’s all about independence and becoming an
Irish Free State. As you know, Mr. Sullivan has sponsored you here as part of a
much grander plan than the stable.” Seamus bobbed his head in agreement.
“He’d like to
get you naturalized and run you for Congress some day,” she said. Seamus’ eyes
widened. “You’re smart and hard working. He’ll pay to further your education.”
“For God’s sake,
Kate. If I am going to represent the people it should be back home,” he
countered.
“Yes, it’s true.
But it’s not safe now. And maybe one day you will,” Kate said. “At the moment,
we need you here.”
Seamus was
growing frustrated. “Let’s get on with the plan at hand,” he said. “My original
proposed role here.”
Kate continued, “Okay,
then. You and your gifted tongue are to speak this evening at a social club.
It’s out in Woodside Queens. We’ll take a train there. Sullivan will be on hand.
He wants you to lecture us about the goings on at home. He wants you to tell it
all. The brutal atrocities by Britain’s thugs, the Royal Constabulary, the
Black and Tans and...”
“Aye….tonight…are
they friends of the revolution?”
“Now, Seamus...Mr.
Sullivan and his family have long been supporters of the Fenian Brotherhood
here.” Kate reached out and patted Seamus’ hand in reassurance.
“Right.”
“Sullivan knows
you’re a firebrand, loyal to the sod and can deliver an inspiring speech. You
move people’s hearts.”
“Right. But are
they friends? How do you know there won’t be a detective in the house?”
“Oh surely there
will be detectives. But they’re with us.” Kate paused. The quiet darkness of
the room enveloped them. She continued, “Yes, Seamus, all friends. Brotherhood
members, they are. Tonight it’s a fundraising benefit for the new Irish
Revolutionary Army.”
“Right. That’s
what I’m here for,” Seamus said. “Let’s be on our way.”
©
Tom Gahan 2011 - 2013. All Rights Reserved.