Bridget’s Black ’47

By Dorothy Perkyns

Bridget Quinlan is a spirited 13-year-old when the Irish potato famine of the 1840s shatters her life. Although her home is a hovel with few possessions, her family survives as long as her father can grow a good crop of potatoes on his small piece of land. Tragedy strikes when crops fail and typhus spreads, killing one of the boys in her school and then her brother, Rory.

With soldiers evicting the ill and unemployed, the Quinlans are forced to accept the offer of a passage to Canada. Appalling conditions onboard contribute to many deaths so that by the time they reach Grosse e, Quebec, Bridget and her sister are alone in the world. The two are adopted by a kind farming family and gradually settle into their new life. After all the sadness and loss, a surprising turn of events brings them lasting joy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dundurn
• Release date: Jun 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781459720961

Dorothy Perkyns

Dorothy Perkyns is the author of several previous young adult novels. She lives in Blandford, Nova Scotia.

Book preview

Seventeen

Chapter One

Give us a hand, Bridget. This pot’s heavy tonight. I’ve cooked more praties than usual, Mary Quinlan said, smiling at her daughter.

Thirteen-year-old Bridget sprang up from the smooth, round stone on which she liked to sit by the hearth. Carefully, she and her mother lifted the heavy iron pot from the peat fire to carry it outside.

Put the herrings on to boil now, Daniel, Mary called to her husband. They’re ready in the little black pot. They won’t take long to cook.

As they carefully opened the door of the small cabin, they were greeted by a loud, contented grunt, and a large pig darted past them into the single room of the dwelling.

Get Matty out of the room and keep her out, Rory, Mary called to the boy sitting on the bank behind the small vegetable patch at the back of the cottage. And Caitlin, bring the basket!

Ten-year-old Rory slithered down the bank, seized a long switch, and entered the cottage. His eight-year-old sister, Caitlin, grabbed the wide, shallow basket propped against the wall. While she and Bridget held its handles, their mother heaved up the heavy pot and poured its contents onto the wicker tray, carefully keeping clear of the hot water splashing through to the ground.

There was a hiss of steam and the smell of freshly cooked potatoes. One of the nicest crops we ever grew, but there aren’t many left, Mary said, turning to carry the basket indoors.

She stopped short in amazement as the figure of a tall man with stringy black hair hanging over the shoulders of his long overcoat swaggered jauntily toward them along the rough dirt road. Well, Paddy Coady! she exclaimed. Now, isn’t this a nice surprise! How did you know I cooked more praties than usual?

Couldn’t I smell them all the way from Reathmarten? the man replied, his black eyes dancing and lighting up the whole of his thin, brown face. Here, let me give you a hand with that. Open the door, Caitlin. And who’s this other young lady, so like the beautiful Mary. Sure it can’t be little Bridget? You must have grown about a foot since last time I was here.

Paddy Coady was a travelling peddler who made his living by trudging around the Irish countryside selling small sewing notions, like buttons and thread, needles and pins, ribbons and tapes, as well as plugs of tobacco, wicks for oil lamps, and even laces for anyone lucky enough to own a pair of shoes.

He carried all these small wares on a tray that hung around his neck on a piece of rope. It wasn’t the tray that intrigued Bridget, however, but rather the huge black overcoat hanging from his shoulders and weighted almost to the ground with an intriguing assortment of goods. The rows of inside pockets provided a safe haven for small bottles and boxes. There were also lengths of tightly folded lace and even ladies’ stockings and slippers. The bulging outside pockets were stuffed with spoons, knives, and forks. Pots and pans hung from a cord around his waist.

Before Caitlin could open the door, it was flung wide and Matty charged out, followed by both Rory and Daniel. While the boy chased the huge, complaining sow away, the two men greeted each other warmly.

Quickly, Bridget rummaged in a drawer for a crumpled tablecloth, and Mary flung the contents of the basket into the middle of it as soon as it was spread. She then checked the small pot where three large herrings were simmering, decided the fish was cooked, and poured it into a shallow, cracked dish, which she placed near the potatoes. The addition of a wooden pail, or piggin, filled with buttermilk, completed the preparations for the meal.

Daniel and Paddy drew up a small bench, Mary and Rory perched on three-legged stools, and the two girls sat side by side on bosses, which were low seats made of straw. The close resemblance between Mary Quinlan, her two daughters, and Rory was striking, for they all had the same round, rosy faces, the tangled, black curly hair, and the piercingly blue eyes of the true Celt. Equally striking was the contrast between them and their father, Daniel, a small, slender man with thinning, mouse-grey hair and green eyes set close together in a pale face.

Will we be starting without our Sean? Rory demanded.

If he can’t take the trouble to get himself here in time for the good food that’s been cooked for him, then he deserves to go hungry, his father replied.

Mary sighed as she bowed her head for the short blessing, and then everyone dug into the hot potatoes, breaking them open to dip them in the salt water around the herring and helping themselves to flakes of fish. The piggin was handed around from time to time, but Paddy Coady refused buttermilk. Nudging Daniel, he drew a bottle of Irish whiskey from inside his coat, and the two men sipped from this.

In spite of welcoming a guest to their table, the family was subdued throughout the meal. Mary became increasingly anxious as time passed and Sean did not appear. The eldest at fifteen, Sean was in many ways the odd one of the family. Although he was slim with pale skin and green eyes like his father, his thick, wavy hair was the colour of burnished copper.

He was different in temperament, too, from the rest of the family. While they argued and chattered, laughed and cried, sang or told stories, Sean would sit quietly in a corner of the cottage’s mud floor hugging his knees, lost in his own thoughts. Recently, he had taken to disappearing for hours at a time, sometimes returning after nightfall and refusing to say where he had been.

Whenever Mary expressed concern over this behaviour, Daniel would reply, Oh ’tis just a phase, to be sure. He’ll be searching for company his own age.

Why doesn’t he say so then? Mary demanded.

A young fellow needs his secrets was the only answer Daniel could give.

At last Mary stood up and seized the empty pot and piggin. Bridget immediately sprang up too, knowing that her mother would be taking them to the stream at the end of the village to be washed.

No need for you to bother yourself with the dishes tonight, Mary whispered. You stay here and entertain Mr. Coady.

Will I clear the table then? Bridget asked, eyeing the leftover potatoes.

Leave things as they are for a while, Mary replied. Sean’s sure to be hungry when he comes home.

It was on the tip of Bridget’s tongue to argue that she would rather help her mother, but that would have been a lie. Her real reason for wanting to accompany Mary was to hear all the latest gossip. On this mild, early spring evening, the women from the dozen or so houses that made up the tiny settlement of Blendarra would congregate and exchange the latest news, stretching out their chores till darkness fell.

With a sigh, Bridget turned from the door to where her father and Paddy were already settled for the evening. They had pulled the bench near to the smouldering peat fire, which was sending thick, slow spirals of smoke up to the chimney in the centre of the roof. Between them stood the bottle of whiskey.

Drink up now, Dan, said the peddler, handing the bottle to his friend.

Sure ’tis very civil of you, Paddy, Daniel replied, taking a swig. Your extremely good health, I’m sure.

’Tis the least I can offer in return for your generous hospitality, said Paddy. Sure there’s not a woman alive who can cook up a pot of potatoes as tasty as your Mary’s. He took a generous swallow of the liquor before handing it to Daniel again.

He then turned to face Bridget, who hovered uncertainly behind the bench. Come along now, young lady, no need to be shy. What are you giving us tonight then? Will it be a song or a dance or a poem? Might we be lucky and get all three? Now, wouldn’t that be wonderful!

Recite him the poem you learned in school last week, Dan suggested. The one about the shipwreck.

Moving around to the opposite side of the fire, Bridget spun dramatically on her bare feet to face the two men. She stood up straight, tossed her head, and took a deep breath before beginning. The poem was one her teacher, Miss Fitzgerald, had written herself. It was about a ship in sight of land after a long voyage when a vicious storm arose.

Bridget began quietly, carefully describing the journey and some of the passengers. Gradually, as the wind rose and churned the sea into thundering breakers, so did her voice gain in power and intensity. She was just building up to the most terrifying climax, where the ship was being buffeted helplessly toward an outcrop of rocks near the shore, when the door was flung open and Sean dived headlong into the room.

Paddy and Daniel, who had been totally enthralled by the recitation, turned to watch the sullen boy, his face and hair filthy, make straight for the table, where he sat noisily wolfing down the remaining cold potatoes.

Bridget stopped her performance halfway through a line of verse, stamping her foot and yelling, Can’t you do something, Da? He’s spoiled everything.

Before Daniel could reply, Mary strode into the room followed by Rory, who had seen his brother’s return from his favourite perch behind the cottage.

Well, it’s good of you to come home, I’m sure, Mary spluttered, unable to contain her anger, even if it is only the want of food that’s brought you.

Sean gave her a sheepish grin between mouthfuls but did not stop gulping down the potatoes until every single one was finished.

Fuming, Mary seized the cloth and stormed outside to shake out the scraps. When she returned, she grabbed Sean by the shoulders and shook him. "You