The Pirates of Clontarf

By Mary Ann Hart

Polly OBrien is a girl of twelve who is desperately trying to save her father from the clutches of alcoholism. While attending Catholic school in the 1950s, she aspires to write and figure out lifes mysteries without much guidance. Experiencing a frightening existence, she escapes by writing a book with the help of a ghost. Polly is visited by a spirit as she begins to pen a tale about the Irish Potato Famine.
The apparition helps her to create by relating her own Famine story, and offers some advice. Dailearie ODonovan, the visitation, tells of her adventures during the Famine in Ireland. By pirating and taking grain to county Mayo where their relatives previously died, she and her brothers hope to be the hand of Gods bounty.
This narrative describes coming of age before the era of information and the Internet, and the horrors of An Gorta Mr, The Great Hunger. It recounts the real difficulties that are often experienced by children and adults alike that have lived with someone suffering from alcoholism.
Both the spirit and the very young author eventually find solutions to the devastating problems they both encounter

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483670355

Mary Ann Hart

Mary Ann lives in the East Village of New York City with her husband and two cats. Starting to write at age seven, she never lost her interest in writing although fashion defined most of her working career. She doesn’t consider herself a “writer” but merely an emotionally damaged individual. Suffering from insistance of the nuns that she had a gift for writing from the time she was seven, she has written this book. An unusual interest in Irish history and Irish culture has been part of her entire life. Nineteenth century culture and sail boats have been an area of personal study. She is passionate about historic preservation, especially of Catholic churches. Mary Ann loves animals of all kinds and would have many more pets if her husband would allow it. She also maintains an strong interest in Old Time radio. Mary Ann graduated from Central Washington State University with a BA in English Literature and a minor in Art. She also has a certificate in French couture and a degree in Fashion Design from FIT.

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MARY ANN HART

Copyright © 2013 by Mary Ann Hart.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 10/07/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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1-888-795-4274

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Contents

Chapter 1 Polly and Her Father

Chapter 2 Ballina and Back

Chapter 3 Eggs For Breakfast

Chapter 4 Sailing with Captain Bryce

Chapter 5 Dailearie’s Adventure

Chapter 6 Polly’s Christmas

Chapter 7 Escape

Chapter 8 Polly Dreams of Romance

Chapter 9 The Real Adventure Begins

Chapter 10 Polly Becomes Violent

Chapter 11 The Bounty of God comes to County Mayo

Chapter 12 Friends and Dogs and Locked Doors

Chapter 13 Bread on the Water

Chapter 14 Graduation

Chapter 15 Dailearie’s Dreams

Chapter 16 Sacred Heart Academy

Chapter 17 1848 A New Life

Epilogue

DEDICATION:

This book is dedicated to my beloved husband, Juan, who cleaned, cooked, and carried an eighty pound computer table six blocks so that I could write this book.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

GOD IN ALL HIS MAGNIFICENT MANIFESTATIONS

Michael McIrvin (editor)

RESOURCES:

Famine by Liam O’Flaherty

Ireland’s Welcome to a Stranger by Abasentha Nichols

The History of the Great Irish Famine of 1847

and Notices of Earlier Irish Famines by John O’Rourke

The Graves are Walking by John Kelly

The Macdermots of Ballycloran by Anthony Trollope

The Meadow and the Bull A history of Clontarf by Dennis McIntire

Ocean Life in the Old Sailing Days by John D. Whidden

Sparrows and Amazons by Artur Ransom

Ionian Mission by Patrick O’Brian

Phantom Ship by Frederick Marryott

Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Henry Dana Jr.

Life Skills for Adult Children by Janet Wolitz Ed.D.

Adult Children of Alcoholics Literature

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Chapter 1

Polly and Her Father

Polly O’Brien hated walking down this roadway, hated coming home from school. She lifted the horseshoe latch on the gate, stepped through, and closed the gate again. Then she began the long walk down the dirt driveway, which gave her imagination time to build up dread. She kicked some of the larger stones and watched them roll down the trenches that had been made by persistent tires going over the roadway. She felt demoralized even at the sight of the dilapidated old farmhouse in the distance.

It was late fall, and the trees, barely clothed with a few shriveled leaves and frosted with white, waved against the sky. Next to the road was the huge acre of lawn that was a frozen grey blanket stretching far out in front of the house. She watched dried leaves being chased around by the wind on the lifeless grass. Overhead she saw only a somber white sky that cast a dull shadow over everything. November’s first frost was settling on Spokane Valley early this year.

As she came closer, the sentry oak tree near the house appeared and, too soon, the kitchen window came into sight. She felt fear and tension grip her chest as she visualized what she did not want to see and what she did not want to know. The window loomed up with every footstep, and Polly braced herself for what she would see in the window. Ah, yes, there was the disappointment. The awful tomato head was bobbing back and forth in the kitchen window.

She stared through the window, watching the head tilt to one side and then the other responding to an interior voice. Tomato head was the name Polly gave her father in her inner conversation to describe just how he looked when he was drinking.

My father is the smartest man in the world, a United States Navy Captain, and a very gifted violinist. When he is drinking, he is the stupidest, ugliest, and meanest man in the world. I have heard him play the violin once or twice. He plays so beautifully that it makes me think of angels, the sound so delicate and fine it is really not of this world. But now it just sits locked inside its case on top of the organ. I am supposed to never touch it. Now I hate his face. It gets bloated and red, and his jagged yellow teeth make his smile look hideous. His head bobs from side to side stupidly as phantoms rage through his mind, and he recounts some imagined insult. It irritates me. I wonder why my father has turned into this tomato head. Will the father I used to know ever return? If he loves me, and I know deep down he really must, he will give up this drinking. This all started when I was in the third grade. I am now in the seventh grade; it’s 1956 and he hasn’t gotten any better. I wonder if he will ever get better.

I have a brilliant idea: I will set mousetraps in his secret liquor cabinet. It will really be funny hearing his swearing as his fingers get caught in the traps.

Polly imagined being fully entertained by his profusion of profanity whenever he next reached into the overhead cupboard for a bottle. She made a mental note to set these traps for him as soon as he went to sleep this very afternoon. She believed he would wake up and become himself again once he realized that drinking was a huge and evil mistake. If he didn’t see it today, perhaps tomorrow, when he was sober again, he would know the truth about imbibing to excess.

Opening the dirty white storm door and the dingy kitchen door, she entered her home. Three small dogs came scampering to meet her. Bending down she gave each one a reassuring pat on the head.

The tomato head turned and spoke. Whadya learn in school today? it queried.

Nothing, Polly replied in a disgruntled voice. She took off her coat and folded it over the arm that held her schoolbag.

"Howwww can you learn nothing?" the tomato head slurred.

It isn’t hard, Polly replied in a sarcastic voice.

Those nuns over there are a bunch of stupid jackasses anyway. It does not surprise me that you learn nothing. That music nun… What’s her name? Cecilia Mary. She’s a real dumb one. Telling me there are more important things in music than basic scales. Humph, what a moron she is. What’s the name of that seventh grade nun who teaches you now?

Sister Morienna, Polly answered.

I hate these conversations. Can’t he just please shut up? Please, God. Just make him shut up.

I have a lot of homework to do. I’m going upstairs now.

Go on. Get something in that stupid head of yours, the tomato head advised.

Polly began to edge her way out of the kitchen, leaving the tomato head babbling in the distance. She was glad that more badgering didn’t follow her. Sometimes he would hold her captive for an hour or more with inane questions. Her mother was still at work, and would be until 10:00. She would not be home until 10:30 or after. Polly was the keeper of her father and witness to his misbehavior until then. When her mother finally got home, Polly would talk to her for only a little while, going to bed late. She was always sleepy at school the next day. When she was in bed she could hear her father yelling at her mother downstairs. Janet O’Brien would listen to her drunk husband berate her for everything imaginable. Her mother had told Polly how much she resented waking up in the morning for her daughter because she went to bed late.

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Polly heard the outside dogs barking in their kennel. The sound of those dogs out in the cold made Polly shudder. Her father was trying to be a dog breeder, and there were fifteen Toy Manchesters outside in a very cold old chicken house with a fenced-in dog run.

She climbed the stairs and the three inside Toy Manchester Terriers followed her up the stairs, their toenails clicking on the way. Upstairs in her bedroom, she felt safe again. The dogs, jumped up on the bed one by one and made themselves comfortable. Polly hung her coat in the closet and set her plaid book bag on the bed beside the dogs. Her school blouse could still be worn tomorrow and the navy blue gabardine skirt needed no cleaning yet. The school uniform was ready for an another day. As she pulled on flannel-lined jeans and twisted her arms into the sleeves of a flannel shirt, she watched herself in the full-length mirror. She weighed five pounds more than the other girls in her class who were her height. Self-examination left her dissatisfied. She was buxom and short, but not short enough to be cute. Her nose was too wide and ugly. If anybody ever loved her, it would be for her long dark hair, her pale skin, and her talent.

It was cold upstairs. The house was a story and a half that had been built by homesteaders. Having been added onto several times by various owners, every room had an architectural nightmare lurking somewhere. The three rooms upstairs were Polly’s playroom, bedroom, and an unfinished attic. There were no heat registers upstairs in the half-story, the only warmth what could travel up the stairway when the second story door was left open. Polly’s head was only a few inches from under the dangling glass light cover that hung overhead on three little chains from the bedroom ceiling. She stood for a few minutes under the light in front of the mirror looking around at the sloping ceiling in her bedroom. She wondered why they made half-story houses. She wondered if half-stories were just for children…

The walls in the playroom sloped too and were covered with black mildew. The playroom was freezing in cold weather because the porch was on the first floor below and sent cold air and dampness up into room. Heavy drapes served as a wall to separate the playroom from the bedroom. There was hardly ever a reason to go into the playroom anymore.

Polly’s bedroom always made her happy. The old marbled wood desk with its shiny shellac, flickering at the mere suggestion of any light, made her smile. There was also her mother’s old black streamliner trunk with JCO in gold letters under leather handles on either end. Her mother kept beautiful old family things in the trunk that stayed there forever but were always fun to rummage through now and again. The walls were painted a dull blue and the ceiling was very low, slanting with the house gables. The closet had a full-length mirror on the door. The ceiling light bulb was covered with a an ill-fitting ornamental glass cover and hung precariously from its three chains. The old rug from her aunt’s house was on the floor, and a doll crib was in the corner. It was blonde wood like her bed in the corner draped with a silk patchwork quilt, her nightstand, and dresser.

The greatest beauty of the Polly’s bedroom was the pine tree visible right outside her window. Polly called it the pine tree window. From this window could be seen the most extravagant sunsets. Against the brilliant orange and exploding gold was the single black silhouette of the pine tree. The vigilant pine stood witness to the sky, the time of day, the weather, the dogs in the yard in the all the seasons for all the years. As Polly looked from her bedroom window she imagined many things. The pine tree was at times a steady friend who seemed to know all the secrets of her world. It stood there with approval and encouragement.

She surveyed her family of neglected dolls that sat huddled together in their crib: Twinkle the bride doll, Karen the evening-dress doll, and the baby doll with the crying face. Angela, the tiny-tears doll, sat beside her diaper bag. Mrs. O’Brien said it was time for Polly to give up dolls, but Polly didn’t want to give them up yet.

On the other side of the bedroom was the attic. Polly slid the latch to the side that opened the door, then stepped up and into the old attic. Immediately the familiar smell of old dry wood and dust surrounded her. The cold in this room was almost unbearable this time of year. Tiny pin holes of light burst through the aged cedar shingles, and although, mysteriously, the roof never leaked, those daylight dots were always there.

At the far end of the rustic attic was a small window through which clouded daylight reached and settled dimly on the floor. Right above the tiny four-paned window was a beehive. At first the hive scared Polly, but year after year not a single bee could be seen and so she was pretty sure it was abandoned. Nobody wanted to remove it, including Polly, for it might be full of bee ghosts or something. The ceiling followed the shape of the roof and there was barely enough room for Polly to stand up in the center.

By the attic door was her writing desk, an old Navy footlocker covered with a tablecloth. An antique Dirkin’s liquor bottle holding a single candle sat on the desk along with a dip pen, a bottle of ink, and a pile of papers. On the wall hung a large framed print of a sailing ship at sunset. The orange sun, silvery green water, and the voluminous sails excited Polly’s vision and imagination. The picture had been purchased at Woolworth’s for a very reasonable price. She thought it was the most beautiful picture she had ever seen and bought it with her allowance money.

By the side of her writing desk was a jar of experimental apple cider brewing. Polly knew that, if you let apple juice sit, it will turn to vinegar; and if you let it sit longer, it will turn to wine. Today she unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a long sip of the cloudy liquid. She hadn’t checked it for a long time. It had indeed turned to wine and made her wince as the strong liquid seemed to cut her mouth with acid. It was terrible. She put the cap back on the bottle and set it down. Her father’s sister, whom Polly called Nanty, had told her about The Pledge in Ireland. Polly had taken her own personal pledge, a promise to God not to drink ever. Curiosity about the capabilities of apple cider, however, had led to this experiment.

The attic had no electricity, and so lighting a candle was necessary. Kneeling before the footlocker, Polly carefully lit the single candle. Then she picked up the bottle of brown ink with the little diamond shapes in the glass all around. Examining it, she supposed the texture was to keep people from dropping it.

There was something very unusual, and indeed frightening, about this old house that she called home, but especially the attic. Polly was sure the house had a secret of some kind. If she could find the mystery, she could write about it.

She opened her manuscript and began to read what she had already written. Polly was writing a story about the Great Famine in Ireland. When her father was sober and therefore intelligent, he spoke about Irish history and his orphaned mother’s flight from County Monaghan with five brothers and sisters. Sister Morienna, her teacher, was from Ireland and had given Polly a book about Irish history, which Polly read from cover to cover.

As she dipped her pen into the ink, she was becoming increasingly aware that there was something different about the attic today. The sense of unknowing seem to intensify with the silence, which was broken only by dogs barking in the distance. The very atmosphere was very unusual and frightening. This was something more than horror of the Famine or the anticipation of writing.

From the dark shadows near the attic wall, a small light slowly began to appear. At first Polly thought one of the shingles had come loose and now daylight was streaming though into the dark room. But then the light became more visible and began to grow. This was not the product of a loose cedar shingle. Polly searched the room to find the source of the strange glow because it was not coming from the candle or the window. She could not find the source. The luminescence continued to grow larger as Polly stared at it with disbelief and fear. It became as large as a person and the light and shadows began to play, forming shapes that started to look like a face and a body.

Oh, no. I can’t be having a vision. I’m not nearly holy enough for that. Saints have visions.

She heard the apparition speak, but it was not in a voice that came from the form in front of her. The voice was right inside Polly’s head.

"I am the spirit of one who has lived in the past. From the ethers I have learned that you are interested in the time of An Gorta Mór. I lived during that time, and I can tell you about it if you’re willing. I can tell you perhaps more that you might want to know."

What is An Gorta Mór? And who are you? More importantly, what are you? Polly spoke aloud.

The figure giggled a little. In a lilting voice with a soft Irish accent, the vision answered, "Yes, I am a spirit. An Gorta Mór is The Great Hunger in the Irish language. My name is, or rather was, Dailearie O’Donovan, or Dailearie O’Donovan Duffy. After marriage I was Mrs. Liam Duffy, but you may call me Dailearie if it pleases you. And what might your name be?"

My name is Polly O’Brien, Polly Eileen O’Brien, Polly said out loud."

Now it seemed to Polly that these things were coming from her own mind or imagination, but the figure before her flickered and grew brighter. Finally it looked as though the girl was almost as solid as Polly and clearly not a figment of her imagination. Now and then she would become only slightly transparent. The girl had bare feet and was wearing an ankle-length plaid dress covered by a long white apron. She wore a heavy black jacket and a strange hat that was folded back in front with a circular ribbon decoration. The hat was too big for her; it looked like a man’s hat.

I can tell you about my adventures during those terrible years. I had the most exciting times and the most terrible times. I had some dangerous adventures with my brothers. My time during the Famine would make a fine story for you.

This is most unusual to have a spirit who is really from Ireland and who was a real person help me write my story. What more could I want? She seems very much like the character that I had started to write about.

Where exactly are you from? Polly asked, speaking aloud again. Are you from Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory?

Well, I come from the most beautiful place that you can imagine, but I made a choice to help people on earth. Sometimes people who die young are given the opportunity to forego heaven for a short while and help people on earth if they want to do that.

So, you are actually a saint? Polly asked in her most demanding voice.

Well, I wouldn’t call me that. Actually, more people get to heaven than is generally thought. Everybody who wants heaven is accepted after a time. They must repent their sins or mistakes and believe in love, which everybody does.

How do you say your name again? Polly asked.

It is pronounced Day’Le Ree’. It is a name from our native language.

You look a bit like the character I had in mind for my story. Is that just a coincidence?

No, asthore. Very often writers are visited by people who have lived and died. Sometimes they are aware of it but many times not. They think it is their own imagination. In this case, I have simply come to help you if you want my help and to tell you my real story. I have my reasons, which I’ll tell you in time.

Of course I want your help. I don’t suppose I will ever get to Ireland myself, and so your help is a wonderful gift. I guess I would be your ghostwriter then. How do you think we should start your story? Polly now spoke silently within her own consciousness.

Well, let’s see now. I think we should start with looking back to the letter. The letter started it all.

Polly picked up her stenographer’s notebook and her newest black and white Paper Mate ballpoint pen and began taking notes.

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Clontarf Ireland 1846

Ciarán came running into the house with a letter that he had just brought back from the local post office. He was happy to do tasks that brought him the approval of his father or four older brothers and sister. Running into the cabin, he frightened several unsuspecting chickens in the doorway. He delivered the letter to his father as it was addressed to him. Declan O’Donovan walked outside where the light was good for reading. Scowling, the older man opened the letter and began to read. His expression became grave as his eyes swept across the paper.

Going around to the back of the house, he called to his oldest son who was out in the field, Orion come here! Come around. Then he called to the rest, Everybody, come here!

Dailearie and her other brothers—Brion, Malachy, Ciarán, and Tommy—gathered together in front of their cabin where their father was standing. The bright sun made them squint. Declan gave the letter to Orion, the oldest.

Read this aloud for us, he ordered.

Dearest Brother,

I am barely able to write. Since the crops failed more harm and sorrow has come to the west than you can imagine. Pádraig died a few weeks ago, and Annie and I are alone with no food and no money. Ballina has become the Vatican of starvation and death. If you could help us in any way, I am sure you would be blessed by our Lord Jesus. I would not ask if it were not that we are absolutely destitute.

Love from your sister,

Jennie

Good God, what is going on there? Declan muttered while brushing his white hair back with his hand and frowning. That does not sound like Jennie. She was always proud and full of temper. Pádraid died of what? And there is no one in a Christian land to help them? Isn’t the government doing something over there? We’re poor enough here in Clontarf, beggars everywhere. But I thought they were alright in Ballina.

I think some of us should go to Ballina with whatever we have and try to help them, Dailearie said immediately. Da is right. Something terrible must be going on over there, worse than here or she would not have written such a letter.

We have to go right away to Ballina to help Jennie and Annie, Orion announced as he looked out at the fields. "I have heard rumors that many are dying of starvation and disease there. There is no time