A Spirit of Place

By Jeff Townsend

It is January 1835 as a newly-orphaned thief gathers what meager possessions she can find, places them in a hessian bag, and barely escapes with her life. When her journey leads her to the squalor and poverty of Cork, Ireland, Cherokee Rose Harper is viewed as just another raggedy street urchin. But what no one knows is that she is being pursued by those who want nothing more than to punish her for her crime.

With her only kin, her brother, away fighting as a mercenary, Cherokee Rose seemingly has no choice but to travel as far away as possible. After she disguises herself, she secures a job as a cabin boy on the ship, Neva, bound for the colony of New South Wales. While aboard, she befriends a young man, Ruian Conner, who protects her secret. Four months later when the Neva is wrecked in Bass Straight, Cherokee is rescued by a group of whalers and taken to mainland Australia where she is saved by an aboriginal, Wajum, who soon leads her on an unforgettable adventure across the grand continent.

A Spirit of Place is the historical tale of a young orphan’s journey across the seas from everything she knows to a new life in mainland Australia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Dec 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781982296308

Jeff Townsend

Jeff Townsend currently resides in Casino, Australia.

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Copyright © 2023 Jeff Townsend.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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ISBN: 978-1-9822-9629-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-9630-8 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date:  12/07/2022

Contents

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Postscript The Aftermath

Authors Note

Acknowledgements

This book is part of the ‘Australiana’ series.

The First Series

Book 1:            A Spirit of Place (1830- 1841)

Book 2:            A Place of Spirits (1850- 1880)

The Second Series

Book 1:            Dare to Dream (1788-1791)

Book 2:            Dream to Dare (1860-1918)

            ‘We are all visitors to this time,

this place. We are just passing through.

            Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow,

to love… And then we return home.’

Aboriginal proverb

‘A’mong all floures of the world the floure of the rose is

chief and beerth ye pryse. For by fayrness they feed the

sight and playseth the smell by ordour, the touch by soft

hanslynge. And wythstondeth and socoureth by vertue

against many syknesses and evrylles.’ Batholomeus Angelicus

DE PROPRIETATIBUS RERUM 1398

‘All Aborigines from Sydney onwards are to be made prisoners of war and if they resist they are to be shot and their bodies hung from trees in the most conspicuous places near where they fall, so as to strike terror into the hearts of surviving natives.’

Governor Lachlan Macquarie Orders to soldiers in 1816

‘The Irish are distinguishable by the making of

loyal friends and determined enemies.’

                                                Source unknown

Dedication

To my very own Irish rose...my wife, Robyn.

Part One

1.

There is no pain like the loss of a mother. Cherokee Rose wiped away yet more tears. They just wouldn’t stop. Come on lass, her Da said, There’ll be time fer yer grievin’ later. There is workin’s to be done. Grab ‘old of the other end lass.

Rose bent her nine-year-old frame over and picked her mother’s legs already wrapped in a sheet of swaddling, off the bed with a heave and followed her Da out the door of the humble cottage. She braced herself for the cool air and dampness of the late summer evening and followed unceremoniously the backward footsteps of her Da. She noticed the weakness, the tiredness and the strain in his weathered features that belied his 45 years. He masked the sadness, for her sake but she knew. This was a woman whom he loved most devotedly for far more than her nine years.

It was only a short, but long carry to the tree on their few acres that were wedged between road and rocky out climb, that no one else would dare try and scratch out a living. There was only one tree amongst the potato crops that hung sickly and limply with the disease that rotted its produce in the very soil that they stood, squelching between her bare toes. Gently they lowered the body. The hole was already dug, not very deep for the rock there too was a barrier to any promised land. With a counting of three, one final lift placed the body into the crevice.

If you know any prayers lass now is the time to say them? There were no priests around to do a proper service. Father Reynolds was he, himself with a sickness, bedridden and his off sider, young Father Kelly was called away for his own mother’s ill health. Rose had stopped her crying with the effort required. For a moment it ceased to be her mother, her womb of birth, her love and her life and became another chore to be done. But now the tears started to well again.

Ma I don’t know what I will do without you but I will be strong and take care of Da for you, she promised. I am glad that your suffering has ended for I know you were hiding the worst from us and I know that where your spirit will be going, there will be happiness and good health and lovely days, your own Ma and Da and your other children that has been lost to us. I know their need is greater than mine and that they need you but always remember Ma; there is always a whole lot of love down here. She stopped, the sobbing overtaking any audible words that she tried to speak. And I love you Ma. She heard her Da’s words follow but not one word was registering. She knew he had finished when Da picked the first rock and placed it on the grave. One by one they picked up the rocks and covered the body. No earth, he said as she scooped a handful, It is tainted. She doesn’t deserve that.

There were plenty of rocks to be sure. Finally wedged at the top of the cairn, Da placed a cross of white timber. It was only two boards, crossed and nailed perpendicular to each other. The name, Molly Harper was carved into the horizontal piece. It matched three other smaller crosses that bore the names Jo-Anne, Mary and Mikey Harper.

Cherokee Rose had another half-brother much older than herself. He was away fighting, a soldier of fortune last heard of fighting in Denmark in the Holstein and Schleswig German states with King Frederick V11’s forces. This was after his action in France with revolutionary forces. She knew not much about Tyler, only that he was the son from her mother’s first husband and a much more affluent and noble life she gave up for her Da. She didn’t know how long she stayed there until she felt her Da’s hand on her shoulder. Come on lass. It’s time, he said. They stood and looked a last time. It was near on dark by now. She thought how bare the grave looked and a plan hatched in her young mind.

Finally she followed her Da, each grabbing an armful of kindling for the fire and to heat the pot of broth that sat as it always did on the fireplace.

2.

The long black leech was held up to the dull light of the dual candles and examined. He’s a little beauty. Doctor Obadiah Tempest poked it with his finger. It wriggled from its two-finger hold on the other hand. Hirudo Medicinatis, he said, all the way from Sweden this little fellow. It was about three inches in length, blackish brown in colour, marked on the back with six yellow spots. Becoming hard to get too you know but I believe there is a new- found supply from France.

Ma winced. She hated them. They were applied to her body to suck out the bad blood and she had plenty of it. It was not a good colour and the bruises on her body seem to come up on her of no account. It wasn’t just that they were leeches; it was the fact that they stayed there for so long, up to four hours. She, lying still there for that time just watching them do their bit, just blood sucking away. The area of application needed to be thoroughly clean, free from hair and liniments. The leeches needed to be hungry, for to work they needed to bite and take hold. Port wine or blood was used to entice their appetite and when they had finally gorged themselves to excess, fall off, extracting a considerable quantity, two drachmas of blood with it. Six leeches feasted an ounce of blood each.

Cherokee liked the Doctor. Obadiah gave one to Cherokee. That end’s the eyes. She looked at it closely. Actually they are just light sensitive parts of the body, no different to any other. She liked him for he held no pretensions.

So much to learn, he kept on saying, and so much we’re still to know about this body of ours and the things that make it sick or better. Far too many mysteries still to be solved I am sorry to say. He wasn’t young, nor was he old to Cherokee. It was his friendly, amiable nature in a world of sickness and the dying. She wondered how he did it.

Ma had been sick since Jo-Anne was born. Jo Jo came into this world, lived almost a year and then duly left it. Ma’s health seemed to correspond to that as well. They tried to have further children. She carried them for the term but each one lived less, Mary for three months and Mikey for one.

What do you think it is? he said to her. Cherokee looked. Male or female? She turned it around and around. She knew they were sensitive to touch, temperature and drying but the sex of it! Female, she said.

And pray tell why?

It’s doing all the work.

Ha! Ha! he said with a smirk. Very funny little one. It’s both. Both! she said screwing up her nose in surprise.

The leech has both the male and female organs to reproduce. He continued. Surprisingly there are a number of animals like that. Fascinating isn’t it?

Though only half the fun wouldn’t you say Doctor?

Well we will avoid that little question with this one’s young ears won’t we Mrs. Harper? Why Doctor thank you! Ma said. I’m flattered.

How long she looked into the cleansing purity of the flames of the fire she didn’t know. Da took the last of his dram of whisky and drank and then withdrew and played his tin whistle. She recognized many a tune as Ma’s favourites. She wondered what they would do, a worthless farm, no money, the last of it being used on yet another doctor called to her ailments just the other day. This time it was water. The leeches had run their course without success in Ma’s case.

The piss prophet had held the urine sample and studied the water, its colour, and its viscosity and then added some chemical to change its colour. He was younger, the new doctor, far more matter of fact, methodical and scientific and he played the part to perfection, dramatics and all. His black hair was plastered down with oil and when one strand moved, like in sudden jerky movement; the lot did, bemusing Cherokee. He swished and swirled the mixture, smelt it with a flare of nostril and at one stage she thought, to her horror, was about to drink it but he just hummed and ha-ed and scribbled something on a writing pad of sorts. In the end he just pursed his lips which seemed to furrow every part of his face, from forehead to his chin and mumbled something about more tests, and hurriedly packed his bags and left, taking the coinage with him, fiddling and jingling within his hand. Cherokee thought it all a marvelous show of wizardry and science but for her Ma, she was all too sure it was all too late.

Blood and water, in some ways, they were right. Since baby Mikey died and his birth, her ma had lost just too much of both. Even Cherokee Rose knew that. By the time her own eyes drooped shut and she lay by the fireside ready to sleep she realized the music had stopped, her Da in his dreaming, dead to the world in his chair, the empty ceramic bottle and mug lying on the floor-side, it’s task, now completed. He reminded her of a Nordic warrior.

That’s what Ma called him at times, her mad Viking, for that’s where his ancestry lay. Not that he wasn’t a proud Irishman, to say the least but he was equally proud of his Scandinavian heritage. Her eyes too finally gave way to sleep, an early morning mission on her mind.

3.

It was going to be another bleak dawn Rose thought as she slipped through the door into darkness in the hour before its rise. Her father was out to it still, the drink lulling him into the deepest of sleep. He snored slightly. She was tempted to pull a cover, an eiderdown or so over his body but thought it may disturb him, awaken him and ruin her plans. She pulled the shawl around her own shoulders and headed to the road. The North Atlantic breeze would bring in rain later that day she knew but at the moment it was the mist and the fog that was settling a veil over the fields. Some blamed the Rose gardens where she was heading for the potato blight, the prime flowers of the Lord and Manor smitten with black spot, mildew and rust of late but she knew it not to be so. How could anything of such beauty and loveliness as the flowers bring such evil? It had to be the fog and mist. One had only to be up at this hour to see its deadly shrouds blanketing the land so that one could not breathe, let alone the humble potato to grow. She pulled a scarf across her mouth and nose so that its peril within would be thwarted.

Her Ma loved the flowers. All Cherokee wanted was one, one solitary rose for her Ma’s grave. She knew which one she wanted, her ma’s favourite. Often she walked with her Ma past the fields of trellis climbing roses and she would stop, admire, and whiff its sweet-smelling scents and odors on the wind. She used to work here for the lord once and she knew them all. Tending and pruning the flowers, grafting and planting the delicate roses, she slaved for many hours of the day for him. It was more than employment, her wages barely enough to cover the lease of the patch of earth he had a hide to call a farm. She had a passion and a love for her work. After all her Ma had named her after a rose, the Cherokee Rose. A Chinese beauty her Ma said that really took off in the new colonies of America, in the south and given it, its name. Ma used to say it was just like me, a single white bloom with attractive golden stamens. For Rose’s hair underneath the tightly drawn shawl and bonnet was fair. Da said it was the Nordic blood. But then Da also blamed the rose farm for her sickness, all the bits, pieces, and chemicals the head gardener from Holland would have them do. Why can’t he let them be? he used to say. Grow the natural way, the way God planned it. She would never know with Da whether it was God or Odin or some other form of Valhalla he was referring to and demanding an injustice fixed.

She was soon at the fence that protected the prize roses from intruders. Warning signs were everywhere. ‘Keep Out!’ and ‘Trespassers will be shot on sight!’ And it had happened. The Lord had the protection of the law. He had lost some of his plants to the starving peasants who sought the produce to sell enough for a loaf of bread or a few vegetables. Rose did not own many clothes but she knew that dark garments would be the best for her deed today. She climbed the tall stonewall by reaching up with her hands and hoisting herself up and over. The dawn light was just reaching out its long fingers of morning. Jumping down into the soft nurtured soil, there was just enough daylight for her to see and make her way among the tall frames and climbing rose plants. Row after row she searched the varieties, the fog and misty air making it more difficult than it should have been. In the stillness of morning there was the crow of cockerels and the barking of dogs. She stopped and checked herself. She was down wind, the best place to be for scent as her Da had taught her. There were dogs patrolling the farm, hunting dogs, Irish setters on leash from the overseer and groundmen.

Finally she found it, the Desprez a Fleurs Jaunes. Rose loved the way the French just rolled off her tongue as she said it. She picked the buff yellowish coloured flower from the cluster it was bound to, its long shoot making it easy to pick. The rich fruity fragrance was already filling her nostrils among with the bouquet of other sensations. She realized she dwelt far too long when the sound of the dog became more frequent and louder with its closeness. Clutching the rose inside her shawl for protection she ran. She only afforded one glance over her shoulder and in the break between the disappaiting mists, she saw the blood red mahogany coats of a pair of Setters.

A few steps later she leapt upon the wall hoisting her frame up and onto the top. She could have done it in one fluid movement but she checked herself, inside her shawl to make sure she still had the rose, lost the fluency, and caused her to stumble. Satisfied she boosted herself again as the yapping teeth of canines bit at her and the air around her disappearing legs. One caught the trailing petticoat and tore a strip from its hem as the figure’s shape jumped from view.

Good boyo, the broad panting voice from the other side of the fence called. That’ll teach the bastards. He reached down and took the piece from its mouth and studied carefully. Seems we have a piece of skirt here boy. This’ll be interesting. He leashed the dogs and took them back to his small hut and picked up his musket.

Jordie! he called. Grab your gun man! We have a lead. He bent to the two dogs and rubbed the material sample in their nose. Find them boys! Let’s go. Find them! Jordie, his young off-sider appeared with his musket under arm. Let’s go and find this little thief.

Oh how her Ma would love this, Rose thought as she ran across the fields to the graveside. This was the flower that arrived all the way from France and China on the day Ma had started to work. The Lord said it was as pretty as my Ma was and it was known locally as Molly’s Bloom. She loved that job and this flower and it thrived under her care. And now, Rose thought, She will meet her Maker with the flower on her breast, the fragrance on her lips.

She scurried as quickly as her legs could carry her, not once looking back to any followers. It was a hurry just to get back before her Da woke up for he would sure take the briar bush to her and skin her alive if he found out. She hitched the skirt and undergarments up to clear the rock and stubble of greenery unaware of the piece missing taken by the dog. The shawl had fallen loosely from her shoulders and the heat of running had lessened the need. By the time she reached the sad pile of rocks she was a lather of perspiration. Exhausted, she slumped to her knees and removed the top couple of rocks. At last the cloth atop her Ma’s body was revealed. Carefully she took the delicate petals of the flower from her blouse. There was more apricot and yellow to the colour of the bloom now that the full light of day was upon it. She kissed the petals and placed it upon the stone. With a few fallen petals, loose within her clothing she placed them on her Ma’s lips and nose. Just as carefully as she pulled the rocks from her, she gently placed them back in close proximity to their original position so that her Da would know no better.

The dogs barking came long before their appearance. At first she thought it was for some other reason that the dogs would be barking than for her. Her ears pricked up and honed into their direction. They were certainly coming closer. Finally she saw the hounds appear from a cloud of low fog that huddled the road, straining at the leash with the two gun totting men. At the same time she saw the torn petticoat ends. It’s frayed, jagged edge could only mean one thing, the dogs, and they had her scent.

Da stirred a number of times but the sore head and unwelcome sunshine only caused him to hide further away from the discomfort with a grunt. But alas as his position sought the shaded areas it was only a matter of time until it caught up with him. Finally the sound of dogs stood him to his feet and to the open shutter. Through the window he could see the dogs biting at the bit, leaping with excitement, coming up the road. And there by the tree and the graveside was his little Rosie. He wiped his face with the palm of his hands, starting in the middle of his work- hardened features and spreading outwards. "What is that young bairn up to, be Jesus?

He watched her rearrange the rocks of her Ma’s grave. Now he was curious. He stepped into the full light of the doorway and immediately cursed it and the drink that seemed to cover his mind in fuzz. Staggering a few steps he moved towards her into the open space and stronger light. The men had stopped and were pointing towards his Rose.

Now what would they be doing that for? His hand had moved to the scratching of his head before he realized it was so. Eventually his hand pushed what was left of his thinning blond locks back behind his right ear. Dogs bounded off the leash towards his girl.

No you don’t you bastards. The words rose from the spoken form to a yell as he realized the consequences unfolding before him.

Rose saw the dogs too, bounding towards her in great ferocious leaps. She stood and started to run. Da pitched the first block of wood he could grasp from the woodheap. It landed in front of the lead dog and bounced off the ground up into the air. The first dog straddled it with ease. The second piece of timber followed in quick succession. It connected with the second, sending it tumbling over in a yelp of wounds.

Da! Rose screamed, Da! Up the tree Rose.

Rose detoured towards the tree completing an almost 45 degree turn to the right. She clambered up the trunk as Da moved towards her, the axe from the wood heap gripped for a murderous defense. The dog jumped and snarled with tongue and teeth poised and in a spray of slobber. The men following and panting in exhaustion to keep up whistled for its return but to no avail. It kept on leaping and snapping at Rose’s feet.

Call yer bloody dogs off yer bastards! he yelled, and get off my land!

The dog made an almighty plunge and dug its claws into the bark and before gravity and momentum started its slide ground-wards grabbed hold of Rose’s ankle. The axe flew swiftly through the air and into the body of the Setter. A bright spurt of red shot from its contact as it fell to the ground.

That’s my dog you murderer! Ollie yelled. You Irish bastard.

And that’s my daughter! he yelled back, fire in his eyes,. And get off my land you thugs and leave my family alone. The gun rose to Ollie’s shoulder.

No Ollie! Jordie yelled. Noooo! Rose screamed.

Da saw it coming too and didn’t know if it was he or Rosie that was the target so he lurched for her, pushing her body backward out of the tree. The gun fired. Da fell. He was facing Rose. She knew not what happened after the gun’s explosion rang out but a hole appeared in his chest as something shot out and into the tree, a fountain of blood and bits of body in unison. Da’s eyes dropped slowly to the bright red patch that surrounded the hole in his chest. For a moment his eyes locked on Rose’s eyes. He tried to tell her so much in those few valuable seconds, with his eyes fixed upon her and finally as his knees first wilted and dropped, in death. She screamed repeatedly before standing and going to him.

She knew it was all too late; the stare of Da’s was a deadly stare. She had seen it before.

4.

The two men went scurrying up the road, a limping dog in toe muttering about getting the Lordship and the law and getting their story right. It was then and there that Cherokee Rose Harper made the decision to set her life in a new direction, to go despite her despair and grief. Her Da lay dead before her, her mother’s grave still new, both parents dead. The farm under her feet was dead too, useless for naught but raising rocks, the crop of potato rotting, rent owing to the Lord. Yes this farm, this land, this country had meant nothing to her and her family but sadness.

Dragging, rolling side over side and pulling the weight, she moved her Da back to the house. It exhausted her but it was only a matter of time until Ollie and Jordie would be back, with help and no doubt with a story that cleared them from all wrong doing. She had seen and heard it many times in the tiny commune. Her Da’s past brush with authority, a case in point.

I’m sorry Da, she said moving him another inch or two Forgive me. I know you would like to lie next to Ma and your children but with the time I have left here this is the best I could do. They will take me to a home Da for I am an orphan now and a thief and there is no way out from those workhouses. This I got to do Da. I hope you understand.

Finally she reached the doorway to the ramshackle cottage and placed him on the earthen floor. She found his tin whistle from the ledge above the fireplace and placed it on his chest. Needing a weapon, she ran to the tree where the dog lay dead, axe head buried within the animal and retrieved the bloodied implement.

There, she said placing it in his hands, A true Viking Da. Blood on the axe head. Now for your Valhalla. Gathering together what meager possessions she could find and with a few items of food, placed them in a hessian bag, pulling the drawstring tight. From a ceramic bowl on the shelf she extracted the last of all the coppers and placed them into the small pocket in her dress. There was still some of the liquor in a jug and she poured what was there all about the place. She then turned to the fireplace. Taking a piece of timber in each hand from the hearth, a long stick burning at the end, she bent and kissed her father.

Bye Da. Thanks for all you’ve done for me, my Ma and my family. God take care of them and love them as much as I do. She walked outside stopping just briefly for one last look. With both hands she tossed the flaming torches in a Roman candle of cinders, cartwheeling onto the roof’s thatching. It was dry and prime for burning. Within seconds the construction was a fireball, a funeral pyre in true Norseman tradition.

There, she said. Da. A true Viking funeral. Go with my love. Go to your family and loved ones and your Valhalla. She watched the heat, the flames, the cinders rise until it became a blackish gray smoke and finally that too disappeared to the blue gray sky.

By the time the crowd of neighbours gathered to assist, armed with their bucket brigade and the law with the overseers, a new pair of dogs by their side, she was away from there, hidden behind a rock on the steep rock out climb that bordered the impossibility of a farm. Bye Da, she whispered and it was only then she allowed herself the feeling of tears rolling down her cheeks. With the embers of fire rising slowly and the stark white crosses, one large and three small under the tree she whispered a verse.

When stormy winds are passed and gone Shall quiet calm return

I often saw in ashes dust Lie hidden coals of fire

With good attention mark your mind You will a secret question find Sweet is the secret; mark it well Heart for heart, so now farewell.

There was no pain like losing two parents in two days.

5.

County Clare, situated on the west coast of Ireland in the province of Munster is to many an Irishman, God’s little piece of heaven. But to many of those who left in chains bound for convict destinations or to over a hundred thousand that emigrated from it, it was anything but for the last they saw of it.

Cherokee Rose was one of them.

From the Atlantic coast striking seven hundred feet high Cliffs of Mohr, to the Shannon River in the south and east, to what was the prehistoric forested but now virtually treeless plains of Limerick was the home of such names as the McMahon, McNamara, O’Brien, Maloney, Ryan, Kelly, McInerney, O’Conner, Keanne, O’Halloran, Hogan, Burke, Murphy, Lynch and Walsh, all from the Celtic, Viking and Norman ancestry that invaded its shores. They settled in places with the names of Ennis, Kilrush, Kilkee, Miltown Malbay, Ennistymon, Ballyvaughan, Corofin, Sixmilebridge, Newmarket-On-Fergus, Killaloe, Scariff, Feakle, Quin, Kilfenora, Lisdoonvarna, Liscannor, Broadford, Kildysart, Mullagh Quilty and Tulla.

It was from Tulla to Ennis, some eight miles away that Cherokee Rose headed. She should have covered that in half a day but progress was slow, always looking over the shoulder for what was behind and forever vigil on the oncoming road. She rationed her food, every four hours allowing herself a crust of bread and a handful of the cold porridge she scooped out of the ceramic pot she carried among her meager supplies and possessions. At every hint or sign of passing trespassers she jumped aside, hiding in a ditch, behind a rock or tree or wherever else she could seek refuge.

It was just on her approach to Ennis that caused her most concern. A contingent of mounted men easily telegraphed their oncoming progression. She had time to run to a stone bridge ahead that crossed a piddling of a stream. There was bare enough ground for her to wedge her frame into the darkened cavern. The horses were only in canter mode, the slow gait rhythmical on the stone and hardened ground.

She’s long gorn be now I tell ya Sarge. Shut up and keep yer eyes peeled Man. Yes Sir.

He’s right though Sarge. She could be anywhere, a third said.

Well yud better hope she ain’t. It could mean long hours in the saddle for you all. Two horses stopped mid bridge while the third rider dismounted.

What’s the matter with you? I gotta piss Sarge.

For Christ sake man. It’s only an hour past you were pissin’ all over the trees back there. He’s like those dogs of his Sarge, markin’ his territory.

Check under the bridge while yer there Jordy.

Aye, Aye Sir! The drain of water first flooded and then dried to a dribble then a drip as he stood atop of where she hid, his efforts over the side of the bridge finally drained."

Funny, the Sarge said. I wouldn’t have thought that of that lass, a thief you say. The worst kind Sarge. We’ve been keepin’ an eye on ‘er fer long time.

And she shot her father? Rose gasped and finally gagged herself before she gave her position away. Sure as I’m sittin’ here Sarge. Her father brought her over to us, handin’ her in he was, for her crimes. Hands her over to us and she grabs our gun and bang. We was just stunned, flabbergasted, weren’t we Jordie?

You could say that.

I am. We are. She runs and runs away and when we gets back with help, the house and all burnt to the ground and her poor father inside like that.

Rose had her ears blocked with her two index fingers and her eyes shut tight. She wanted to hear no more. When she opened them up she looked into the eyes of Jordie. Just about to cry out, he put his finger to his mouth, across his lips.

No one under here Sarge, he called back.

Well mount up and press on before it gets too dark. You know what I think Sarge?

What’s that Jordie?

I think she be dead….inside that fire, that cottage. I mean poor lass, all her family gone. She had naught to look forward to. Done herself in.

Maybe Jordy. Find her and well know fer sure won’t we. Which way then Sarge?

I’d say south myself. She’d head to Cork and a boat out of there. Her only family’s a brother overseas I hear, in the army somewhere. That’s where my money is. She’d ‘ead for ‘im.

Then that’s the way we go. Jordie said it loud enough for Rose to be unmistaken as to their direction. The two horses were geed into action, the third horseman in a canter, a reluctant follower. Rose heard the thud on the ground next to her. She scrambled out to find a small soft skin pouch. From inside, out spilled a number of copper coins, pennies, half pennies and farthings and some food.

Rose stood in front of the signpost, the arms pointing to directions and names everywhere, Limerick, Gort, Carefin, Lehinch, Kirush, Killimer, Shannon, and Galway. Ennis was in fact on an island around the River Fergus, founded in the 13th Century by Franciscan monks. The shadows from the ruins of the friary were cast long and disjointed by the low angle of the sun. She had never thought of a place to sleep but she knew she was so tired it would not matter. She walked around eating her bread and meal until darkness pervaded the land. By then she had chosen a barn whose window was open and a soft bed of hay that was welcoming.

6.

A cockerel’s screech woke her and she was glad for it. It enabled her to be away before an owner came snooping about to feed his animals or start them on their daily chores. She quickly fashioned straw into throicheens-shoes woven from straw to cover the feet from the cold dewy ground and left. It took three days to walk the twenty-four miles to Limerick. The Northwest drum tower, the strongest and first of five of the Norman-built King John’s castle dominated the profile of