At the Lord’s Table

By Filomena Abys-Smith

“At the Lord’s Table’ is a captivating tale of an Irish family surviving against all odds during the famine of the mid-19th century. If you’re a fan of historical fiction, you’ll love all the authentic details sprinkled throughout the text by author Filomena Abys-Smith. An in-depth examination of real life events delivered through a powerful and gripping story.” - Paul LaRosa is a CBS News writer & producer, journalist, author, and book reviewer. He is a four-time Emmy Award winner and has won every major award in television journalism and numerous awards when he was a print reporter

At the Lord’s Table is a gripping tale of the Great Irish Famine seen through the experiences of the many characters. The story will take you on a voyage from the devastation in Ireland to the streets of New York City, where the Irish become part of the American Experience. Filomena’s debut Novel will capture your heart, stir your emotions and pull you into an unforgettable adventure. An adventure intertwined with historical fiction, romance, and religious mysticism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669868910

Filomena Abys-Smith

Filomena Abys-Smith immigrated to the United States from Naples, Italy, and is a retired nutritionist and business owner. She has written two memoirs, A Bit of Myself, and A Bit of Herself where she shares a personal in-depth analysis of the Americanization process. She currently lives in Westchester, New York with her husband Peter. Her passions are writing, cooking, and gardening. At the Lord’s Table is her debut novel. You can connect with Filomena on her Facebook page-https://www.facebook.com/abitofmyself.

Book preview

At the

Lord’s Table

image%201.jpg

sketch by Stephanie Cioffi Johnson

Filomena Abys-Smith

Copyright © 2023 by Filomena Abys-Smith.

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/31/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

850016

CONTENTS

Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter 1 The Hunger

Chapter 2 The Rescue

Chapter 3 Persuasion

Chapter 4 Generosity

Chapter 5 Poitin

Chapter 6 Fritz

Chapter 7 My Maggie

Chapter 8 Finishing School

Chapter 9 A Son’s Love

Chapter 10 Celtic Spirit

Chapter 11 Becoming a Man

Chapter 12 Irish Debutante

Chapter 13 Shenanigans

Chapter 14 North River

Chapter 15 Pugilist

Chapter 16 Whippersnappers

Chapter 17 Gertie

Chapter 18 Terror in Tarrytown

Chapter 19 Guilty of Love

Chapter 20 Buffing the Shillelagh

Chapter 21 Fortuitous Day

Chapter 22 Love Nest

Chapter 23 Lost and Found

Chapter 24 Burning Desire

Chapter 25 New Wife

Chapter 26 Part of You

Chapter 27 Midnight

Chapter 28 Fiddler’s Fart

Chapter 29 Amanda

Chapter 30 Satisfied

Chapter 31 Childbirth

Chapter 32 New Beginnings

Part Two

Chapter 33 The Journey

Chapter 34 Freedom

Chapter 35 Contentment

Chapter 36 Life and Death

Chapter 37 Earn our Keep.

Chapter 38 North River

Chapter 39 A Tart

Chapter 40 Cead Mille Failte

Chapter 41 Megan

Chapter 42 Declaration of Sentiments

Chapter 43 Worth Waiting For

Chapter 44 Caldas de Rainha

Chapter 45 An Angel to Love

Chapter 46 Wild Boar

Chapter 47 Vision of Hell

Chapter 48 Repentance

Chapter 49 The Compromise

Chapter 50 Young Blood

Chapter 51 Boston

Chapter 52 Home Sweet Home

Epilogue

Final Thought

Comfort Ye Recipes

This book is dedicated to all who have known

hunger and suffered oppression.

Preface

This novel is a work of fiction although many events are based on historical facts. The characters appear to me usually between sleep and wakefulness, often as I’m going about my daily routine. I like to fancy myself that they are souls from the past wanting their voices to be heard. Reaching out through time and space beckoning me to write a story about their struggles and survival. I hope that their voices will take you on a journey outside of yourself and into someone else’s heart, soul, and culture.

Acknowledgments

To my husband Peter Thomas Smith

Many thanks for all your love, encouragement, and support. Your Celtic persona inspired me to write this novel. Ye have the soul of a saint.

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To my brother Dr. Joseph Abys

Many thanks for your insightful suggestions, corrections, and encouragement. You have always been my warrior hero.

Introduction

Bridget stood near the taffrail of the packet ship that was ready to sail her to a new life. Her face, pale and almost transparent, seemed lifeless. She could not cry, had no more tears to shed. And felt as lifeless as the family she had watched die. One by one they had all perished.

It was 1849 and the Great Irish Hunger had been raging for four years. Bridget at sixteen was in a deep void. She was a shadow of her former self. Her once sparkling deep blue eyes were cloudy and vacant. Her golden hair framed a face with hollow sunken cheeks. She felt nothing but guilt for being the only survivor in her family. Her father had perished first from injuries sustained by British soldiers while they were being evicted from their cottage.

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Chapter 1

The Hunger

I n the early morning hours, they came with rifles, sticks, and battering rams. Some soldiers were on horseback, many on foot, and without warning, the front door was battered down. Bridget’s father, Sean, sprang out of bed as her mother, Katie, clung to the infant, Clara, who slept between them. Nearly a year old, Clara was only the size of a three-month old infant. With no potatoes and only minuscule portions of whatever food could be scavenged, Katie had little milk, and Clara had been starving from the day she was born.

Her parents knew that she would not reach her first birthday, taking comfort that soon death would free her from hunger. They had all felt the constant stirring, gnawing hunger pangs, and the entire family was weak and emaciated.

Bridget sat straight up in the cot that laid in front of the hearth where she slept with her brother, Thomas. She felt dazed, not realizing what was occurring. Thomas hid behind Bridget, holding on to her ragged dress whispering. Bridget, what’s amiss?

Shouts blared out from the soldiers, and like a burst of lighting, Bridget realized what was happening.

Out, out, everyone, remove yourselves. It is nearly the end of March, and you have failed to pay your dues. You can no longer live here for free.

Even in his weakened state, Sean tried to protect his wife and infant as soldiers upended their bed, sending them to the floor. It was such a feeble act, Sean’s skeleton-like frame merely stood in front of the solider. His body so weakened from hunger that he was as harmless as a newborn kitten.

With the buttstock of his musket, the soldier struck Sean in the ribs with such force that Bridget heard a cracking snap. A police officer who was standing near the door moved forward, striking Sean in the back of the head with a stick. Sean fell to the ground, blood spluttering from his mouth. Bridget, on shaky legs, forced herself out of the cot, pulling Thomas along with her.

Katie, not having the strength to lift herself and Clara from the floor, crawled to her husband’s side, motioning to Bridget to pick up the infant. The soldier kicked Katie in the stomach lifting her with his foot and flung her aside. With both hands he grabbed Sean by the back of his tattered shirt and tossed him outside onto the wet dirt.

Katie screamed in protest. Ye foul merciless heathen. Have ye no heart?

The soldier’s face was a blank slate, void of any emotions. He did not show hate, anger, or resentment; he did not see the O’Toole family as people, he was merely performing his duty. With one hand he grabbed Katie off the cottage floor and threw her out the door on top of her unconscious husband. Bridget held Clara in one arm while holding Thomas’s hand with the other, and without saying a word, they backed out of the cottage into the bitter cold air.

From that day forward Bridget’s memory was a foggy cloud of dismembered events, images etched in the back of her mind. On that dreadful day, neighbors who had also been evicted gathered around Sean’s body. He was lying in the mud with Katie cradling his head on her lap, her trembling fingers wiping blood from the corners of his lips. His breathing was shallow. His face completely still.

Bridget stared down at her parents in a murky daze. She held Thomas with one arm wrapped around his shoulders as he uncontrollably sobbed; little Clara laid perfectly still in Bridget’s other arm. She heard a distant voice, a weak pleading sound. Please can ye help us? Please help us. In a foggy haze she saw that her mother’s lips were moving to the beseeching sound.

Bridget’s final memory of her family’s cottage was seeing the thatched roof on fire. She walked behind a cart her father had been placed in, holding Clara in her arms while Thomas held onto her muddy skirt. Her vision was blurry, her body numb, and her mind registered only scattered bits of what had occurred. She watched two men drag the cart through the wet muck as her mother shuffled alongside, holding her husband’s hand. In complete silence, Bridget witnessed the nightmarish reality of her father’s body being lifted from the cart and placed onto the dirt floor of an abandon mud hut. The O’Toole family had nothing but their mud-encrusted threadbare clothes and one another. March 1849 had been unusually wet and cold, for warmth The O’Toole family huddled together on the frozen mud floor. It seemed like an eternity before Katie spoke to Bridget. With teeth chattering, Katie whispered to her oldest child.

Bridget, yer the oldest, and I have only ye to rely on. Ye need to find a bit of turf and scraps of kindling wood so we can start a fire.

The hut had no windows or fireplace with only slivers of light entering through the dugout entrance. Sean laid on the frozen mud motionless; Katie knew her husband would not survive the night. Her only concern was how to care for Thomas and Bridget. She did not consider Clara, knowing that her infant would not live long. Clara had not stirred since the bed had been overturned.

Katie sat on the frozen mud floor with Clara in the middle of her muddy dress, occasionally looking down at her dying daughter. Her breath was so faint that Katie placed a finger under her nose to make sure she was still alive. It took all of Katie’s strength to speak to Bridget, and with that effort she started to cough. She had been coughing up blood for months but told no one. What was the point of worrying her family? What could they do? Thomas sat close to his mother with knees bent into his chest, staring down at the mud floor. At twelve years old he was a walking skeleton with skin so thin and pale that it resembled the kelp they had often eaten.

Bridget faintly heard her mother’s voice. Bridget, please ye must be strong or none of us will survive. Please try to find some kindling wood. We must have a fire, or we will all freeze to death.

Bridget nodded and walked outside the hut where icy sleet was falling.

She instinctually walked on the same road toward her family’s cottage. Through a haze of smoke, Bridget saw that all the cottages had been torched. The village was completely destroyed. A sickening smell of brunt wood and thatch engulfed Bridget’s nostrils, the desolate, eerie stench of destroyed lives. Bridget stood in the middle of the road watching roofs collapsing and piles of furniture smoldering. She did not cry, did not feel the cold, and was unaware of her soaked muddy dress. She stood there numb and silent until a force beyond herself pulled Bridget into the remnants of her home. The door hung askew, smoldering on the hinges. The floor was covered in a layer of burnt thatch. The table, chairs, bed, cot, and stools charred scraps of wood. Bridget stood in the center of what a few hours ago had been her home in a daze, not knowing what she should do. A sadness so deep and a weariness so profound engulfed Bridget that her legs crumpled beneath her. She collapsed next to the hearth, placed her hands over her face, and sobbed. Within her tears she remembered happier times when there was warmth from a turf fire. The earthy scent with the aroma of freshly grilled oat cakes was still so clear in her mind. Through tear-soaked lashes, Bridget saw the black cast-iron cooking pot hanging on the fireplace crane, it was the only remnant of their lives still intact. It reminded Bridget how once it had been filled with potatoes, cabbage, turnips, and occasionally chucks of bacon. The memory made her mouth water. The echoes of Katie’s angelic voice squeezed Bridget’s heart; she knew her mother would never sing again.

When the potato blight first occurred in September 1845, it was so mysterious, and everyone watched as leaves on potato plants suddenly turned black, curled, and then rotted. There were so many rumors stirring about; many believed it was the result of a fog that had wafted across the fields of Ireland from England. Others said it was a curse from God to punish the Irish for their wickedness. Government officials said it was nature’s way of culling the herd of too many Irish.

After four years of hunger, Bridget did not care what caused the blight and prayed that her family would survive. The guilt she felt that her family was cold and hungry pulled Bridget out of her reverie. With the little strength she had left, she removed the cooking pot from the hook, and began gathering bits of wood, turf, and thatch placing them in the pot. As the filled pot became too heavy for Bridget to carry she dragged it along the brunt floors and out of the cottage. On her knees Bridget dug into the muck of what had been the family garden. With frozen hands Bridget turned over the soil looking for anything that was edible. After an hour of digging with hands that were blistered and bleeding, Bridget cried out to the Lord for help.

Will ye not help us Lord. What have we done to deserve this? With the back of her muddy hands Bridget wiped tears away and began dragging the pot back to the mud hut. She often stopped genuflecting on the muddy road praying for strength.

Dear Lord please give me strength. Help me Dear Lord, I have only ye to rely on.

Darkness was approaching, a grey ominous sky with swirling white clouds hung over Bridget. She knew that nightfall was approaching and tried to hurry back to the hut, but frequently had to sit on the muddy ground to rest. Every time she stood her legs began to shake. With an unsteady stride and with her head spinning she spoke to herself.

Bridget ye need to hurry back to yer family. Be strong now. Keep moving Bridget, keep moving.

It was late in the evening when Bridget entered the mud hut and found her mother holding her father’s head in her arms softly sobbing. Thomas still sitting in the same position without looking up spoke in a frozen monotone voice.

Da is dead.

Sean’s face was a frozen pasty white with hallow cheeks and sunken eyes. He was already a skeleton. Bridget could not remember when she had last seen him happy. As she looked down at her parents all her sorrow was released in a flood of convulsive tears. Bridget griped her mother around the shoulders while Thomas placed his hands over his face and sobbed. Clara laid perfectly still on the mud floor and Bridget did not know or have the courage to ask if she too was dead. They sobbed for hours with Thomas falling asleep on the mud floor next to Clara. It was well into the night when Katie’s raw raspy voice spoke.

Bridget, we need to bury da’s body in the morn, we can dig a grave and cover him with the thatch and moss and then we need to find a poorhouse that will take us in.

Tears fell on Katie’s cheeks as she spoke to her daughter remembering how her first born had given them such joy and hope. Bridget had been born in happy times when Sean worked the potato fields around their rented cottage. And they planted enough vegetables to feed their growing family. Katie and Sean had been given a milking cow from Katie’s family and a fat sow with a litter of piglets from Sean’s family as wedding gifts. Life seemed so perfect and with hard work the O’Toole family would prosper. They had been so young, so full of hope. Now at thirty-six Sean was dead. Katie reminisced throughout the night until the first light of day seeped through the cracks of the hut.

Katie and Bridget dragged Sean’s stiff body through the doorway while Thomas carried Clara in his arms. Clara with only a faint wisp of air coming from her nostrils seemed as dead as her father. Along the side of a muddy ditch Sean’s family with their bare hands dug a shallow grave. Having no shovels or picks for digging, the grave was barely an indention in the soil. They had no cloth to wrap Sean’s body in so Katie ripped a piece of her skirt placing it over her husband’s face. She could not bear the thought of muddy soil and soggy thatch filling Sean’s eyes and mouth. His eyes that once had been so blue. The mouth she had so often lovingly kissed.

It took all their strength to lift Sean and place him in the makeshift grave. The effort causing their weak bodies to tremble, they shook not only from hunger and cold but from the gut-wrenching sadness of seeing the frozen stillness of their beloved husband and father. Thomas had placed Clara on the muddy ground to help lift his father into the grave and when he picked her up, he knew she too was dead. Little Clara, who had never had a chance at living was stiff and cold. The wisps of breath gone. Thomas started to cry again as he handed Clara’s body to his mother. Katie held her tiny body close to her breast for the last time, rocking her back and forth with renewed tears. She caressed Clara’s face giving her forehead a final kiss. With no more tears to shed she slowly placed her little girl’s body in the crook of her father’s arm. Bridget ripped a piece of her skirt and placed it over Clara’s face. All three of them lovingly placed thatch and moss over the bodies. And finally, with their hands pushed as much soil as they could onto the grave. Bridget and Thomas placed a few stones over the soil. Then all three knelt beside the grave sobbing. Katie between sobs prayed.

Dear Lord, I ask that ye take Sean and Clara into yer blessed home. Please keep them close and in yer care.

Katie’s eyes shifted to Bridget and Thomas speaking to them with a raw anguished voice. A voice full of sorrow and despair.

In a strange way I’m happy for them, happy they will not feel hunger, cold, pain and all this sadness anymore.

She again shifted her eyes to the grave and through gushing sobs spoke to Sean and Clara for the last time.

Rest in Peace, soon we will see each other again.

Katie stood on weak frail legs turned and walk away. Bridget held onto Thomas wiping his tears away with cold muddy fingers. As they walked along the road Katie spoke to her children.

If any of us is to survive, we need to find a poorhouse that will take us in.

The walk to the Swinfords’ Poorhouse was difficult and slow. Bridget and Thomas took turns holding onto their mother. Supporting her by wrapping their arms around her shoulders and waist. They stopped often to rest looking for water and scraps of food. There were plenty of creeks to drink from but finding food was impossible. The fields were a blacken slimy stench. And as they tried to dig for a potato that might have been spared from the blight, the foul smell made them retch.

They shuffled to the poorhouse with bowed shoulders shivering from the cold. All three collapsing in the mud a few yards away from the front gate. They sat staring at the black gate hoping someone would see them and help. It was Bridget who gathered enough strength to place her hands into the wet muck and push herself off the ground.

She staggered forward with her head spinning from hunger and fatigue. Her knees were bruised, her fingers blistered and bleeding. Her dress wet, muddied and torn. Bridget’s long golden hair clung to her mud splattered face. The rusty gate creaked as Bridget placed her fingers in the iron slates and pushed it opened. She willed herself to climb up the steps by holding on to the railing and speaking to herself.

Bridget be strong, one more step. For the love of yer family move. One more step.

As she approached the front doors, she noticed a bundle of muddy wet blankets in the corner. A foul urine stench assaulted her nostrils. Bridget rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and then lifted the door knocker tapping it twice. She was just about to knock again when she heard a feeble voice speak from under the bundle. Bridget stepped back as the bundle began to move reveling a ghostly face. A grey-haired old man without teeth poked his head out of piled. His lips were purple with oozing sores. His pallor face seemed transparent with protruding cheekbones and sunken puff red eyes. In a dry raspy voice, he spoke to Bridget.

Lassie there is no more room. I’ve been sitting here for two days.

Bridget without replying turned and shuffled back to her family. Katie looked up at her daughter and without asking knew the poor house was full. Bridget stood staring into space. Thomas lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder and spoke in a dry gravelly voice.

Mum I noticed a scalp on the side of that last ditch we passed. Maybe we could spend the night there.

Bridget bent down helping her mother stand. All three held on to each other and hobbled to the scalp. Their feet were blistered and bleeding. Their shoes were so worn that months prior they had stuffed the insides with straw. Rags had been wrapped around them to keep the shoes from falling apart.

The scalp was nothing more than a hole on the side of the ditch with a mound of dirt around it covered by a roof of rushes and branches. Luckily, there was enough room to stand and was warmer and dryer than the outside. In the center of the scalp lay a circle of stones with a pile of cold embers in the middle. Around the fire pit the mud floor was covered with a thick layer of straw with a higher mound of thatch, straw, and hay to form a bed. A flat piece of splintered wood lay on the floor holding a single chipped cup and bowl with a three-legged milking stool next to it.

Bridget spoke, Mum, maybe this belonged to the old man I saw at the poorhouse gate, is it proper for us to move in?

Katie no longer able to stand fell onto the hay bed and whispered. Bridget, I don’t think the Lord will punish us for trying to live. Katie turned on her side placing her head on her arm speaking with eyes closed to the harsh reality.

Come the two of you lay down beside me we will keep each other warm.

Bridget slept until the first morning light entered the scalp; and as soon as she opened her eyes, she knew it was up to her to find food and water.

Katie had started coughing in the middle of the night, hiding the bloody sputum under the straw. She was as thin and frail as a dried twig. Her gurgled breathing coming in short spurts. Her body sweaty from fever. Bridget immediately noticed her mother’s flushed face.

Mum, are ye not well?

Katie forcing a smile replied, darling none of us have be well for a very long time. Don’t worry about me, just promise ye’ll take care of Thomas.

While holding her mother’s damp hand Bridget respond, we will take care of Thomas together, soon all will be well. Katie with a single nod fell back asleep.

Bridget shook her brother awake whispering, Thomas, I’m going out to find water and food, ye stay here with mum. She feverish, let her sleep.

Thomas had become more of a child then he had grown in the past four years and the lively spirit he once had was gone. He cried so easily and spent hours staring into space. Before walking outside Bridget picked up the cup and bowl.

Water was easy to find, Bridget stopped at a small creek filling the cup, the cold water soothing her parched throat. She walked towards one of the rivers hoping to find sustenance and as she walked, she prayed.

Dear Lord help me find something to bring back to me family. We never hurt anyone and have lost everything. Please dear Lord help us.

At the far end of a lake Bridget saw a tall man fishing. He had broad shoulders and was wearing a fisherman’s overcoat with a tweed cap. It was early morning with a foggy mist low to the ground and Bridget thought that her eyes were misleading her. She quickly dismissed the hazy image and fell to her knees digging with her blistered fingers for mussels. She placed as many mussels as she could into the small bowl. As she tried to pile more mussels into the bowl they slid off. In frustration she began to cry realizing that the bowl was too small to hold enough mussels to feed the three of them. Self-hatred swelled inside of Bridget and she spoke to herself while thumping a fist on her forehead.

Bridget ye are a very stupid girl. Why did ye not take the cooking pot when ye left the mud hut. With a fist she thumped her head in anger repeating, Stupid, stupid, girl.

Here child take my bucket I can see ye are in great need,

Her head snapped up seeing the fisherman standing near her with a smile so benevolent that Bridget did not fear him. A glow of benevolence surrounding the stranger. She placed both hands into the sand pushing herself to stand, but before she could completely straighten the fishermen was walking away and vanished into the mist. Bridget yelled, Bless ye sir.

She cried with joy seeing that the bucket the fishermen had placed next to her was filled with mussels and three large trout.

On the road she stooped at the creek washed her hands and face and filled the bucket with fresh water. By the time she returned to the scalp the mist had lifted, and the sky was clear. Bridget deciding to cook the fish outside in fear of setting the scalp on fire.

Mum, Thomas look what I have.

Thomas was holding Katie’s back upright as she coughed into a scrap of her ripped skirt. Katie’s hallowed eyes had deep dark circles. Her protruding cheek bones were pasty and sweaty. But it was the sight of her mother’s muddy ripped skirt that made Bridget’s throat tighten. She swallowed her despair happily announcing.

Look mum, plenty of mussels and three trout, this will make a nice meal, don’t ye think? Mum this very kind fishermen came out of the mist and gave, but Bridget’s words faded into darkness as Katie placed her head on the straw and fell asleep. Bridget, not realizing that her mother was sleeping continued to speak.

Mum, I’ll take the cooking stones outside. Thomas, look for any scarps of wood and bring a bunch of hay outside. And oh, mum here’s a cup of fresh water for ye.

Bridget held a cup of water to her mother’s lips noticing how purple they were. Katie in a deep slumber was not able to take a sip. Bridget spoke to Thomas.

Thomas stay here with mum and when she awakes help her to drink some water. I’ll bring the stones outside and cook the fish.

Bridget removed the fish and mussels from the bucket placing them on the wooden tray and placed the bucket of water near her mother. She carried the stones outside and reset them into a circle, placing as much kindling wood as she could find in the middle of the stones and stuffing hay under the wood. She placed the largest flat stone on top of the wood.

Bridget felt a spark of happiness that soon they’d have the first decent meal in weeks. Suddenly her hands flew to her forehead as tears welled in her eyes. In desperation she clenched her fists thumping them on her forehead … the realization that she had no way of starting a fire crushing the minuscule spark of happiness. In their cottage during the happy days, they had used lucifer and Bridget recalled that her mother never let the hearth go cold. There was always hot embers to kindle a new fire. With tears streaming down her cheeks Bridget circled the firepit repeatedly striking her temples.

Now what can I do? Now what can I do? Now what can I do?

Bridget, near hysteria ran into the scalp crying out to her mother for help.

Mum how can I start a fire I have nothing, nothing to start it with, what can I do?

Katie lifted her head ever so slightly whispering.

Bridget try finding two small sharp-edged rocks. Hit them together to make a spark that may start a fire. If that does not work just clean the fish as best ye can and let them dry in the sun. We can eat the mussels raw.

The simple effort of whispering caused Katie to convulsive with bouts of coughing. Thomas quickly dipped the cup into the water bucket bringing it to his mother’s lips. Bridget leaving Katie in Thomas’ care ran out to the road in search of two jagged rocks. As she scavenged through the muddy dirt she silently prayed, Please Lord help me, it been so long since we had a meal. Please help me.

She lifted and tossed a dozen rocks until she found two small rough edge rocks that might work. Her hands were soar, encrusted with mud, her fingertips blistered and bleeding but she refused to give up. She knelt near the fire pit hitting the two rocks together with as much force as her weaken body would allow. As she clashed and scraped the rocks together, she prayed, this time out loud with tears falling on her cheeks.

Lord please help me. We are good people, please help me.

In the mist of her tears, she saw the fisherman’s face and with the next strike a spark flashed, and the hay was set aglow. She laughed and cried all at once, softly blowing on the flame until finally the wood started to burn. Bridget continue to add bits of kindling wood and hay while calling for Thomas to come outside.

Thomas make sure the fire stays lit. Keep adding hay and kindling, don’t let the fire go out. Do ye hear me?

Thomas nodded wiping his nose on the back of his hand, watching Bridget as she used the sharp rock edges to gut the fish. His throat tightening as Bridget placed the fish on the hot stone with streams of tears falling down her nose and onto her trembling lips.

Thomas fetch the tin bucket so I can bake the mussels on the hot embers.

Bridget and Thomas sat by the fire warming their hands until the fish was cooked. She held the hot stone with the cooked fish with the hem of her skirt carrying it inside the scalp. Thomas removed his ragged, muddy shirt using it as a potholder to carry the bucket with the cooked mussels. His arms shaking from the effort with every rib visible through his transparent pale skin.

Bridget wiped her bloody muddy fingertips on the inside of her skirt while whispering to Katie.

Mum are ye awake? Please try to eat a little, it will surely restore yer health.

Bridget placed an arm under her mother’s head lifting it and placed bits of fish into her mouth. Katie swallowed two bites … the effort causing spasmodic coughing. She waved Bridget’s fingers away placed her head on the straw and fell asleep. Thomas’ stomach was griping with hunger pangs, his mouth watering. He licked his lips.

Bridget I’m so hungry, can I eat now? I’m so hungry?

Yes of course Thomas eat a whole fish and some mussels.

Bridget sat next to Thomas scraping fish with her blistered fingers placing the bits into her mouth. As she ate, she glanced at Thomas, his thin frail body broke her heart. Tears began to well in Bridget’s eyes as she recalled how rosy his cheeks had once been, how his blue eyes once sparkled. Bridget lowered her head, not wanting Thomas to see her tears. She realized Thomas’ survival rested solely on her shoulders. Not knowing what to do next, or where to go she silently prayed.

Dear Lord, please give me strength. Show me the path forward.

Bridget ate half a fish and a few mussels saving the remaining for later. Thomas, after swallowing his last bite, curled up next to Katie and fell asleep. Bridget stood watching them. The sight of their muddy tattered clothes, their emaciated bodies nestled next to each other broke her heart. She wanted to pull her heart out of her chest, not wanting to feel anymore.

The day’s exertion had left her totally exhausted. She looked around the scalp with its mud walls and straw floors, silently asking herself. How did this happen? Lord what have we done to deserve this fate?

She felt so alone, so hopeless, a despair so profound that she collapsed onto the straw placed her face onto her knees and wept until she fell asleep.

She awoke in the dead of night with darkness all around her, the only beam of light coming from the burrow’s entryway. Bridget lifted her head gazing at the star-specked sky, the full moon shedding beams of light across the black sky. She placed a hand over her eyes praying that the morning sun bring them a better tomorrow. Her hands felt frozen, her back stiff and she knew that they could not stay in the scalp for much longer. Still too exhausted to stand she crawled next to her family and fell asleep again.

It was early morning when Katie’s coughing awoke Bridget and Thomas. They saw the blood-stained straw, Katie could no longer hide the evidence of her illness. Thomas cried out.

Mum ye’re bleeding, what’s wrong?

Bridget quickly went to her side wiping her mother’s lips with a portion of her skirt. Katie waved a feeble bony hand at her children trying to ease their distress. There was no denying her illness any longer. Thomas lifted Katie by the shoulders as Bridget brought a cup of water to her lips. Katie was too weak to sip a single drop. She closed her eyes falling into a deep sleep.

Thomas became hysterical walking around the scalp kicking straw shouting.

"Is mum going to die? Bridget are we going to be all alone?

As Bridget tried to hold him, he began digging his fingernails into his face shouting.

I don’t want mum to die, Bridget help her, I don’t want her to die.

Stop it Thomas. Stop it. Ye are making it worse. Mum can hear ye. Stop it.

Brother and sister stared into each other’s eyes. Their eyes meeting and holding each other’s sorrow. Bridget placed her forehead on Thomas’s whispering.

If mum dies, we will have each other, and Thomas ye must be strong.

She took hold of Thomas’s shoulders helping him sit on the straw and brought the remaining fish and mussels for them to eat. As they ate Bridget spoke in a hushed voice. Thomas, I thought that we should walk to a church, or poorhouse to ask for help but that’s not possible with mum in her condition, the best we can do is stay here. I will go out and fetch more water and try to find something else to eat.

As the morning mist began to fade Bridget walked out of the scalp leaving Thomas to watch over their mother. The day was cold but sunny enough so that Bridget’s hands and feet didn’t feel numb. She walked along the road hoping to find a field where she could dig up a few early vegetables, silently she prayed for forgiveness for the mortal sin she was about to commit.

She carried the bucket in one hand and as she glanced towards the fields she felt a tug almost pulling her to the ground. Bridget quickly turned seeing a red head boy digging his hand into the bucket.

What’s in the bucket missy, anything to eat, stop and let me have a good look.

Bridget defiantly pulled the bucket scolding the boy. Ye should be ashamed of yerself looking to steal from someone as hungry as ye. Where are ye going?

To the scrap heap in town. Don’t follow me missy I wouldn’t be sharing with ye.

Bridget knew that this little urchin would fight tooth and nail for a crust of bread, so she sat on a stone wall watching him until he was out of sight. She felt sorry for the little boy with his mane of bright red hair which looked out of place on his stick like frame. His strawberry freckled face white as snow, his cheeks hallow, his blue eyes sunken. The little urchin’s pants were held around his waist with a cord, his emaciated frame visible through the threadbare shirt. His muddy bare feet tugged at Bridget’s heart. She prayed that he find good scraps.

Bridget sat for a few minutes longer and was about to stand when she turned her head looking over the wall. The wall encircled a field with neat rows of sprouting vegetables. She hesitated afraid of being caught and sent to jail, but the growling in her stomach and the responsibility she felt to care for Thomas gave her courage. Without further thought Bridget swung her legs over the wall and dropped into the field. Crouching low to the ground she started to dig with her bare hands. She saw the top leaves of turnips and pulled four out placing them in the bucket. On her hands and knees, she crawled along the wall dragging the bucket until she noticed a cabbage patch and dug up two heads. In the last row closest to the wall were carrots. Bridget pulled six out of the soil and decided that she best stop before her luck ran out.

Her whole body shook from fear, but she managed to place the filled bucket on the wall and hoisted herself over it. As she scrambled down the road towards the scalp she thought.

Hunger has made us all street urchin.

She stopped at the creek scrubbing the soil off the vegetables, washing her hands and face and drinking handfuls of icy water. Bridget had a foreboding feeling and uneasiness in the very pit of her being. She inhaled a deep breath releasing the dread at the scalp’s burrow and entered with a smile. Proudly announcing. Look what I found.

Thomas sat next to Katie with his forehead leaning on his bent knees. His chest curled on top of his knees with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He spoke without looking up.

Mum has woken once. I gave her a sip of water. I think she’s dying.

Bridget placed the bucket on the floor and walked over to her mother, she brushed the back of her hand on Katie’s forehead. She was no longer feverish but icy cold. Bridget placed an ear to her chest hearing a gurgling wheezing sound, she reached for Thomas’ hand he felt as cold as their mother. A feeling of imminent doom swept over Bridget.

Thomas it’s too cold in here. We need to start a fire or we’ll all freezer to death. Quick help me push some of the straw into a corner, then we can place the firepit stones back in here and start a fire.

They piled kindling wood and hay in the middle of the stone circle, Bridget praying as she struck the jagged rocks together. With every clash Bridget prayed.

Lord help me, please help us.

Her hands were stiff and sore, bloody and blistered but she refused to relent. Disregarding her throbbing fingers and with tears streaming down her cheeks Bridget asked Thomas to pray with her. The jagged rocks dug into her palms; her fingertips rubbed raw with trickles of blood seeping onto the kindling wood. She was just about to give up when she saw the fisherman’s face in her tears. His benevolent smile encouraging her. With the next strike the hay surrounding the kindling started to smoke. Bridget softly blew on the flame thanking the Lord for his blessing.

Thomas go fetch more kindling and bring me the flat stone so I can place the bucket on it and boil these vegetables.

With the sharp edge of one of the rocks she cut the vegetables into smaller pieces placing them into the bucket and on top of the hot stone. Brother and sister sat close to the fire waiting for the water to start bubbling, the warmth soothing Bridget’s raw hands and giving her a remembrance of home. In a spontaneous voice she began to softly sing.

Oh, the summertime is coming, and the trees are sweetly blooming, and the wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather, Will ye go, Lassie go? And we’ll all go together to pluck wild mountain thyme all around the blooming heather. Will ye go, Lassie go?

A single tear escaped from the corner of Thomas’ eye, with one finger he flicked it away and began to sing along. His heart breaking from sorrow, his voice in complete harmony with Bridget’s.

I will build my love a tower near yon’ pure crystal fountain and on it I will build all the flowers of the mountain. Will ye go, Lassie go?

Brother and sister had angelic voices and had often sung with their mother around the hearth, the scent, the warmth of a turf fire embracing them with love. Their voices reaching out capturing the memories of family and home.

And we’ll all go together to pluck wild mountain thyme all around the blooming heather, Will ye go, Lassie go?

Their singing made Katie smile and in a frail voice she called her children to her. Bridget held her mother’s paper-thin hand.

Mum I have vegetables boiling, please try to drink some of the vegetable broth?

Katie whispered to Bridget. Bridget I will not be with ye for much longer and please don’t cry. Ye need ye strength to live. Just promise me ye’ll take care of Thomas.

With a flood of tears Bridget promised to always care for him. Thomas dropped to his knees placing his hands over his face uncontrollably sobbing.

Both of ye stop all this crying. Soon I will be safe and warm in the house of the Lord and in my husband’s arms. Remember we will always be in each other’s heart.

Katie closed her eyes falling into a deep sleep and never awoke again. It was well into the night with Thomas curled next to Katie that Bridget noticed that their mother was not breathing. She placed an ear next to Katie’s bluish lips, not feeling the faintest wisp of breath. Katie’s body was cold stiff and lifeless. Bridget felt so exhausted, her strength so depleted, her mind in a deep dense fog that she slid down onto the hay and fell asleep.

The sounds of angry voice outside the scalp awoke Thomas and Bridget to a new harsher reality.

Clear yourself from this land, we have orders from his Lordship to tear down all scalps. Out you wretched filthy vagabonds.

Before they fully awoke Bridget and Thomas felt hands gripped the backs of their necks. They did not have time to utter a word of protest as they were tossed outside into the dirt. Above the splatter of their bodies hitting the wet muck they heard shouting.

There’s one dead in here no need to remove her. Teardown the hovel.

A swarm of men with picks and shovels tore down the scalp over Katie’s body. Bridget on hands and knees pleaded. Stop no that’s our mother in there. Please for the Lord’s sake stop.

Thomas with his last bit of strength jumped on one of the soldiers pulling him back by his hair. The soldier grabbed Thomas by the scruff of his shirt dangling him in midair. You, dirty little shit. And smacked Thomas in the face with the back of his hand. Thomas’ frail body went flying into the air and onto the dirty. Bridget ran to Thomas’s side howling with hate and anger.

Ye’re nothing but filthy beasts. Devils with no heart and ye will all rot in hell.

Off with you before we give you double of that.

Thomas sat in the mud dazed with blood streaming out of his nose. Bridget crawled to Thomas wrapping an arm around his shoulders and placed his head on her chest. With a corner of her skirt she sopped the blood flooding his chin. In a matter of minutes, the scalp was torn down. Katie was buried under a pile of mud and straw. A soldier with torch in hand set the collapsed scalp into a funeral pyre without so much as a prayer.

Bridget felt insurmountable guilt for not having placed a piece of cloth over her mother’s face. In a black cloud of guilt, shame, and unbearable anguish she sat unflinching wiping Thomas’s nose. The shouts of angry men and the stones whizzing by their heads went unnoticed. It was the smell of burning flesh, their mother’s flesh, and the angry men’s spittle splattering her face that prodded Bridget to pull Thomas to his feet.

I said off with you both. Move on or we’ll drag you both to the goal.

With a flood of tears, and in a haze of anguish she placed her arms around Thomas’ waist helping him off the muddy ground. They both hobbled along the road until they reached a creek, Bridget guiding Thomas sitting him on a rock. She dipped the hem of her skirt in the water wiping Thomas’ bloody nose. His nose was swelling with his eyes turning purple. She knew he was still dazed and not fully aware of what had happened.

Thomas, we need to move on and find a place to stay. Can ye hear me? Thomas nodded his reply as tears fell on his cheeks.

They walked along the road near Doolough lake on a bleak freezing day. The sun hidden behind a gray sky not offering a ray of warmth. Brother and sister held each other close shivering from the bone chilling cold. As they walked not sure of where they were heading they became part of a multitude of ragged destitute skeleton-like people walking along the same road.

Thomas had been swaying and staggering for hours, and Bridget fearing he would collapse held a firm arm around his waist. She knew she needed to ask for help, but no one looked up. The faceless masses of hungry destitute Irish with heads cast downward walked in unison. They shuffled forward battling the wind and cold becoming part of a desperate movement to survive. A woman in a ragged cloak with a shawl wrapped around her gaunt face passed close to Bridget.

Please miss can ye tell me where everyone is heading.

A skull with deep green eyes sunken into their sockets looked up. Bridget could not tell if she was young or old as the cracked lips began to speak.

We’re on our way to Delphi Lodge, it’s been said that the landlord will give us food.

With those few words she lowered her head wrapped the shawl tighter around her gaunt face and began to move forward.

Did ye hear that Thomas we will soon have a meal, come along now be strong.

They walked in the icy wet weather for two more miles until Thomas’ legs gave out and he collapsed on the frozen road. His swollen nostrils had filled with dried blood, both eyes had dark blue circles and his lips were turning purple. Bridget hysterically patted his face attempting to revive him while begging.

We have only a little way to go, Thomas please get up. We will die here if we don’t move along.

In desperation Bridget wrapped herself around Thomas’s body trying to protect him from the cold. The last memory Bridget had of that horrific day was seeing hundreds of shuffling feet passing by.

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Chapter 2

The Rescue

S ister Mary Francis, mother superior of the sisters of Mercy combed the road to Delphi Lodge for anyone that may have survived. After seeing the frozen faces of hundreds of destitute Irish she doubted if anyone was still alive. Many of the frozen bodies had blades of grass dangling from their purplish lips. Eating grass had been their last attempt at survival. She placed a hand over her eyes in a futile effort to quell tears and erase the ghastly images. Sister Mary Francis felt their agonizing hunger and unbearable desperation. Infants frozen in their mother’s arms, husband and wives with arms frozen around each other in a final embrace, entire families huddled together their bodies still and white as marble.

The weather was damp and bitter cold on March 30,1849 when over six hundred men, women and children had set out from the town of Louisborough to meet with their landlord. They had expected to receive their daily food ration, instead the fifteen-mile walk became a death march. Weaken by starvation and disease many died on the road to the lodge. The people that did survive the walk to the Lodge were told that their landlord could not be disturbed while he was having his lunch. They were sent away empty-handed succumbing to the cold and hunger on the trek back. The road littered with frozen ghostly faces brought a lump to Sister Mary’s throat. She made the sign of the cross and prayed.

"Dear Lord, help us. Are the Irish all to die from hunger?

Hearing of what had occurred, Sister Mary along with the abbey’s caretaker William, had driven the convent’s wagon along the road to Delphi Lodge. They search body after body praying to find the living but encountered only death. It was Sister Mary herself that found Bridget and Thomas, their bodies intertwined in a frozen mass. The site brought tears to her eyes and the strength she always displayed faltered. She fell to her knees, her eyes beseeching towards heavens.

Oh, sweet Jesus how could this happen? Dear Lord, I beg thee, help us.

She placed a hand on Thomas’s and Bridget’s forehead praying.

Dear Lord please keep them in yer care.

She saw the dried blood in Thomas’s nostrils, the black circles around his eyes, and knew he had been beaten. She looked upon Bridget’s gaunt face with her angelic features and continued to pray.

Sister Mary Francis had developed a ritual of carrying a jar of holy water to bless the deceased she found along the roads. She dipped her fingers into the jar and traced the sign of the cross on Thomas’ and Bridget’s forehead, ending the short ceremony by praying The Our Father. She was about to walk away when Sister Mary caught a glimpse of the slightest movement in Bridget’s chest. She knelt placing her ear to Bridget’s lips. There was an ever so faint breath with a slight gurgling in Bridget’s throat. Sister Mary clasped her hands together looking towards the sky.

Dear God, thank ye. We found one person alive among so many dead, thank ye Lord.

Crying with joy she shouted to William to bring the wagon. She rubbed her own hands around Bridget’s and Thomas’ hands that were frozen together hoping that her warmth would loosen the joined hands. Ever so gently she pried the frozen hands apart.

William, help me lift this poor child into the wagon. She’s still alive, we’ll take her back to the abbey.

They both lifted Bridget off the muddy ground placing her on a straw pallet wrapping her in woolen blankets. Sister Mary rushed back to Thomas to be absolute certain that he was not alive. She placed a finger under his nose, placed her ear to his lips, and felt for his pulse, there was no sign of life. Thomas had been taken to a warm safe place in the embrace of his family and the Lord.

Sister Mary knew that the death carts would eventually arrive and take the bodies to a mass burial site. As she looked down at Thomas face tears soaked her cheeks. She cried for Thomas and the thousands of other Irish that had perished from hunger. She said a final prayer and forced herself to walk away, she had made a vow to the Lord to pray over the dead and save as many lives as he would allow. She jumped into the wagon with a renewed resolve to save as many Irish children as she could. Bridget was one of many she and William had saved from certain death. On the road back to the abbey Sister Mary vigorously rubbed Bridget’s extremities silently praying that the Lord save her.

Bridget was in a deep void somewhere between life and death. Her body refusing to die and her will refusing to live. The rattling of the wagon and the warmth from Sister Mary’s hands brought Bridget back to consciousness. She could hear Sister Mary speaking to William but did not have the strength to open her eyes or to speak. As the cart arrived at the hill-top abbey other orphan girls and nuns came running to help. Sister Mary shouted out.

Sister Grace have a cot placed near the large hearth and have the girls bring in plenty of water to boil.

William scooped his arms under Bridget carrying her inside the abbey placing her on the cot closest to the hearth. Seven young girls had been living in the abbey for the past year, they were all orphans Sister Mary Francis had found begging on the roads. Since the start of the famine the Sisters of Mercy had traveled to the surrounding area trying to give whatever assistance they could. They received donations from many benefactors, but mostly from Sister Mary Francis’s brother Danny, who had emigrant to American as a young man.

The New York harbor area had become Danny’s home where he was well connected to the Irish American community. It was Danny and his wife Violet who had organized the relief efforts for his starving countrymen. Danny was a worldly clever businessman with a quick-wit and handsome face. His wavy chestnut hair with a thick well-trimmed beard framed strong manly features, his deep blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. He understood the politics of the British government well, and to avoid any complications delivering the needed supplies, he used a secluded cove on the coast of County Mayo to deliver the relief to his own sister, Sister Mary Francis.

Bridget did not stir as she was placed on the cot near the warm hearth. Her body stiff as a corpse refused to move or make a sound. She could hear the chattering around her, the shuffling of chairs, the clanging of pots and pans, but was unwilling to speak as Sister Mary asked for her name.

Dear child can ye give us yer name, we are here to help.

It was Annie Kelly that recognized Bridget and ran to her side.

Oh, sweet Jesus. Sister Mary this is Bridget O’Toole, we lived a stone’s throw from each other.

As Sister Mary told Annie how Bridget had been found, among hundreds of dead bodies with Thomas’ hand frozen in hers, Annie started to weep.

Dear God, when will this end, will any Irish survive this blight.

Annie, Bridget is in a state of shock, speak to her in Irish. She may take comfort in hearing a familiar voice. Yes sister.

Annie spoke consoling words while caressing Bridget’s wet tangled hair.

A chara Bridget, Is mise e Annie Kelly. Ta tu sabhailte anois.

{Dear Bridget, it’s me Annie Kelly. Ye are safe now.}

With basins of warm water Annie washed away the thick layers of mud from Bridget’s hands and arms. Sister Mary began unwinding the rags wrapped around Bridget’s ankles that held her shoes together. As she unfastened the ties the scraps of leather fell apart, reveling swollen, blistered, and bloody feet. Sister Mary spoke to one of the oldest orphans.

Mora, fetch a bottle of vinegar from the storage room. Mora pour a quarter of the bottle into the water, good that’s enough.

As she wiped the blood and mud from Bridget’s feet, she felt a slight twitching in the toes and thank God for the sign of life. Annie gently wiped Bridget’s face with warm water while pushing her tangled hair away from her cheeks and tying it with her own hair ribbon. She softly spoke to Bridget.

Bridget I’m sure ye remember me, Annie Kelly. We lived as few cottages away from each other. Remember how in the happy days before the hunger we went to the hedge school together. That old, wrinkled prune Mr. Jordon not allowing us to speak a word of Irish, saying that it was a barbaric language not fit for royal subjects. Royal subjects indeed old prune that he was.

Sister Mary overhearing Annie asked. Can Bridget speak English and Irish then?

Oh yes sister very well and Bridget has a beautiful singing voice as did her mother and Thomas. God rest their souls.

Sister Mary blessed herself, the image of Thomas’s body lying in the mud ripping at her heart. Annie continued to speak.

Bridget dear, I’m so happy to have ye here with me. We’re the closest to family now and we’ll be like sisters.

Annie recalled how her sister along with her mother, father and two brothers had died of hunger and the fever. Sister Mary glanced at Annie trying to dispel the image of how she had found her outside the family’s cottage crying and begging for help. Annie was a beautiful girl with glossy black hair and almond shaped green eyes. She had a giving personality and talkative nature. When Annie first arrived at the Abbey nearly seven months prior, she was nothing more than skin and bones. Dressed in a tattered dirty dress and in a stated of complete agitation.

Her father having died walking to work digging ditches for a few pence a day had left a wife with four children. At first Annie’s mother had stepped into her husband job taking her four children with her to help. But the five-mile walk on empty stomachs was a death sentence. The youngest twin boys came down with the fever first, then mother and sister. Annie scrambled for two months in search of food, water, and turf to keep the cottage warm but to no avail. When Sister Mary walked into the cottage holding Annie’s hand the sight and stench of decaying bodies overwhelmed her. She ran back outside the cottage dragging Annie along and told William to cleanse it with fire.

Sister Mary shook the dreadful sight out of her mind and focused on saving Bridget’s life. It was the best she could do, to