by Robyn Chawner
Caitlin O'Manion stared out at sea for the countless time, mulling over the events of the past. The shock of her father's death gave rise to the final defeat. After suffering through the Great Famine which brought Ireland's children to their knees, crippled the country's economy, and made them all undeniably subject to their hated British rulers, Caitlin thought the worst was over. How could she have anticipated what would come to pass? As she lifted her gaze to meet the moon, she was taken back to just a few weeks ago.
The luminous moon had been full, as it was now, she sighed as she was transported back to the beginning of that nightmare.
The stillness of the night had cast an eerie blanket of foreboding, causing Caitlin to huddle closer to the hearth's peat fire that February evening. The damp chill permeated the walls of the primitive cottage and she shivered, not only from the cold but from a growing sense of panic at her father's absence. When her mother had died a few years ago, she had become almost proprietary of her father, her last living relative. Hopefully, he would return soon.
Over the course of the week, despite the number of times Caitlin had asked her father about his repeated disappearances and the reason he kept his destination such a secret, his whereabouts had remained a mystery. He had refused to tell Caitlin anything, rationalizing that she would worry if she knew the truth. In fact, not knowing what her father was up to caused far more stress because it gave her mind a chance to imagine any number of dreadful scenarios.
Trying to quell her gnawing anxiety, she moved closer to the fire and put her hands up against the heat that emanated from the flames. All of a sudden, she heard the thundering of horses' hooves coming up the road. She jumped from her crouched position on the ground and started to race toward the window, but a hand snaked up behind her and clamped her mouth shut before she had even crossed the room.
"Don't yell, darling. It's only me," whispered her father. "Pack only your most valuable things. We have to get to the docks. We're sailing to America."
Caitlin reeled about in disbelief. "What?!" she exclaimed.
"There's no time, Caitlin. We have to leave now."
He perused the cottage one last time, stuffed some clothing in a satchel, and unceremoniously dragged Caitlin behind him. Stumbling in confusion and haste, Caitlin acted on instinct alone. She hoisted herself into the saddle and her father quickly leaped onto the horse's back behind her. Atop the already heaving, sweat-soaked gelding, they took off through the woods only hoofbeats ahead of the red-coated soldiers.
Kieran O'Manion furiously spurred on his horse while his daughter hung on for dear life. Caitlin couldn't tell where her father headed on this harrowing ride and her mind emptied of all comprehensive thought. None of this made any sense. Why were they sailing for America when only days earlier her father had sworn that he'd never leave the verdant Emerald Isle as long as he was alive to help drive the British out?
Once the horse lurched to a stop at the docks, all pandemonium broke loose and Caitlin tried to unscramble the flash of events. She remembered a stranger roughly yanking her in the direction of a small ship and recalled being pushed aboard the private merchant vessel only steps ahead of her father. And then the sound of gunshots. She heard one bullet whizzing by her ear as the ship's steward pushed her below deck and she ducked. Reluctant to lose sight of her father behind her, she twisted around and managed to witness the better part of a horrifyingly grisly scene.
Her father dropped to his knees on the gangplank, blood soaking his once white shirt. Several red-coated soldiers swarmed the area and dragged her father's limp body back to shore. That's when she saw the sneering face that would inevitably brand itself into her memory forever. The seed of hatred that she had harbored against the English captain had become a festering sore which cried out for a cure. She vowed to wash that self-satisfied smug off his wretched face if it was the last thing she ever did. One day, she'd see him hang.
As the ship's steward continued to urge her into the safety of the vessel's bowels, she faintly recognized him as the man her father had brought to the house only days before. But before she could put a voice to her fears and speak, she heard another gunshot. Obviously, the decorated officer had continued his practice of leaving his enemies no chance of survival. That last shot may as well have ripped through Caitlin's own body. She knew it served as his insurance that no victim would ever walk away to retaliate against him at a later date. Caitlin stumbled down the ship's steps and crumpled in a heap on the ground.
The ship's foghorn pierced the silent night, and Caitlin realized that she was still clinging to the cold, hard railing. She shook her head to dislodge the images that continued to rampage through her mind. This entire voyage had passed in a mantle of haze, a fact for which Caitlin was extremely relieved. She had to put the past to rest, if only temporarily, so that she could concentrate on a new plan of action - survival in America. She took one last look into the encompassing blackness of the night, feeling as if that vortex might swallow her up in its seemingly never-ending vastness. Dejectedly, she shuffled back to the tiny cabin that she had inhabited for the past five weeks.
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