Patricia Falvey (50 page)

I was packing up my tools when Shields walked by. Owen was with him. I looked down, focusing all my attention on putting my chisels in my bag. Shields pointed out some machines to Owen.

“We have some here that are in a bad way,” Shields said. “They’ll not be holding together much longer.”

“And the mechanics will be in this evening to repair them?” Owen’s tone was all business.

“Aye. They may have to work all weekend. I thought it was as well to get them started as soon as we could. A few of the managers will be here as well to oversee things. I’ll be back here myself after my tea to get them started.”

I stiffened.
No!
I wanted to scream out. Stay at home!

“Good man,” said Owen. “I can come over later to see how things are going if you need me.”

“Sure not at all, Mr. Sheridan, sir. I can take care of it.”

The scream filled my head again. Stay at home! All of you!

“Very well, Joe. My mother has arranged a dinner party tonight and expects me to attend. I would not want to disappoint her. So as long as you think you can manage…”

“Indeed we can, sir.”

I trembled as I picked up my tools, took off my apron, and shoved them all into my bag. I hurried over to the cloakroom, sat down and dried my feet, and pulled on my boots. My feet and legs were so swollen that I couldn’t lace them. I didn’t care—I had to get away from there. I shuffled out of the gate and down the street toward home. I did not look back.

When I reached my house, I went in and banged the door closed behind me. I sank down in a chair and stared into the empty fireplace. I didn’t bother to turn on the lamps.

You hear that drowning people see their whole lives flash in front of them. Vivid images of the Yellow House crowded my mind. Suddenly, Da’s face appeared in front of me.

“You’re an O’Neill, my darling Eileen. Their brave blood runs through your veins. You will be as great a warrior as your ancestors, my lovely girl. You’ll save your people from oppression. You’ll do great deeds!”

“Get away, you oul’ eejit,” I cried. “Great deeds my arse. You always had my head turned with your nonsense.”

“You have your chance now, Eileen darling. You’re an O’Neill. You know what you must do.”

“Och, will you whisht!” I shouted at the ghost. “Leave me alone. What do I care if the mill burns? Good riddance to it.”

“But what about the workers, Eileen? Your friends?”

“They’re no friends of mine, Da. They’ll be down off their high horses now. They won’t be so busy ridiculing me when they have no food on their tables. Serves them right.”

“And what about the men who will be there tonight? What about Joe Shields?” Da said.

“What about him? It’s him has made my life miserable all these years.”

“It was Joe Shields gave you your start.”

“Aye, and I’ve earned that job every day since. I’ve worked my arse off.”

Da’s face drew closer to mine. “You can’t stand by, Eileen, and let him and the others die.”

“They mightn’t die,” I whispered.

“But they might.”

Da’s ghost disappeared. I stared into the empty fireplace. Rays of light from the dying evening lit the gray cinders. It was that time of gloomy half-light that hovers like limbo between sunshine and darkness. The child was quiet in my womb, as if lost in her own thoughts. I began to hum “The Spinning Wheel,” the soft lullaby I remember Ma singing to Lizzie when she was a baby. I used to kneel on the floor beside her and watch her, marveling at the gentle light that shone from my mother’s face. I rocked myself back and forth now as I hummed, sinking into the comfort of my memories. I closed my eyes.

I must have drifted off into sleep. When I opened my eyes, I could see nothing but blackness. It was a minute before I realized where I was. My back was stiff and my swollen feet, still thrust into the unlaced boots, were throbbing with pain. I got up, went to the door, and opened it a crack. I could hear nothing. The silence was unsettling. Not a dog barked, nor a child cried. It was as if the world had stopped.

I lit the gas hob and boiled water for tea. I put extra tea in the pot and steeped it until it was strong and black. I sat down and sipped it.

Take a hold of yourself, Eileen, I said to myself. It’s time to make up your mind.

Reason was returning, revved up by the strong tea. Men were going to be up there at the mill tonight. I had to warn them. And God help me, I couldn’t let all those people lose their jobs. I’m sorry, James, I can’t let you do this. I can’t.

My decision made, I trembled as I laced my boots as best I could and pulled on my coat. Then I looked up at my rifle on its shelf. Images of poor Billy leveling the rifle at James swam in front of me. I thought I would never touch it again. Now… well, now I needed it to protect myself and the child. I lifted it and held it under my coat. I went out without closing the door behind me and ran as fast as I could up the street and around the corner. I stopped to catch my breath. Pains spiked my belly. I held on to a tree, breathing hard. I had to keep moving. I started up the hill. I could see the mill in front of me. The lights were out. Strange, I thought, there were supposed to be people in there working. I got as far as the gate and stopped. Something was not right. Then I smelled it. Acrid smoke filled my nostrils. Jesus, no! Maybe I was too late.

I started off at a run, my coat flying behind me, my bootlaces flapping. I ran in through the main door. The smoke was thick now, and I thought I would choke. My foot kicked something in the dark. It was a body. I bent down. The man was barely breathing. His face was blackened with smoke. I did not recognize him. I struggled up the stairs and down the main aisle toward Shields’s office. More men stumbled toward me, handkerchiefs over their faces. I rushed past them. The office door was hot to my touch. I pushed it open. Another man lay on the floor, groaning. I knelt beside him. It was Shields.

“Joe!” I shouted.

He opened his eyes. “Get the fire brigade. Sound the alarm!”

I stumbled back out into the main room. The smoke grew thicker. The fire was somewhere—I could feel it—but I could not yet see the flames. I had to get back down into the main hall and sound the mill horn. I ran down between the machines toward the stairs, and then something exploded behind me. I turned around to see a blinding ball of light. It was fire, rolling down the factory aisle. I watched fascinated as the fire licked at the wheels of spun thread. The thread glowed briefly and then erupted in flames. I saw men holding lighted torches running crisscross between the machines. Were they real? Images of men with torches running toward the Yellow House flooded my mind. I saw my da aiming his old rifle at the shadows in the dark. In a daze, I raised my own rifle and fired at the torches as they arced through the air. Then there was silence. How long I stood there I don’t know.

At last the spell broke and I ran toward the stairs. I had to sound the horn or the whole place would be destroyed. Jesus, I thought, what a joke that we stand up to our ankles all day in enough water to drown a village, and now there’s nothing but dry thread and tinder feeding the flames. I raced down the stairs and doubled back behind them to the wall where the handle was mounted. I pulled the handle and the deafening sound of the horn pierced my ears.

I ran to the main door. I was desperate for air. I pushed it open, and there, a few feet away, stood James. He stood with two of his men, all three carrying lit torches. He grinned at me, a grotesque sneer, white teeth flashing in his soot-covered face.

“So you came to save your lover! I knew all along what you would do.”

“Owen’s not here,” I shouted. “I came to save the others, and the mill.”

James snorted and coughed. “I knew Fergus would tell you, the bloody coward. I suspected him as the informer all along. My own bloody brother! This was as much a test of his loyalty as yours, and you’ve both showed your true colors this night.”

“I had to save the mill, James. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Even if it meant turning against your own husband?”

“You took that chance when you told Fergus,” I snapped. “But you had to get your revenge on the Sheridans, and on me!”

James’s eyes bored into me. They shone with madness. He moved closer. “We’re coming in. We have to finish the job. The bloody fire brigade will be here any minute now, thanks to you.”

“No!” I cried. “There are men dying in there. You’ll do no more damage, James.”

Slowly, I took out the rifle from underneath my coat and aimed it squarely at James. My hand was steady. I knew what I must do. My head was clear, and I understood that I was about to destroy a part of myself along with him. But the sacrifice had to be made.

“No, James,” I said quietly. “Back away now.”

A low, guttural sound roared out of his throat, and he rushed toward me. I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger just as a hand gripped my arm.

“Eileen, no! Don’t do this!”

Owen’s voice cut through the whirring in my head. My elbow jerked up and the bullet must have flown over James’s shoulder. The men behind him scattered and ran, dropping their torches. James stood as if frozen to the ground, his burning torch still in his hand.

Owen stepped in between James and me. “Go and get the water buckets, Eileen,” he said over his shoulder. “Go and start the pumps.”

His voice was quiet and firm. I slid out from behind him, backing along the wall, never taking my eyes off the two of them. I moved a few yards and stopped. I could go no farther. James brandished the torch at Owen, and Owen reached for it. I tried to scream but made no sound. Owen and James rolled on the ground, the torch now abandoned near a stack of wooden crates. The flames from it licked the crates, and soon the blaze roared to the heavens. James got to his feet and stepped backward, reaching in his belt for his revolver. As he did so, the stack of crates fell over, pinning him underneath. I screamed again. Owen’s name formed on my tongue, but again no sound came out. Owen appeared to move in slow motion. He plunged into the flames that engulfed James, pulling the crates off him and flinging them aside. Then he lifted James under the arms and dragged him to safety, laying him on the ground a few yards away. The bullets from James’s revolver exploded in the fire like fireworks. Owen knelt on one knee, gasping for breath. I ran toward him.

“Water, Eileen,” he choked, “start the pumps.”

I raced back along the wall and around the corner to where the water pumps stood. I lined up tin buckets and started filling them, pumping with all my might. Suddenly hands were all around me, taking buckets and running back and forth. I left and rushed back to find Owen. He came staggering out of the mill, dragging a man behind him, then went back in. Several men knelt on the ground, coughing and spitting. Owen must have pulled them all out. Joe Shields was among them. He looked up at me.

“You did well to sound the horn, Eileen. Or we would all have been done for.”

I looked around, suddenly remembering James. He lay where Owen had placed him. I walked over and knelt beside him.

“I’m sorry, James,” I whispered. “I had to do what I did.”

He had passed out. I could not say rightly if he heard me.

The factory horn still blew, like a cry from the deep. In the distance, the bells of the fire brigade wagons cut through the night air. Smoke and flames poured out from the upper floor of the mill. Owen was nowhere in sight. I could not even cry out for him.
Please, God. Please let him be alive.
The silent prayer was the last thing I remember before the blackness.

Home

F
lowers filled my hospital room—bouquets of roses, lilies, foxglove, all colors and shapes, some from friends, more from strangers. The child lay in a bassinet beside the bed. I stared at her for hours. She had my red hair—a true O’Neill. I thought how proud Da would be if he could see her. Her eyes belonged to Owen, though, heather blue in the daylight, changing to dark violet in the evening.

I remembered little about the birth. She had arrived at the height of the fire as I lay sprawled on the ground outside the mill. Owen had been there, and Theresa, and Nellie Leonard, the nurse from Newry Hospital. The whole village had turned out to watch the fire when the mill horn began blaring. Fire bells clanged while people ran about, shouting and whistling. Others cheered as if watching a fireworks display. And there was screaming—loud, shrill screams. I realized now the screams had come from me.

We did not name her immediately. Owen had a liking for poetic, English-sounding names like Emily or Charlotte. But I was having none of it. She would have a good Irish name, and that was that. Owen gave in eventually and left it up to me. I supposed if she could talk, she would tell me exactly what she wanted to be called. She was a child with a mind of her own; that was clear even this early. I thought of naming her for my mother, but I decided she should have her own name. That way, she would have no expectations to live up to. I wanted her to be free.

Ah, there it was! I would call her Saoirse—the Gaelic word for
freedom
. Saoirse Elizabeth. The second name would please Owen and would be a reminder of my dear Lizzie. I laughed, picturing Owen trying to get his tongue around the name Saoirse. “Seer-sha,” I could hear myself saying. “It’s pronounced SEER-SHA. Now that’s not so hard, is it?…”