The Secret of 1798
Chapter 1
For ever afterwards Caitriona would hear 1798 described as The Year
the French Came, but for her it was always the year that the dog came.
And yet it wasn't much of a dog when she saw it first, more like a lump of
wet flesh and clotted hair - but from that first moment the brown eyes were soft
and loving and the long tail beat a frantic tattoo.
She had first seen the little dog when she sat fishing in the River Fergus at
Drumshee, her father's farm, on one damp day in February. In the summer there
were plenty of small trout in the river, but on that winter's day it was more of
a way of escaping from all the housework which her step-mother loaded her with;
an excuse to sit and dream and to hum her favourite songs softly over and over
to herself.
The little river was flowing fast and furiously that day and Caitriona's eyes
were on the eddying circles around a rock under the stone bridge - or was it a
rock, she thought to herself. Surely she would have noticed a rock there before.
She dropped her fishing rod and went to investigate and this was the first time
that she saw Bess.
When Caitriona had pulled the puppy out from the river and freed her from the
sack in which she had been dumped into the water, Bess had been more dead than
alive.
'Oh, you poor little thing,' said Caitriona and she took a dry sack from
around her own shoulders, and rubbed the soaking wet little body until life and
warmth returned and it was then that the pink tongue came out and licked her
hand and the tail wagged and the soft eyes fixed on her a look of love which was
never to disappear while Bess had breath in her body.
Still, as yet, the dog had no name, and not just no name, very little chance
of life. She was painfully thin. When she had coughed up all the river water
from her lungs, Caitriona could see every rib standing out from the soaked fur.
What can I do with her, thought Caitiona. Her family were very poor. They had
never gone hungry yet, but at twelve Caitriona was old enough to know that life
was a constant struggle for her parents. Still, she thought to herself, this was
a very small dog. She could not want all that much to eat and she would help in
guarding the new lambs who so often were stolen by foxes or got lost, or fell
into the drains. A neighbour of theirs, Joe O'Donoghue, had a dog and he swore
that he would not be able to manage without it. Vigorously rubbing the little
body, Caitriona began to make plans. First she would get her father on her side.
She was his pet and could usually twist him around her little finger. If he said
that the dog could stay, then her step-mother would have to agree. She stood up
and still carrying the puppy she made her way along by the hedge of the river
meadows, skirting the bottom of the little hill on which she lived and keeping
well away from the house and from her mother's eye.
By the time she reached the Big Meadow on the far side of the lane, the puppy
had fallen fast asleep. Now warm, and dry, and comforted, she lay snuggled into
the Caitriona's shoulder. Already Caitriona loved her passionately. She could
not think what she would do if her father refused to keep her. She could see her
father now. He was walking around the meadow checking each one of their four
cows, gently passing his hands over them and talking soothingly to each one of
them. Caitriona watched him anxiously. She knew what he was doing. He was trying
to see if the cows were in calf. She hoped that they were. Without calves, there
would be no milk, no calf to sell, no spare money for the family. The wind had
risen now and was blowing strongly from the west and it blew the sound towards
her. Her father was singing to himself, a low rich sound, a tune that she did
not know, but she knew instantly what it meant. Her father was feeling happy and
that must mean that the cows were all in calf. Moving cautiously, so as not to
scare the cows, she approached him, smiling ingratiatingly.
'What's that song you're singing, Da?' she asked.
Her father ignored the question. His eyes were fixed on the bundle in her
arms.
'What, in the name of glory, have you there?' he asked.
Caitriona hesitated and then decided on a desperate gamble. She knew how
soft-hearted her father was about all animals.
'It's a poor little puppy dog,' she said, in a voice which trembled slightly.
'Someone threw her into the river and tried to drown her. She was tied up in a
sack.'
She held out the bundle to her father and he took it reluctantly. The dog
woke and gave a whimper at finding itself abandoned and then the pink tongue
came out again and licked the man's face and the skinny tail wagged feebly. Tom
McMahon's eyes softened.
'Poor little thing,' he said. 'She's half starved as well as half drowned.'
Caitriona held her breath. The battle was half won already, she knew. Her
father was now stroking the damp, warm fur and the dog was licking his hands,
licking his face, wriggling her little body in a frenzy of love and desire to
please.
'What are you going to do with it?' asked her father handing the puppy back
to her.
'Could I keep her, Da?'
Her father tried to look stern. 'Caitriona, you know what your step-mother
would say to that. There's hardly enough food for ourselves at the moment, not
to mind for every stray dog that passes the place.'
'Yes, I know, Da.' said Caitriona humbly. She wasn't really worried. They
never did go hungry. There were only two children in the family, just herself
and little Michael, who was ten years younger than she. It was not like the
other families around, where there were ten or twelve children to feed. In any
case, she knew from the way that her father had handled the little puppy that he
would not, now, drown it.
'Well, I suppose, the two goats have just kidded and they both have plenty of
milk,' said her father slowly. 'I don't suppose that they would miss a few
cupfuls for this poor little thing.'
Caitriona's heart began to beat heavily with excitement, but she deliberately
controlled her excitement. It was not unknown for her step-mother to make her
father change his mind.
'Come up to the house with me, Da.' she pleaded. 'You can tell Ma all about
the dog.'
Her father tried to hide a smile. 'And who is going to do the work while I'm
trying to argue your step-mother into this piece of foolishness,' he asked.
'It's going to rain,' said Caitriona. 'You can have a sup of buttermilk and a
little rest and you can teach me that new song that you have been singing. Did
you learn it at the cattle fair?'
'Where else' said her father, 'Listen now and I'll hum it and you see if you
can pick up the tune of it and then I'll teach you the words.'
They walked slowly up the Big Meadow, crossed the lane and up the Togher
Field and by the time that they reached the cattle drinking place, Caitriona had
learned the new song. Both she and her father were great singers. They sang all
the old songs, day in and day out, but it was lovely to have a brand new song.
The puppy seemed to enjoy the song also and her soft brown eyes stared earnestly
into Caitriona's blue eyes and she seemed as if she were listening to every
note.
They crossed the cabbage garden and then Tom McMahon stopped in the middle of
the verse of his song. Down in front of the little white-washed cottage
Caitriona could see the thin, energetic figure of her step-mother bustling
about, carrying food to the pig and talking to two year old Michael.
'You take the puppy into that old cabin over there,' he said softly to his
daughter. 'There's plenty of straw there and you can make her a bed. Stay with
her for the moment and give me a chance to talk to your mother on my own and
then we'll get her some goat's milk and perhaps an egg. That will do her for the
moment.'
Caitriona crept quietly into the little stone cabin beside her house. There
was plenty of straw there as her father had said and she did make a bed for the
little dog, but it was reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort of her arms, so
she sat there on the straw, nursing it in her arms and wondering what her
step-mother would say. The trouble with Ma, she thought to herself, is that you
never really know. It all depends on her mood at the moment. Everything seemed
very quiet at the moment, anyway. That probably meant that she was listening to
what her husband was saying rather than rushing out straight away and demanding
that the dog would be got rid of. I'll count up to a hundred, Caitriona thought
to herself and if she doesn't come out until after that it will be a sign of
good luck. She began whispering the numbers to herself and she had just got to
ninety two when she heard the door of the little farmhouse open. Quickly she
rushed through the other numbers, determined to have them finished and she had
just said 'one hundred' when her father came to the doorway and behind him her
step-mother with two year old Michael by the hand. Caitriona held her breath. It
was hard to see her step-mother's face in the dim light, but what she could see
was not very hopeful. The thin lips were set in a grim line. The situation,
however, was saved by Michael who toddled forward to see this new animal and
then stumbled on a piece of stone lying on the ground and began to wail. Ann
McMahon started forward, but the dog was quicker. In a flash she was out of
Caitriona's lap and was standing over the sobbing Michael, licking his face with
what seemed like an effort to dry the tears. Whatever it was, it worked. Michael
sat up, the wailing stopped abruptly, and he put his two fat little arms around
the dog's neck.
'Do you like the little doggie, Michael?' said Caitriona quickly.
Michael nodded. 'Me like doggie,' he announced obediently and put his cheek
against the puppy's face. 'What doggie name?' he enquired after an unsuccessful
attempt to stop the dog's tail from wagging.
'She's called Bess,' said Caitriona quickly, with an eye on her step-mother.
Surely no one could condemn to death a dog who already had a name. To her great
relief she could see that her step-mother was beginning to smile as she looked
at the little boy with the puppy in his arms. It could not have happened better.
Michael was her mother's darling. The only child who had lived after the death
of so many others; the only boy of the family.
'Well, if we are going to have to have this dog, Caitriona, you are going to
have to look after her,' said Ann McMahon grimly. 'It's not to come in the
house, ever, I'm not going to have it dirtying my floor with the mud from its
feet or lying on the mat.'
Caitriona nodded silently. She had not expected anything else. She had never
known anyone to set such store by cleanliness as her step-mother did. The house
was lime-washed inside and outside at least three times a year, the stone flags
on the kitchen floor were scrubbed daily and you could almost see your face in
the copper saucepans, while the old dresser gleamed and shone in the firelight.
Bess would be better off outside. She would be warm and comfortable in the
little cabin. A little quiver of joy ran through her at the thought of having a
dog of her own. She got up and went over and knelt down beside Michael and put
her arms about the dog and the child, loving them both with such intensity that
it almost hurt.
Back to Drumshee Timeline Series booklist
Secret
of Drumshee Castle (book 3)
|
|