FlamesA Story by LesThis is a piece that I did for a writing course that I've just finished. It's slightly longer than I'd normally attempt but perhaps there's still scope for further development.Spotsylvania, 10:00pm, May 11 1864.
Declan O’Coffey, 25, formerly of County Westmeath, lay feeling the roughness of
his blue soldier’s tunic. He was numb. Declan stared into the campfire,
oblivious to his comrades around him. A
face appeared in the flames; that of the second man he’d knowingly killed. All day Declan had fired into the mass
of grey and butternut. Men had fallen, but by his hand? Declan didn’t know,
except for that one boy who was fifteen at most. As Declan charged, the boy was
suddenly in his path, looking scared. The
boy hesitated, Declan’s bayonet stabbed. The boy fell. Declan tried to clear the image,
thinking of his home village outside Athlone. But there was no solace there,
only sadness. Declan stared into the flames again,
seeing his parents’ faces. Ballybornia was never a happy place. His Father drank Poteen heavily. And it was
the potatoes that killed him. But not the fermented kind. It was the, blighted,
apologies for potatoes that took so many across Ireland in 1845. His Mother gave
the little food she’d hoarded to Declan and baby brother, Cormac. Whether she’d died from the blight or a
broken heart, Declan never knew. Declan was sent to the Mullingar
workhouse and Cormac to Athlone’s, never seeing each other again. The Workhouse was hellish, but Declan taught
himself to read and write there with the scant materials available. After six
years, he’d escaped, taking sanctuary with a one-armed innkeeper for whom he
laboured until his wife took too much interest in Declan’s developing frame. The growing evening chill didn’t interrupt
Declan’s reverie. Now he saw Kathleen’s
face in the campfire, the girl he’d married after years roaming the
countryside, exchanging his labour for shelter. The blight had gone but misery remained
etched in the local people’s faces, while the well-fed English landlords’ agents
chivvied them for un-repayable debts.
The hatred grew inside Declan. Age 24, Declan returned to Ballybornia. The
door of his former home had been opened by the prettiest girl he’d ever seen
but with the saddest eyes. Kathleen
Fagan was 20 when her parents died. Now 22 she’d scratched a living sewing,
tending animals, anything for small change, the toil drawing the bloom from her
features. The courtship was tentative but, within
a year, Kathleen was pregnant. The Priest married Declan and Kathleen for the
price of a bottle of whiskey, breathing sour fumes over them as he slurred the
holy words. Sitting in that Virginia Field, Declan
mused on the gentle summer evenings in the Bothy, watching Kathleen’s growing
form and the rosiness returning to her cheeks. But, now, the face of Lomas
appeared in the flames. Lomas demanded the rent arrears in seven
days or they must leave the bothy. He’d suggested another form of payment might
have been found but for Kathleen’s condition, leaving with a leer as she caught
Declan’s arm to stop him striking the Agent. Later, Kathleen asleep, Declan crept down
to the tavern where Lomas had gone. When Lomas stumbled out, he never sensed the
blow that killed him, delivered with every injustice that Declan had ever felt.
Kathleen knew what Declan had done. She
took the money saved for the coming babe that would now take them to a new life
in America. The couple fled southwards, their meagre possessions wrapped in a
blanket across Declan’s back, the fine summer weather turning to rain. Declan’s stole a handcart near
Ballycumber, his wife’s need being greater than the owner’s. But it took
another week to reach Queenstown in the wet conditions. Kathleen was visibly
wilting. They left the cart in a quiet spot, Declan carving the owner’s address
with his pocket knife. In the flames this time, Declan saw the
face of baby Saraid. Gulping, he remembered the bedlam of the Queenstown
dockside. They had just missed a New York sailing, But a Ship’s Agent told them
they were lucky, a ship for Boston was to sail on the next tide, and Boston was
a fine place. The William was no coffin ship they’d
been assured, but the steerage accommodation was hardly luxurious. Still, it
was dry and there was a rough bunk to sleep on. That first evening they slept like
it was a feather bed. But not before Declan felt the baby kick as he lay close
to Kathleen. The storm began as The William left
Irish waters. For three days the vessel
pitched and rolled, requiring an iron constitution to keep one’s stomach.
Kathleen’s constitution was not of iron. By four days out she was feverish and
a travelling mother of six had said the babe had better come soon. But the baby
had not come for another three days of storm tossed waves and Kathleen’s
strength was nearly spent. Kathleen died the following day, Baby
Saraid, in Declan’s arms, the day after. He looked from Kathleen’s still
features to the baby’s in turn, trying to gauge the greater loss. He neither
cried then, nor when the bodies were committed to the angry sea in the same
weighted shroud. Declan felt the same numbness then as now,
lying under the stars at Spotsylvania. He turned to look into the now dying flames
one final time and saw a face he did not recognise. He puzzled over the stranger’s features
while thinking how he’d come here. He’d cursed God when the storm ended the same
day that Saraid died and they’d made an uneventful entry to Boston. Seeking comfort
in a rough sailor’s tavern, he’d met a well-dressed fellow countryman, eager to
escape conscription. For $50, Declan took the man’s name and his place in the
war, leading Declan to this bloody field. The battle would resume in the morning.
As Declan lay, eyes closed, the stranger’s face still troubled him. Was it the
face of the next man he would kill or the man who would kill him? Declan
drifted into a fitful sleep, the embers of the campfire still burning. © 2018 LesReviews
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5 Reviews Added on April 24, 2018 Last Updated on April 24, 2018 AuthorLesSt Albans District, Hertfordshire, United KingdomAboutHave always enjoyed writing. Just looking to see if I have any creativity left in me to write some fiction. more..Writing
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