Escape From Home Read Free Page A

himself who entered. “Mr. Morgan has arrived,” he announced. “And with reinforcements too.”
    Patrick snatched up the bundles and ran out.
    â€œPatrick!” Maura cried, but he was gone. “Mother,” she pleaded, “do you want to be buried alive in rubble? For God’s sake, you must move!”
    Mrs. O’Connell, as though blind, groped her way out of the hut.
    â€œAh, Maura,” Father Mahoney said, “you must be leaving too.”
    â€œFather,” Maura whispered, “will you give the place a final blessing before I go?”
    The priest nodded in understanding, lifted his hand, and spoke softly but quickly. Maura, eyes cast down, hands clenched before her, waited until he was done. Then she said, “Go now, Father. I’ll be there in time.”
    He took her at her word and hurried to give service elsewhere.
    Her blue eyes blurred gray with tears, Maura stood in the middle of their barren home. The floor was as cold to her bare feet as her heart was hot. She looked about to see if anything was forgotten only to realize the uselessness of such an effort. Whatever possessions they had had were long gone—sold, or broken, or taken. With an angry snort of self-mockery, she pushed the hair out of her face and wiped her eyes dry with the heel of a hand. Intense anger swept through her. “A curse on this land,” she whispered, “and may I keep angry with its memory!”
    Hurriedly now, she scratched at the floor and gathered enough dirt to pour over the tiny turf fire. The last ember was extinguished. Without another glance, Maura ran out of her home.

K ilonny Village looked like an anthill overturned. People were frantically rushing in and out of their cottages and huts, trying to save what they could. With cries and shouts, with wailing and curses, they piled boxes, bundles, and pieces of furniture on the muddy road in an unruly mound.
    Barely a quarter of a mile away, atop the bluff that overlooked the village, Mr. Morgan sat tall on his chestnut horse. He was a proud, stiff man, with the long face of a wolfhound. Dressed in black hat, flaming red jacket, and jack boots, carrying a whip in hand, he looked like a general surveying the site of a coming battle.
    He was surrounded, on foot, by four constables and twelve soldiers. In the slanting rays of the dawning sun, the soldiers’ muskets and bayonets sparkled. Each constable held a ladder. All were ready to charge on Kilonny. Mr. Morgan restrained them.
    â€œPatience, boys, patience,” he cautioned. “Show some remorse for the poor sods. The beggars are losing their homes.”
    It was not long before the thirty men, women, and children of the village, few dressed in anything more than rags and with bare feet like the O’Connells, completed the removal of their goods. Once that was done, they grouped themselves about Father Mahoney by the side of the road, their faces turned toward the man in scarlet.
    â€œAll right, boys,” Mr. Morgan said softly, “they’re ready. Don’t be pushing too hard. They’re agitated and might even be spoiling for a fight. The smoother, the better, and all in all the less price to pay.”
    The agent touched his heels to his horse. Saddle leather creaked. The mare, her nostrils blowing a mist of warm air that made her seem like a smoke-breathing dragon, cantered smartly down the slope. The constables and soldiers trotted by her flanks.
    â€œGood morning!” Mr. Morgan cried cheerily as he approached the villagers and saluted them by lifting his beaver hat high. “A very good morning to you all!”
    The crowd around Father Mahoney stared at the agent with sullen hatred.
    Mr. Morgan settled his hat on his head and returned their hard looks with deliberate congeniality. “I bring you heartfelt greetings from Lord Kirkle himself, whose land agent, as you know, I am. He has begged me—out of his