“Americans like me, with European ancestors who immigrated during colonial times, often have a rosier-than-reality picture of our forebears’ lives. Scholars believe half- to three-quarters of early immigrants came as indentured workers. Too poor to afford passage or brought against their will, these men, women — and even children — labored for years to pay off their debt. Those who survived quickly dropped this tough start from their resumes.” Diane Helentjaris

Chapter One

IRELAND

Aird Mhór, Contae Phort Láirge, Éire (Ardmore, County Waterford, Ireland) July 1690

The sun came up as always on the day Ivy O’Neill learned to hate. Eight years old, she gamboled down the Cliff Walk toward the headland. Her sister, Honora, at three years of age, scrambled to keep up. Wind laden with thesea’s tang buffeted the girls. Their mother needed berries.

A faint footpath off the Cliff Walk pointed Ivy and Honora to the berry patch. A few hundred yards from the O’Neills’ cottage, hillocks and arching canes created a secluded and secret world for the sisters. Overhead the sea wind snarled, its chilly fingers unable to reach the girls in their sheltered nook. The sun warmed Ivy’s shoulders through her cotton dress. Golden highlights glinted among her red curls.

“Ouch!” Ivy stuck her finger as she probed the raspberry canes. She peeked into Honora’s willow basket. Fiveberries.

Honora stopped chewing and looked up at her sister. Her eyes flashed blue and green through copper lashes. Like her father, sister, and two older brothers, Honora’s right eye was blue and her left eye green. Even though Baby Aiden’s eyes had yet to change from the hazy gray of the newborn, everyone knew his eyes would not be a matched set.

Taunted as “spawn of the devil” by a town boy when she was five, Ivy had run to her father. He hugged her and pulled her onto his lap. “Ivy, darling, everyone’s different. Your brother Sean has black hair. Father Declan has the hugest, longest nose I’ve ever seen. His nose doesn’t stop him from sharing the Word. That boy in town, I’ll wager, has something that sets him aside from everyone else, too. Our differences add salt to our lives.”

Ivy had snuffled, jumped off Patrick O’Neill’s knee, and never again regretted anything about herself.

She looked down at her sister. “Don’t fret, Honora. You can eat them. We just need to be sure to take a few home to Ma. She wants enough for a pie. Remember, Father Declan’s coming by to baptize Aiden tomorrow, and Ma wants him to stay for supper. Daddy says babies need to be baptized for the good of their souls, else they go to limbo. Don’t want Aiden to go there. We can’t go to church, so Father Declan’s coming to our house.”

“Church?”

“No church. Daddy says it’s not safe right now. Don’t worry. We’ll have mass at home for a while, just until the English soldiers move on. They’re not true believers and just don’t understand.”

Honora nodded and went back to chewing berries. Red juice dribbled down her chin and dripped onto her bare feet.

The girls, their backs to the sun and their faces shadowed, resumed picking in a companionable silence. Identical to Ivy in coloring, gracefulness, and leggy build, Honora appeared to be a miniaturized version of her older sister.

With soft rustles, the brambles gave up their fruit.

Ivy daydreamed. She relived the previous day’s outing. The O’Neill girls had gone on a morning wander with their mother after chores. Ivy helped wash the dishes. Though asked to sweep up the sand left by their fishermen father and older brothers, Honora mostly poked at the tabby cat with her broken-off broom and giggled when he hissed.

Their mother often took Ivy and Honora outdoors on fine days while their brothers Rory and Sean fished with their father. She said the exercise helped them grow strong and “cleared their heads of cobwebs” as well. Ivy worried at first about the cobwebs. Were there really any inside her? Her mother laughed and explained it was just a saying, words, and not real.

Yesterday they had rambled down the Cliff Walk to the Round Tower. The ancient stone turret overlooked their village of Ardmore and pointed its narrow finger to heaven, silently and faithfully guarding a necklace of ruins and graves.

From the heights of the Cliff Walk, the girls had seen fishing boats bobbing in the cove. They wended their way through the tilted gravestones. Like ducklings, they trailed their mother to the ruined cathedral. Although the slate roof had clattered away years earlier, its ornately carved walls still stood firm on the stone floor. Time had erased many details in the carvings. Only ghostly figures remained to carry the rhythm and beauty of the religious messages. Adam and Eve stood naked, separated by the Tree of Knowledge. A harp spoke of the music of life. King Solomon sat forever in judgment and pondered the fate of the baby held out to him.

Ivy never tired of hearing the tale. Her mother’s melodious voice, low-pitched and rich, rose and fell dramatically. Ivy always held her breath at the king’s admonition to cut the baby in two. She’d let out a relieved sigh as her mother described the child’s rescue. The girls had no trouble falling asleep for their afternoon nap after a trip to the RoundTower’s ruins.

Ivy paused in her berry picking. “Honora, maybe Ma will take us on a ramble today. We must hurry, though. You need to pick more berries than you eat. Come on. What do you say?”

“But I like to eat berries. I’m hungry.”

“All right, all right. I’ll pick as fast as I can. You go on and eat. I’ll put some of mine in your basket before we get home.”

Honora giggled, her lips rimmed in juice and her chin stained.

“You’re right, Honora. Gathering berries is the best chore yet. All by ourselves. And we can even eat them if we want. Look.” Ivy tossed a raspberry up into the air and expertly caught it in her mouth.

Honora nodded, unable to speak. She’d stuffed her bulging cheeks chock-full of raspberries.

“Ma might be done hanging the clothes. Aiden’s asleep for sure. That’s all he does now, all swaddled in his cradle. I can’t wait till he’s big enough to play. I like to hold him, don’t you?”

“I like to rock.”

“Yes. Me too. He’s the sweetest baby ever.”

Ivy knew her mother was probably watching the path for the girls’ return, anxious to get started baking the highly anticipated fruit pastry. She quickened her plucking and pulled several berries at a time off the canes.

A breeze ruffled the tattered hem of Ivy’s dress and brought with it the smell of burning peat. “Ma must be baking the bread already, Honora,” said Ivy. “I can smell the peat burning.”

Bread fresh from the hearth held a place of honor in Ivy’s life. She would hover by the table as her mother cut a thick slice from the warm loaf, slathered it with golden butter, and split it between her daughters. Ivy would take her bread and sit on the stoop, eyes closed. She would savor each bite, rolling the warm, buttery morsels in her mouth. Finished, the sparrows would hop in for her crumbs. The thought of a new loaf spurred Ivy into action.

“Let’s go, Honora. You’ve et enough berries. Time to go home and get some bread.”

The breeze picked up as the girls emerged onto the Cliff Walk. Gusts of wind carried a pungent odor and a woman’s screams.

Ivy’s heart jumped in her chest — the horrible noises were from her mother.

“Come on, Honora.” Ivy grabbed her sister’s hand. “Something’s wrong. We have to help.”

The berry baskets fell to the ground. Out spilled the crimson harvest. Honora’s head swiveled back. She began to blubber.

“Shh. Stop it, Honora. We’ll be back.”

Ivy dragged and coaxed Honora along the Cliff Walk. Reaching the final rise before their home, she scooped her sister up in her arms. Smoke rose skyward ahead. She heard men with harsh foreign voices and the drumming of horses’ hooves intermingled with her mother’s wailing.

Ivy’s sweaty hands slipped as Honora squirmed in her arms. “Honora,” she whispered, “shush. Be very, very quiet.”

Honora, her lips pressed together tightly, gave a nod. Her berry-stained chin quivered.

The two crawled up to their home’s privet hedge. Ivy peered through a thin patch in the shrubbery and quickly turned Honora’s head away from the sight.

“Don’t look, Honora. Look at me instead.”

Orange, red, and yellow tongues of fire licked and roared up the walls of the O’Neills’ cottage. Acrid black smoke billowed through the beams as the final sheaves of thatch disintegrated into ash and drifted away.

Wearing coats as scarlet as the flames, three mounted soldiers, upwind of the fire, watched the house burn. The wild-eyed war horses tossed their heads and stamped their hooves, nostrils flared. Ivy had never seen anyone in such bright clothing or atop such finely outfitted horses.

Ann O’Neill sat sprawled on the ground by the well, holding a bundle of laundry in her arms. The right side of her face glistened bright red as she wailed and keened.

The tallest of the English soldiers, his face contorted with rage, yelled at her mother in words Ivy didn’tunderstand.

A stout soldier chimed in from atop his chestnut horse, his gestures threatening.

The third soldier, who looked about Rory’s age, sat silent. Three of the O’Neills’ chickens hung limply from his hand, their heads flopping on wrung necks.

“Stay here, Honora.”

Honora gaped as Ivy burst from the hedge and ran out. Ivy stopped a few yards from the men, planted her feet on the ground, and screamed at them.

“Stop it! Help her! Stop the fire! What are you doing?” Ivy shook her clenched fist. The soldier with the chickens spoke to her in the language she did not know.

The tall soldier and the stout soldier laughed aloud. The tall man barked at the soldier with the chickens. After a mocking whinny from the chestnut, the three foreigners trotted off toward Ardmore.

Ivy flew to her mother. Honora howled behind the hedge.

“Ma, Ma!” Ivy cried. “What happened? Where’s the baby? Did the soldiers take him?” She stopped.

A bit of lace clung to the soot-darkened bundle in her mother’s arms. Ivy had held the yarn as her mother wound the ball. She had watched her knit that lace for the new baby’s blanket. Ivy stared, realizing what her mother clutched to her bosom.

Her brother Aiden lay dead in his mother’s arms.

Ivy’s soul fluttered, heaved, then floated back into place. As if from a great distance, her mother’s voice croaked a warning.

“Ivy, run. Hide. Take Honora. Go, girl — now. Take Honora back to the berry patch. I’ll be fine.”

Ivy stared at the raw, red wound. Its blackened borders engulfed the right side of her mother’s forehead and scalp. A sickening new smell filled her nostrils.

“No, Ma, no. You have to come, too. And Aiden.” Uncertain where to touch her damaged mother, Ivy tugged at the bottom of her mother’s singed skirt. “Come. Please.”

Honora left the hedge. She screeched like an owl, hands to the sides of her face and her eyes enormous.

Ivy yanked Honora’s hand.

“Stop the noise, Honora. Stop it this minute. The soldiers will hear you and come back. Come on.

We have to hide in the berry bushes. Ma says so.”

Ivy led Honora into the scrubland behind the smoldering ruins of the O’Neill home. The girls’ mother trailed after, her dead baby tight to her breast.

Ivy swooped down and collected Honora’s berries and basket as they fled. Reaching the shelter of a gorse thicket, Ann collapsed under the bushes. She lay on the ground, her blackened bundle beside her.

Ivy heard her mother’s harsh breathing and the whimpers escaping from her pursed lips. With Ivy’s encouragement, Honora ate a few bruised berries, then fell asleep huddled on her mother’s skirt.

Ivy kept guard. She remembered Father Declan’s warning of the fate of unbaptized infants. They went to hell, to limbo. She cried at the thought of her baby brother lost in limbo.

The summer sun cartwheeled across the blue sky and passed its midmark, untouched by the O’Neills’ plight. Her mother slumbered, deafened by losses and injuries. Her chest rattled with each breath as if even her insides were burned. Honora whimpered and stirred in her sleep. The shadows lengthened. A meadow pipit flew up and startled Ivy.

Ivy heard a soft short whistle from the direction of the cottage. She gave the answering whistle as she’d been taught. Within minutes, her father, Rory, and Sean silently materialized, perfumed by the scent of the ocean with an undertone of fish guts.

Flinty-eyed Patrick O’Neill stood before the remnants of his family.

“Damn. Damn. Damn,” he whispered. “Oh, God. I should have taken them away. Oh, God.” “Daddy,” said Ivy. She and Honora began to cry.

His voice steeled.

“Ivy, be quiet. We’ve no time to weep. The soldiers are likely still about. Rory, you carry Honora.

Sean, walk with Ivy. I’ll take care of your mother and Aiden. We need to get to the boat.” He knelt over his wife, lifted the cloth from Aiden’s face, then put it back.

“I’m so sorry, Pat. I’m so sorry. I left him. I left Aiden to go to the well. I thought he’d be fine. Oh, Patrick . . .” Ann gasped from the effort of talking. A string of coughs erupted.

“Ann, be still. Did the soldiers hurt you? Did they interfere with you? What about the girls? Did they harm the girls?”

“No, Patrick. No. They burned the house. I was at the well, I was. I smelled the smoke, then rushed in for Aiden. He won’t wake up.”

“Shh, Ann. Let’s just get out of here. Be as quiet as you can, love.”

“What about the house? What about dinner? I’m hungry,” said ten-year-old Sean. Tears flowed down his cheeks. He swiped at them with the back of a grimy hand.

“Everything’s gone here, Sean. You’ll eat later. The English Protestants want this land, and we can’t win. We’re fishermen, not soldiers. We’ve already lost Aiden. I’m not giving up any more of you. Now get going. We’ve no time to stand around palavering. We’re done with Ardmore. Let’s get to the boat.”

Sean pushed his forelock of black curls from his forehead and reached out for Ivy’s hand. “Come on, Sis. Everything’ll be fine. Let’s get to the Phelim.”

Sean was lying, trying to act grown-up, hoping to make her do what he wanted. She was too stunned and too tired to protest.

Rory, a muscular man-sized teenager, picked up Honora. Patrick gently but hurriedly led his wife. There was no time to stop at the ruins of their home. The pervasive smell of smoke irritated their noses.

Ivy, terrified the English still lurked, struggled to stifle any cough. The family sped to the beach. At one point, Ivy heard their cow moo off in the distance, bewildered and begging to be milked. She shot her father a questioning look.

He shook his head. There was no time for anything except the family’s escape.

When they reached the shore, only a smudge of light lingered in the west. A second, brighter artificial sunset glowed in the north, created by the reflection on low clouds of Ardmore aflame. The conflagration, rooted in a royal dispute across the Celtic Sea, consumed Ivy’s entire sphere of life.

“Daddy, we won’t all fit,” she said with a glance at the Phelim, the wooden fishing boat her father had named for a children’s song. With no mast and no sail, the weathered red vessel demanded a skilled master.

“Hush.” Rory shot Ivy a scowl from under his mop of red hair.

Patrick put a gentle hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine, love. Keep silent. Sound carries far over the water. Rory and I will have you away from all this in the shake of a lamb’s tail. Just don’t move about.”

The O’Neills then did what they knew best; they took to the water. They fled Ardmore with the remainders of their life — the clothes on their backs, the Phelim, and Aiden’s soulless body. Ivy and Sean collapsed against a coil of rope. Honora clung to her mother and Ann clung to Aiden’s body as if he were alive.

Rory and Patrick slipped the oars noiselessly into the water and rowed. Their ropey arms oared in unison; their faces settled into matching profiles of determination.

The man in the fat rising moon smiled down, oblivious to their plight.

The Phelim abandoned the shoreline, holding the O’Neills like berries in a cupped hand. They headed east toward a narrow spit of land jutting out into the Celtic Sea. Mist shrouded the peninsula, a place so lonely, with land so worthless, the English wouldn’t bother with the Irish there for generations to come.