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Michael Devlin and the Cheyenne

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Michael Devlin was as poor as the proverbial church mouse; he had been since the day he was born. When Michael was an infant, his father, Paudi, like many across the barren landscape of Clifden, in County Galway, Ireland, was a penniless tenant farmer. The tiny holding sat on the fringes of the Atlantic Ocean. When the scourge of the Potato Famine enveloped the land in 1845, his father lost hope and the will to live. A neighbor found him floating in the incoming-tide amid the rocks on the seashore. Growing up in a small mud cottage, Michael and his mother Ainne took over the working of the tiny plot of land. Together, into his teenage years, they eked out a living from the meagre resources available to them. The main source of sustenance came from Michael's illegal fishing on private land and crustaceans left behind in rock pools as the tides receded. When his father had died he left behind him a 10 foot clinker boat. Michael used it to ferry parties of local Anglo-Irish gentry and officers of the British occupational forces to choice fishing locations. It was back-breaking work with which he was forced to persevere as it was the only source of income for him and his mother. By the time he was 18 years old he was 6 feet 1 inch tall and had powerfully muscled shoulders and arms. Michael was well-known and liked in the small fishing village in which he lived. He had a quiet even temperament and personality. His sleek black hair was swept straight back. When his smile broke out it was said that it set many a maiden's hearts aflutter. Of late Michael was no longer the very amiable colleague and friend in the small cluster of houses in the village where he lived. While it was known Michael had an even temperament; he also proved to have a volatile temper when provoked. At this juncture in his life he is angry about a lot of things; the British Penal Laws not the least amongst them. Ireland was invaded in the year 1171 in the reign of King Henry 2nd of England. The infamous Penal Laws were imposed for the purpose of keeping the Irish populace subdued and docile; not unlike sheep in a field, was the aphorism Michael often used. The British invaders abolished Gealige, the Irish language; its usage punishable by death. Total illiteracy among the subjugated people was the aim of the British overlords. It was forbidden to attend grammar school. It was forbidden to buy land or own a horse worth no more than a pittance in value. He could not attend Catholic worship. He had a teacher friend who was made redundant because of his profession, who made Michael a gift of many of his books. In the cold, damp squalor of his mud cottage, he taught himself to read and write by the turf fire and candlelight.

In February 1864 Michael's mother Ainne died, leaving him alone. He knew he had to leave Galway to make something of his life. He thought of joining the thousands of impoverished laborers and tenant farmers who were leaving to find work in Britain and Australia. Most immigrants wanted to go to the United States but the cost was prohibitive, even in the coffin ships that sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to the New World. He bided his time, buoyed up by his youth and natural zeal.

Early one morning in April in the year 1864, we find our 18 year old hero illegally fishing in the Owenglin River in Clifden, County Galway. He had become an expert fisherman over the years. His fishing tackle was the most rudimentary imaginable, consisting of a stripling quickly pulled from a tree with a length of catgut, a bent pin and worm attached. Michael selected a spot where he knew the fish were abundant. He was both poaching and trespassing on private land. For his offence, under British Penal Laws, if apprehended, our penniless tenant farmer could lose his small holding, and spend some time in jail.

A sudden thunderous noise and ground shaking disturbed the pastoral calm where he was quietly fishing. He looked through the blind in which he was hiding along the river's edge. Coming straight at him was a deer hunt in full flight. Over 50 horses, riders and hounds were bearing down on the very spot in the river where he had chosen to fish. At the last instant the hunt riders veered to his right and jumped across the fast flowing river, missing Michael's hiding place by what seemed a matter of feet. He threw himself on the ground and curled into a ball. Chaos ensued all about him. Hysterical, yelping dogs forded the river and sniffed at Michael as they passed over him, and tore off again on the scent of the deer. Caught in the frenzied blood lust of the chase, the hounds paid scant regard to any other distractions. Over the next few minutes, several slower riders made the jump until silence reigned again in Michael's poaching blind. As he got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his clothes, a shadow above him blocked out the light of the sun. Just inches above his head a struggling rider, a woman, was moving too slowly to safely breach the river. It was obvious to Michael she wasn't going to make it. The horse came down heavily on his side of the steep bank. The impact jolted the rider out of the saddle, throwing her back into the river. She went under immediately. When she re-emerged she began thrashing the water and screaming in terror. Michael watched her from his vantage point. She started to flow with the fast current of the deep river and in moments she was twenty yards away. Then she went under a second time. Michael had difficulty coping with the dilemma into which the drowning woman placed him. She belonged to a class of privileged gentry who wouldn't care less if he was crushed beneath the hooves of the galloping horses. The woman was probably dead already. She was gone alright, he decided as he looked around, there was neither sight nor sound of her. Feeling suddenly ashamed Michael ran along the bank of the river. Seeing a piece of colored cloth just under the surface he took a running dive into the water. When he went under he grabbed the arm of the submerged woman and kicked back to the riverbank. He reached out and grabbed a tree stump, gasping for air as he dragged her up to the surface. There was no movement from her as he pulled her up on the bank.

He quickly cleared away gorse and brambles beneath her limp, prostrate body and turned her face down on the ground. After straightening down the folds of her dress he began pressing firmly on her back. There was no response. He cursed himself for not trying to save her sooner. The seconds passed. He tried to resuscitate her one last time. As he pushed harder he heard a choking, hoarse sound as water jettisoned from her mouth. Her body convulsed as she began to cough; gasping desperately for air. Finally, totally exhausted, she collapsed and cried fitfully with her head resting on her arm. Michael judged her to be a young woman about his own age. She was also beautiful, he thought, as he looked at her face. Rank and privilege seemed to enhance the natural beauty of women. Very likely she had spent the greater part of her life on horseback, and would look with disdain upon the social class he represented. He smiled to himself, thinking she might prefer to drown rather than be rescued by someone of his inferior status. Eleanor Chalmers raised her head, stopped crying and looked up at the roughly hewn young man staring down at her. Her moistened hazel eyes stared blankly at him as she slowly recovered her senses. She brushed her auburn hair back over her forehead and struggled up into a sitting position.

"You fell into the river, Miss." Said Michael.

The sound of hoof beats rang out nearby. Michael jumped up and shouted to them. Three horsemen came riding up, dismounted and ran past Michael to assist the young woman. The older of the men proved to be Eleanor's father, Henry Chalmers, the Resident Magistrate of Galway. One of the younger men was Jack Chalmers, Eleanor's brother. The third man assisting Eleanor to her feet was James Prendergast, Eleanor's suitor. He was the type of person Michael detested. Prendergast was a West Brit dandy, an Irishman who aped the foppish antics of his British masters. He was known for his eccentricity of manner and rudeness. When he saw the torn knee breeches and coarse attire of Michael, Prendergast yelled at him to remove himself from their company forthwith. As Michael turned to leave, Eleanor, a young woman of forceful character, remonstrated with Prendergast. She said Michael had just saved her life and regaled them with the details of Michael's gallantry. The upshot was that Michael was invited to afternoon tea the following day by the Magistrate. The aggrieved Prendergast angrily mounted his horse and galloped away. He was furious. It was unheard of; a ragged peasant being entertained at the Manor House, and trespassing on private land to boot. As he whipped his horse and picked up speed, he resolved that if he met Michael Devlin again he would use his riding crop on him; put manners on the cur.

Michael had no way of knowing that by diving into the river to save a drowning young woman, how fateful and far-reaching the consequences would be.

Dressed in the same ragged clothes Michael duly turned up at the Manor House for tea the following day. As they sat in the spacious living room, the Magistrate Henry Chalmers and his son Jack expressed their gratitude and admiration to Michael for his brave deed. When Eleanor came down the staircase to join them, Michael could not but look in awe at her elegance and beauty. He had to make a physical effort to avoid rudeness by not staring. He riveted his attention on Henry Chalmers and his son Jack to avoid embarrassing himself, for it was too difficult to divert his eyes from Eleanor. For Michael, she seemed an unattainable treasure well beyond his dreams. She wore a grey wool skirt and a white lace blouse with mother-of pearl buttons. Her auburn-colored hair was caught in a ray of light as she approached the table. Michael stood up first and pulled back the chair for her to sit down, a gesture that did not go unnoticed on the Magistrate. A scent of heather and roses reached him as she smiled and sat down beside him. As afternoon tea progressed, Magistrate Chalmers and his son Jack were not in the least condescending towards their penurious guest. They were admiring of him and grateful for rescuing Eleanor from the river. They did however quite reasonably expect to have to engage in mundane small-talk; in deference to sparse, if any, intelligence or education on the part of their guest. The Magistrate was dumbfounded therefore as Michael began to speak. The family became intrigued and quickly realized they made a grave error in assuming they would be entertaining an impoverished, country bumpkin for afternoon tea. Michael proved to be personable and engaging, his ragged clothes notwithstanding. The penniless tenant farmer before the Magistrate was not only holding his own in a broad variety of subjects, but modestly reprimanded them when they erred. He talked about European politics and the British, French and Spanish opening gambits in the American colonies. The Magistrate came to delight in the witticisms and sharp repartees of his guest. Finally curiosity overcame him and he asked Michael how he came by such a fund of knowledge. Michael replied that since the British Penal Laws in Ireland forbade Catholics from acquiring knowledge or the most elementary education, he taught himself, by candlelight, how to read and write. An old retired professor he brought fish to, loaned him books and the leading British newspapers. A 'Hedge Priest', a fugitive teacher on the run because of the Penal Laws, also became his tutor. The Magistrate, a retired ex-British Army Officer, expressed his profound regret for the harsh, restrictive laws imposed on Irish Catholics.

As the afternoon tea progressed the Manor House rang with laughter. The Magistrate, Eleanor and Jack were impressed and delighted by Michael's humor, demeanor and pleasant company.

They couldn't help themselves admiring and enjoying Michael's company and were sorry when the afternoon tea came to an end. It was the intention of the Magistrate, and his son Jack, to do something tangible for Michael, to reward him for saving Eleanor's life. With that he was invited back to the house a few days hence, the Magistrate saying he would have news for him. Michael said his goodbyes to the Magistrate and Jack. Eleanor, chatting and smiling, walked with Michael to the door. As she was about to close the door behind him, she called after him in a low voice.

"Do you like dancing ...?"

"Miss ...?"

"Do you like to dance?"

"Yes Miss. I don't get much of a chance to do so, but I do like to dance ..."

"On Saturday night there's a dance at the crossroads. I'll be there with my brother Jack at 8 o' clock, if you'd like to go."

"I'll be there Miss, you can be sure of it ..." She smiled at him and closed the door slowly. She leaned against it thoughtfully and listened to Michael's footsteps recede down the footpath.

Our hero is a rational, sober-minded young man, in the prime of his life. He is very attracted to Eleanor Chalmers, a stunning beauty just one year younger than his 18 years. She wants to continue seeing him. The frustration building up within Michael is because of the social and class disparity subsisting between Michael's world and Eleanor's. In his mind he knows that his longing to make the Magistrate's daughter his own was in the realm of fancy, the stuff of dreams. He was not faint of heart, but for her sake he must face reality. He was a small-holding farmer, without a penny to his name. How could he in all conscience condemn her to a life of penury, of impoverishment? If he followed his natural inclination, abject privation would soon decimate her beauty; she would lose her social status. Whatever he might aspire to outside of Ireland, if he remained at home, the odds were against him ever rising above the destitution into which he had been born.

Eleanor had fallen in love with Michael from the moment he came to visit them in the Manor House. His character and manner, his certain yet modest self-assurance, spoke for all the virtues she needed to see in a man. In the little time she had known him he was attentive, considerate and mindful of her. He had turned up at the crossroads dance just outside the village of Clifden. It was one of the happiest nights of her life as Eleanor danced reels and jigs with Michael. By now she had become contemptuous of the amorous overtures of the popinjay James Prendergast. She hid when he came calling, to the chagrin of her father who saw Prendergast as the only eligible bachelor in West Galway. She wasn't prepared when Michael told her they shouldn't go on seeing each other. She was emotionally devastated and refused to listen to Michael when he pleaded the life of hardship and social isolation that would be hers if she married him. He begged her to give him a chance to make a success of his life, to be worthy of her, that was all that mattered to him, to make himself worthy of her. Could she wait, could she possibly wait for him to make something of himself? He would go to the New World, to America, he believed he would do well and they would be together for the rest of their lives. His ardor and passion made her relent; she said yes, she would wait, yes, of course she would wait.

The dandy Prendergast was in a rage. In the small rural community of Clifden, in County Galway, nothing went unnoticed. It had been brought to his attention that Eleanor was seen at a crossroad dance, dancing with Michael Devlin. One night after Michael walked Eleanor home, he turned and went back towards the village. Prendergast waited in the shadow of a toolshed until Michael went by. He threw caution to the wind as he rushed at Michael, with a raised pick-axe handle poised to strike. It was the noise of gravel beneath the heels of Prendergast that alerted Michael. His quick reflexes and superbly conditioned physique saved him from serious injuries. He took the full force of the blow on his arms. Michael had been rowing boats since he was a youth and brushed away the blow as Prendergast ran for his life. Michael chased after him. When he caught up with him Prendergast began wailing and begged for his life.

"What kind of a man are you?" said Michael, "Hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack me. You could have killed me. I've a good mind to ..."

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Excerpted from Michael Devlin and the Cheyenne by John Flanagan. Copyright © 2015 John Flanagan. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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