Free Toward the Sea of Freedom by Sarah Lark Page B

right as the Irish to make our own whiskey on our land? Shouldn’t we eat the grain—or drink something made from it—that we’ve sown and harvested ourselves? If Ireland belonged to the Irish, there’d be no famine. No, Kathleen, I’m not ashamed. Nor should you be ashamed of me.”
    Michael looked straight into her eyes. Kathleen almost felt afraid. He had never spoken so seriously to her before.
    “They’re going to send me away, Kathleen,” Michael said. “I can’t marry you and make you an honest woman. Although to me you’re more than honest, Mary Kathleen—you’re holy. And you’ll raise our child with dignity. I trust you.” He kissed her forehead as if to seal their bond.
    She nodded mutely.
    “What about the money, Kathleen? Do you have it?” Michael asked.
    “Yes,” she answered quietly. “What am I to do now?”
    “Come closer.”
    She moved toward him and though he was chained, he caressed her as best he could. His touch was as gentle and comforting as ever, but it gave her no answer.
    A penny bought an hour from the guard, and in that short time, Michael and Kathleen said their good-byes. Michael put his hand on his beloved’s stomach as if he could feel the child already.
    “Would you want to name it Kevin?” he asked. “After my father?”
    Kathleen asked herself if she really wanted her son to be named after a whiskey distiller, but it was a beautiful name, a sainted name. She thought of all the stories Father O’Brien had told about St. Kevin. He had been strong and handsome, and so gentle and clever that sea monsters lay like lambs at his feet and birds roosted in his hands.
    So she nodded and gave herself over one last time to Michael’s kisses. It would have to last a lifetime.
    Kathleen tried not to cry when she finally left.
    “I’d like a smile to remember you by,” Michael whispered.
    Kathleen smiled through her tears. But then she thought of something. With a quick motion, she wrapped several strands of her hair around her hand and pulled them out, as she had often seen men do when shortening horses’ manes.
    “Here,” she said. “I don’t know if they’ll let you keep it. But if so . . .”
    Michael put the lock of her hair to his lips. “I’ll fight for it,” he said plainly, then tried tearing out a few strands of his own. His hair was not long enough, so he gritted his teeth and pulled out an entire tuft.
    “Michael!” cried Kathleen, horrified. She did not want him to suffer any more pain.
    “For you, my love. Forget me not.”
    The guard cleared his throat as Kathleen kissed Michael once more, this time on his forehead.
    Michael held her hand until she finally withdrew it.
    “I’ll always love you,” she promised with a firm voice.
    “I’ll come back!” he called to her as she stepped into the hall. “Wherever they send me, I’ll come back.”
    Kathleen did not turn around. She knew she would have cried, and she did not want that.
    You’ll raise our child with dignity. I trust you. Michael had said that. She had made a promise, and she had to keep it.

    “What now?” asked Bridget.
    They had left Wicklow Jail, and Bridget had dragged the girl to the nearest cookshop that was already open. Kathleen was frighteningly pale. Bridget had thought she needed some hot tea—preferably with a shot of whiskey.
    Now Kathleen was sipping indecisively at the steaming-hot drink.
    “What can I do?” she asked listlessly. “I only know that I won’t get rid of the baby. How could Daisy even think that? Bridget, I, I don’t think I want to go back to Daisy.”
    Bridget shrugged. “Daisy isn’t bad. And she did not mean you any harm, believe me. It’s just she knows all too well what you’re in for if you bring a bastard into the world. And that’s what they’ll call your child, dearie, no matter how much love conceived it. It’s not pleasant for the child, Kathleen. I’m a bastard myself, and I’ve often thought what a blessing it would have