Chapter One

Chapter 1 – The Journey Begins

I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
Traveling through this world of woe.
There is no sickness, toil, or danger
In that world to which I go.

“The Wayfaring Stranger”
Traditional Ballad



I knew my life would finally end this way.
That was the burning thought in Joseph Moore’s mind as he lay hidden behind the stone wall. With his heart pounding, he tried to calm himself to hear the barking of the tracking dogs. He felt the aching from the dog bite below his knee and withdrew his hand to see blood.
The dirt felt cool against his face as he lay on the ground. The sweat from fear and exertion ran down his cheek in a trickle onto the dirt. Wiping his face, Joseph watched through a hole in the wall, scanning carefully for any sign of the men and dogs.

Lying there, he breathed in the smell of the soil he knew so well. Normally, he loved the unique smell of the dirt of western Ireland; but today was not a normal day. It was a day full of events that would change his life forever—if he survived.

On this day, in the year 1849, Joseph Moore from the village of Westport, Ireland, was a young man of seventeen. A tall, lanky teenager with sandy hair and a pleasant, freckled, ruddy face.
His deep green eyes peering from the stone wall were intense, fiery, and passionate. In the last four years, these eyes had seen plenty of pain and death up close. The blight-caused failure of the potato crop had brought widespread famine and cost the lives of thousands throughout Ireland. Coupled with the desperate mass emigration of even more who’d left by boat, it seemed Ireland was becoming barren of people.

The smell of the dirt beneath his face was also a reminder of the many graves he had helped dig. He thought, I just wonder if someone will be digging me own grave before this mess is over.
Joseph reflected on the day’s events that had brought him to this terrifying moment: This spring morning had begun innocently enough. There were always plenty of chores to do on the small Moore farm. What had earlier been a family of seven now consisted of him and an older widowed sister. Everyone else was gone: his dad’s exile to Australia by the authorities; other family members who had emigrated to England or America; plus the rest who were dead from starvation or the famine fever that had swept through during the worst days of the past four years.

When the trouble started on this particular spring morning, Joseph was digging with a shovel in the potato rows. He had planted this spring’s crop early on the treeless hills, so maybe the crop would make before the potato rot hit.

Joseph was just out of sight from the last possessions of the family farm: their small sheep herd that consisted of an old ram, two ewes, and two young lambs. They grazed in the next field—hidden from view by the stone wall.

Along with the garden, these sheep were the livelihood of his sister and himself. They were so precious that he brought them nightly into the dirt-floored cottage.

That was exactly why the sounds Joseph heard filled him with fear: Dreadful bleating mixed with loud yelping came from the adjacent field. Shovel in hand, Joseph ran toward the noise. What he saw as he reached the stone wall sickened him: A pack of four dogs was attacking the sheep.

As is their nature, the sheep were huddled helplessly in the corner of the stone wall. Blood poured from the neck of one of the ewes as a young lamb lay twitching in convulsions of death beside her.

Joseph sprinted toward the dogs filled with sudden rage, shouting as he waved his shovel. All but one of the dogs loped off. That dog, a big yellow hound, did not run but rather bit down on the neck of the other lamb. Angrily, he struck the dog across the back with his shovel. The snarling dog turned on him and with lightning quick speed latched onto his right leg.
Joseph let out a painful yell and felt a blind rage. He began to strike the dog repeatedly on the head. It quickly released its grip on his leg and fell yelping in pain.

The dog lay with blood pouring out of its mouth and one ear. Even after he had hit the dog enough to kill it, he continued a steady rain of blows. It was as if all the anger—from the heavy-handed abuse of the landlords, the potato failure, the constant hunger and poverty, the unending death of family and friends—seemed to pour forth from him and be directed at the body of the prone dog.

Joseph’s green eyes were filled with a burning passion and rage. Breathing heavily, he knelt down beside the three dead sheep and the dying dog. His leg throbbed from the dog bite. He looked at the dead sheep, tears filled his eyes as he realized what this meant for him and his sister. He hung his head as tears poured down his cheeks, seemingly finally beaten down by the hard life of this difficult time.

As Joseph knelt over this tragedy, he had no idea an observer had watched the entire episode. This witness to the attack also knew to whom the dogs belonged. They were the property of the English land agent, Smith, who oversaw the rental land near Westport. The dead dog, lying by Joseph, was the man’s prize hunting hound. The observer also knew the land Joseph lived on was part of Smith’s land holdings.

The silent observer didn’t wait long to send word to the Englishman Smith’s estate about the Irish peasant who had killed his best dog. As in any rural town anywhere, most of the village knew about the encounter by noon that day. Not only did the news of the incident spread, but also Smith’s echoing threat to kill the boy who had dared to kill his best hunting dog.
When a neighbor ran to tell Joseph’s sister, Bridget, of this threat, terror filled her heart.

Everyone knew this wealthy English land agent meant what he said and was used to getting his way. She was not surprised that the nobleman would place a hunting dog above the life of a mere Irish peasant boy. Bridget remembered last year how Smith had allowed the public flogging of a salmon poacher caught trespassing on his private river. The resultant beating was so severe that the man nearly died. When townspeople complained of the flogging’s brutality, Smith’s icy comment was, “I bet the next man who thinks about trespassing will be reminded to stay out of my river!”

Recalling this, Bridget took her younger brother by the shoulders, “Brother, ye must go. Run for yer life! Only death awaits ye here. Aye, Go—Go now!” She tenderly kissed him as she pushed him on his way, “God bless ye, Joseph. May God lead ye away from this horrible place.”
Her push was not one moment too soon. As he went out the back door, four men approached about two hundred yards away. Joseph, easing along the side of the house, recognized Smith first. On each side of him were British soldiers. One of the soldiers had two tracking dogs on leashes. A fourth man dressed in civilian clothing cradled what appeared to be a shotgun. He also carried something in his other hand that Joseph could not quite make out.

He ran for the safety of the nearby three-foot high stone wall. As he reached it, he leaped over and hid. Joseph crouched and crawled along—out of sight of his pursuers. He soon reached the end of the wall, which had no cover past it. Crouched there, he thought of how a fox on the run must feel.

Watching over the wall, he saw the men pass the house, ignoring Bridget who stood in the doorway. He could now see what the shotgun-toting man had in his other hand—it was a long crowbar. When a landlord wanted to evict a tenant, a crowbar was used to knock down the entire stone cottage. This was called “tumbling down” and meant nearly certain starvation for the evicted family.

Fearfully, Joseph watched the approaching men. He had several minutes to watch the dogs trying to pick up his scent. The dogs led the men in circles—sometimes moving nearer his hiding place and then over the fields where he had worked earlier.

This gave Joseph time to think. For some reason, the words of his beloved mother echoed in his heart. He recalled the statement she had always repeated, “Joseph, every step of your life will be led by God. In times and days where ye don’t quite know where to turn, he will guide you. He has put a compass in your heart to send ye along the right path.”

These oft-repeated words came to him now behind the stone wall. He was not sure he completely believed them but was desperate at the moment. So he prayed, “Lord, I’m definitely in a bind here. I do need ye to guide me steps. If ye don’t—I probably won’t get out of this mess.”
As he continued watching the hunters, again his mother’s words came back to him, “Son, ye have a good name. I named ye after Joseph of the Old Testament. He was a young man who God guided every step of his way. His path was not an easy one, but God’s plan was to guide his every step. It will be the same for ye, my son.”

Joseph spoke aloud as if his mother was right beside him behind the wall, “Well, Ma—your Joseph is in a real bind right now. He’s gonna need some step-by-step guidance, for sure.”
As he said this, he watched the hounds, noses to the ground, moving closer toward his hiding place. He took a deep breath and steadied himself: Well, they may shoot me, but they’ll have to hit a running target.

Watching their approach, he selected a small shrub beside the road, and then looked behind him at the next stone wall, about fifty yards away. He thought, when the dogs reach that shrub, I’m going to jump up and run for me life. If I can make it to that wall, I’ll be safe.

He had selected the roadside shrub because he felt the pursuers were still out of shotgun range at that distance. He just hoped the soldiers with their side arms were slow and had poor aim.
Then he prayed again, “Lord, if ye could, please turn those dogs. I sure need a little help to get out of this one.” However, as he ended this heartfelt prayer, he was betrayed by a bird. In the bushes along the wall, a corncrake had built a nest. This common bird, with its scratchy metallic call, was a common resident of the fields of Ireland.

Because Joseph had disturbed the corncrake , it began calling with its loud grating call. He said, “Lord, I asked ye to turn the dogs, and instead ye sent a loud corncrake to give me away Thanks a lot!”
The dogs—and the men—turned toward the bird’s call. As if the corncrake had just announced his name, the men started trotting toward the stone wall.

Standing to run, Joseph thought, Well, it’s now or never! With a yell that seemed to be a curious mixture of pent-up rage and extreme fear, he began sprinting. He never knew if he heard one or two shots. Everything happened fast, and he definitely wasn’t looking back. He heard the pellets whistle past him and felt a sting in his arm, leg, and butt. He hollered, but in spite of these wounds, was making tracks for the wall’s cover, hurdling the potato rows.

Joseph, reaching the wall, never even considered slowing down. He ran a long time before the baying of the hounds faded behind him. Finally, stopping to stoop over, he placed his hands on his knees and tried to get air into his lungs. Looking back over the treeless fields, he saw his pursuers, now holding the dogs, watching from a distance of about a quarter mile.

Joseph heard Smith yell with cupped hands in a distinctly English accent, “You can run young Irish but you can’t hide! We’ll get you tomorrow—or the next day. It’s only a matter of time; jest a matter of time. You know for sure how this will all end; we’ll get ye!”

As Smith’s voice faded away, Joseph heard another voice, unspoken but clear. He was not sure if it was his mother’s voice, sister’s, or maybe even the Lord answering his prayer: “You cannot stay here. You must go.”