The Wayfaring Stranger Chapter 1
The Wayfaring Stranger Chapter 1 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 consisted of now 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, Joseph 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 Joseph and be directed at the body of the prone dog. Joseph’s green eyes now 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 sheep on the ground and tears filled his eyes realizing 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
