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churchyard. Several nights later Liam and Michael O'Hearn would retrieve the casks, load them onto donkey carts, and by the light of the moon travel ten miles to the inn at Granagar Village . At the inn they would receive payment and obtain wool for the next rendezvous with the French. This endless rotation of wool for brandy was conducted without interruption because no British troops were posted in Kilkerry at that time. The owlers enjoyed this freedom for almost seven years now.
     
    When the troops were in residence, every precaution had to be taken. The donkeys were shaved and greased religiously before every journey, ready for a slippery get-away. They were taught their commands in reverse, so if an owler was told by a soldier to stop, the owler would shout, "Whoa!" and the donkey would burst into a full run. Many of these tricks had been passed on through several generations of the O'Hearn family, the most highly skilled owlers in all of County Kerry . They had been smuggling goods since the Battle of the Boyne , and Michael O'Hearn was proud of his family heritage. When The Hunger claimed the family patriarch, Michael shouldered the responsibility of running the operation by himself with no regrets. It was agonizing waiting for the sheep population to rise after the famine, but eventually enough wool was being produced again to sustain a trade.
     
    Although Michael was younger than Liam, he directed the smuggling operation with efficiency and prudence. He allowed Liam to swagger and boast that he was a partner, but the village knew that Michael quietly shouldered all the responsibility. He was a good-hearted person in all matters, but he was no fool. He knew how to set limits when necessary, especially when the business was involved.
     
    The famine had not been kind to Michael. Rickets had deformed his legs, and he walked with much pain and difficulty. Had his family moved to the ocean like the McBrides and existed on kelp and snails, he would never have been afflicted.
     
    Like so many Irish Catholics, his home had been destroyed by the British troops, and having nowhere to go the family of nine moved into a scalp, a large hole roofed with sticks and turf. It offered little shelter from the elements, and pneumonia killed his father and six of the children. When the crops returned, Michael, his mother and the remaining children moved into a vacant cottage that faced the town square and resurrected the owling.
     
    It was another rainy night, and Michael and Liam pulled up their collars as they returned from a meeting. They entered the McBride cottage, and Liam fully expected to see Darcy standing in front of the hearth preparing his evening meal, but instead he found the home cold and empty.
     
    "Damn her hide!" he snarled and quickly looked out the window.
     
    "I'd bet my life that she's with that empty-headed sister of mine going on and on with their silly prattle," said Michael, as he limped over and began to build a fire.
     
    Liam was in a surly mood, and he sat at the table watching Michael work.
     
    He grumbled, "She knows that I expect my supper to be ready for me when I get home. I can tell by the looks of things that she hasn't been here for hours."
     
    "I don't know how my brother-in-law can stand it," chuckled Michael. "Their brainless notions and secrets would drive me to drink. Say there, now that I mention it, I am a bit dry."
     
    Liam rose from his chair and walked to the cupboard, pouring them both a drink and said, "Sometimes I wonder if she's bedding one of the lads in town. She acts funny lately, like she's hiding something."
     
    Liam was right. A change had come over Darcy these past months, but it wasn't because of a man. Ever since she had learned to read, she forgot to attend to the most basic of her chores. When she wasn't reading, she was thinking about reading. She became so absentminded that frequently she would overstay her lessons with Father Etienne and forget Liam's supper