Men of No Property

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  “Poof on the proof,” Vinnie said.

  The words might have come from the lips of Peg, so like her was the sound of them. Dennis thrust his hand toward the boy in the darkness and catching the front of his jacket he lifted him from the seat and shook him.

  “Your granny lookin’ down on you is waterin’ the heavens with her tears over this,” he said. “Now you can go up and claim back the sovereign you give to the watch. You’ve killed me altogether and yous don’t have to pay to see a dead man.” He flung the boy from him and heard the soft thumps his body made colliding with a post and slumping down beside it, the very sounds making the man sick. The boy was still for a moment. Then came the whimpering, choked noise of crying that would not be held in. Dennis tried to endure it in silence, but he could not. He strode as far toward the boy as the chain would let him. “Vinnie, come here to me,” he called.

  Still the boy sobbed.

  “For the love of God come before I tear me leg off with this chain.”

  A minute later he felt the hands of the boy on his leg. He had crawled the distance on the slimy floor. “Get up on your feet and stop crawlin’!” He pulled the boy up and tried to steady his own voice. “Did you steal at home, Vinnie? Tell me the truth.”

  “Somit,” the boy said.

  “Did your granny know it?”

  The boy cleared a great blob from his head. “I told her I begged it.”

  “Then,” Dennis said, “you knowed it was wrong?”

  “I knowed it.”

  “Are you plannin’ to thieve in America?”

  “No-o-o,” the boy wailed.

  “Was it her? Was it Peg eggin’ you on?”

  “No!” Vinnie shouted. “She never had no part in it at all.”

  Admiring Vinnie’s loyalty, he said quietly, “Only claimin’ her share of the loot.”

  “’Twas me, I’m thinkin’ to give it to her and tell her Granny left it me…”

  “Aye, aye,” Dennis said. “You’ll tell her your granny hid it under McCarthy’s bedtick. Don’t addle your head thinkin’ up lies to save her in my opinion. I’d as soon never lay eyes on her again but no matter. Has McCarthy explored his loss yet?”

  “No.”

  “Vinnie, what did you have in mind, takin’ the gold sovereigns?”

  “I had in mind gettin’ as many as I could wi’out bein’ caught at it,” the boy answered bluntly.

  “Was it to buy somethin’ in America?”

  Vinnie was slow in answering. “No-o-o. I’d nothin’ special in mind. I was wishin’ maybe I could meet me da wi’ me pockets jinglin’!”

  “Do you remember him at all?”

  “Somit. He was nothin’ much. All I remember, him pokin’ me ribs tryin’ t’make me laugh. He was all the time slobberin’ over granny and me mother.”

  “Do you remember your mother?”

  “I do. She was all the time ailin’ and lookin’ a place to spit. Dennis, if I tell ye somit, will ye promise not to laugh at me?”

  “I promise.”

  “I’m afeard of him, me da. I’m plannin’ to run off soon as ever I deliver him Emmy.”

  “Ah,” Dennis said, “so that’s it. Do you know, Vinnie, I’m afeard myself? I am. I’ve no notion what waits me in America and I’m tempted to run with you.”

  The boy caught at his arm. “Would ye, Dennis? Ho, eeh! What a pair we’d make, and nary a woman between us! I’m strong for me size and…”

  “Hold on a minute, Vinnie, just hold on. We’ve got to think this out careful. Where did you get the money for the passage?”

  “Me da sent it,” the boy said glumly.

  “Aye, and me brother sent for me. We’ve to stay with them long enough to return their hospitality.”

  “All right,” the boy said impatiently. “And then?”

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll make a pact, you and me. We’ll meet in the same place they land us a fortnight from the day of landin’. What do you say to that?”

  “I say t’hell with it. Yer sayin’ this to be rid o’ me,” the boy said.

  “I give you my solemn oath,” Dennis said. “Here’s my hand on it.”

  Their hands found each other in the dark.

  “Now I want you to do somethin’ for me,” Dennis said before the clasp was broken. “I want an honest man for a partner.”

  “E-e-eh?” the boy said. “I’m to gi’ back the gold t’oul’ McCarthy?”

  “Aye.”

  Dennis could imagine him shaking his head while he thought about it.

  “I’ll take the pledge on the day o’ our meetin’,” Vinnie said finally.

  “You’ll take it this night or there’s no meetin’.”

  “He’ll tan the livin’ hide off me,” the boy said.

  “You’ll put them back without him knowin’ it.”

  “And how’ll I do that and him stretched there over the bag o’ them?”

  “You’ll get the one to distract him was partners with you in the first place. She’s a grand distraction to a man.”

  “She’d laugh at me, Dennis, was I to ast her.”

  “Oh worry the chains that bind us!” Dennis cried. “You’ll part wi’ them sovereigns or part with me, and you can find your own way to it while I’m gropin’ here in the dark.”

  “I’ll distribute the worth o’ them t’ the poor when we’re landed,” the boy tried again, having been so counseled by more than one priest in confession.

  “You’ll distribute them to the man who owns them and there’s an end of it.”

  “I wisht they was in the bottom o’ the sea,” Vinnie said. “I’d better go now. The priest got us up a while and if I’m clapped out it’ll be worse nor if I was clapped in.”

  “There’s a word I want you to take up with you,” Dennis said. “I want you to go to the one behavin’ himself a priest in the mornin’. You’re to tell him for me, he’s to get me out o’ here afore nightfall or I’ll unfrock him before man and God.”

  “E-e-e, Dennis, I couldn’t say that to him. He’d ha’ me on me knees, haily-holyin’ all the way to New York.”

  “Say it. I give yous my word, it’ll cost you no penance.”

  “Yer off yer nut truly,” the boy said, “but I’ll tell him you sent me. Can ye turn me now the way I’ll find the ladder?”

  Dennis put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, and taking measure of where they stood, faced him toward the ladder. “God be with you, Vinnie Dunne, and bless you for what you’ve done this night.”

  “And make me an honest man,” the boy added fervently.

  8

  A NORTHEAST WIND BLEW up before morning lifting the fog and filling one after another of the sails unfurled to it in the dawn. Every man of the crew sucked its freshness into his lungs and gave thanks. The Valiant had been wasting for days in the natural bed of a hurricane and in the season, but no storm had taken her. Now she rose up as might a maid in flight and scattered the foam about her like petticoat frills. The strong wind holding, a tall man could spit with it to the shore before the week was out.

  Lavery, who got his first decent meal—a chunk of salt meat and molasses on his biscuit—and a civil word from his jailer, thought Vinnie had been marvelously quick in carrying his message to Farrell. That Farrell was thick with the captain, he did not doubt. As thick as treacle, he told himself, licking the plate for the last of its sweetness. It was the way with Young Ireland, a pack of gentlemen shaking hands with the poor to get the feel of them and poking snuff up their noses to be rid of the smell of them. Oh, they were up to snuff all right.

  His next visitor took the shackle from his leg. “I’ll be catchin’ me death o’ cold without that,” Lavery said.

  “You’ll catch something if you’re as free with your tongue to the captain. Up you go there, lad!”

  “Are ye springin’ me?”

  “Eh?” the sailor said. “Springing you, that’s bloody good. But let me give you a bit of advice, my lad. D
on’t try it on the captain. He likes his humor from his equals, he does. Even the mate don’t make a joke to him. Leastaways before the men he don’t. Move along there, can’t you?”

  I can and I can’t, Dennis thought, thankful for the palaver which covered his weakness. Suddenly, the daylight closing his eyes on him as he met it at the foot of the ladder, he was beset by withering fear. A dozen terrors stabbed at him like the pains in his eyes—fear of the light itself, of people, his first moment back amongst his fellow passengers with his head matted and his beard thick as a Connemara broom, the look of Norah, the scorn of Peg, the judgment of the captain, and above all, the meeting with Farrell after his threat to expose him. His legs bent beneath him as though his weight was more than their duty to carry. With God’s halt on a brazen tongue, the boy might have forgot the threat and remembered the plea. I’ve not the wits to match him, he thought of Farrell, nor the strength to stand up if he struck me. If he says he’s a priest, I’ll say “yes, Father” and to hell with it. He’ll have to settle all with the Almighty in the long run, and who am I to hold the whistle on a match like that?

  The seaman gave him a vulgar poke, and he leaped and scrambled up the ladder. “I sprung you then! Ho! I sprung you then, my lad!” the sailor cried in delight.

  While he waited on the bridge outside the captain’s cabin for his jailer to announce him, Lavery got a long look at the sea. There was the promise of land in it now, he thought, though nothing parted it from the sky. It was in the smell of the air, and in the great leaning-to of the emigrants who crowded the rail with the sun on their backs. Not a one looked up to him. Small wonder, him riding the captain’s walk, he thought. Land was their salvation. Wasted and bent, they seemed. How many had died while he was in exile? There was that blessing on him at least. He had been spared the agonies of the dying and the lamentations of the lonesome.

  The captain came out to him, and Farrell with him. Chums, he thought. The officer looked at him from top to toe before speaking. Then: “I’m releasing you, Lavery, on the good word of Mr. Russell. He is vouching for your good behavior until we land.”

  Mr. Russell still, Lavery thought. He said only: “Yes, your honor.”

  “You’ve learned your lesson, have you?”

  Not at your bloody knee, he thought. Again he said: “Yes, your honor.”

  The captain turned to Farrell. “I wish you well with him. Good day, sir.”

  Farrell merely nodded. What a delicate air he had, Lavery thought. A gentleman could answer a gentleman without opening his mouth. He had spoken to but one gentleman before in his life, and that was to ask if he could curry his horse while its master took his dinner at the inn where his mother charred. The worry a curry the horse had got, showing his great teeth in a grin every time Dennis laid the brush to him.

  “I’m obliged to you, sir, for speakin’ on me behalf to the captain.” Where the words came from he did not know. He had planned none of them. He hated them and the old habit which pushed them out before his wits could halt them.

  “He had a deaf ear,” Farrell said, “which apparently could be penetrated only after a change in the weather. I doubt that my petition had much to do with your release. You got the worst of it, Lavery, but there was small comfort anywhere aboard.”

  “Well, the worst is none too good for an Irishman,” he said. “Am I free now to go below where I’m more at home?”

  “From this day forward,” Farrell said. “… Are you listening, Lavery?”

  Dennis lifted his eyes, and finding the other man’s level with his stretched to his full height that he might have that advantage at least. “Aye, I’m listenin’.”

  “From now on,” Farrell said, “you are free to go wherever on this earth free men travel.”

  “By your leave, sir?” he said sarcastically, the boldness coming with the other’s wish to make him bold, and telling first his wish to hurt as he had been hurt.

  “By God’s leave,” Farrell said, “and by the revolt of free men the world over. Will you get it into your head that you’re beholden to no man?”

  “I’ll try to get used to the notion,” he said. “It comes easier with a full belly, but yous wouldn’t know that at all.” He struck what he expected was a thoughtful pose. “Yous’ll have an easier time of it stirrin’ a revolution in America. I might even join you myself if the pickin’s is good.”

  He watched the color drain from Farrell’s face and enjoyed the sight of it. It was a fine feeling to bring up the gall in a man and to see him stand in it, petrified. The devil a fist would Farrell raise. There, Lavery thought, measuring more of his own wisdom: he had Young Ireland by the tail. As long as they could shoot with their mouths there was no battle they wouldn’t charge into, but they were as shy of a real fight as a bat of daylight.

  “So long as the pickings are good,” Farrell said, his voice quivering, “you don’t care whether they come from the feast or the gutter?”

  Lavery grinned, thinking it would further provoke the man. “The devil care I, so long as me bag is full o’ them.”

  Farrell looked at him for a long moment. Uneasy under the gaze, Lavery turned from him, and measured the distance from the rope to the rail below. He leaned on the rope, arched a spit over the rail and into the sea, and turned back drying his beard on the ragged sleeve of his jacket. Farrell’s expression changed. He threw back his head and laughed aloud.

  “I wish you great good luck in America, Dennis Lavery,” he said, extending his hand.

  “I’ll have it, and not be beholden even for the wish. Take a laugh at that while you’re howlin’.” He dug one hand into the palm of the other behind his back.

  “You’re acting a child,” Farrell said, “which is why I laughed. If I offended you, I’m sorry.”

  Dennis tried a laugh himself. “It’s a wonderful thing, collectin’ the apology of a gentleman. It’s somethin’ I’ll be tellin’ my grand-childer’.”

  “If you live to have them,” Farrell said. “I know very few gentlemen who wouldn’t knock you down for that.”

  “Would you have a try at it, sir?”

  “I would not. You’d better go below now.”

  “Ah, for the guts of Young Ireland,” he sneered.

  He saw Farrell take the steps between them, almost dancing steps and he gathered into his muscles the strength he knew of yore, the joy of it quick and brief, for as he thrust his shoulders forward, he saw that Farrell was not before him at all, but waist-high to him. He felt in the same instant the thrust as of a wedge, parting his knees, and a great clamp around his thigh and under one buttock. He was off his feet and doing a backward somersault down. He landed on his back in a stretch of ship’s sail which a quartet of seamen were mending. They bounced him out of it into the arms of the emigrants who flocked from the rail at the excitement.

  Hellos and how-are-yous, thanksgivings and commiserations flooded over him and drowned his sense of time and direction. Farrell, when he looked up, was still at the bridge, and catching his victim’s eye in search of him, lifted his hand in salute. Dennis put his thumb to his nose to him, and Farrell laughed. Dennis could hear the laughter above the rumble and mumble of the people and the deprecations of the sailors whose work he had flown into; and playing an obbligato to it, another laugh chased after Farrell’s. She was at the rail apart, a book in her hand. While Dennis watched her, she lifted the book as she might a kerchief in a gesture of greeting to the man above. Farrell saw her and bowed.

  “Father! Father, come down quick!”

  It was Norah Hickey calling up to Farrell. Vinnie Dunne was beside her, holding a bucket.

  “He’s no priest,” Lavery shouted. “Aye, worse than that if he had his way there’d be no priesthood at all and no church in Ireland!”

  The eyes that had welcomed him a moment before turned cold on him now, cold and pitying as though he’d taken leave of his senses. To Farrell they looked back with pleading and affection.

  “Will you come, Fa
ther?” Norah said again, and others added a pleading.

  The man on the bridge came quickly down the steps and made his way through the people to the emigrants’ hold.

  Lavery ran to Norah and caught her arm. “It’s the truth I said, Norah.”

  “What’s the truth to a dyin’ man,” she said, “except that he’s dyin’ truly?” She laid her hand lightly on his arm. “Ah, Dennis, don’t come back to us bitter. Our days was bitter, too, and the worse without you to jolly us. Have you no cheerful words?”

  “None,” he said. “But I’ll keep the black ones to myself.”

  “Dennis,” said Vinnie, “I’ll give back the sovereigns.”

  “Now here’s an idea, maties,” said one of the seamen re-mending the canvas. “If we could stitch me a petticoat out of this, I’d have an archdiocese.”

  “And,” said his partner, “if you didn’t have balls I’d marry you.”

  PART II

  1

  “HEY! HO! HALLELUJAH! WILL you get up and glorify God in the dawn! There’s the promise o’ land in it truly!”

  The emigrant swung by his hands from the brace of the hatchway, shaking his legs out as though they were things had been stored in a box and were now at last to be useful.

  The whisper and cry of “Land!” rose from one mouth and then another. A dream it was to some, a prayer to others: a prayer, a plea, a demand. There was in their way of saying the word a beseechment for life, a rant against delusion.

  “Did you see it with yer own eyes or dream it, man-up-there?”

  “I seen a light and there’s a name on it, Fire Island. It’s burnin’ bright and no star at all, but land truly.”

  The children were tumbled into the middle aisle and their tattered nightshirts peeled from their bare behinds. Clean clothes were put upon them and the caution not to stir. The women hauled out the best they owned and laced each other into corset and bodice.

  Dennis Lavery swore at his breeches which, in his haste, seemed to have but one leg. “Worry the clothes they fashion a man,” he said, “I’d as soon work my way into a bagpipe.”