'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Once through the plaza, they navigated a series of smaller streets and finally arrived at the hospital doorstep. Relieved, Grace patted Jack on the head and pushed open the doors, then hurried through the small lobby, into the ward, and straight to the cot upon which Mary Kate lay, eyes closed, a cold compress across her forehead. Sister Joseph, the stout Irish nun from County Cork, was bending over the girl, humming a familiar tune; she straightened up when she saw Grace and offered her a wide smile of reassurance.

  “Sleeping well, she is,” the nun whispered. “No worries here. And were you able to see your friend?”

  Grace shook her head. “He’s at sea.” Much to her embarrassment, tears welled up.

  “There now, child; sit down. Sit down.” Sister Joseph helped her onto a stool and took the marketing basket from her. “And when will he be coming home, then, the captain?”

  “I don’t know.” Grace pressed a handkerchief to her eyes, then saw that Jack’s had gone wide with concern. “Never mind, son.” She reached out and pulled him close. “I’m only tired, is all.”

  “Aye, worn out and why shouldn’t you be?” Sister Joseph patted Grace’s shoulder, then whispered in her ear. “Do you have any money a’tall?”

  Grace nodded and the nun looked relieved.

  “Opened her eyes a bit ago, she did,” Sister Joseph reported loudly enough for Jack to hear. “Doctor Wakefield come by again. ’Twas a tick, he thinks, seeing as how you and the boy aren’t afflicted.”

  Grace’s eyes burned again and she closed them. God forgive me for dragging this child across Ireland, across an ocean, across all of America. Oh, Father, what am I doing here?

  Sister Joseph put a hand beneath Grace’s chin and tipped it up so that the young woman opened her eyes and looked into those of the older one.

  “Faith, daughter,” she reminded gently. “Worry saves not a single hour, you know.”

  “I can’t lose her,” Grace whispered.

  “And you won’t,” Sister Joseph resolved. “Not this time.” She stood and smoothed her long white apron. “Rest a bit now. Let the boy come with me, why not? I need someone big and strong to water the horses out back—think you can do that, young Jack?”

  “Oh, aye!” Jack looked up at his mother expectantly. “May I, Mam? Feed the horses?”

  “Go on with you, then, but mind what she says.” Grace smiled at him, then added gratefully, “Thank you, Sister.”

  “You need a bit of peace to sort it all out, I’m thinking. See you in a bit.” The nun took Jack’s hand in hers and led him down the aisle to the back door that opened onto an alley stable.

  Grace moved her stool closer to Mary Kate and smoothed the thick, flyaway hair that had come out of its braid. This child had lived two, maybe three lifetimes in her nine years on earth; Grace could barely remember a life before her. Together they had survived the darkest days of famine and illness, had left the baby behind for safekeeping and escaped to Liverpool, then boarded a ship for the long and difficult voyage to America, where Mary Kate had witnessed even more suffering. In Manhattan, in their rooms above Dugan Ogue’s saloon, the little girl had settled in and begun to bloom, a steadfast companion to her mother and to Liam, the boy they’d taken in after his own people died aboard the Eliza J. But they’d been forced to pull up roots again after fire burned them out, and from there they’d moved to Boston to live with Lily Free and her family. Boston had been hard living, and Mary Kate had known prejudice both in school and on the street; the only good thing had been the reunion with Jack, though no longer an infant at nearly two years old. Mary Kate had rejoiced in her brother, had taken the boy to her heart without hesitation, and, like a second little mother, had cared for him in every way.

  Grace often thought that despite the hard going in Boston, had she known how grueling the overland journey would be, she would have stayed on until she’d earned enough for her family to sail to San Francisco instead. And yet, she had to admit, if she’d done that, she would have arrived in the middle of the cholera epidemic and perhaps lost both her children. Peter’s letter had come to her in Lawrence, Kansas, where she’d stopped with the Frees—they to buy a farm and she to rest up before joining another wagon train west. He was adamant that she stay there until the epidemic had passed—they were dying like flies in San Francisco, and he and Liam were heading up to the Pacific Northwest. Grace had ended up spending two years in Kansas, living in a small cabin on the edge of a busy town, working as cook in the only hotel and making a passable living, though it was unbearably hot in the summer and bitterly cold throughout the long, long winter.

  There had been good things in Kansas: Grace had become an excellent cook and was able to put away money; after a rough start, Mary Kate’s schoolhouse had come under the direction of a worthy and enthusiastic teacher, and Mary Kate had inhaled knowledge with every breath she’d taken. Jack, too, had thrived in this frontier environment, though not in the way Grace might have chosen—no longer quiet and watchful, he had become outgoing to the point of unruliness, the beloved pet of every cowhand and gunfighter passing through town, who took delight in showing the charismatic little boy how to ride a pony and shoot a pistol. She cringed, remembering the day he’d fired it off in the hotel, attempting to rid the dining room of flies.

  But Kansas itself had become more and more unruly as the battle heated up between those who wanted it declared a Free State and those who wanted to claim it for slavers. Violence had escalated as the two groups fought for control of burgeoning cities and towns; hangings and midnight attacks became common occurrences, and no one had felt safe anymore, especially the Negroes. When Lily, newly reunited with her husband—a runaway slave and wary of every white face that appeared on his land—had decided to move the family to Oregon, where land was still being given away by the hundred acres to homesteaders, Grace had realized that she, too, longed for a more peaceful existence and wanted her children out of the way of gunfire. Not only were the whites fighting one another, but the Indians—heretofore peaceful—were increasingly aggressive and, though Grace understood their anger at being pushed off their land, she had become afraid of them, as well. Toward the end of her time in Kansas, the Indians had often rode hunting parties close to town; Jack had loved them, had loved the whoops and hollers, the paint, the fierce expressions of the young braves, but Grace had read the stories of attack, of scalping and torture, of vicious slaughter. Sensational though they may well have been, she’d no longer slept through the night.

  Along with hundreds of frontiersmen, including escaped slaves for whom Kansas was not nearly north nor west enough, Grace read eagerly of Oregon Territory’s rich, black soil and temperate climate, of fertile valleys, abundant wildlife, sweet mountain streams, and plentiful lumber for building. She’d thought that at the Willamette settlement, she’d be closer to Peter and to Liam; they would only have to sail up the coast, then upriver in order to see her. And so she’d sold up what little she’d accumulated, bought a wagon and oxen and supplies for months on the trail, and left with the Frees for Oregon.

  Jack had complained bitterly about leaving Kansas, though he’d quickly become enamored of life on the trail; it must have seemed one long picnic to him, Grace often thought, with campfires, sleeping under the stars, being out in all weather day after day. She’d tried to keep him with her as much as possible, sometimes banishing him to the back of the wagon, where he huffed and pouted; more than one child had been crushed beneath a heavy wagon wheel or trampled by oxen; more than one had been burned by fire, gone missing off the trail, fallen into the river and drowned. Grace had needed to focus on driving the team each day, and keeping track of Jack was difficult; the chore had fallen to Mary Kate, who assumed it—as she did all things—with dutiful graciousness, at times tethering Jack to a long rope, the other end of which she belted around her waist. Jack had survived that overland trek because of Mary Kate’s constant attention to him. Grace picked up her daughter’s limp hand and pressed it to her chee
k. If only you’ll be well, I’ll make it up to you, Grace prayed. If only you’ll be well, I’ll never move you again.

  “That’s a mighty anxious face you’re wearing, Missus Donnelly.”

  Grace looked up at Doctor Wakefield. “I can’t help it.” She bit her lip, determined that no more tears would come today. “What would we do without this one?”

  “You’d carry on, ma’am, as so many have before you.” Wakefield’s cadence had the slow, steady swing of a South Carolinian. “But you needn’t bother yourself with that this time around. Far as I can tell, your daughter is on her way to recovery, though it may be some time before she’s back to her little girl ways.”

  Grace nodded, unable to speak.

  “You know, Missus Donnelly, we don’t usually permit family to sleep on the floor beside our patients.” The doctor eyed her trunk. “But Sister Joseph has said you are somewhat stranded at the moment, so I’ll make an exception until proper arrangements can be made. You’ll have to keep the little boy quiet, however.”

  “Oh, aye, Doctor.” Grace stood up, mindful of her trousers, wishing she looked a bit more presentable. “We’ll stay well out of your way, and thank you. Thank you very much.”

  Wakefield was startled by the warmth of her gratitude, by the keen light that shone in her eyes despite her very obvious fatigue.

  “Well, it’s my pleasure, Missus Donnelly, I’m sure. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my other patients.”

  He left her, and Grace sank again onto the stool. She’d been afraid that his news would not be good, afraid that he wouldn’t let her stay with Mary Kate, or that she’d be allowed, but not Jack, and then what would they’ve done? Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill whinny and thud of an excited horse kicking hard against its stall. Oh, Jack, please behave. She was not very good at disciplining the boy, though she knew it was necessary if he were ever to become self-disciplined; her admonishments were too little, too late, and she feared she would fail him. Her inability to be firm with him lay, she knew, in the fact that he was, in fact, a miracle—the infant she’d been forced to abandon, the baby she’d thought dead, only to hear that he was alive and safe in Ireland, and that her friend Julia Martin would bring him to America, to Grace, his true mother.

  During the months that Julia had stayed with them in Boston, Grace had never questioned her about keeping Jack. So much had been lost during the great hunger and the struggle for a free Ireland; women, perhaps, had suffered the most. And Julia had loved Jack’s father, had loved him more than anyone would ever know—anyone but Grace, to whom she’d confessed as much in Liverpool before Grace and Mary Kate set sail. Grace alone knew all that Julia had lost, and so she would not listen to Julia’s desperate apology, stilling her instead, then thanking her for keeping the boy alive through the worst of it. If not for Julia—Grace had pointed out—Jack could not have survived; at the very least he would have been blind. It was Julia who’d taken him to London, to Nigel Wilkes, the only surgeon willing to try his hand on so young a patient. After Jack had recovered and been fitted with the little spectacles that gave him such a misleading air of scholarship, Nigel and Julia had married. The Lord does His work in ways mysterious, Grace acknowledged. With her husband’s gentle encouragement, Julia had determined to right the situation and had set about locating Grace, after which she and Nigel sailed to America with the little boy they loved as a son.

  While Nigel had worked with physicians in New York City, Julia had remained in Boston, slowly distancing herself from Jack, spending more and more time in New York, until—the following spring—she and Nigel had gone back to London. Soon after that, Grace had made her decision to remove the family from Boston, in part so that Jack’s old life might fade as if a dream.

  And, always, there had been the hope that Grace might gain news of her brother, Sean, who by all accounts had joined up with the Mormon wagon train heading to Utah Territory. She had yearned to find him, hoped that he might be persuaded to join them again. A pitiful hope, she thought now, shaking her head and thinking of her brother, a charming man of serious convictions and fanatical commitments. He’d be married to Marcy Osgoode by now, she reasoned; perhaps he even had children. She looked down at Mary Kate, at the freckled face that was so dear to her; if Sean could not be with them, then she hoped he was married and happy and raising a child of his own.

  There was a bang as the back door to the ward slapped open and Jack bolted in, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, entire body aquiver.

  “Mam!” the boy called, and Grace stood immediately, finger to her lips as a warning to be quiet.

  “Sorry, Mam,” he whispered loudly when he’d reached her side. “The horse was grand, Mam! Really grand! Sister Joseph says I can feed him after I rest.” He frowned. “Do I have to rest, Mam?”

  “Oh, aye.” That was a very good idea. “Doctor Wakefield says we can stay by Mary Kate, but we’re to be still and good, and close our own eyes twice a day.”

  Jack nodded soberly and Grace was impressed; clearly, the boy wanted to remain with his sister, no matter the cost of a nap. They fashioned a rough nest out of their cloaks, then sat down, leaning against the battered trunk. Grace peeled first one apple and then another; Jack yawned, and slowly his eyes began to close.

  “Shall we stretch out a bit, then, son?” Grace was becoming drowsy, too, in the warm pool of sunlight that fell upon them from the high windows.

  “Aye.” Jack took off his spectacles and handed them to her. “Will you tell a story, Mam?”

  “Sure, I will.” She smoothed the hair off his forehead, looking down into the dear face. “Which one’ll it be, then?”

  “You know.” The little boy pulled off his boots and lay on his back, hands under his head, ankles crossed. “Go on, now,” he urged softly, his eyes closed. “‘Long ago in Ireland …’”

  Grace’s throat closed immediately, and she wondered if she were destined to spend the rest of her days fighting tears. She tipped her head back against the trunk, then closed her own eyes and—without even trying to conjure him up—saw him there, the young man she’d loved, so real she could almost feel him. He grinned, then threw his head back and laughed in that way he had that always lightened her heart; she listened to the echo of his laughter and felt it strengthen her now, felt her spirit rally in the face of the courage he’d shown his entire life. She took a moment longer to remember him, to love him, and then she cleared her throat.

  “Long ago in Ireland … there was the bravest warrior that ever lived. He was a hero to his people, and they sing of him in every lane. His name was Morgan McDonagh …”—Grace paused, a hand atop the head of her son—“and he was your father.”

  Two

  McDonagh plunged his bloody hands into the icy creek, glad for the shock of it, for the blinding brilliance of morning light reflected full force in his eyes, for the smell of the damp earth on which he knelt, his hands on fire in the freezing water. Since leaving Ireland, he’d had many days when he’d felt more dead than alive, but this was not one—this morning saw him profoundly grateful for his life, for all their lives, after the long and terrible night.

  Fingers numb, he scrubbed the blood off his forearm, then probed the slashes that lay beneath, relieved to see that they would not require stitching. More serious, he knew, were the puncture wounds in his shoulder, and for these he would need the help of the boy. Stiffness was setting in, causing him to wince as he reached again into the river, gasping as it rinsed away the fog of exhaustion as well as sweat and blood. He tipped his face into his good shoulder, drying cheek and brow on the shirt, and saw that Nacoute now knelt beside him at the water’s edge, staring into it, seemingly numb, though no water had touched his young hands. Moving slowly, knowing the boy to be wary of a man’s touch and especially jumpy in the aftermath of last night’s violence, Morgan took Nacoute’s chin in his hand and turned the boy’s face toward him. The gash on Nacoute’s left cheek needed stitching, but perhaps it was to
o late; the blood had caked and dried next to a nose, bloodied and swollen, beneath an eye, blackened and oozing. There was a host of evidence of the beating he’d received, from the imprint of knuckles and belt welts to the knife slashes along his arm. In Morgan’s urgency to save the boy’s mother, whose wounds were far worse, there had been no time to deal with these injuries, though they must have been painful. He raised his eyes to the boy’s again and met Nacoute’s unblinking intensity, hiding nothing; if there was any truth to any question to be had in that gaze, let the boy find it, he thought, for God knew he’d no answers himself.

  “Come on, boy.” Morgan rose wearily from his haunches. “We’ve work still to do.”

  He picked up the two wooden buckets at his feet, filled them with river water, then started back toward the small cabin, trusting the boy to follow as he always did.

  Nacoute rose gracefully, lean and handsome like his mother, and, glancing back over his good shoulder, Morgan caught a glimpse of the man, the warrior, he would become. At fourteen, Nacoute was easily as tall as Morgan though his build was still slight; what softness of youth had yesterday existed was gone now, erased completely by an act of brutal killing—self-defense or no—that left a sharpness honed by the weight of an act that could never be undone. Nor did Nacoute wish it to be undone; Morgan could see it in his eyes—the watchful eyes of one who cannot speak but does not miss a word of those who can—the boy was not sorry, just unsure. The world was a different place to Nacoute this morning. Morgan understood; he, too, had killed men.