'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  “What about here?” Morgan asked. “Can they leave here if they want to?”

  “They can, but if they’d anywhere else to go, they’d not be here in the first place. Blackwell’s Island is the end of the road, especially for the elderly.” He led Morgan to higher ground. “Now we’re facing south, and at that end is the penitentiary. Can’t miss it—quite imposing, actually. Fortresslike, one might say. The most hardened criminals are kept there: women in one wing, men in the other.”

  For a moment, the rain stopped and the clouds parted, sending a beam of light down to that part of the island, illuminating the landscape and a party being escorted toward the prison. O’Sullivan watched them pass, then continued on in a low voice, explaining that these were considered society’s most depraved: thieves, rapists, arsonists, murderers—those who had become so debased as to necessitate their removal from society.

  Whatever else the women might be, he added, they were also most likely prostitutes—not the protected parlor house girls from the west end of Broadway or those from the elite brothels that never seemed to get raided, but lower-end whores and streetwalkers from Anthony Street and the Bowery, Cow Bay Alley and, most notoriously, Corleans Hook along the waterfront, where sailors, ferry commuters, and dock workers were regularly solicited by the girls they called ‘hookers.’” Many of these girls were simple maids from the countryside, O’Sullivan told him, though a fair number were Irish girls who’d been unable to find work and were desperate to send money home to families they knew were starving to death. Morgan thought of all the young Irish girls he’d known who’d set sail for America with such trust and determination, and his heart fell. O’Sullivan saw the way his young friend was affected by this information and nodded.

  “You can hardly blame them,” O’Sullivan said empathetically. “Prostitutes are the city’s highest-paid women workers, earning in a single night what would otherwise take months. And, in their minds, it’s probably a better alternative to staying with a drunken father or husband, or being condemned to a life of monotony and poverty as seamstress or servant. With so few choices and, often, young mouths to feed, who could judge them? Not I.” He shook his head. “Certainly, not I.”

  By society’s standards, prostitution was a crime of depravity, O’Sullivan explained, warming to his subject; every new call for reform led to a clean sweep of the streets, even as gentlemen continued privately to subscribe to such handbooks as Guide to Harems and Prostitution Exposed, to collect private house calling cards dropped off at hotels, or to simply consult the city directory for women listing themselves as “prostitute.” However, it was never the men who were degenerate, he proselytized, only the women, and eventually—too careless, too naive, too old—they found themselves booked into Blackwell’s penitentiary. The end of the road.

  “Down on the tip of the island, there’s a smallpox hospital.” O’Sullivan changed the subject smoothly. “It’s very small, but plans are under way—as plans always are—to enlarge it. I know a number of doctors involved with that project.” He turned in the opposite direction. “And up there is the lunatic asylum, a mammoth structure by comparison. This is where our friend, Mister Sheehan, spent his first weeks. Which doesn’t surprise me,” he added. “Most of the inmates are Irish, though considerably more young women than men.” He paused. “I suppose it is because the minds and spirits of women who become destitute are more easily broken. Especially when they’ve been separated from the anchor of family and friends.”

  “So, you’re telling me that Irish girls either sell themselves or go mad trying not to, but either way they end up on Blackwell’s Island?”

  “Well, not all, of course. But a great many.” O’Sullivan faced him. “Yes, a great many do end up here.”

  Thank God for Dugan Ogue, Morgan suddenly realized. Thank God he’d taken Grace in, sheltered her, and given her work. He should fall on his knees and kiss the man’s feet a thousand times over. Thank you, God, for sparing her this.

  “Let’s move on, shall we?” O’Sullivan ran his hand through his hair and replaced his hat. “The place we want is just up ahead.”

  The workhouse, he told Morgan, maintained paupers and vagrants; that was where they’d find Quinn Sheehan. Men here were put to work; they labored in the stone quarry, rowed ferryboats like the one he and Morgan had ridden over in, and were loaned out at night to clean the sewers. Sheehan was a quarryman, but he’d been pulled out this afternoon and was waiting in his dormitory.

  “Does he know ’tis I coming to see him?”

  O’Sullivan shook his head. “He’s pretty low, after all. Might not want to see you, even if he did believe you were alive. We’re listed as O’Sullivan and Partner, interested parties.”

  “Interested parties,” Morgan echoed, following O’Sullivan up the steps and into the main entrance of the large structure.

  Once inside and faced with staff at the front desk, he let O’Sullivan do the talking, preferring to stand back and keep a low profile. They were shown into a small room with benches that Morgan supposed served as a visitor center for those lucky enough to receive such.

  O’Sullivan took a seat on one of the benches that lined the walls, but Morgan was too nervous and paced the room instead, finally pausing to look out a narrow window at the bleak landscape beneath a washed, gray sky. At the sound of scuffling boot steps, he turned toward the doorway.

  “Gentlemen.” The male clerk, or escort, or whatever he was, cleared his throat. “Here’s the man you came to see.”

  Suddenly paralyzed, Morgan could only stare, but O’Sullivan got to his feet at once and went to Sheehan, offering his hand while at the same time dismissing the clerk.

  “Mister Sheehan.” O’Sullivan shook hands. “You don’t know me, but I’ve brought along an old friend of yours.”

  Quinn looked over O’Sullivan’s shoulder at Morgan, squinting to better see the man shadowed by the weak light coming from behind.

  “Who’s he, then?”

  At the sound of his old friend’s voice, Morgan stepped forward and O’Sullivan moved quietly out of the way.

  “Do you not recognize me, Quinn?” Morgan approached slowly. “Didn’t we grow up together on the Black Hill, and weren’t you always causing trouble down in the lanes?” His voice was soothing, calling up the world in which they’d used to live. “You, me, Sean O’Malley, the Neeson boys—we were a pack, then, do you not remember, Quinn?”

  Sheehan shook his head, refusing to believe.

  “That voice of yours got all the girls,” Morgan continued, now standing directly in front of his friend. “Opened every door, and got us drinks on the house.” He paused. “‘Oh, Dan, my dear, you’re welcome here … Thank you, ma’am, says Dan …’” The song trailed off as Sheehan reached out and touched Morgan’s arm, his shoulder, the side of his face.

  “McDonagh?” he whispered. “Morgan McDonagh?”

  “Aye.”

  “But you’re dead.” Sheehan yanked his hand away as if burned.

  “No.” Morgan put his hands on Sheehan’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Been to hell and back—there’s truth in that—but not dead. Look at me, Quinn. See me standing here. We made it.”

  Sheehan’s eyes met Morgan’s and cleared, and then a single sob escaped him, a great bark of pain and incredulity, and his knees buckled. Morgan and O’Sullivan caught him under the arms and helped him to the bench, Morgan sitting beside and O’Sullivan moving to bar the door, turning away discreetly from the man who now wept openly against his friend. Sheehan clung to the cloth of Morgan’s coat, his desperate grip nearly rending the fabric, but Morgan only moved closer, wrapping his arms around Quinn and offering comfort in the language of their mothers until, at last, the shaking subsided and Quinn rested, his forehead pushed into Morgan’s shoulder.

  “What happened, Quinn?” Morgan asked gently.

  Sheehan sat up and mopped his face with his sleeve, eyes still swimming. “Did you ever go back there? To o
ur village?”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “I did.” Quinn stopped and his eyes creased with pain. “There was no one left, Morgan. No one a’tall. The cabins razed in every lane, and everyone dead or gone away.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t find any of my own nor any I knew. And then … I was so hungry. I took soup, you see, from the Protestants.” He broke down again, then whispered in anguish, “I’ve damned my own soul to Hell.”

  “No.” Morgan put his hand on the man’s knee. “That’s man’s talk, not God’s. The only religion God ordered was the caring for widows and orphans, and wasn’t I with you time and again when you put what little food you had into the hands of a child who’d no one?”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Quinn. You put that straight out of your mind. Who provided that soup in the first place? God, and only God, and don’t think He hasn’t a few choice words for those took it upon themselves to add conditions to His blessing.”

  Quinn looked at him, wanting to believe. “They were providing passage for those wanted out, and I took it.”

  “Good,” Morgan declared. “You did the right thing. You came out alone?”

  “Aye, thinking Sean was here, or someone. Never knew a place so big as this, though. And they hate us here,” Sheehan added quietly. “I didn’t know they’d hate us like this, but …” He shrugged. “Look at us—poor, raggedy, stupid people, only good for scrubbing floors, cleaning sewers, carting off the dead. I didn’t … I couldn’t …” He looked down at his hands. “I lost heart after a while. Thought I’d drink myself to death, but went mad instead.”

  “’Tis over now, all that. We Irish are heroes. For this week, at least.”

  “Maybe,” Quinn allowed. “Maybe not. I’ve no courage left, you see. For going back out to the world.”

  “Maybe ’tis only this part of the world doesn’t suit you,” Morgan suggested. “Listen, Quinn—I’m going west. To Oregon Territory. Do you know where that is?”

  Sheehan frowned and shook his head.

  “Nor I.” Morgan grinned. “But I’ve a map. And a gun. And a horse. But no one to ride with. I want you to come with me, Quinn. To Oregon.”

  Quinn looked up now, and Morgan caught just a flicker of interest behind the man’s wariness. “Why Oregon?”

  “Grace is out there.”

  “Grace?” Quinn leaned forward. “Does she know you’re coming, then? That you’re alive?”

  “I don’t know exactly where she is in Oregon. Ogue says I should write this Captain Reinders in San Francisco, but …” Morgan hesitated, considering. “The man wants to marry her, Quinn. They may be wed already, but if they’re not—well, I don’t want a letter from me to hurry him along, if you know what I mean.”

  “But she’s your wife!”

  “Aye, married in the dead of night by a renegade priest, witnessed by a man long gone.” Morgan let that sink in. “God may recognize it, but the law will not.”

  “And if they’re already married?”

  “Don’t think I’ve not considered that,” Morgan admitted. “About leaving her to her happiness. But I made that mistake once in my life, and I’m not going to do it again. And then there’s Jack. My son,” he added proudly. “I have a son, Quinn, and I’m going to shake that boy’s hand and kiss his mother one more time, married or no.”

  “Huh.” Quinn slumped against the wall. “’Tis like a dream, this. I can hardly believe you’re sitting here, talking to me.”

  “Miracles happen every day, my friend. I’m proof of that, and so are you.” Morgan stood up. “So, Quinn Sheehan, there’s only two choices—will you walk out of here on your own two feet or will I carry you out?”

  Sheehan eyed the sinewy frame of his old friend and laughed for the first time in longer than he could remember. “You don’t look like you could shoulder my granny, let alone a man breaks rock for his daily bread.”

  “Try me.” Morgan put out his hand.

  Sheehan hesitated a moment—a long moment—and then he looked up into the face of the man he’d followed loyally from one end of Ireland to the other, the man whose death he’d mourned every day since learning of it.

  “I’ll walk out on my own,” he said quietly, slipping his hand into Morgan’s and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “When do we leave?”

  “Now.” Morgan patted the wallet in his jacket pocket. “Say goodbye to this place, Quinn, for tonight, we’ll be singing in Ogue’s. And if I’ve not enough to settle your accounts, well”—he grinned—“I’ll just leave O’Sullivan here in your place.”

  “I think arrangements can be made.” O’Sullivan was relieved to see that Sheehan’s spirit was on the way to redemption, that his haunted look had been replaced by something closer to hope. “Gentlemen.” He held open the door. “This way.”

  Quinn went first, and then Morgan, followed by O’Sullivan, who put a hand on McDonagh’s arm to hold him back.

  “I was at a dinner party with your wife once,” he began. “When your name came up. There were those who felt that Ireland was a lost cause, and you a sacrificial lamb, but Grace would hear none of it. She said that you loved your life, that life was precious to you, but that sacrifice was the price of freedom and you’d paid that price willingly so that others would not have to. She said you gave your people hope, Mister McDonagh, something to live for.” O’Sullivan glanced toward the desk where Quinn now waited, a taller man than he’d been an hour before. “Mister McDonagh,” he said quietly, “you do that still.”

  Twenty-seven

  It was Doctor Wakefield who broke the news to Grace that Sister Joseph had died in her sleep. They had all been aware of her slow deterioration—even though she refused to acknowledge anything wrong other than the annoying shortness of breath—but everyone who knew and loved her chose to believe that she had years of life yet. Doctor Wakefield was greatly saddened by the nun’s passing and did not attempt stoicism; the thought of her moved him to tears, and he let them fall. Sister Joseph had worked by his side for many years and had been a greater support to him in his work than any male medical assistant; it was the reality of this—after her death—and the subsequent truth that she would have made an outstanding physician, that forced him to reconsider his former stance on “lady doctors.” As a tribute to his finest nurse, he quietly funded a scholarship in her name at the Quaker School of Medicine and issued an invitation of residency for one graduate every two years. Needless to say, his colleagues had been floored but in the end had accepted it with humorous goodwill. It did not seem like enough, really, especially when he thought back to that terrible year of cholera and the devotion she’d shown every patient.

  Missus Donnelly had attended the short graveside service with him and had introduced him to Margaret Mulhoney, who carried newborn Josephine in her arms. On the way home, Grace had related Sister Joseph’s loyalty to the Mulhoney family and revealed that she intended to take that on now Sister Joseph no longer could. Margaret’s strength had not returned after childbirth, and there seemed always to be one child or another sick or coming down with something. The family was in dire straits and depended on the kindness of others; Davey managed to find a bit of work on most days, and Rose—the oldest girl—earned money now and then helping the old man who lived upstairs. Sister Joseph had regularly brought them food and medicine, Grace told Wakefield, offering solace to a family far from the caring eyes of relatives and friends.

  Wakefield had nodded and taken this mission to heart, as well; he’d told Grace that he would accompany her next time to the Mulhoneys and have a professional look at all of them, see what could be done about their physical health and that of the newborn, and that was how he found himself on a damp day in the dark rooms of a waterfront tenement building.

  “The infant is big and healthy, Missus Mulhoney,” Wakefield pronounced, handing the child back to her mother. “The others simply need building up with regular nourishment. Once the warmer weather dispels this damp
ness, they’ll be right as rain.”

  Rose began to cough again, a rough, dry bark, and Wakefield reconsidered his remarks.

  “Your oldest daughter, however, should be in bed. Can you manage without her for a week or so?”

  “Aye,” Margaret declared. “But she’ll hear none of it. Won’t lie down if others need tending.”

  “Mister Smith,” Rose spluttered. “Who’ll look after him? He’s sick, as well! And Wills is sick!”

  “The old man upstairs has an eejit son,” Margaret explained. “They never do go out. Rose runs for their food and all.” She turned to her daughter. “Davey’ll do for Mister Smith and Wills, Rose; you can’t fret yourself over them.”

  “I’ll look in on him, as well, Rose,” Grace reassured the girl. “Do as the doctor says and get into bed with your sisters. Look—I’ve brought a lovely warm blanket for you to snuggle under, and Mary Kate’s sent storybooks.”

  Rose eyed the books suspiciously, and Grace wondered whether the girl could read, having already discovered that Margaret Mulhoney could not; Margaret had confided that her late husband had most of his letters and could figure out most any word, but she herself had never learned, too busy caring for elderly parents, then too busy caring for a husband and babies.

  “I’ll read to you a bit before I go, shall I?” Grace bribed. “But only once you’re abed.”

  Rose got up slowly and went behind the curtain partition to change out of her dress and into her nightgown, coughing all the while. Grace checked to see whether the kettle was still hot, and set about making a tea of dried mullein leaves to which she added honey, a little whiskey, and the juice of a ripe lemon—ingredients she’d brought with her.

  “While you do that, Missus Donnelly, I think I’ll go up and have a look at this Mister Smith,” Wakefield announced. “Plenty of sickness going around this spring, and we wouldn’t want an epidemic of sorts on our hands. Better see what he’s got up there.”