by Peter Quinn
“Just as well,” Cassidy said. “Heat like this, there’s little whiskey can do to slake the thirst. Ale, that’s what’s called for. No other cure for the dust that collects in a man’s throat.”
Cassidy took Foster’s arm, and they walked up to Skelley’s. McSweeney trailed a few steps behind. “Ale it is,” McSweeney said. He ran his tongue over his gums. Made a loud smacking noise with his lips. “Him who sees me to a draft will be doin’ more than standin’ me to a drink. He’ll be savin’ me from dyin’ of thirst!”
“Then summon a priest!” called Cassidy over his shoulder. “That way you won’t die doubly cursed—thirsty and unshriven.”
McSweeney followed Cassidy and Foster as they pushed their way into Skelley’s. His face brightened when Skelley drew three cream-headed brews and plunked them down.
“Know what we need?” Cassidy said.
“Another round?” McSweeney said.
“A song,” Cassidy said.
“A lament?” McSweeney said.
“A ballad,” Cassidy said. “At once sad and inspiring, in the manner of ‘The Minstrel Boy,’ the man gone off to war, wife left home to feed the children, inflation makin’ it hard for them to afford the rent.”
“Isn’t it the truth?” McSweeney said. “A bit of mutton’s gone from six to fifteen cents, and coffee from ten to fifty. God knows what coal will sell for when winter comes.”
“Foster is the man to write that song,” Cassidy said.
There was a commotion on the other side of the bar. John Skelley stood aside as two of his sons hauled a full barrel of ale from the cellar, pushed and pulled it up the stairs, and rolled it into place. The raucous waiting customers pinned Cassidy, McSweeney, and Foster against the bar and cursed Skelley for the interruption in the flow of ale, until Skelley’s wife came in from the back, where she washed the mugs. She stood with arms folded, wisps of steel-gray hair falling across her red, perspiring face. Said nothing, just stood there, staring at the crowd. The shouting stopped. Once Skelley began to serve again, a space opened around the bar, and Cassidy, McSweeney, and Foster made their way out onto the avenue.
“An oven in there,” Cassidy said to a man about to enter.
“Same everywhere,” the man said as he went in.
The sun had moved across to the west side of the avenue, beginning its descent over Jersey, but there were still a few hours before it set, and the air was so baked, even night didn’t promise much relief. Groups of sullen men continued to come from the direction of the conscription office, wives and children trailing behind.
“We should be goin’,” Cassidy said to Foster.
“Suit yourselves,” McSweeney said, “but I’d say you’d be missin’ a grand show.”
Foster was weaving about, having trouble standing. Cassidy took him by the sleeve. “Our friend,” he said, “should be taken to his bed.”
“You’ll miss the Mad Maidens, you will. They say it’s a spectacle not to miss, even better than anythin’ at the Trump!” McSweeney said.
“What maidens are they?” Foster said. Cassidy tugged on Foster’s sleeve, but the composer didn’t move.
“See for yourselves,” McSweeney said. “It’s all free. Bill Cunningham makes the trip north each Saturday, hauls all who care to ride with him or can fit aboard, takes no fare but afterwards deposits one and all at Flanagan’s shebeen. Flanagan is Cunningham’s brother-in-law, so Cunningham keeps it all in the gets his reward from a cut of the proceeds from the poteen that’s drunk.”
“We’ve better things to do than go in search of mysterious oreads or drink home brew in some highland shanty,” Cassidy said.
“Where is the chariot of Cunningham’s?” Foster said.
“Be here any minute,” McSweeney said with a wide grin.
They waited less than five minutes before Cunningham pulled up outside Skelley’s. Boys and men jumped on, pushing and jostling. McSweeney mounted the cart and helped Foster and Cassidy aboard. The passengers yelled and shouted as Cunningham whipped his horse, and the cart jounced into motion. Foster sat on the floor, his back against Cunningham’s seat. He rested his forehead on his knees. The rocking of the cart made him feel as if he might vomit. The wagon hit a bump, and his head struck hard against his knees. He leaned his head back, looked into the sky, empty as a blank sheet of paper, heard the grinding of the poorly greased axles, groan of the exhausted springs, clank of the harness chains, Cunningham yelling at his overburdened horse, loud creak of horse’s traces straining against the load, several voices singing, one the verses, the others the chorus:
Pat of Mullingar,
She can trot along, jog along,
Drag a jaunting car,
No day’s too long when sent along
By Pat of Mullingar.
The cart left the avenue, followed a dirt road through a thick wood, shafts of sun falling through the branches. The grade grew steadily steeper, and the cart slowed to a crawl as it moved uphill. At one point there was a break in the trees. An expansive vista opened up, green sea of treetops, the river in the distance, white sails on blue water. Cunningham stopped the cart and called for volunteers to hop off. Several of the boys did. The cart moved faster, and at the top of the hill, the boys jumped on again.
“Good God,” Cassidy said, “this better be good. We’re being dragged halfway to Canada.”
Cunningham drove awhile before he brought the cart to a halt. “Everybody out,” he said. “And remember: Quiet. No yellin’.”
McSweeney was one of the first out. He helped Cassidy and Foster to the ground. “They say the Mad Maidens is a sight to see!” McSweeney said. They followed Cunningham and the others to the top of a small, wooded knoll. At a distance of several dozen yards was a stately three-storied building, a great stone hall with two flanking wings.
“They’re not there yet,” Cunningham said. “Good thing. I was afraid we was late.”
“It’s them that’s late,” another said.
“Ah, it’s a grand sight,” McSweeney said.
“What is it?” Foster asked.
“The Bloomingdale Asylum,” Cunningham said. “And grand as it may seem, the lunatic population of New York is far outgrown it.”
“Look!” one of the men said. “There they are!”
Three young women stood in a large, barred window on the second floor. They were dressed in identical charcoal-gray smocks. Two had wild red hair and looked as if they were sisters. The third was taller than the other two and had cropped black hair. As soon as they saw the men, they removed their smocks. They wore nothing underneath. One of the redheads leaned her head through the bars and threw the men a kiss. The other pressed against a bar, her large breasts sticking out prominently on either side.
The men waved their hats but didn’t yell.
“I’m the one discovered them,” said Cunningham to Cassidy. “Ridin’ past one afternoon, I looked up and couldn’t believe what I was seein’.”
The black-haired woman got up on the sill and stood in the window in full view, one leg wrapped around a bar. She beckoned with her hand.
“Wouldn’t I love to find myself behind them bars,” McSweeney said. “’Tis a fine sportin’ time I’d have.”
“A shame it’s an asylum for lunatics instead of imbeciles, or you’d have no trouble getting in,” Cassidy said.
“The owners of the Trump have made themselves rich on a view poorer than this,” Cunningham said. “Set up a grandstand here and make myself a bloody fortune.”
The black-haired woman was sitting on the sill, her feet hanging out the window, a black bar rising up out of the black triangle between her legs. She waved, and it seemed to Foster that she waved directly at him. He waved, and she waved back furiously, with both hands. Foster remembered the time Jane waved like that: They had been reconciled and he had stopped drinking and Jane was convinced that now, finally, they would have a settled, normal married life. They had rented a house in Hoboken, and he went off to Ne
w York every day, as if he were a regular man of business, and that first Friday evening, at the end of the first week, he saw her from the deck of the ferry as it neared the Jersey side of the river. She was standing by the gate, searching the faces on the ferry, and when she saw him, she began to wave with both hands so enthusiastically that she almost knocked the hat off the man standing next to her.
Go ahead, Jane. You’re entitled to such moments. Precious few of them you’ve had. Wish it could last. Wish both of us could find what we are looking for.
In a loud, strong voice, Foster sang:
I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Borne like a vapor on the summer air …
The men all turned around, and in the window the women suddenly stopped their gyrating and stood still.
“In the name of God!” Cunningham yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you. You’ll give us away!”
From the window came the voice of one of the red-haired women singing:
I long for Jeanie with the day-dawn smile,
Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile …
In an instant, two matrons appeared and began pulling the women from the window; another was pointing and screaming at where the men were standing.
“Let’s get outta here!” Cunningham cried, and the men scrambled off the knoll toward the cart. Foster sat where he was until McSweeney grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Foster walked a short distance, tripped, and tumbled down to the bottom of the knoll. Cassidy and McSweeney helped him up and lifted him onto the cart an instant before Cunningham cracked his whip.
“Shoulda left the bloody idiot where he was,” Cunningham said. “A lunatic is what he is, spoilin’ everythin’ for the rest of us. I’ve a good mind to dump him in the North River. Let him float out to sea with the rest of the garbage.”
The cart rattled over rough, badly rutted roads until it pulled up in front of a windowless shanty; a goat was tethered in the yard. Three barefoot children ran inside as soon as the cart came to a halt. A small, bald man walked out.
Cunningham jumped down from the driver’s seat. “They’re all yours, Flanagan,” he said to the little man, and then he went inside without another word. Cassidy and McSweeney helped Foster out of the cart, one on each arm.
“Has he had an accident?” Flanagan asked.
“The heat and the excitement,” Cassidy said. “Between them he was overcome.”
“Bring him in and we’ll get him a drink,” Flanagan said. “Should set him right.”
A soiled piece of canvas divided the inside of the shanty in two. The children peeked out from behind. “Get back in dere!” Flanagan yelled, and their heads withdrew. He lit a lantern that hung from the roof. The men sat on the benches set against the walls.
“Welcome to ye all,” Flanagan said. “I’d like to offer the hospitality of this house.”
“The whiskey is free, is it?” said McSweeney. He and Cassidy set Foster down on the bench and sat on each side of him.
“A rich man I’m not,” Flanagan said. “But though riches is beyond me, the price of drink in this establishment is fairly set. And here ye don’t pay for the surroundings, just the drink.”
“Was the surroundings we was payin’ for, you’d be payin’ us,” Cassidy said. He spit on the earthen floor and kicked dirt over the globule.
“May not be the Astor House, but it’s home to me and me family. And many the honest workingman has found welcome and comfort under its roof, so I’d ask ye to refrain from blasphemy or from expectoratin’.” Flanagan stared at Cassidy as he spoke.
Flanagan went behind the curtain and returned with a tray of different-sized glasses and a large unlabeled bottle of whiskey. He moved around the room. Each man poured himself a large glass and dropped a coin onto the tray. When it came his turn, McSweeney nodded at Cassidy. “He’s payin’,” McSweeney said.
Cassidy dropped two of Foster’s coins onto the tray and poured himself a glass. Foster sat crumpled against the wall.
“We should get some whiskey in him,” Flanagan said.
“Needs a bit of dryin’ out before any more goes in,” said Cassidy. He put his glass to his lips. Suddenly, without taking a drink, he stood and pointed across the room at a chair placed in front of the canvas curtain. “Mother of God, what’s that thin’ there?”
Flanagan strode quickly across the room. “Them children of mine don’t understand the meanin’ of obedience. No gettin’ it into them, even with a strap. Told them ten times I didn’t want this left around. ‘’Tis not a toy,’ I said.” Flanagan picked up the object from the chair and cradled it beneath his arm.
“Give us a look!” McSweeney shouted. “We’ve paid good money for your drink, now let’s have no secrets!” The other men banged their fists on the bench. “Give us a look!” they said in unison.
Flanagan hesitated a moment before he took the object from beneath his arm and extended it for them to see.
“Christ’s mercy!” McSweeney cried. He made the sign of the cross.
Flanagan held a skull the color of earth. A row of brown broken teeth protruded from the upper jaw. The mandible was missing. He turned the skull around and held it up toward the lantern. The top of the cranium was shattered, a gaping hole in its middle.
“Jesus, Flanagan,” Cassidy said, “I hope this isn’t what the drink you serve does to a man.” No one laughed.
“Was never a customer of mine, nor would I want the likes of him,” Flanagan said. He put down the skull and picked up a small box. He lifted the top. Inside were half a dozen buttons, all black with tarnish except for one that had been polished and shined. He handed the button to Cassidy, who ran his thumb over the crown stamped on it and the letters beneath: GIIIR.
“George the Third,” Cassidy said. “A button from an English uniform. Where’d you dig this up?”
“Did no diggin’ at all,” Flanagan said. “The children was playin’ on the other side of the Bloomingdale Road, in them thickly wooded ravines and rocks where I’ve warned ’em never to go, and they stumbled on a passel of remains. Come screamin’ there’d been a murder, and out I go with a shovel in one hand for protection, thinkin’ one of ’em Bloomingdale lunatics is loose and commitin’ mayhem. Then we reach this gully and there, sure enough, is the remains of the dead, but right away I knew they hadn’t entered that state recently.”
“There was more than one?” Cassidy said.
“Might have been two or three, but this was the only skull intact. Animals and the elements had scattered or destroyed the rest. There were bones all around, and the rusted barrel of a gun, and these buttons, one of which I polished up. Looks like new, doesn’t it?” Flanagan took the button back from Cassidy. “Probably some of ’em English troops what chased General Washington out of the city met their end up here. The Yankees fought a rearguard action somewhere around here, least that’s what I’ve been told. Wounded and the dead fell into places and never found, till now.”
“You sure this isn’t the skull of a Patriot?” Cassidy said. “Could be his bones was mixed in with the rest.”
“These are English bones, or those of their hirelings. The likes of General Washington would have never abandoned the bodies of the Patriot dead.”
McSweeney walked over to the table where Flanagan had rested the skull. “You know,” he said, “when I was a boy of four or five in Ireland, the army and the yeomanry came through our village in search of the United Irishmen. Was in ’98, the time the French came to our aid. The countryside was overrun with rumors.
“None of the men of our village could speak English, except for a smatterin’ of words, and though their sympathies was with the United Irishmen and with the French come to help them, they was too frightened to take any role in the rising. The army didn’t care. To them, one Paddy was the same as the next. Forced us all out of our cabins in the middle of the night. Wrecked the places searchin’ for pikes, but found nothin’ save some tobacco wrapped i
n a broadsheet of the United Irishmen. Wasn’t a person could read them English words that was printed on it, but the officer in charge said it was a sign of ‘seditious intent.’ Picked out four men from the village, my father among them, had them manacled hand and foot, and when dawn came, they was hanged from a tree just outside the village. ‘Anyone tries to remove the bodies will be shot and his cabin tumbled,’ the officer said, and there they hung till the ravens picked out their eyes and the wind stripped away their flesh.”
McSweeney spit on the skull. “To hell with England,” he said.
“And with the Yankee lickspittles who worship at England’s altar, intent on keepin’ the Irishman down and exaltin’ the nigger over him,” one of the men on the bench said.
“The bastards will take a nigger over an Irishman any day,” Cunningham said. “Look at that orphanage they’ve put up for the niggers on Fifth Avenue. A mansion it is. And where do the Irish children go? Shipped out west or off to Randalls Island.”
“The Irish people is in a sorry state, for sure,” McSweeney said. “But we’ve ourselves to blame as much as the English or the Yankees. Every generation it’s one of our own sells us down the river, traitors like Robert Noonan.”
Cunningham said to Flanagan, “You should sell that skull to the Yankees. Same crew shit their pants with excitement when the Prince of Wales arrived would probably pay dearly to have some English relics to worship. Or they could gild it and present it to Noonan.”
“Maybe I’m just a wishful old man,” McSweeney said, “but seems to me the day of the Irishman bowin’ and scrapin’ before the Saxon is over. Won’t the Fenians soon be ready to strike a blow for Ireland? And won’t they have Thomas Francis Meagher at their head?”
