A Fragile Design

by Tracie Peterson

  ‘‘No. At least not for the present. Hugh Cummiskey contacted me regardin’ the Catholic church bein’ constructed in Lowell. He’s hired me to complete the decorative stonework at the church. After that job’s completed, I’m not sure what I’ll be doin’. But certain I am the good Lord will provide.’’

  Green gave him a derisive laugh. ‘‘After you’ve seen the living conditions of your fellow countrymen in Lowell, I’d wager you’ll be looking to your own talents for provision. I don’t think God’s spending much time providing for the Irish,’’ he callously remarked before continuing. ‘‘Appears you’ll be finished before noon. I’m expected at a meeting in a few minutes. You can let yourself out.’’

  Liam nodded, glancing over his shoulder as Green exited the house. He might need Mr. Green’s recommendation one day. Otherwise he would have told Mr. J. P. Green what he thought of arrogant, uncaring men who grew fat and stodgy while others starved.

  Leaning down to gather his tools, Liam began placing them in his case and then sat down in front of the fireplace to clean a small trowel. He scraped at the tool, his glance shifting toward the hearth. A bundle of papers was lying in the grate alongside several pieces of wood. Reaching in, he pulled out one of the pages and gave it a cursory glance. It had writing on only one side.

  Did J. P. Green not realize that the other side of the paper could be used for writing letters, drawing plans, or compiling lists? He glanced toward the hallway, wishing Mr. Green hadn’t left. If Liam took the paper, it would be put to good use and save him hard-earned coins. Surely Mr. Green wouldn’t consider it stealing. After all, if he left it in the fireplace, the papers would be destroyed.

  Folding the pages, Liam packed them into his satchel, left the house, and made his way to the Beacon House, where he would board a stagecoach for Lowell. He’d considered going by boat, using the canals that wound their way into Lowell, but he didn’t want to wait until morning.

  He pulled a thick-crusted chunk of bread from a loaf he’d purchased earlier that morning and sat in front of the hostelry.

  Within half an hour, the coach came rumbling into town at breakneck speed. The driver yanked back on the reins, which caused the wideeyedhorses to dig their hooves into the dusty roadway and bring the coach to a jarring halt. The carriage continued to sway on its leather straps for several minutes, the driver appearing to take great pleasure in the jostling he’d caused his passengers.

  Spitting a stream of tobacco juice, the driver jumped down from atop the carriage. ‘‘All out that’s getting out,’’ he hollered, pulling open the door.

  Several frazzled, travel-worn passengers disembarked from the coach as the driver tossed their baggage onto the street. ‘‘You that’s riding with me, get on in there. I ain’t got time to waste. I’m on a schedule,’’ the driver barked.

  Liam and two other men boarded the coach, all of them seated along one end of the coach facing two women on the opposing side. He was grateful the center seat remained empty, permitting them a bit more space for their legs.

  ‘‘Schedule? Not so as anybody would notice,’’ one of the women called back. ‘‘The only time you hurry is to delight yourself in throwing us around inside this torture chamber.’’

  The driver chortled and slapped his leg. ‘‘Surely you don’t think I’d do such a thing as that, ma’am,’’ he said, his coarse laughter continuing as he climbed up to his perch.

  ‘‘That man is a maniac,’’ the woman said to no one in particular as the driver flicked the reins and the coach lumbered out of town.

  ‘‘He seems to have settled down a bit,’’ one of the men commented as they made their way through the outskirts of Boston.

  A wry smile crossed the woman’s lips. ‘‘Just wait. He takes great delight in urging the horses into a full gallop when we’re on a deep-rutted road or crossing a rickety bridge. And don’t bother asking to get out and walk across the bridges—he ignores our pleas,’’ she warned.

  Regrettably, the woman’s words proved accurate. By the time the stage rolled into Lowell, Liam had bounced off the side of the coach, as had everyone near him. His body was bruised, and his head ached. He’d lost count of how many times his head had thumped the top of the carriage. At least those huge leghorn hats provided the women’s heads with a bit of protection.

  He stepped down from the coach, thankful he had to travel no farther and sorry for those who would remain and go beyond Lowell. The woman was right—the driver was a maniac. He enjoyed every minute of discomfort the passengers had endured. Liam picked up his case of tools, which the driver had tossed to the ground. He’d kept his satchel with him in the coach and now slung it across his shoulder as he glanced in all directions.

  ‘‘That way,’’ the driver snapped as he pointed northwest.

  Liam gave him a look of surprise.

  ‘‘You’re going to the Acre, ain’t ya?’’

  Liam nodded.

  ‘‘Well, it’s thataway. You’ll know when you’ve arrived,’’ he declared before throwing the remaining luggage onto the ground.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Liam replied and headed off.

  Lowell certainly wasn’t as large as Boston, but it was a likeable town, he decided, passing the shops that lined Merrimack Street. It appeared to be a place where a man could settle down and be happy. He walked onward, not sure how he was to know when he’d arrived at the Acre, but he was enjoying the sights while remaining mindful to watch for his destination. He passed the mills, impressed with the brick facades and grandeur of the buildings with their many windows and small flower gardens. Soon the well-kept street ended, and a few rods from the canals, Liam was confronted with a hodgepodge of shanties built of slabs and rough boards that varied in height from about six to nine feet high. Stacked flour barrels or lime casks sat on the roofs, obviously topping out the fireplaces inside the shacks. Chinkedout holes served as windows, while makeshift doors hung open, with pigs and chickens roaming freely from the muddy streets into the shanties. Liam shuddered at the sight. The Acre.

  ‘‘I’m lookin’ for Hugh Cummiskey,’’ he told a raggedly clothed boy sitting outside one of the hovels.

  ‘‘Over at the church,’’ the boy replied, running his hand across the dirt smudge on his face and then pointing toward the church.

  Liam nodded and thanked the boy before heading off to the church. Mercifully, the church was as Cummiskey had described, an edifice worthy of a skilled stonemason. At least something in this part of town wasn’t an eyesore. Liam approached a group of men preparing to leave for the night. ‘‘Can ya be tellin’ me where I might find Hugh Cummiskey?’’

  One of the men stopped directly in front of Liam. ‘‘Who wants to know?’’

  ‘‘Liam Donohue, stonemason from Boston.’’

  The man nodded. ‘‘He’s inside. Go on in.’’

  Liam voiced his thanks and entered the building. No doubt it was going to be a beautiful church once completed. Nothing comparable to the great churches of Ireland, but a fine structure nonetheless.

  ‘‘Are you looking for work?’’ a man asked, walking up behind Liam.

  Liam turned. ‘‘I think I’ve found it,’’ he replied. ‘‘I’m Liam Donohue, stonemason from Boston, lookin’ for Hugh Cummiskey,’’ he once again explained.

  ‘‘Well, you’ve found him,’’ Hugh replied, holding out a beefy hand. ‘‘So you’re Liam Donohue. I pictured you to be a bigger man,’’ he said in a light, almost nonexistent brogue. Apparently the man had worked to rid himself of sounding too Irish.

  ‘‘Go on with yarself. I’m big enough to get the job done, and besides, I’m not thinkin’ ya’ve got much size on me,’’ Liam retorted with a quick grin.

  Hugh laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘‘Well, then, I don’t imagine your stature is of any consequence. What do you think of our church?’’

  Liam took another glance about the building. ‘‘It appears to be the only structure o’ consequence in all of this
part of town. I’m understandin’ this is called the Acre?’’

  Hugh nodded. ‘‘That it is, or the Paddy camp, or New Dublin, or any number of derogatory names the Yanks could think of since we first arrived to build this place. We came to build the mills and canals—all of the heavy manual work. Some refer to us as lords of the spade. No matter—I suppose that’s what we are. The Associates have continued their expansion in Lowell, which has been good for us. Their expansion provides us with jobs. ’Course, more and more of our countrymen have arrived from Ireland looking for work. But now the Yanks are beginning to raise a ruckus. They don’t want any more Irish settling in Lowell.’’

  ‘‘Aye. The good folks of Boston aren’t overly welcomin’, either, although I expected wee better living conditions here.’’ Hugh shook his head back and forth. ‘‘We’re on the same small acre of land me and my men camped on when we first arrived here. The Yanks won’t let us expand any farther if they can avoid it. Trouble is, we don’t help matters much. There’s still the fightin’ among the clans, which the Yanks use against us. Fact is, the Corporation donated the land for this church in the hope it would bring the clans together. I’m hoping it will help.’’

  ‘‘Seems that sometimes we hurt ourselves even more than the outsiders do,’’ Liam noted.

  ‘‘That’s true. Come on now and let me show you what I’ve got in mind for this stonework. I’d be pleased if you could do some carving for us, but we’ll have to see what that will cost. I fear your talent is beyond our purse.’’

  Liam smiled. ‘‘We’ll see. I’m sure we can work somethin’ out. My dear old mother back in Ireland would never forgive me if I rejected work for the church.’’

  The two men talked for several hours, well into the evening. Liam’s excitement over the stone designs in the new church had surpassed the gnawing of his stomach, but now it would not be silenced. ‘‘It’s getting late, Hugh. I’ve not found a place to live, nor have I eaten since I departed from Boston early today.’’

  Hugh nodded. ‘‘I’ve kept you much too long. Come along with me. You can spend the night at my house, and tomorrow morning we’ll find a sleeping space for you to rent.’’

  Cummiskey’s home far surpassed anything else in the Acre, yet it was little more than a hovel. The meal, however, was another matter. Not only was Hugh’s wife cheerful, but she could cook a meal that would give his own mother strong competition. Both the meal and clean bed provided a welcome sanctuary for which Liam was thankful.

  Early the next morning, Liam’s safe haven disappeared like a mist. The pealing of the tower bell startled him awake hours before any of the roosters wandering the Acre had been given an opportunity to announce dawn’s arrival.

  ‘‘I’ll take you to meet Noreen Gallagher,’’ Hugh said as they finished their five o’clock breakfast. ‘‘My wife tells me Noreen may have a sleeping space for rent.’’

  Liam glanced about the candlelit room. ‘‘Will she be awake at this time of the day?’’

  Hugh’s laughter filled the small room. ‘‘She’ll be up. The bells that wakened you this morning do the same for all the other residents of this town. It’s not just those working inside the mills whose lives are governed by the sound of the bells. Noreen’s no exception. The people living with her either work for the Corporation or are looking to get hired. Either way, she’ll have them up and out of her house as soon as humanly possible.’’

  Liam wasn’t certain that calling upon someone at this time of day was entirely suitable, but he placed his reliance in Hugh. After profusely thanking Mrs. Cummiskey for her kindness, he gathered up his belongings and followed Hugh out the door and into the muddy street that fronted the hovel. They followed the crooked road until it became no more than a path winding its way among the maze of shacks. Hugh stopped short and pounded on the door of one of the shanties. A wiry woman with matted reddish-brown hair cracked open the dilapidated piece of wood that served as a front door She blinked against the darkness, obviously unable to make out the faces of her visitors.

  ‘‘It’s Hugh Cummiskey, Noreen. I’ve brought you a new tenant.’’

  The woman stepped aside, permitting them entry. ‘‘Mr. Cummiskey! Come in, come in.’’

  She bent from the waist while gesturing her arm in a sweeping motion that crossed her body, obviously pretending royalty had arrived on her doorstep. Liam smiled. Perhaps she wasn’t pretending. Conceivably Mr. Cummiskey was viewed as royalty among the residents of the Paddy camp.

  The smell of fetid bodies mingled with the odor of a mangy dog, two chickens, and an indistinguishable scent that curled upward from an iron pot hanging over the fire. The stench nearly caused Liam to retch. Filthy pallets lined the floor where the dirty bodies had lain only a short time earlier. The group now sat huddled near the fire, spooning the foul-smelling concoction that bubbled over the fire into makeshift bowls.

  ‘‘Mr. Donohue’s in need of a sleeping space, and my wife said you had one available. That true?’’ Hugh inquired.

  The woman narrowed her eyes into thin slits and looked Liam up and down. She appeared to evaluate his every feature. ‘‘Have ya money to pay?’’ she asked, her gaze darting toward his bags.

  Liam nodded. ‘‘Could I talk to you alone for a moment, Mr. Cummiskey?’’ Liam inquired.

  Noreen gave Liam a disgruntled look but moved to the fire when Hugh waved her away. ‘‘Is there a problem, Liam?’’

  He didn’t want to appear ungrateful—or offensive. He hesitated a moment and then cleared his throat. ‘‘Might there be another place, uh, a hotel, or . . .’’

  Cummiskey shook his head. ‘‘You’ve the luck of the Irish with you to find this,’’ he replied. ‘‘As for a hotel—we’ve no such luxury in the Acre, and ya’d not be welcome at the Wareham. Yanks only, ya know.’’ His brogue seemed a bit more pronounced.

  ‘‘I see. Well, then, I suppose I’ll stay here, but if you or your missus should ’ear of anything better, would ya keep me in mind?’’

  Hugh nodded his head. ‘‘That I’ll do, my boy, that I’ll do,’’ he said before waving Noreen back to where they stood.

  ‘‘I’ll vouch for Mr. Donohue. He’ll be working with me over at the church, so you’ve no need to worry about being paid regular. See that he gets a decent place to sleep—and you might try cooking something of substance for your tenants,’’ he suggested with a glance toward the fireplace. ‘‘I’m sure you could find yourself a few potatoes to toss in with that water you boil every day.’’

  Noreen dug the toe of her shoe into the dirt floor as a splash of red tinged her cheeks. Liam wasn’t sure if the woman’s embarrassment was due to the poor treatment of her tenants or the fact that Hugh Cummiskey had noted her neglect. Probably the latter, he surmised.

  ‘‘We’re heading off to work at the church, but Mr. Donohue will be back this evening. I trust he’ll find enough food to fill his belly, Noreen.’’

  ‘‘If ’e pays me before you leave, ’e will,’’ Noreen countered.

  The woman watched closely as Liam reached into his satchel and then handed her two dollars, which, from the gleam in her eyes, was more than she’d received in many a day.

  ‘‘Where’d ya work before comin’ to this place?’’ she asked while rubbing the coins in her hand.

  ‘‘Boston.’’

  Hugh gave Liam a reassuring pat on the back. ‘‘Mr. Donohue’s a stonemason—very talented. God’s blessed us yet again by sending him to work for us.’’

  The woman kept her gaze fixed on Liam’s satchel. ‘‘Indeed, a blessin’,’’ she agreed, reaching out toward the shoulder strap of Liam’s bag. ‘‘Ya can leave yar belongings here. I’ll see to them while ya’re at work.’’

  Liam turned, stepping out of her grasp. ‘‘No, I’ll keep my belongings with me,’’ he replied before joining Hugh outside the shanty.

  Hugh gave him a hearty laugh as they walked back down the muddy path. ‘‘I know Noreen’s place isn’t particula
rly appealing, but I doubt you’ll spend much time there. Most of the single men spend their evenings at the pub.’’

  Liam’s thoughts wandered back to the boardinghouse where he’d roomed in the Irish part of Boston. It hadn’t been palatial by any means, but the house had been neat and clean, and the food had been wholesome and plentiful. Liam wasn’t one to spend his time sitting in pubs, but there was no doubt he would soon begin. A reasonable alternative to Noreen’s shack would be a necessity.

  ‘‘Once you’ve begun your work at the church, I’ll head off for the canal. We’re running a few days behind, and I need to push the blokes a bit,’’ Hugh said as they moved toward the church.

  ‘‘Perhaps you need to hire some extra help,’’ Liam suggested.

  Hugh gave a growling snort and pushed back his flat woolen cap. A mop of black curly hair fell across his forehead. ‘‘The Yanks are already up in arms about the number of Irish living and working in Lowell. There are about five hundred of us now. The Yanks want us to perform their labor and disappear like a vapor until we’re needed for some other grueling manual labor. Instead, they must face the fact that the Irish are here to stay. They don’t like that idea, and they surely want no more of us coming here.’’

  ‘‘So that’s why ya instructed me to say me work was temporary?’’

  ‘‘Exactly,’’ Hugh replied. ‘‘But as I told you, I’m certain I can keep you busy should you decide you want to remain in Lowell. Personally, I’m anxious to have skilled artisans stay among us.’’

  ‘‘Ya don’t think ya’d be happier somewhere else? A place where ya’d feel more welcome?’’ Liam inquired.

  ‘‘Hah! And where would that be, Liam? Surely you don’t think there’s a city out there anxious to see the Irish arrive? Lowell’s not a bad place for the Irish—better than most. I’ve made my place here and you can, too, if you like. Keep yourself clean, work hard, stay away from the liquor, and try to stay out of the Yanks’ way.’’