Ominous-appearing clouds were rolling in, darkening the early evening sky as Liam walked out of the church. For a moment he thought his eyes were deceiving him. An old man was perched atop a pile of granite stacked alongside the church. Liam lifted his arm and hollered, ‘‘Good evenin’ to ya. How are ya on this fine night?’’
The old man hoisted a gnarly walking stick into the air and brandished it about. ‘‘Good as can be expected, better’n most,’’ he replied, giving Liam a toothless grin. ‘‘Best be gettin’ away from that church,’’ he warned.
‘‘And why would that be?’’ Liam inquired, walking toward the hunched-over figure.
‘‘It’s not gonna be safe in there much longer,’’ he replied simply.
Liam flashed him a smile. ‘‘I think it’s probably safer inside the church than atop that pile o’ stone.’’
The old man shook his head back and forth, wisps of white hair forming a billowy cloud above his head. ‘‘There’s gonna be a battle happenin’ any time now.’’
No doubt the old man was feebleminded. Yet something forced Liam to continue talking. ‘‘What kind of battle?’’
‘‘ ’Tween the Yanks and us,’’ he replied. ‘‘Irish are better at fightin’, so it shouldn’t take long to finish them off,’’ he cackled in a gleeful voice. ‘‘And I’m gonna have the best view.’’
Liam drew closer. ‘‘How’d you come by this piece of information?’’
‘‘Some fancy-pants Yank and a couple of his lackeys talking down at the tavern earlier today. Said the Yanks was gonna storm the church and steal the rifles and gold this evenin’.’’
A shockwave coursed down Liam’s spine. He bounded up the pile of rocks and stood towering over the ancient Irishman. ‘‘Have you told anyone else about this?’’
The old man cowered at Liam’s approach. ‘‘I told the barkeep once the Yanks left the pub. He spread the word among the rest of his customers. Did I do wrong?’’
‘‘No, ya did just fine. Did the men talk as though they were comin’ to defend the church?’’
‘‘They talked like they was gonna defend the church with every man and boy who could hold a weapon—said they’d be here afore the Yanks arrived. They’re gonna hide and surprise ’em,’’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘‘Fer all I know, some of ’em may already be hiding in there,’’ he said, pointing his stick toward the church. ‘‘I told the barkeep those Yanks might just be talkin’ big—might not even show up, but he said we should be prepared.’’
Liam feared the story was true. After all, it hadn’t been so long ago that he’d heard similar talk in the tavern. He glanced over his shoulder at the impressive stone edifice. Only yesterday he’d helped mortar two stained-glass windows into place—gorgeous works of art from a Boston benefactor. The thought of those windows being pelted by stones or bullets struck horror in Liam’s creative soul.
He would not stand by and do nothing. ‘‘A battle will not serve the Irish well. ’Tis our church and homes that will be pummeled. I’m going to find someone with a voice of reason.
Perhaps we can halt this madness before anyone is injured. It would be best to keep the fight away from the church. Tell our men to stand firm at the old stone bridge. They must stop the Yanks before they come into the Acre. With a bit o’ luck, I’ll be back before the Yanks,’’ Liam told the old man.
‘‘Ya’ll need more than the luck of the Irish, me boy. I’ll say a quick prayer for ya,’’ the old man replied. He shoved a thin, knobbed hand into the depths of his pants pocket and pulled out a string of wooden beads. The strand dangled from his finger momentarily before the old man took hold of one bead and automatically began his rhythmic litany.
Liam quickly descended the heap of rocks and hurried off toward town. By the time he reached the edge of the Acre, he had only one thought in mind: he must locate Matthew Cheever. Although it was well past the last bell, he would go to the mill first. He hoped Matthew was working late, for it would take five additional minutes to reach Matthew’s home. As he neared Jackson Street, he glanced in both directions. There were small clusters of men gathering, moving toward each other as if to join forces. Liam’s breath was coming hard; he gasped, inhaling as much fresh air as his strained lungs would permit without slowing his pace.
The iron gate to the Appleton was tightly closed. Liam reached up and pulled the dangling rope hanging from the gate bell. He clanged it hard and waited, his face pressed against the cool metal gate, willing Matthew to appear. Again he clanged the bell, long and hard. He continued yanking the rope, determined to stir Matthew to attention if he was nearby.
‘‘What’s going on?’’ Matthew shouted as he rounded the corner of the countinghouse and hurried toward the gate. ‘‘Liam?’’
‘‘Aye. There’s a problem, Mr. Cheever! Hurry!’’ Matthew shoved a key into the gate and pulled open the cumbersome barrier. ‘‘Ya’ve got to come with me,’’ Liam commanded, grasping Matthew’s arm. ‘‘There’s an uprisin’ between the Yanks and Irish. I fear it will already have begun by the time we reach the Acre.’’
Matthew’s forehead furrowed into deep creases, causing his eyebrows to settle into parallel strips of concern. ‘‘Settle yourself, Liam, and tell me exactly what has happened.’’
‘‘I’ll explain while we walk,’’ Liam insisted. ‘‘There’s no time to waste.’’ Unwilling to stand idle, he continued tugging on Matthew’s arm, pulling him along as he explained the old man’s warning. ‘‘Should Mr. Boott be informed?’’
Matthew shook his head back and forth. ‘‘He’s in Boston,’’ he explained. ‘‘And you think the battle is imminent?’’
‘‘I’ve never seen groups of men gatherin’ together with their weapons in Lowell until today,’’ Liam replied. ‘‘I fear they’ll destroy the church, or worse yet, there will be deaths and injury on both sides.’’
‘‘You believe your people are ready to fight?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I’m hopeful Hugh is aware of what’s happenin’ and has called for level-headedness among the Irish. I left word that if the Irish arrived first, they should attempt to hold the Yanks at the bridge.’’
Before Matthew could respond, a volley of shots rang out. The men glanced at each other and immediately increased their pace, the street dust billowing from under their pounding feet. They rushed onward until the church was finally in sight. Yanks armed with weapons stood at each corner of the building. One of them yelled out a warning and leveled his rifle as Matthew and Liam approached.
Liam’s face was lined with concern. ‘‘It appears the Yanks crossed the bridge and took siege of the church before the Irish even arrived.’’
Matthew nodded. ‘‘It would appear that way,’’ he said as they neared the church. ‘‘Thomas Lambert, you’d best aim that weapon somewhere besides my belly,’’ Matthew shouted.
‘‘Don’t you get in the middle of this, Matthew!’’ the man hollered back.
Liam and Matthew slowed their pace but continued moving closer to the church. ‘‘What’s going on here?’’ Matthew asked.
‘‘Nothin’ that we can’t handle without interference by the Corporation,’’ Lambert replied.
In front of the church, men’s voices mingled with the sound of breaking stone. ‘‘I’m going in there,’’ Matthew defiantly announced. ‘‘And you’d best not attempt to stop me, Thomas.’’
Immediately Thomas moved to block the door. ‘‘I wouldn’t . . .’’
Matthew pushed him aside. ‘‘Quit acting like a fool, Thomas,’’ he growled. ‘‘Come with me, Liam.’’
Liam followed, his shoulders squared and head high. He wondered if Thomas Lambert would shoot him in the back. ‘‘What are we doin’?’’ Liam whispered.
‘‘Getting these men out of the Acre before there’s a bloody battle,’’ Matthew replied.
It took a silver tongue, along with several threats, to finally convince the men to leave. Liam wasn’t certain whether it wa
s Matthew’s words or the realization there was nothing of value hidden in the church that dislodged the men, but at last they began filing out of the building. Unfortunately, at that same time the inhabitants of the Acre began to descend upon the church with picks, shovels, rocks, and rifles in hand.
‘‘Matthew!’’ Liam shouted. He pointed in the direction of the crowd.
‘‘Do you see Hugh among them?’’
‘‘Not yet, but I’ll try and stop them,’’ Liam replied. He rushed toward the crowd, waving his arms above his head. ‘‘Hold up! I need to talk to ya!’’ he shouted as he drew closer.
‘‘Out of the way or we’ll trample ya,’’ a voice in the crowd cried out.
‘‘Hugh! Hugh Cummiskey! Are you among these men?’’ Liam shouted.
‘‘Right here,’’ Hugh replied, waving a rifle in the air.
Liam rushed alongside Hugh, explaining Matthew was with the Yanks. ‘‘It appears everything is under control,’’ Liam said. ‘‘Ya need to stop the men before they confront the Yanks, or there may be bloodshed. I know ya don’t want that to happen, Hugh.’’
Hugh held up his arm and halted the men not far from the church. ‘‘If they’ve damaged our church, and I suspect they have, the Yanks had best get busy with repairs,’’ Hugh told Liam. ‘‘What’s your stake in this matter? You sidin’ with the Yanks?’’
Liam held his anger in check. ‘‘Ya’d be knowin’ better than that, Hugh. I’d rather see this resolved peaceably. Surely ya feel the same.’’
Hugh nodded. ‘‘I do, but the Yanks started this fight, and they need to pay for their actions.’’
‘‘You’re the voice of reason for the Irish, Hugh. Tell them to settle themselves and listen to what Matthew has to say. Matthew knows it’s not the Irish that have caused this upheaval, and he’ll not be speakin’ ill of them.’’
Hugh hesitated for a moment, then spoke to the men. There were a few murmurs of dissent, but the majority of the men appeared relieved they’d not have to do battle this night. They moved forward with Hugh and Liam in the lead until they stood opposite the Yankees.
Matthew stood on the top step of the church, looking down upon the segregated groups and then turned his attention to his fellow Yankees. ‘‘You men have embarrassed yourselves this night with your irrational behavior. I don’t know who or what convinced you to act in such a manner, but I’d appreciate some insight.’’
The men glanced back and forth among themselves until finally one of them confessed that they had expected to find gold and weapons hidden in the church.
‘‘And why on earth would you believe such nonsense? Why would these people be amassing weapons?’’ Matthew questioned.
‘‘We heard talk that the Irish were storin’ up weapons and money in order to attack Lowell and take over the mills,’’ one of the men reported.
‘‘Does that really seem plausible? Knowing that almost all of these men send money back to Ireland to help support their extended families, just how much gold do you think they could accumulate? Someone planted an evil seed among you, and you embraced it. In fact, you watered it and watched it take root. There’s no denying the differences between our people, but attacking one another, destroying property, and believing the worst of each other is not God’s design for us.’’
‘‘You don’t know what they’re capable of,’’ one of the men called out from the Yank side of the group. ‘‘They perform sacrifices and all manner of evil. That’s probably what happened to their missing girls.’’
This created an angry surge of comments from the Irish.
‘‘Ya don’t know what ya’re talkin’ about, Yank.’’
‘‘Ya’re daft in the head. That’s the kind of talk that gets men killed.’’
Matthew raised his hands to calm the crowd. ‘‘You know, you fellows remind me of a story. Once there was a farmer who had a jack mule and a gelding bay. He found it necessary, for the sake of plowing his field, to yoke the two animals together. Each morning he took the animals to the field, where they steadily pulled the plow, until one day he started experiencing problems. The mule wanted to pull left and the gelding wanted to pull right. Try as he might the farmer couldn’t get them to work together. With his field unplowed, the farmer had no choice but to quit for the night and hope he might have better luck the next morning.
‘‘In the meanwhile, the mule and the gelding had their own conversation. The mule told the gelding that he was a horse and horses were notoriously uppity and full of self-regard. The mule said he wasn’t about to work with anyone who lived in a fancy barn and ate from a fancy trough.
‘‘The horse was equally offended. ‘You’re just a lazy mule. You lay about the field all day, eating here and there, never making yourself useful at all until the master actually puts a yoke on you and forces you into work. You’re dirty and smelly and totally useless.’
‘‘The next day, the farmer tried again to put the mule and horse together, but neither one would have any part of it. They bucked and brayed, whinnied and kicked. Finally the farmer had no choice but to take the jack mule back to the barn and then proceed to plow the field with the gelding alone. The horse labored under the strain, and by noon he was spent and the farmer exchanged him for the mule. By night the mule, too, was exhausted.’’
Liam saw that Matthew had the attention of every man in the audience. ‘‘When the mule and horse came together, they realized that their stubbornness had caused them to bear the entire burden of responsibility on their own. There was no one else to share the load, so they pulled the plow alone. And all because they refused to work as a team.’’
‘‘Are you saying the Irish are mules?’’ a man called out.
Liam couldn’t tell if it had been an Irishman or a Yank who’d asked the question. Matthew chuckled. ‘‘Not at all. My father used to tell this story to my brother and me whenever we fought. The whole point I want to make here is that we need not let our cultures and backgrounds separate us. Neither should our religious beliefs and worship practices. If we allow issues to separate us, we’ll be just like the mule and the horse—pulling the full weight of responsibility all alone. We aren’t perfect and neither is religion. God alone is perfect, and He calls us to be at peace with one another. To love our neighbor as ourselves.’’
Liam saw the men around him relax a bit, their expressions conveying a certain understanding. Matthew was smart—Liam had to give him that. He approached these people by bringing something bigger than themselves to the table. Matthew Cheever didn’t bother with threats of the supervisors or the Boston Associates, however. He went straight to the heart of it. He went to God.
‘‘God would see His people work together—to encourage and lift each other up. The Bible says that we should esteem others as better than ourselves. Would you men deny the Word of God—reject its truth?’’
The audience remained completely silent. Matthew nodded. ‘‘I thought not. Now I’d like for all of you to return to your homes. There’s no cache of guns or gold. There are no plans to ruin the church. Go home and sleep off your anger.’’
One by one the crowd dispersed until only Liam, Matthew, and Hugh remained.
‘‘I didn’t think you’d manage to keep the peace here, but I’m glad you did,’’ Hugh commented. ‘‘I’ll bid you good-night and see to it the rabble-rousers get to bed instead of the pub.’’
Liam waited until Hugh had gone before he turned to Matthew. ‘‘It seems that you hold great stock in this issue of God and what He wants for His people.’’
Matthew smiled. ‘‘I do indeed.’’
‘‘And ya’re believin’ that God truly cares about the people on earth—that He’d be listenin’ to our prayers?’’
‘‘I do.’’
Liam shook his head. ‘‘Why? What has God ever done to prove this to ya?’’
‘‘He’s answered my prayers,’’ Matthew replied. ‘‘He’s not always said yes when I’d have liked Him to, but He’s b
lessed me in many ways, and I honestly believe this is the result of His love and concern for me as an individual.’’
‘‘But why would God be givin’ us any more consideration than He gives the beasties in the field?’’
Matthew smiled. ‘‘I believe the Bible when it says we’re made in God’s image. I believe He did that because He desired fellowship with us, Liam. I believe God desires our love and adoration, our worship and praise. I believe we’re here on this earth to serve Him first and foremost, and the best way we can do that is by serving each other.’’
The words made more sense to Liam than his mother’s superstitions and his church’s threats. ‘‘I’d like to be thinkin’ on this for a time. Do you suppose we might be discussin’ it again?’’ Liam questioned.
Matthew grinned. ‘‘I’d like that very much.’’
CHAPTER 28
Addie’s cheeks were flushed bright pink as she tucked a damp wisp of graying hair behind her ear and hurried from her warm kitchen to the front door. The pounding at the front door was continuous.
‘‘Patience! I’m coming!’’ she called, unable to hide her irritation as she pulled open the door. ‘‘Yes?’’
A small woman with doelike eyes stood clinging to the arm of a stout, dour-appearing man. ‘‘We’re Mr. and Mrs. Wilson—Ruth’s parents,’’ the man said.
‘‘Adelaide Beecher. Pleased to make your acquaintance,’’ Addie replied. ‘‘Please excuse my appearance; I’ve been busy in the kitchen.’’ She stepped aside and gestured them into the foyer. ‘‘We can visit in the parlor,’’ she said, leading the way.
The couple perched side by side on the larger of the two overstuffed settees and stared at Miss Addie. Then Mr. Wilson cleared his throat and leaned forward, his forearms resting upon his bulky thighs. ‘‘What time will our daughter return from the mill?’’ he asked.
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