But not Nora, he thinks. He’s perfectly aware that today is Nora’s birthday; he’s placed the magnets in her honor. Nora, with her caches of herbs and bitter powders, her screens covered with drying leaves and flower heads, would have seen the possibilities in his metal shapes. The life she’d led, each of the places she’d called home sending unexpected shoots toward the next, had made her open to almost anything.
2
Nora Kynd was twenty-three when she reached Detroit in the summer of 1848: strong and active and eager, after a long journey down the St. Lawrence and over the lakes, to leave behind all that had happened to her in Quebec. At first she shared a dirty room and heels of bread with six other young women who, like her, were looking for employment. All she found was day-work, cleaning attics or windows; dismissed at nightfall to look again the next day.
One morning, discouraged after two weeks of this, she paused while wandering through the market in the Cadillac Square and stood staring greedily at the contents of a stall. Fancy game, food for the rich: quails and woodcock, venison and partridge. The quails lay on a pale plank, nested together as if they were sleeping, the soft speckled feathers of one supporting the claws of the next. She stood there drooling like a dog, until the stallkeeper scowled and told her to be on her way. She was stepping back when a hand touched her shoulder blade.
“Have you eaten today?” A woman with faded hair, gray eyes, a kind smile revealing a few missing teeth.
“Porridge,” Nora said. “Not that it’s anyone’s business.”
“What’s your name?”
“Nora Kynd.”
The woman bent in an odd little bow. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Fannie McCloud.”
She drew Nora away from that stall and toward another, where she purchased an orange and shared the succulent pieces. Amid the pleasure of the segments she extracted, without Nora quite knowing how, an account of Nora’s difficult first two weeks in Detroit. Then she convinced Nora to walk with her to Corktown, to the small house—she’d been a widow for years—that she’d once shared with her husband. As they wound through the narrow streets, she asked Nora why she’d chosen this place to settle and Nora offered the only facts she could bear to tell: that she’d left Ireland in the midst of the famine, after all her family but two of her younger brothers had died. What else could they do? she’d thought. Where else could they go? She had taken charge of her brothers, pretending more confidence than she felt—but on the passage over she’d taken sick and nearly died. On Grosse Isle, at the quarantine station not far from the city of Quebec, a kind doctor had kept her alive but had sent away the two little boys. While she was lying sick and unconscious, they’d been shuttled upriver with those still apparently healthy. By the time she could ask for them, they’d disappeared.
“Where were they sent?” Fannie asked.
Nora kept her eyes fixed on the gutters. “No one knows. I have asked everyone, everywhere.” Were those pig tripes lying there, outside the butcher shop? “I’ve even had people put advertisements in the newspapers for me. But it’s like a wind picked them up and blew them to the North Pole. Part of the reason I came to Detroit was because I heard some who traveled on the boats had made their way here. But so far I’ve not found a single trace of Denis or Ned.”
Fannie shook her head and led Nora a few more blocks, to her house with its bright blue door. The spare room that she rented out, always to Irish girls, was free; the newly washed curtains, white with a soft green sprig, moved in the breeze. After Fannie asked what Nora was paying for her squalid shared lodgings, she said, “You may have the room for that. I’m an orphan myself, I know what it’s like to be lost in a strange place.”
Soon enough Nora learned that Fannie was a root-and-herb healer, with ways that reminded her of her own grandmother. In the kitchen she looked at the drying plants hung upside down and the bark rolled into crisp scrolls. Then she went to the woods with a flour sack and returned with curly dock and butternut, fleabane and witch hazel and pleurisy root, which she dropped at Fannies feet.
“Wonderful,” Fannie said, inspecting Nora’s treasures. “We have this in common too.”
How lucky they were, Nora soon thought, to have found each other. Because Fannies patients could pay her only with eggs or a loaf of bread, occasionally a couple of coins, she couldn’t pay Nora for her help. But she gave Nora that clean-curtained room and a kitchen where the two of them could dry their herbs together. There, using a book of Indian medicine as a first text, Fannie taught Nora to read. And within a few months, she’d found Nora work as a night-watcher: not in Corktown, but among prosperous Protestants in other parts of the city.
Nora moved from house to house then—a little girl with diphtheria, an old woman with cancer of the breast, a baby scalded by boiling water—spelling the families of the sick. She was with them until they were better or dead, she was often the last to see someone alive. Smells and sponges and chamber pots, hemorrhages and death; none of it frightened her. Every member of her own family, but for her two lost brothers, was dead.
In the mornings, after a stint of watching, she returned to her small neat room at Fannies house and closed the curtains and slept. It suited her to work all night, until she could sleep without dreaming. She never dreamed about Ireland, or her grandmother, or the fields where they’d gathered herbs together; she never dreamed about her parents or her sisters or the rain. If she dreamed it was disaster, Grosse Isle come back to torment her again: the dank and crowded tents, thick with the gray mist of souls departing their anguished bodies. Why should she have to live that again? Or see, as if once were not enough, her brothers, her darling Denis and Ned, being lowered when she was too weak to save them down the side of the ship.
Better, surely, to give herself to her useful work and to enjoy her home, her friend, and the pleasure—still new to her—of books. Periodically Fannie would urge her to marry; her own marriage had, she claimed, been a happy one, and she didn’t want Nora to miss those particular joys. But Nora had no desire to marry young, as their neighbors commonly did, and bear a dozen children only to watch half of them vanish before they took root in the world.
Her life was quiet, it had its satisfactions; and so she was surprised, after a dozen years had passed, to find herself suddenly longing for children of her own. At the market she had a favorite greengrocer, Francis MacEachern, who was kind and modest and had excellent vegetables. On a peculiarly warm late April day, when both of them were old enough—they were thirty-six—to smile at the sun’s heat after the dank and freezing winter, Francis said, “You have very handsome eyes,” and asked if he could take her out walking. They took a boat across the river to Windsor, where they walked along a path framed by enormous hedges. A flock of finches passed through one, streaming between the woven twigs on invisible and secret paths. A year later Nora and Francis were married.
For two years they lived in Francis’s bungalow near the market. Nora helped him at the stall, spending each morning there even during the months she was carrying Michael. In the corner she’d taken for her own she spread the ginseng and wild ginger she gathered, the fresh soft elder leaves with their flowers and the roots of yellow dock. When the war came, no one expected Francis, a middle-aged man with a brand-new son, to volunteer. But the fighting went on and on, regiments were raised and mustered in and destroyed; one summer day a general stood in the square before a sullen crowd and begged yet again for more men. Francis and Nora left their stall and went out to listen. A man was calling, “Glory! Glory!” The crowd grumbled and called back, “Rich man’s war!” Francis stroked Nora’s hand and the copper-crowned head of the son they’d named for her dead father.
Their rent had gone up and Nora had not been able to help out as much as she wanted after Michael’s birth. In August, despite Nora’s fierce objections and her arguments that somehow they’d find a way out of debt, Francis took the bounty offered by a wealthy gunsmith and joined the Twenty-Fourth Infantry. Two months later,
when the curtained room at Fannies came free again, Nora went back to her old life.
Yet, as she’d later tell both Elizabeth and Andrew, everything about that life was different: because of Michael. She hadn’t imagined, after losing Denis and Ned, that she’d ever again love a person like that. But now, when she was helping Fannie, she carried Michael in her arms or let him play at her feet. She wrote to Francis every week, describing Michael’s progress: He said Ma-ma, he stood by himself, we had to cut his hair. For a while she got letters in return; then the letters stopped. She waited, and waited some more. When the bounty money ran out she went to the new hospital up the road, looking for work that might also bring her news of her husband.
She couldn’t work as a ward nurse unless she lived in, and she couldn’t live in because of Michael. Instead she signed on again as a night-watcher: one ward, nine at night to five in the morning; fifty cents plus one meal per shift. Scores of men poured in from hospitals in the east and south. Some were still recovering from injuries suffered at Gettysburg or Chickamauga; others had been hurt more recently. They had wound infections that refused to heal, or fevers they’d caught down South, or consumption that had flared up in the crowded camps and prisons. Nora asked them if they had news of Francis. Even among the soldiers she nursed from his own regiment, no one did.
Eight long, low wards, connected by a covered walk, flanked the hospital’s two-story central building. From the pane of glass set into the wall of the small nurse’s room, her own ward was visible all the way down to the walk: darkness turned the space into a tunnel. Twice each hour she walked the narrow lane between the two ranks of trim iron bedsteads. She didn’t see the doctors making their rounds, nor the faces of the men removed to the operating room and returned later, minus an arm or a leg; those were events of the day. She didn’t see the volunteer ladies, gaily dressed and bearing little hampers of fruit and jellies. The quarrels in the kitchen were not her problem, nor the difficulties in the dead-house, the continual failures of the laundry, the contract surgeon fired for drunkenness—all that was over when she came in and took, from the exhausted ward nurse, the day’s summary of admissions and procedures. Her job was to comfort wherever she could, to ease the dying and cover the dead. Back home, she twined Michael’s red hair around her hand and kissed his cheek and then slipped between her own sheets before she slept.
The beds filled, emptied out at the end of the war, refilled more slowly with invalid veterans transferred from all over Michigan; two of the hospital’s wards—one Nora’s—were designated a government Soldier’s Home. The men she cared for then were missing an arm or leg or more; a few were blind and some broken down by injuries to their lungs or bowels; some had fevers that would not be cured and others were exhausted or starving or penniless. Some left by way of the dead-house. The stronger ones, taking shelter while they tried to ready themselves for the world outside, were restless at night. Nora read to them.
Not from the Bible, which the visiting clergymen pressed on them. Not from the improving tracts brought by the volunteer ladies. She read what the men were denied during the day: newspapers, magazines, books about faraway places. Letters, especially for those who’d been blinded. Those who couldn’t read or write, but who still had eyes and hands, she taught as Fannie had once taught her. With scavenged books they worked beneath a list of regulations pinned near the door to the covered walk:
No lounging in the main hall.
No profanity.
No smoking.
No spitting.
No throwing anything on the ground below the windows.
No lights after nine p.m.
Do not damage or destroy the furniture.
Do not lie in bed with your clothes on.
Do not talk with each other about your diseases and afflictions.
Each time Nora looked at that list she thought: Where is Francis? Dead and unaccounted for, or lingering in a hospital hundreds of miles away? One of her patients, a man with a mountain twang to his voice, had no idea of his name or where he came from or who he’d loved.
After midnight, when the men finally slept, she sometimes tormented herself with those thoughts. Once she’d started, as she told Fannie, there was no stopping it. She’d end up thinking of Denis and Ned and how she’d never know what had happened to them. And how if they were dead, then Francis was also dead, as were her parents and the doctor who’d cared for her at the quarantine station on Grosse Isle. She’d taken Dr. Grant’s notebook with her, hiding it in her carpetbag until she learned to decipher it. Later, after Fannie had taught her to read, she’d been afraid at first to open the pages.
When she finally inspected his account of those terrible days, she found not only his impressions of the emigrants, the conditions on the island, and the failures of the authorities to make any provisions for the sick, but also—shouldn’t she have expected this?—his impressions of her. How eerie, to see herself through his eyes: She sang me a song about a woman standing on a cliff in Ireland, waiting for a fishing boat to return. Untrained, uneducated, she has been of more use and shown more dedication than anyone except the Sisters …
That he’d thought of her at all was touching. But to be written about, to be seen from the outside like that: it made her own skin feel unfamiliar. And it was a shock too to learn that he’d been at least partly responsible for separating her from her brothers. He—we, I—separate the sick from the healthy without regard for family ties; we have no choice. He’d had no choice; he’d saved her life. Late at night, she sometimes looked around the ward—the stronger men helping her tend those worse off, one man reading aloud while others wrote or studied—and wondered if Dr. Grant would have approved of what she’d made from the life he’d returned to her.
Colm Larkin she met in the winter of 1868, when he made his way to the Soldier’s Home after having been in and out of four different hospitals and, for a while, on the streets. His lungs were inflamed, he had pneumonia and perhaps something worse than that. The same wound that had left him mute—an exploding shell that scattered metal through his chest and throat, breaking ribs, which had never healed correctly, and shattering his voice box—also gave him a strangled, painful cough. The hole in his throat, where a field surgeon had pierced him with a reed and saved his life, still oozed.
Yet when his fever was down he was cheerful, and popular with the other men. At night he played checkers, always losing with a smile. When the others slept he often stayed up to read with Nora; and, using his slate, to make conversation. Tidy white letters, made with chalk: she learned where he’d come from, what had happened to him, which hospitals he’d been in. But only after seeing him identify his regiment and company to another patient did she think to ask if he might have known Francis. By then she’d stopped asking, she’d given up hope.
I knew Francis MacEachern, Colm wrote, as if this weren’t astonishing news. We didn’t talk much, but I always knew where he was. You’re his wife?
“Or his widow—still I don’t know. One of his commanding officers suggested that he might have lost his papers and perished in a prison camp without being identified. How can there be no trace of him?”
I don’t know. It could be he just … left. Walked away. He wasn’t himself after the Battle of Spotsylvania, he was weeping and he couldn’t sleep. The rest of us thought he might be going mad. I lost track of him one morning, when a battle started up. Later I asked everyone if they’d seen what happened to him. No one saw him fall, or saw him wounded or captured. No one saw him walk away.
“Then where is he?”
No well man would leave you, he wrote gallantly. Nora was almost forty-five by then, while he was twenty-seven. But if he’s still alive, he may be sick in his mind. You’ve seen what happens to us. She had, she thought, by then seen everything.
That June the weather was beautiful, so warm and soft that she let the men open the windows at night and move the table beneath them. The sky would still be gleaming with a bit of light
when she got to work, and she’d find Colm at the windowsill, reading a book with a yellow oilcloth cover. One night she saw him busily taking notes, pausing to pull from a pocket inside the book’s back cover a folded map marked “New York Wilderness.”
“What are you studying?” she asked.
My future, he wrote. He pointed, smiling, to the first chapter heading of William Murray’s Adventures in the Wilderness:
THE WILDERNESS. WHY I GO THERE,—
HOW I GET THERE,
—WHAT I DO THERE,—AND WHAT IT COSTS
That’s where I’m going when I get better, he wrote. A place where I can hunt and fish in peace, where no one will disturb me or care that I can’t speak. Men grow healthy there. Look.
He showed Nora a passage in which Murray described a consumptive young man, near death, who’d visited the Adirondack woods and, with the help of a guide, moved in a small wooden boat from one lake to the next, sleeping at night on boughs of balsam and pine, eating fish and venison. By the end of the summer he’d been entirely cured.
So will I be, Colm wrote. Outside, away from everyone looking at me. I don’t mean you, you’ve been nothing but help. But I’d be better off somewhere by myself.
“It’s a good idea,” Nora told him. “A fine idea. But wait, maybe until next summer.” Still he couldn’t walk the length of the passage without gasping, and an abscess had opened along his ribs.
It’s five years already, he wrote.
A week later she found his bed empty, his things gone, a folded note for her on the table along with the yellow book. He had no further need of it, he wrote. He would always remember her. And hoped she’d hear from Francis, and hoped she’d wish him well. She should read the book, which was entertaining and would help her imagine his new life.
Servants of the Map Page 19
