by Ann Moore
The trunk was heavy—she had packed everything from Alice’s into this and two carpetbags she carried, one in each hand. The trick would be to get the trunk, the bags, the children, and herself into a carriage, but the carriages were out on the boulevard and that was too far. She was reluctant to ask anyone for help as now they all looked foreign when only moments ago they had seemed familiar. She had a sense of coming out of her body, of watching herself watching everyone else, and she shook her head vigorously. It was freezing now, and snowflakes settled on her head and shoulders. Her teeth chattered and she bit her lip to stop them, sending up a silent prayer to God.
“Gracelin!”
She turned and there was Sean, her beloved brother, running across the square as fast as his limp allowed, arms outstretched.
“Grace! Dear God! Grace!” He swept her into a tight embrace, covering her face with kisses, holding her out to drink in the sight of her, hugging her again and again, laughing in disbelief.
“Sean,” was all she could whisper into the collar of his coat, the smell of him, the warmth and solidity of him all suddenly overwhelming. He was here. She clung tightly to him and began to cry.
“Ah, now, darling girl,” he murmured, wiping her tears with his fingertips. “You’re safe now. You made it, by God, you did.” He looked over her shoulder, searching the crowd.
“He didn’t …” She stopped. “He’s dead.”
Sean’s eyes returned to hers, his face infinitely sad. “I know. William wrote. I’d hoped he’d got it wrong, is all.”
She shook her head and he held her.
“Let’s get you home now,” he said gently. “We’ll talk then.”
She nodded, unable to speak, the tears blinding her, cascading down her cheeks. He wiped them away, then peered around her at the two children sitting on the trunk.
“And who is this you’ve brought along?” He pretended to be baffled. “Surely ’tis not our Mary Kathleen for she was but a wee thing, and this is a beautiful giantess! What have you done with her, you bold creature—don’t you know I love no one but herself?”
Mary Kate ducked her head shyly. “’Tis I,” she said, then suddenly thrust up her arms.
He scooped her up and buried his face in her neck. “Ah, now, little one,” he whispered in her ear. “I knew ’twas you all along, and aren’t you a sight for lonely eyes? I missed you, Mary Kate. You’re as pretty as your mam.”
Liam sat silently, watching them all with downcast eyes, kicking his heel against the trunk.
“This is Liam Kelley,” Grace told her brother. “His mam and sister died aboard ship. He’s going to live with us until we find his da. Is that all right, Sean? Have you room for us all?”
Sean set Mary Kate down and extended his good hand to the boy. “Welcome to America, Liam, and sorry for your terrible misfortune. I’m glad to have you with us as otherwise I’d be outnumbered by the womenfolk, and you know what a burden that can be to a man.”
Liam gave up a reluctant smile.
“Is this your trunk, then?” Sean asked. “Or are you just keeping it warm for someone of greater inheritance?”
The boy laughed. “’Tis ours,” he said, jumping off. “The bags, as well. I can carry the bags.”
“Well, and I’ll help you,” Sean offered. “But first I’ll see about a cab. The driver can fetch the trunk. Would you want to come with me on this bit of man’s work?”
Liam nodded shyly.
Sean kissed his sister once more. “I can hardly bear to let you out of my sight, but I’ll be right back.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but faltered, fresh tears welling, mouth trembling all over again.
“I know.” He placed his hand against her cheek. “Hold on.”
They watched him walk off with Liam; then Grace sat down on the trunk next to Mary Kate and put her arm around the child.
“We made it,” she said, wiping her eyes and stilling her heart.
“Aye,” Mary Kate answered calmly. “God said.”
Grace pulled her daughter close and held her as the snow swirled round them both, and the barkers yelled from their stalls and the runners called out, and sailors rushed past, and ship after ship released holds of human cargo, and immigrants staggered off, fell to the ground, kissed it, and wept.
Nineteen
MIGHTY Ogue wasted no time in preparing the best party the saloon had seen since James “Yankee” Sullivan defeated William Bell in a bare-knuckle fight after twenty-four rounds, thirty-eight minutes. It was a great day for Irish pugilists everywhere, and Dugan had been happy to host the betting party as Sullivan himself had coached Ogue in his own heyday at the Sawdust House. That had been August five years past, an August hotter than any Ogue remembered.
The former boxer turned saloonkeeper paused in his work and gave a great sigh at the thought of Sullivan, up the river even now, sitting in Sing Sing Prison for having arranged the infamous fight between Thomas McCoy and Christopher Lilly, a fight that ended with McCoy—the Irishman—drowned in his own blood, and Lilly—the Englishman—smuggled out of the country. The trial that followed had been one of the most sensational the city had ever seen, and Sullivan was sent up for inciting riot and manslaughter.
Ogue shook his head and resumed polishing the bar. The city had seemed tame to him ever since, and he’d quit the boxing life while he still had a few teeth in his head, and the remains of a nose, and was not too ugly yet to win the heart of his own dear Tara.
But this was no hot August night filled to the rafters with Irishmen waxing poetic about somebody they knew personally, by God, who was the best fighter ever seen in the entire world undisputed by anyone anywhere who’d witnessed the last fight, and if you hadn’t, then you didn’t know what you were talking about and you’d best just shut your gob right now, Christ forgive you. No, it wasn’t hot August, but freezing-cold January, and the saloon was filling quietly with those who’d watched Sean go out day after day, in all kinds of weather, in case his sister was waiting on the dock. And when he’d come back two mornings ago, themselves in tow, everyone was thankful, especially Ogue, who stepped quietly into the storeroom to thank God personally, and even took himself off to church to put an extra penny in the poor box.
Though no one had been told outright, most everyone seemed to know that O’Malley’s sister was Morgan McDonagh’s widow. She stood near the fire, and shyly, they came—the older ones who understood sacrifice and wanted to pay respect; the younger ones, the boys-just-men, because she was beautiful and because her husband was a legend even here, and because they wanted with all their hearts to be as noble as that man and win the love of such a woman; and the women, because they knew the pain of trying to breathe around the shards of a shattered heart—hadn’t they all lost husbands, lovers, sons and daughters, friends and neighbors? This was what they tried to convey in words both English and Irish—old words of comfort, new ones of hope. And then they left her in peace, and set themselves about the room, greeting one another with grave respectability, settling in to exchange news and letters from home, word of jobs and where to buy bread, who was working and who was not, who lost a baby or had one newborn, why those two ever married and what of the terrible fights that one over there got into—letting the great ball of conversation roll on and on until it had covered the subjects nearest their hearts: Ireland and Irish politics, America and American politics, politics in general, God, and boxing.
The room was crowded now, fifty conversations all at once, voices raised to be heard, cheeks flushed with passion and drink. When the tide turned to boxing, Ogue’s own fights were taken out and dusted off, recalled blow-by-blow by the boys who had backed him, this leading, of course, to a discussion of Sullivan’s brilliance in training boxers and the good old days at the Sawdust House. It was rumored that when Sullivan got out of prison, he would fight again, perhaps in Maryland as it wasn’t legal anymore in New York. The sporting gentlemen in the crowd began placing bets on the fight even though
it was a year from being set, even though no one knew whom Sullivan would fight, even though Sullivan himself might not even be alive by then. When this was pointed out—by a man of little faith, a man too soon off the boat, perhaps even a college man—the doubter found himself confronted by one who rolled up his sleeves and danced the challenge dance, fists up, jabs thrown. The doubter accepted the challenge, removed his jacket and cap, turned up his own sleeves, and entered in, feigning jabs of his own, grinning to the crowd and winking at the girls, as the circle of cheering enthusiasts widened around them.
The first blow wiped the grin off his face, and he looked at his opponent with real surprise, the same look as appeared on the other man’s face, for who knew it would actually turn into a fight? But now they were mad—for a thousand small reasons besides the big one—and their surprise and mock jabs turned to focused determination and calculated blows. Money changed hands quickly as first one man fell down and then the other, only to be pushed back up and into the ring by the same hands that held the money; a nose was bloodied, an angry roar, an eyebrow split, a call for more, and then—before tables and chairs were broken—the fire was doused by the ringing of Ogue’s bell and the announcement of “A drink on the house for everyone here and two for the boxers, let’s give ’em a cheer!” The two fighting men shook hands and agreed that Sullivan—an Irishman, after all—would indeed live to fight another day, and Ogue himself would take all bets. Arms over shoulders, the two boxers staggered to the bar, held their whiskeys aloft, and accepted the cheers of the house, each one privately appropriating victory while loudly congratulating the other.
The crowd settled down then, and realized they had exhausted—only for the moment, mind you—the subjects of Ireland, America, politics, God, and boxing, and so they sat back in their chairs, ordered more to drink, and called for a song.
Tiny Tara Ogue obliged them by taking out her fiddle and setting up at the end of the big room. After plucking the strings and fine-tuning her instrument, she tapped her foot and began to play. Other feet joined hers, knees jiggled, hands clapped, heads bobbed, and finally a couple of the big boys—unable to contain themselves any longer and having missed out on the fight—got up to dance a vigorous jig. The mood grew merry and familiar, Ogue brought out more pickled eggs, ham, bread and butter to keep them all nourished and they danced until he threw them out at midnight.
When all had gone and bid farewell, the chairs turned right and the doors locked, the Great One’s wife had come up to thank him—Missus Donnelly, she was to be called—and he told her it was an honor, a privilege, the very least he could do, and weren’t they all so very grateful to have her there among them?
She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then thanked him again for all he’d done for her brother and herself, for the two little ones, for Ireland, and he’d been moved by that, by the well-spoken words and the way she looked right into him with eyes the color of the Irish sea. She reminded him of someone, of the old stories, of kings and queens and warrior poets—there was all that about her, in the way she carried herself and the wisdom in her eyes of years beyond her age. She made him remember his home in a way he had not since coming to America. There was a glimpse of his mother in her, his granny and all his aunties, all the strong women he’d ever known, including his own Tara, who’d come all this way from the islands in the North only to bear a great sorrow. There was a rare beauty in these women, a kind of shining nobility that years in the hard city dulled; but it was fresh in Grace—she was still a daughter of Ireland, a daughter of the thousand kings who once ruled their island, a reminder of the majesty from which they’d sprung. He and Tara had never been blessed with children, but he’d come to feel fatherly about Sean, and now he took Grace into his heart, as well. It was nothing he’d ever say to them, nothing he’d admit even to Tara, but it was how he would look out for them, these children of home. It was how he would remember who he really was.
Twenty
ABBAN and Barbara finished filling in the last of the three graves, then gathered up the pick and shovel, and went into the warm kitchen.
“At least they all went together, bless their souls.” Abban sank wearily onto a stool, leaning his crutch against the wall.
“I wonder if their brother made it, or if he died on the road.” Barbara hung the kettle over the fire. “Worse for him, going alone.”
“Aye.” Abban kicked a chair away from the table. “Come sit down now, Sister, and have a rest. You’ve not slept a’tall these days past, caring for them.”
“I miss Sister George.” Barbara’s eyes misted, and she pushed back her hair, leaving a smudge of dirt across her forehead. “Not just for her devotion to the children.”
“That young one, Sister James, she’ll do for them.” Abban tapped the chair with his foot. “Come on now, sit.”
Barbara crossed the room and settled herself heavily at the table, reaching out to pat Abban’s knee. “I’m so grateful to you. So thankful to have you through all this.”
“Ah, no,” he scoffed. “I’ve a roof over my head and the protection of the great ladies in gray themselves, so don’t go thanking me. Safer for me here than out in the world.”
“Speaking of the world—” She pushed a long letter toward him. “Did you read this from Julia?”
“Not sure I wanted to,” he confessed. “All the news these days is bad or worse.”
Barbara nodded, sorrowfully. “She’s been to Liverpool again, trying to help with relief for all the paupers pouring in. There’s not room nor food enough for them all.”
“Still running to stand still, are they?”
“Flooding the ports to get out, she says. Thousands each week.”
“Thousands.” Abban sighed. “I suppose it’s the landlords paying their crossing.”
Barbara nodded. “A few shillings and they’re England’s problem, not ours.” She tapped the letter. “Julia says it’s madness. The crews don’t care—more money for them—they kick and curse, herd them onto any boat, decks are overcrowded and dangerous, folks fall down, get crushed or pushed overboard. Pigs everywhere, she says, but minded as they’ve some value. More than Irish emigrants, I guess.”
“Poor bastards.” Abban massaged the thigh of his good leg. “Will they stop them, then, from coming into the country?”
Barbara got up to get the kettle. “I don’t think they can,” she said. “If you’ve the fare, they must let you cross. But the parish is being ruined, from what Julia says. There’s not enough money for more relief stations, and now our ones have broken back into boarded-up cellars to live. As many as forty to a room, Julia says—all of them hungry, many of them dying.”
“So they’re taking the fever with them, not escaping it.” Abban took the cup she handed him, warming his hands around it.
“Aye, and Liverpool will have an epidemic as well. They’re already threatening to round them up and send them back.” She sat again, and sipped her tea. “Julia says they sneak off in the night and are spreading all through England, Scotland, and Wales. But they can’t get work.” She frowned. “The English laborers hate our boys, and now they’ve got the fear of fever as a good reason to shut them out.”
“What about Manchester?” Abban asked. “Little Ireland?”
“Ah, ’tis a terrible place, I’ve heard, a slum town. Nothing but filth and sin, and already packed with Irish. No.” She shook her head. “Won’t many find shelter there. They’ll go on to London, and if they live and manage to get any work—they’ll try for America or Canada.”
“Anything, just to eat,” he said heavily. “Halfway round the world for a bowl of porridge and a straw bed.”
“And for freedom. Freedom from all this.” Her shoulders slumped. “Sometimes, Abban, I’ve half a mind to go down to those docks myself and board the first boat out. To get away from this endless misery and start a new life. Sometimes I hate it here. That’s how weak I am.” She covered her mouth, ashamed.
Abban reached o
ut and pulled her hand away. “You’ve got mud all over your face, girl,” he admonished gently. “Streaky like that, with your hair flying all round, you remind me of your brother.”
She shook her head. “Now you shame me, for sure he never had a moment of weakness his whole life.”
“Sure and he did.” Abban looked her in the eye. “And that’s what made him truly courageous. Times were he was bone-weary, hungry, dirty, and so heartsick for herself he could hardly put one foot in front of the other, let alone lead a band of ragtag men to victory.” He squeezed her hand. “But he did. Time and time over, he did.”
She sat quietly for a moment. “Do you think he would’ve gone to America with her had he lived?”
“He would’ve gone to the moon and back, if that’s where she was.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Poor Morgan.”
“Ah, no.” He squeezed her hand again. “Lucky Morgan. Lucky, lucky man to have known a love as great as that.”
“Poor Grace, then.”
“Aye. ’Tis those left behind suffer most. But his love’ll carry her to the end. I’ve no doubt of that.”
“Were you married, then, Abban?”
He let go of her hand, eyes lowered. “She died at the start of the hunger, she and my sons. I buried them. And then I moved on.”
“You’re a man of courage, as well.”
“We’re all of us, in our own quiet ways. Even the man who simply rises from his bed each morning in light of all this.”
They looked at one another then—the tired, grizzled man with one leg and enough sorrow to fill three lifetimes, and the tired young woman who’d been caring for others and trying to survive for as long as she could remember—and each found comfort in the company of the other, a warmth that shed light into the corners of hearts that could remember only the duty of love, but not the joy. And they were able to go on.
