Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  With the children behind her, she stepped back out of line and viewed the photographs from farther away, but even from there she saw who they really were—orphans, prostitutes, gamblers, liars, cheats, prophets, scholars, uncomplaining workers, saints, too; the wealthy older man and his wife who looked off to the side as if embarrassed privately funded a hospital for young women in need, girls who were about to give birth and had no place to go. They not only gave money, but took an interest, visiting the girls and talking with them, placing their babies in good homes, quietly handing out packets of money so that a new start might be made more easily. Grace could not resist and returned to the line to look in the woman’s eyes—ah, there it was: a daughter whose suitor they had refused, a daughter whose anguish they had ignored, a daughter who disappeared because she was with child. It was all there.

  Grace moved down the line, knowing better than to look too closely at church bishops and court judges, though the hardest and most grave had the faintest halo round his head. She had not known that this making of images could capture so much of the soul, and she wondered what her own image might reveal to those who looked.

  “I think we’re done now.” Liam and Mary Kate were swaying on their feet with the close warmth of the room and all the staring eyes. She led them to the foyer and down the stairs, pausing to button their coats and secure their hats before going out again.

  “What did you think of that, then?” The sharp wind revived her.

  “Are they all rich?” Liam asked. “They look rich.”

  “Ah, well, they’re famous enough, and fame often brings riches.”

  “What are they famous for?”

  “Some are brilliant singers or act upon the stage,” she told him. “Some are sportsmen or politicians. Authors of books or inventors. They’ve made tall buildings or discovered things. Others made lots of money in business.”

  “You can be famous for making lots of money?”

  Grace shrugged. “Making money is a gift as well as any other thing, and people are interested in that.”

  As they walked toward the park, Grace realized that Mary Kate was gripping her hand more tightly than usual, her face grim.

  “And what did you think of all that, wee girl?”

  “Sad,” was the faint answer.

  Grace halted and bent down to look at her. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Do they really look like that?”

  “Not all the time. They’re all dressed up for the camera.”

  “I mean their faces.” Mary Kate looked directly at her mother. “Their eyes.”

  “Ah.” Grace understood. “Some were not as sad as others.”

  “No?”

  “No. And when you’re older, I’ll tell you what it means so it won’t be a burden to you.”

  Mary Kate’s face relaxed, and she patted her mother on the cheek. “Let’s go to the park, now.”

  Grace took her hand and Liam’s, and they strolled along the sidewalk, past Chambers Street toward Reade. They slowed in front of a five-story building sheathed in white marble, supported by giant Corinthian pilasters, its huge plate-glass windows reflecting the bright sun.

  “Who lives here?” breathed Liam in awe.

  Grace laughed. “’Tis a shop.”

  “A shop?” he squeaked. “What kind of shop?”

  “All kinds. Many kinds.” She glanced in the window. “Clothes, boots, hats, scents, toys …”

  “Toys?” he interrupted.

  “Aye.” She laughed again at the look on his face. “’Tis called the Marble Palace. Do you remember the first picture we saw, of the big man sitting in a velvet chair?”

  Both children nodded.

  “Well, that was Mister Stewart, Alexander T. Stewart, and he’s the man who built this place and runs it. People come from all over to look at it. It’s meant to be beautiful inside.”

  “Can we go in?” Liam asked hopefully.

  Grace bit her lip, painfully aware of their patched clothing and muddy boots. “We’ve no time today. But another day, I promise.”

  They moved off again, Liam stretching his neck, unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent building. When they came to the corner, the street was crowded with carriages, private rigs, and omnibuses, and they were forced to stand and wait for a lull in the snarled traffic.

  While the children looked for a break, Grace glanced warily at the bookseller’s corner stall. She had approached one or two of these stalls eagerly soon after arriving in hopes of finding a penny novel for her brother or maybe even herself, but had been overwhelmed with such lurid titles as Confessions of a Lady’s Waiting Maid, Life of a Butler, Her Own Diary. Not to mention the papers—Crime Street, Famous Criminals, National Police Gazette, and Life of the Town—all cheaply printed. When she had asked confidentially if there might not be something else, something a little more interesting for her brother, who was a young man and particular about his reading, the bookseller had eyed her shrewdly and offered a book bound securely in yellow paper—only ten cents, he’d said, and just the thing all fashionable young men were reading. She’d carried it home proudly under her arm—her first gift for her brother—mistaking the glances from men she passed for admiration of her sophisticated purchase. Her embarrassment had been acute when Sean burst into laughter at the sight of the wrapper, took it gently from her, and proceeded to explain that cheap and exotic novels and thrillers were primarily a cover for the corner bookseller’s more lucrative trade—pornography. He then attempted a delicate explanation of pornography, which left her mortified and angry. He recommended the secondhand book-shops on Nassau and Pearl Streets, or uptown along the canal, but never the corner stalls. She avoided these now like the plague, steering the children well away from them, and glaring at those she saw perusing the books or papers.

  At last they were able to cross the street, stepping quickly but carefully around muddy ruts and piles of horse manure. They entered the park and immediately slowed their pace. The day was spectacular despite the cold, and Grace gloried in the vibrant color of the trees against the solid blue of a cloudless sky, the pink cheeks and sparkling eyes of everyone she passed. Men and women, arms linked, strolled the walkways; nurses pushed prams or sat on the benches drowsily rocking their napping charges; shop girls walked in groups, laughing and talking, eyeing the young men, who eyed them in return or boldly stopped to say hello. And there were the dog walkers, who captured Mary Kate’s attention as she was particularly fond of dogs—all dogs, no matter the size—and always hoped for an invitation to pet one.

  Grace let the children run on ahead, and they had covered nearly half the park by the time they arrived at the duck pond. Tired now, she sank onto a bench and watched as the children stood at the water’s edge, calling the ducks, then finally giving up in favor of gathering sticks and rocks. Lily was not here yet, so Grace pushed her shawl back and tipped her face up to the sun.

  Lily had chosen this end of the park, and Grace could see why; most of those walking here were servants, working people, tradesmen taking shortcuts. There was another pond with a gushing fountain near the entrance, and she supposed this was where the better families went to air themselves. She watched as people came down the path or cut across the field, and at last she saw the one she was waiting for striding swiftly across the field with a child’s hand in each one of hers.

  “Lily!” She stood and waved her arm.

  “I thought that might be you,” Lily said upon arrival. “I saw the children down by the pond.”

  Grace nodded. “And this must be Samuel and Ruth.”

  “How do you do?” they said simultaneously, and Grace laughed.

  “Well, aren’t you fine-looking children?” She smiled first at the tall boy with long lashes, then at the girl, who was shorter but whose eyes were just like her brother’s. “Your mother’s told me all about the two of you. We’re happy to come out for your birthday.”

  “Why don’t you run down and play awhile?�
� Lily loosened her scarf. “We’ll call you when it’s time to eat.”

  They kissed their mother, then ran down to the edge of the pond and said something to Liam, who nodded gravely and looked back up at Grace. She waved to him, and he waved back, then handed Samuel a stick to throw. Mary Kate was looking up at Ruth in wonder, never having been so close to a person whose skin was so different.

  “And now they’re friends.” Grace slid over on the bench to make room. “Did Mister Hesselbaum give you the day off, or have you been to work already this morning?”

  “Day off. He thinks we need to have some fun.” She sat. “Jakob’s a good man. We been lucky that way.”

  “And you know Captain Reinders as well.”

  Lily hesitated. “I suppose he told you about me.”

  Grace shook her head, confused, then remembered the look that had passed between the two of them. “Is he your man, then?”

  “Lord, no!” Lily laughed. “I got enough of that. He doing me a favor, is all. A mighty big favor, though, and I been waiting to hear from him. I thought maybe he was your man.”

  It was Grace’s turn to laugh. “Ah, no, I’m just a grateful passenger wanting to give him supper one night by way of thanks. He did a favor for me, as well. What’s he doing for you, then?”

  Lily’s face closed down and she turned away.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said quickly. “You don’t have to tell me. ’Tis your own business, that.”

  Lily frowned, thinking, and finally she moved closer on the bench. “I got me two more children. They still slaves.” She watched Grace carefully. “I tell you this ’cause I know you left one of yours behind, too.”

  Grace nodded stiffly; it always hurt to think of that.

  “He’s nearly a year old. Called Morgan for his da.”

  “My oldest is Solomon,” Lily said quietly. “Mary’s my other girl.”

  “So you’re a runaway, then?” Grace considered this.

  “I am. Me and the younger ones. But I got papers says we free.”

  “The other two, they’re still on the place you left?”

  “Maybe Sol is.” Lily paused. “Mary, though, she been sold away.”

  “Sold,” Grace repeated, the full weight of the word tearing into her heart, and her eyes sought Mary Kate.

  Lily, too, watched the children. “One morning, she go out to the field just like she always do, but January—that my husband—he come home without her. That’s how they do it,” she explained. “It easier that way, they say—no crying and carrying on, begging to stay together.”

  Grace turned to look at the woman beside her, but Lily kept her eyes on the children.

  “He sell her off across the river, act like he done right by us, she gonna be a house slave instead of breaking her back in the fields. We see her Sundays, maybe, if she be good.” She frowned. “Big house not so good if you pretty. Tall, too, for her age.”

  “How old?”

  “Twelve,” Lily said, then corrected herself. “Fourteen now.”

  “And Solomon?”

  “Two year older. He a big boy, like his papa.” She sighed. “Hated being a slave—hated slave life, everything. January told him to be strong, don’t cause no trouble and just get along. But he get tired of hearing that, and run off. They beat him bad, but after he heal up, off he go again.” Her eyes squinted in pain. “Third time, they cut him—he can still work, just can’t run no more.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Grace gasped.

  “They watch him all the time—can’t squat to do his business ’out somebody standing over him. Can’t sell him off—nobody buy a slave like him, nothing but trouble. So next time, they say, they just hang him. That’s when we know we got to go.”

  Grace nodded.

  “January set it up so a guide be waiting, but he don’t wait long. When the signal come, we can’t get Mary and Solomon out in the sheds to work all night.” Her eyes searched Grace’s for understanding. “Jan say maybe we never get another chance, better to save two children than lose four. Tells me go on, he bring Mary and Sol soon as he can.” She stopped. “Been two years now.”

  “Maybe they escaped,” Grace said hopefully. “Maybe they just haven’t found you, yet. ’Tis a big place, this.”

  “Not so big he wouldn’t find the Black quarter. No, most likely they beat him after we left—beat him bad to keep the others from running. I know. Seen it all the time. Best for them if they hobble ol’ Jan up so he can’t follow us, set a good example.”

  “Ah, Lily.” Grace was stricken.

  “I try not to think on it too much. I’m doing all I can.” Lily’s voice was fiercely resolved. “They in God’s hands. And the captain’s.”

  “How do you know him, Lily?” Grace asked. “Really.”

  “I saved his life,” she said simply. “One day I’m down on the docks after dark and I see gang a negra boys working over a white man, beating him with a club and kicking at him, grabbing at his pockets. I tell myself just walk away, white man no business of mine, and them boys got plenty reason to hate. But I hear God’s voice say clear as day, ‘Help that man.’ I carry a knife, you know, and I pull it out, screaming, swinging it like a crazy woman.” She laughed, remembering, while Grace stared open-mouthed. “They just boys, turns out, but big and tough—they run off and I see he’s hurt bad, blood all up in his face. He try to stand and talk, just fall over again, so I get an arm around him and somehow we start walking. That Mackley come running then, ask what happen, and give me money for my trouble.” She paused. “But Jakob. He’s a smart man, and when the captain come round to thank me himself, saying he owe me his life, we make a deal.”

  “Is that what he’s doing then? Is he buying your family out?”

  Lily shook her head. “Can’t no Northerner buy up slaves. They’re on to that, they got a system. He got to ask around, go to slave markets, auctions, find where everybody is. Then we got to hire us a broker, a man in the middle. Then we got to get them out of Georgia.”

  “Has he found anything?”

  “We thought for a while Mary might be up for sale, but we lost out on that. I keep hoping for word of January or Sol—that’s where he was going this time, the captain.”

  “I wish I could say I knew when he was coming back.”

  “Me, too.” Lily leaned forward. “You can’t tell no one about this. He’d get in a mess of trouble—lose his ship. Go to jail.”

  “I won’t,” Grace promised. “You can trust me.”

  Lily smiled then and nodded, lighter for having shared the burden of her story. They stood and stretched, and called the children, who came running, more than ready to eat. They spread a blanket on the ground and laid out their bread and meat, cheese, apples, nuts, cider for all, and little cakes made specially for the ten-year-old twins, who laughed with shy delight and shared them round. Leaves drifted from the oldest of the trees and swirled in an autumn dance, squirrels chattered up and down gathering winter nuts, geese rose as one from the rippling pond and climbed into the sky in perfect formation; they watched this as the last of the sun shone down upon them all, and for a little while at least, they knew peace.

  Twenty-seven

  SEAN and Jay Livingston stood elbow to elbow at the bar, taking a pint of Ogue’s Mighty Irish Ale against the chill of the night air. They spoke quietly, Jay chastising Sean for skipping tonight’s dinner in favor of a religious lecture, and Sean replying that the man who neglected his soul in favor of his belly jeopardized his place at the only table that mattered. Jay frowned; he hated it when Sean took this self-righteous tone—there was no arguing with a man who held up an invitation from God in answer to an invitation from Florence Livingston, even if she was the most intelligent, forthright woman in their circle.

  Dugan listened intently as he dried the same glass over and over. He agreed with young Mister Livingston that Sean was spending too much time with these new fanatics, getting all tied up with them and their work while forgetting his
own. Sean’s place was out there beating the drum for Ireland, stirring hearts with his silver tongue. He was Irish, by God. If he felt a need for more religion, why not join the Catholics? There was religion enough for any man! Dugan shook his head, unable to fathom the draw of golden tablets and no drink—no drink, by God, and Christ Himself not hesitating to turn water into wine! He slapped the glass down with a bang, about to enter into Sean’s business despite his vow not to, when the room suddenly hushed, those at the front tables now staring at the side door.

  “Evening, Missus Donnelly,” they murmured respectfully.

  “Don’t you look lovely tonight …”

  “… the rose of Eire, herself …”

  “O, if I were a younger man …”

  “A sight for poor Irish eyes …”

  Dugan grinned proudly as she floated across the room. “I believe she’s ready, Mister Livingston.”

  Jay, whose back had been turned to the stairs, now glanced over his shoulder, then choked on his drink. Taking the handkerchief Sean held out, he dabbed quickly at his mustache, touched his black satin cravat, smoothed the brown velvet waistcoat, cleared his throat, wet his lips, and turned smoothly to greet her.

  “Ah, Gracelin, you are indeed a vision of loveliness.” He took her hand and kissed it, bowing elegantly.

  “You’re looking none too shabby yourself tonight, Jay,” she teased “Will you give me a hand with this?”

  She held out her burnoose, then turned and waited, unaware that he now stood momentarily frozen by the sight of her shoulders beneath the sheer material. She turned slightly, and saw the look on his face.

  “Surely now, Mister Livingston, a man-about-town like yourself can manage a lady’s cloak.” She made her eyes innocently wide. “But if not, I could ask Mister Ogue over there to show you how it’s done.”

  Dugan laughed, and the men within earshot guffawed and slapped their knees or punched each other fondly—wasn’t their Grace a grand girl? Sean joined in, enjoying the spectacle of the urbane Jay Livingston unnerved by a poor Irish widow.

  “I’m sure he could,” Jay said gallantly to the room at large. “But I believe the honor is mine.” He stepped forward and arranged the long, hooded cloak expertly over those lovely shoulders. “You look magnificent,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear.