by Ann Moore
When mother and child were resting quietly together, the midwife washed her hands, rolled down her sleeves and announced that she would be in the kitchen, partaking of the glass of ale and smoked ham Mister Ogue had assured her would be waiting. She thought two glasses might even be in order as all had gone so well, and wouldn’t she be spending the night after all, no way to get home so late in this weather? Grace thanked her profusely and urged her to go down; she would finish settling the room.
Tara appeared to have fallen asleep, her arm at an odd angle around the baby; Grace gently lifted the warm bundle and was placing him in the wooden cradle when Dugan peeked around the door.
“Well, I wondered when you were coming to meet your new son,” Grace teased.
“Aye,” he whispered sheepishly, stepping into the room. “The midwife said ’twas a boy. A fine-looking boy. And Tara …” He looked at his shockingly pale wife, her eyes closed, mouth slightly open.
“She’s fine,” Grace reassured. “Resting now, is all. He was a lot of work, your one, though he came fast in the end. Say hallo to him, then, why don’t you?”
The big man tiptoed across the room and bent awkwardly over the cradle; the baby’s eyes opened at that very moment, and father and son regarded one another in amazement. He touched the bundle with a single finger.
“She did this for me.”
“I did it for the both of us.” Tara’s voice was hoarse. “But I don’t know that I’ll be doing it again, if it’s all the same to you.”
He came and sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, taking up her hand and smiling tenderly into her exhausted, contented face.
“One is miracle enough for me,” he told her. “What will you call him, then?”
“Well, I’m partial to Dugan, as you know.”
“Ah, now, one of those in the world is more than enough, don’t you think?” He laughed, and then his face fell serious. “What I was thinking, down there by the fire … I mean, if it’s all right by you …” He glanced at his wife. “What I thought is … I thought we might call him Caolon. You know. After your one.”
Tara stared in disbelief, then covered her face with her hands. Dugan looked up at Grace in alarm, then moved closer to his wife and took her up in his arms.
“Ah, Tara, forgive me,” he murmured. “You married a right eejit, you did. I’m sorry, girl—sorry for bringing it up. On this of all days.”
She pulled back and wiped her tears, regarding him with no less wonder than she’d regarded the first sight of her son.
“You’re the best man I’ve ever known, Dugan Ogue.” Her mouth trembled. “What other would choose such a name for his own firstborn son, I’d like to know?”
“And why not?” he replied. “Wasn’t he your husband and didn’t he take fine care of you while he could? I’m grateful to him for that. ’Tis a shame he died and you suffering all those years. I thought maybe calling the boy after him … maybe ’twould make up for the loss in some way.”
Tara put her hands on either side of that big, dear face. “You.” She searched his eyes. “You made up for that the day you said you loved me. You, Dugan,” she repeated. “The baby, he …” She had to stop, tears thick in her throat. “He’s extra—a wonderful thing on top of it all. But you …” She broke off again, shaking her head.
He kissed her then, as tenderly as a man ever kissed the woman he loved, and held her against his mighty chest. “So it’s settled,” he stated. “We’ll call him Caolon. Caolon Ogue.”
“Mighty Caolon Ogue,” she corrected, and they laughed, holding on to one another so tightly that they didn’t hear Grace’s quiet leaving.
She slipped unnoticed from the warm room into the chilly hall. It was dark, but she had no trouble navigating the stairs that led down into the Harp, empty now, but smelling as it always did of ale and tobacco. The stairs directly across from those she’d just descended led up to her own rooms and she climbed them, opening the door at the top, grateful for the lamp Sean had left burning low. She sat down near the window, too awake yet to sleep, wanting a quiet moment by herself. From the cots came the soft, openmouthed breathing sounds of the children, the rustle of their shifting about; from the back, Sean’s low snores and occasional mumblings, his dream life as vivid as the life he led by day.
Outside, the snow still fell and she was heartened somehow by the sight of it drifting along the windowsills. Quiet, it was … so quiet, and she felt warm and safe, wrapped up and hidden away from the cold, from hunger, from sadness. The baby had lived, and Tara had lived. There was hope in that, and Grace took hold of it. This baby lived, and her own still lived, and she would hold him again—no matter that he was one year old now and crawling, no doubt. She smiled, imagining her father down on the floor, creeping after the child, who was sure to be the world to him. What did he look like, this boy, their boy? What did he look like now?
She caught her reflection in the frosty glass, and lifted a hand to touch it. Lamplight glanced off her wedding band, and she touched that instead, turning it on her finger. “Ah, Morgan,” she whispered, but that was all she said aloud, returning silently to the memory of his handsome face, the laughter in his voice, the way her heart leapt when he put his arms around her and whispered against her hair that he loved her, loved her. And then she closed the door on those memories—gently, but firmly—knowing that any more than this would be too much, grateful for the moments she could have that did not kill her. She brought her hand to her lips and tenderly kissed the ring he’d placed there the last night she’d seen him, and then she let it go. Tired now, she slipped off her shoes, turned down the lamp, and went quietly to bed.
What Boardham liked most next to drinking, whoring, gambling and dogfights—he realized, standing across the street from the Harp—was watching Missus Donnelly. He had even come to feel a certain affection for her and, just as a farmer takes pride in the pig he’s fattening for winter, he kept track of the little changes in her appearance—her hair, a new skirt, the weight she’d put on.
It was very late and all the customers had long since gone home, but lights still burned inside the saloon and it appeared that someone had borne a baby on this cold night. Not Missus Donnelly, though; he would have noticed that change in her appearance with some interest. No, Missus Donnelly was up and around, quite busy tonight, anxiously peering out first one window and then another, looking out for that giant clod of an Irishman, who finally came slip-sliding down the walk with an old midwife in tow. Must be his wife bringing a new Irish brat into the world, just in time for Christmas; probably had a manger all ready for him, the wife robed and serene like the Virgin Mary herself, ignorant Papists.
Boardham laughed meanly—the rum tonight was still warming his belly. He took out a cigar butt and placed it between his lips, looking up at the window. And there she was, touching the glass, her hair falling down. She looked tired, he thought. Time for bed. He wouldn’t mind helping her get ready for that, but he was a patient man. He struck a match and cupped one hand around the other as he lit the cigar, releasing puffs of smoke, the end glowing red in the dark.
It was Reinders he really wanted, though—Boardham shook out the match—Missus Donnelly was just the bait. He knew they still saw one another, had witnessed their little discourse on the wharf, Reinders standing out in front of God and everyone, talking to Irish and black—man had no sense of decent society. Thought too highly of himself, he did—Boardham narrowed his eyes—but all that was about to change. Paybacks for the long walk from Boston, every breath agony around a chest full of broken ribs.
Boardham’s dreams of revenge were the sweetest things in his life, and he took them out often to compare their merits, consider their possibilities, admire their brilliance. And of course, anything was truly possible as the law was on his side—or in his pocket, rather. He was extremely loyal to Callahan, had carried out every job to its desired end—blackmail, extortion, beatings, thievery—with no questions asked, only helping himself t
o the spoils now and then, after Callahan was taken care of, when no one would know any different. And because of this, Boardham was a big man now; a big man in all the low places. Everyone was his friend, falling all over themselves to buy him the next drink, to take him into their confidence, even ratting on their own to earn his favor, to stay on the right side of Mister Boardham from Liverpool. Nightly, he picked over the gleanings of the underworld, offering up to Callahan those most ripe and worthy of plucking, and now Callahan owed him, it was true. Boardham could do whatever he liked in regard to Captain Reinders, and no one would look into it very far, any more than they had looked into the death of Tom Dean.
Yes, Boardham could do as he liked in this ward, but he couldn’t do it if the captain was gone. Again. Another run down the coast, and that both frustrated and interested him. He could wait; he had the bait. Upstairs, the lights went out and the windows were black.
“Sweet dreams, Missus Donnelly,” he growled, grinding out the last of his black cigar in the clean white snow.
Thirty
REINDERS awoke in a sweat and, for a moment, could not remember where he was. Charleston. He was in Charleston. Again. Though he’d been dreaming of Georgia—Georgia in the summertime with the sun so hot in that field, he’d felt sure the heat would kill him. Why it didn’t kill the others, he’d never understand; they worked in those fields from dawn to dusk, pulled into the shade of bushes when they fell over, only to rise again and continue working as soon as they’d come to. They didn’t dare complain to the overseer; Reinders had seen the answer to that: the woman, heavy with child, stripped down and lashed in front of her other children; the young man with shackled feet and an iron collar, the flesh worn away where it rubbed day and night; the branding marks; the missing limbs or eyes; the crippling, the maiming. And those were only the physical scars.
When he’d first come to Charleston, he’d been impressed to see free blacks going about their business, the independence of bondsmen hired out to work the factories or fields, slaves coming and going; everyone appeared to move around pretty freely—they wore decent clothing, dressed well, in fact; they had money in their pockets to buy food and goods, operated small businesses, had their own church. They had to negotiate a complex social system, true enough, but everyone seemed to understand the rules and to comply willingly. It wasn’t such a bad life for them here when all was said and done—he’d seen far worse in the New York tenements, where starving blacks lived in filth and disease—at least here they were fed, clothed, and sheltered. Clearly slavery, he told himself, was not the evil Northerners made it out to be. But going to Georgia had changed all that forever.
Reinders got out of his bunk and dressed resolutely, knowing he’d sleep no more tonight. He lit his lamp and set it on the desk, unlocking the drawer and withdrawing a locked metal box; from that, he withdrew a sheath of papers, which included runaway notices and auction flyers. He smoothed the flyer, thinking of the tobacco broker he’d come to know and respect, one who secretly despised the family business and insisted Reinders not be blind to its true nature. Most of the buying and selling was done privately, the broker had explained, sometimes initiated by the slaves themselves in order to work for different masters. This was the preferred method, out of the public eye, but auctions did exist and were used to move quantities of stock. He took Reinders to one of these, and it had been a shock—despite Florence’s attempt at educating him—to learn that families were divided. He’d watched a man, his wife, and five of their children sold away to different owners even though their master had requested they go in one lot, even though the man and woman begged to be kept together; he saw sisters separated, young children sold away alone, old men offered for twenty dollars and the promise of a few more years’ good work still in them. Reinders was never the same after that afternoon, the flame of outrage burning steadily within him.
He supposed this was why Lily’s request had felt like a chance to redeem something beyond her children, though that was reason enough to agree. He’d told Lars immediately—they were partners, after all—and the man had given his blessing with one caveat: Don’t lose the ship. Lars had other ventures, other means of income, but he’d still tied a lot of his capital into this business, built on the tobacco trade, and Reinders did not want to jeopardize that. Neither one had ever considered too deeply the labor force used by the men with whom they traded—or chosen to consider, he amended, Florence’s voice ringing in his ears. It had been she who put them in contact with a scout, a Southerner who tracked family members of former slaves under the guise of bounty-hunting. Florence had many contacts like this, and had also arranged free papers for Lily and her children, with three more sets standing by.
“Excuse me, Captain.” Mackley opened the door, breaking Reinders’ reverie. “I saw your light. Need anything, sir?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Reinders answered dryly.
“You should try to sleep, sir. Got a long day ahead of us.”
“Why are you up? Isn’t the new man on watch?”
“Nickerson. Yes, sir, he is.”
“Nickerson,” Reinders repeated, and then he sighed. “I wish Dean were here. I can’t believe he’s dead.”
The muscle in Mackley’s jaw flinched. “Should’ve killed that bastard when we had the chance.”
Reinders would never forgive himself for that.
“We’ll get him,” the captain promised. “One day soon he’ll stick his ugly head out, and then we’ll cut it off and send it to Dean’s wife.”
“I’m all for cutting it off, Captain, but I’d rather feed it to the fish than send it to Laura.” Mackley stepped in farther. “Are you sure you’re all right, sir?”
Reinders stood up, his hand over his gut. “A little nervous, I guess. Worried that they just took off with the money like last time. Or that the boy ran again. We’ve missed him twice now, you know.”
“Only by a couple of days, sir.”
“Missed is missed. Next time they’ll kill him.” He massaged the tender spot. “And I don’t know where the hell January is.”
“But didn’t the scout say he’d been sold down Mississippi, Captain? And that he knew we were coming for him?”
“Must’ve been more than he could stand.” Reinders held out the notice. “He ran again.”
“‘Wanted,’” Mackley read. “‘January. A runaway slave owned by Charles Beaustead. About forty, gray in the hair. Tall, strong, raw-boned man, very black, marked by the lash and a brand on his right cheek. Missing his left arm …’” Mackley’s voice faltered. “I didn’t know he was missing an arm.”
“He wasn’t,” Reinders said grimly.
“Those bastards. ‘Last seen wearing an iron collar. May be headed for Westerfield Plantation, Georgia.’” Mackley looked up. “They’re offering a two-hundred-dollar reward.”
“It’s not good news. Any of it.” Reinders glanced at the clock on his desk. “They should’ve picked up the boy by now. If everything went according to plan. Couple more hours, then we’ll know.”
“What about his sister, Captain?”
“The message was delivered last night.” He paused. “Now it’s up to her.”
Mackley glanced out the window. No sign yet of dawn. The captain would pace his cabin the entire time. He needed to get off the ship, out into the cool night air, clear his head, calm himself.
“Excuse me, sir. What if we left now for the warehouse? Walk’d do us both some good, and it’s still plenty dark.”
Reinders nodded, pleased with the idea. “Mister Mackley,” he said, grabbing his cap, “you do earn your pay.”
Thirty-one
IT was a year since Grace had last seen her son, and as Christmas approached, she harbored a desperate hope that Patrick and Morgan would arrive any day now—surely, God owed her this much. She did not allow herself to think of the hardship they’d endure sailing this time of year; she and Mary Kate had survived the voyage and so would they. She spoke
of this hope to no one, and so it grew unchecked until she’d begun to believe that their arrival was imminent.
Secretly, she stored extra food and tobacco for her da, determined where he would sleep, stuffed a pillow for his head; she sewed a shirt and trousers for her son, who would be walking now, bought him a small bowl and a cup, and bartered for a set of wooden blocks, which she hid in the corner beneath her bed. At times throughout the day, joy would rise like a bubble and catch in her throat, the giddiness nearly lifting her off her feet.
“Aye, you’re full of secrets, aren’t you?” Sean caught her as she came in from the market, cheeks red, boots soaked through with slushy snow. “You can’t hide it from me.”
“Only getting ready for Christmas, is all.” She busied herself with the things in her basket.
“’Tis but a part of the truth you’re telling me now.” He sized her up playfully. “But I’ll let you off easy, providing there’s a grand present for me on Christmas morn.”
She laughed. She did have his present, the fourth book in the Leatherstocking Tales by Mister Cooper; Sean was enthralled by these stories of the frontier and now he’d have The Pathfinder to complete his set.
“What will we do at Christmastime?” She hung her heavy cloak near the fire to dry. “Will we go to services? Dugan’s invited us to Mass at St. Patrick’s, or we could go round to Grace Church if you like.”
A look of annoyance flashed across Sean’s face. “That’s all just empty worship to me now—you know that.”
“Will you go with Miss Osgoode, then?” She tried to keep her own annoyance from showing.
“You could come, as well,” he offered. “I wish you would, Grace. We could bring the children. You’d enjoy it.”
Grace struggled with her reluctance. “How many Irish in that lot?”
Sean eyed her, disappointed. “You know the answer to that—not many. But it doesn’t matter. We’re all Americans there, all of us Saints.”
