by Ann Moore
“Well, I like being just Irish myself.” She came away from the fire and sat down opposite him. “And I miss being with our Irish friends. We hardly see them anymore.”
“What in the world are you talking about? Aren’t you surrounded by Irish every night in this place?”
“You know what I mean. What’s happened to your friends from the papers, Mister O’Sullivan and them? Where are the boys from the Irish Society? No one calls for you but Danny Young.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “Are you quits with the Irish, then—are we not good enough for you anymore?”
Sean banged his fist on the table, and Grace had a sudden vision of her father doing the very same thing the night he announced her betrothal to Bram Donnelly—Patrick had said he was Irish, by God, that was his religion and Sean would make it his, as well, if he had any sense a’tall.
“Have you lost your mind?” He sounded just like their father. “There’s no being quits with the Irish! I’m reminded just how Irish I am every single day when I see yet another drawing of some monkey-faced ragpicker with a bottle in one hand and a potato in the other—‘Irish in America,’ it says, ‘happy as the pigs they sleep with.’ Or of the serving girls—all called Brigid or Colleen, mind you, as if we’ve no other names for our women—asking the madam a question any child would know.”
He shook his head in disgust. “But they bring it on themselves, you know. Playing the happy-go-lucky Paddy. I’m sick to death of the Irish buying off as ignorant and stupid, letting the rest of us pay for it,” he said angrily. “When I walk into the shops, they look first at my face and then at my leg, and they point out the sign that says, ‘No Irish Need Apply.’ ‘I don’t need the work,’ I say to them. ‘I’m buying.’ ‘Buy it next door,’ they tell me. ‘We don’t trade with Irish.’”
Grace sat back, stunned. She was well aware of the city’s harshness toward the Irish, but had thought Sean oblivious to all that, had assumed he walked in a world of ideals far above the bitter ignorance of the street.
“Are you ashamed, then?” she asked quietly.
“No. I’m not ashamed. I’m angry,” he declared. “And I’m tired of it. Tired of the Irish rolling over instead of standing up. Tired of watching them get beaten down at every turn, demanding respect but never fighting back—or fighting back too late with too few. Fighting losing battles. Always losing. It’s as if we were born to be the mats other men wipe their feet on.” He slapped his hand on the table. “All the work we’ve done. All the lives sacrificed—for what? When the raid failed and they all got arrested, one after the other like that …” He stopped, defeated.
“But they’re starving, Sean.” Grace leaned forward. “They can barely march across a field, let alone fight a battle. That’s the truth of it, and maybe we should’ve waited.”
“Waited for what?” he asked bitterly. “For the end of hunger? We’ve always had hunger in Ireland, and we always will. Wait for the fevers to end, for men to get strong, for weapons and food? Bah. We send money and arms, it’s confiscated at port. We send food, it disappears before a mouthful reaches those who need it.”
“Are you saying we should give up after all we’ve survived?” Grace argued. “Think about it—Elizabeth I, Cromwell, constant invasion and subjection to fevers, famines, terrible poverty. We’ve not done this to ourselves, you know. ’Twas centuries in the making!”
“We have done it to ourselves!” he snapped. “We let them plunder our land, cut down our forests, make paupers of our kings, slander our religion—all the while tipping our hats and offering them a drink of our best batha usaige. The Irish are ignorant and bull-headed, Grace, and that’s the sorry truth of it. Even crossing an ocean, we can’t escape it.”
Grace stared at him, outraged. Bull-headed? Maybe. But ignorant? “I don’t believe it,” she scolded. “You’ve got your head so wrapped up in this new religion of yours, you’ve lost sight of who you really are—who we are! Don’t shake your head at me,” she warned. “You’re just feeling sorry for yourself. Irish need not apply? When did you ever have to apply for any job here, a’tall?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Never! You were handed a job right off the boat, at a newspaper for pity’s sake—and why? Because you’re Irish! Because you’re intelligent! And are there no other intelligent Irish working there? Working anywhere, for that matter? Are you the only Irishman worth his salt in the entire world?” She pushed back her chair and got up. “I’ll tell you what, brother. As far as I’m concerned there’s only one ignorant, bull-headed Irishman in this city and I’m looking at him. I never felt ashamed of any Irish ever in my life, but I am now. One day Ireland will be free, and you’ll regret those words.”
“Ireland will never be free. She’s no fight left in her, and all the decent men are dead or gone.” He looked up at her. “And even if she were free, I wouldn’t go back. Not ever. I was no one in Ireland. A cripple earning his keep doing piecework by the fire, and no chance of anything better. I can make something of myself here, despite …” He stopped himself. “I’m an American, Grace. That’s what I’ve become.”
“Aye.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And that’s all you are.” Did she know him at all anymore? she wondered.
He closed his eyes, and she saw the weariness in the sag of his cheeks, the heaviness of his mouth. “I’m sorry.” He looked at her then. “I don’t want to argue with you. I shouldn’t have said all that.”
She frowned, wanting to forgive him but not quite able to.
“Truth is,” he began, then hesitated, steeling himself. “If you want to know the truth, the men who employ me have begun to question the value of their commitment to Irish revolution. Abolition is occupying their thoughts, these days—never mind there’s half as many slaves in the South as in Ireland.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to tell you, to burden you with it, but there just isn’t much work for me lately.”
Grace’s arms fell to her sides and she sat down again.
He kept his eyes focused on his fingers, splayed on the table. “So I’ve recently been made very aware of just how many windows display the sign ‘No Irish,’ and I began to realize that in the normal way of things, my face and my speech stand in the way of making a living.”
She put her own hand on the table, fingertips touching his.
“But I’m serious about not going back to Ireland. As hard as it might be here, at least I have a chance.” He looked at her. “I’ve come to believe that God has answered my very desperate prayers lately, by cutting me off from the past and forcing me to consider why I’m really here.” He paused, thinking. “You ask why our friends don’t come round anymore. Well, it’s because they’re still clinging to the past—to being Irish, to saving Ireland—when they should be building a future here in America, a future dedicated to serving God in a new way. They shun me now because I’m part of something they can’t understand, and I accept that. But I don’t want it to happen to us, Grace.”
She pushed her fingers into his, entwining them.
“I don’t pretend to understand God’s will,” he continued. “But clearly He’s brought me to America for a reason, and now He’s led me into this. I think it’s what He wants for you, as well.”
She searched his face, his wounded eyes, and oh, how she loved him—her impassioned, fanatical brother. She thought of the hope carried in her heart; could it be that God had not answered her prayer because she had not prepared herself, had not listened to her brother? She closed her eyes and saw the grizzled, lined face of her father, the smooth face of her baby son. She’d followed Sean in so many things for all her life, had always given him the lead because he walked so closely with their Lord; and he’d never steered her wrong.
“All right, Sean.” She opened her eyes. “I’ll come with you.”
It was more like a prayer meeting, Grace thought, with Mister Osgoode clearly in charge. In an hour, it had not so much ended as disassembled into a general discussion about attacks made on the Illinois colony
. Sean had told Grace about Nauvoo, the mission city and model town, governed by Saints, its laws dictated by the teachings of Smith and his determined successor, Brigham Young. There had been trouble, however, and the town was under siege by outsiders, who felt threatened, jealous of Nauvoo’s prosperity. Some had remained in the original settlement, and Young had taken another group out West to build an even greater community in the forsaken wilderness of Utah.
This was the topic of greatest excitement tonight; worshipers spoke of selling off their worldly goods, turning the money over to the church, and joining the sanctioned wagon train in the spring. It sounded to Grace as though many had relatives or friends already there, and she listened as parts of letters were read aloud, interested in descriptions of the wilderness, how much building had been done in readiness for winter, what the farming was like, and which supplies were most wanted from the East. She glanced over at Sean, who was engrossed in conversation with Danny Young; when at last he did look up, it was to smile warmly at Marcy Osgoode, who sat next to Grace.
And then they all rose to their feet and pushed back their chairs, men drifting to one side of the room, women gathering at the other. Marcy linked arms with Grace and led her to a group of women her own age, though a couple of matrons were also present—smiling indulgently as they straightened wayward collars or tucked up bits of stray hair, tidying the girls discreetly while keeping an eye on the young men.
“Ladies,” Marcy announced in her calm, steady voice. “This is Missus Donnelly, widowed sister of our own Mister O’Malley.”
The others regarded her now with keener interest, and she was offered refreshment, which she took gratefully, glad to have something to occupy her hands.
“So young to be a widow,” Missus Bishop pronounced, speaking first. “And your brother says you have children.”
Grace was never sure how to explain her family—did she mention Morgan back in Ireland? Or Liam, who wasn’t really. hers? “I do,” she replied weakly.
“Very hard to bring them all this way alone.” Missus Bishop’s voice was full of grave concern. “So kind of your brother to take you all in.”
“He’s such a good man,” Marcy declared, then blushed. “He’s been so happy since you arrived. And hoping so much that you’d join us.”
“We’ve been praying about it,” volunteered a young woman who then covered her mouth with her hand, shy in front of a stranger.
“Yes, and for your children, too,” Missus Bishop added.
All the women nodded in agreement.
“Children are the future of eternity.” The young woman removed her hand long enough to reveal a rapturous smile.
“Do you have children of your own, then?” Grace inquired politely.
“Not yet. But I hope to have many. As many as God gives me,” she added quickly. “I’m to be married next month. To him.” She pointed out the fellow standing next to Sean.
“Danny? You’re going to marry Danny Young?”
“Oh, yes!” the girl sang, then blushed bright red, her hands flying again to her face.
The other women laughed affectionately and touched her arm; she was a favorite and not a little prayer had gone into the Lord’s granting her a husband.
“Ellen and Danny are just recently engaged,” Marcy told Grace. “We’re all so very happy for them.”
Ellen’s eyes sparkled with joy. “It happened so fast, but if we marry now, we can travel with my brothers and their wives on the wagon train this spring, rather than waiting to come out later.”
Grace bit her lip. Danny moving to Utah was not good news, not considering how much influence he had over her brother.
“How many are going, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Almost all,” Missus Bishop announced proudly. “My husband and our eldest son were part of the group that went out with Brigham Young. And now the rest of our family shall join them at last. A few of our number will stay behind—not everyone has raised the funds yet, you see.”
Grace breathed an inward sigh of relief. If it took money to travel with this group, then Sean would not go. Not yet, anyway.
“And of course, there is important work to do that calls for some to remain,” Missus Bishop continued. “But eventually, we’ll all be together in the new community, where God’s work can begin in earnest. This city is a hard place for Christian women, don’t you find, Missus Donnelly?”
Grace considered that. “When I left Ireland, people were starving alongside the roads or dying in the workhouses. I’d have to say, Missus Bishop, that I find it a blessing to be in a place where I can work and buy food, clothe and shelter my children. City life is hard, true enough, but I believe that has more to do with being poor than being Christian.”
“Oh, my.” The matron’s face froze in a mask of studied politeness. “I see you have the gift of forthrightness that is also your brother’s.”
“Ah, no.” Grace chose to misunderstand. “Sean’s the brilliant one. The head of our family.”
“And you are the hands, I suppose.” Missus Bishop’s tone was subtle. “Doing all the labor?”
“No,” Grace said carefully. “We share the labor. Maybe I’m the heart,” she added, thinking of the children.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Marcy exclaimed. “Women truly are the hearts of their homes, aren’t they? That’s very insightful, Grace. Isn’t it, ladies?”
The women all nodded their heads, smiling at Grace with warmth and encouragement; Grace said nothing, only smiled in return, sensing she’d passed some sort of test but having no idea what it meant. It felt like hours before Sean came with her cloak, saying they’d better start back or the sidewalks would only get more icy.
He was in good spirits all the way home, chatting about what a fine man Mister Osgoode was, how powerful the leadership that had inspired the entire community to relocate to the Utah Territory. Always the romantic, he was taken with the idea of people banding together to make a new life in the wilderness; Grace recognized this and her anxiety grew.
“I met the girl Danny Young’s got himself engaged to,” she said, interrupting Sean’s flow of ringing praise.
“Ellen LeVang,” he confirmed. “Nice girl. Good family, and lots of hardworking brothers. They really like Danny.”
“She says they’ll join the wagon train.”
“Aye, he’s a man for the future, Danny is, and it’ll be a comfort for him having a good wife and all. He’s got no one here, you know, and he’d grown tired of struggling in the city.” They walked on, mindful of the ice. “I’ll miss him, though.”
“You’re not thinking of going, then?” Grace held her breath.
Sean stopped in his tracks and looked at her. “Of course not! Why would I be going all the way out to Utah of all places?”
“You said yourself you’ve found a life in the Saints and I know you, Sean O’Malley—going west with them has all the ring of adventure. And weren’t you always a fool for that kind of thing?”
“Not a fool.” He paused. “I admit, though, there’s a part of me wants to go, wants to be part of it.”
Her heart fell.
He linked his arm through hers and they walked again. “But we’re not going anywhere till Da and young Morgan come, and that’s all there is to it.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Besides,” he went on. “Mister Osgoode is staying to oversee the conversion of goods to cash, and he’s asked me to work for him. ’Tis paid work, and plenty of it.”
“Is Marcy staying, then?”
“Of course! Are you daft? She wouldn’t go without her father. And he’s got work for her to do, as well.”
“I see.” She grinned.
“Ah, you see nothing.” He squeezed her arm and laughed. “I like Marcy—you know I do. But we have a lot to learn about one another before we ever talk of marrying.”
“Sure and you’ll be learning all kinds of things, working so close with her father and a
ll,” Grace teased.
He laughed again, and Grace was glad to see him so light-hearted.
“Thanks for coming out tonight. I wanted you to hear for yourself, and I want you to know Marcy. I care what you think, Grace. You’re my sister.”
“I think you’re getting a little soft in the head, Sean O’Malley, but I am your sister and you’re my brother, and haven’t we always looked out for each other?”
“We have.” He kissed her red cheek and she slipped her hand into his big coat pocket, drawing near to him.
They made their way across a town barely familiar beneath the blanket of white, beneath a clear, dark sky lit up with a million stars. Horse bells jingled as the great beasts snorted and tossed their heads, their hooves muffled as they trotted down the street; couples out for an evening stroll stood before festive window displays, pointing out wonders, laughing softly behind gloved hands; candlelight from inside churches spilled out onto the sidewalks as parishioners came and went with their baskets for the needy; and Sean and Grace passed them all as they headed for the lights of home and the people who would be waiting up.
Thirty-two
“MAMMIE, ’tis Christmas!”
Insistent hands shook Grace, and Mary Kate’s breath was warm against her cheek.
“Get up, get up!”
“What do you mean, get up?” Grace pulled her daughter into bed and tickled her. “You naughty girl, waking your poor old mam on the wrong day! Christmas is tomorrow and you know it!”
Mary Kate stopped laughing and sat up, her lower lip beginning to tremble.
“Ah, now.” Grace hugged her quickly. “What a terrible trick to play and I’m sure to get coal in my stocking for it!”
“’Tis then?” Mary Kate asked tremulously.
“Aye, Merry Christmas, love.” Grace kissed her. “Do you think St. Nicholas found us, all the way over here?”
Mary Kate nodded, eyes wide, and Grace slid out of bed, pulling on her cold underwear beneath the warm tent of her nightgown, abandoning that for the green woolen dress she’d made especially for today. Today. She held her breath and prayed quickly—please let them come.
