Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  When he was fifteen, with no more than a fleeting thought for his weary mother and young sisters, Patrick stole the passage money for America. On the day he sailed, he said a final goodbye to Ireland. He had no intention whatsoever of returning.

  He entered Boston harbor with nothing but high hopes and grand expectations. It took only a week to confront the sobering reality that for the first time in his life, he would be forced to work if he were to eat.

  He lasted only a few months on the Boston docks, loading cargo. He begrudged every moment he spent there, viewing the punishment of hitherto unused muscles as a kind of injustice wreaked upon him because he was poor and without connections. His resolve to escape the trap of poverty grew in proportion to his increasing aversion to hard work.

  Patrick’s education had been sparse and sporadic. With the help of one of his mother’s clients, he had managed a few terms, but his formal schooling had taught him only the basics. His mind was quick and agile, however, and he learned much about politics, business, and society, relying on secondhand books and discarded newspapers. Although he hadn’t a notion as to how he would one day attain financial success, he never doubted for a moment that he would.

  Less than a year after arriving in the States, Patrick made his way to New York City. He already knew from his extensive reading that New York was no better than Boston when it came to prejudice and contempt for the Irish. Still, he felt that in New York he would find his luck, and he was impatient to make that discovery.

  Patrick believed in luck, believed it was reserved for those with the wits to seize it when it beckoned. Already convinced that he was destined for good fortune, he deliberately ignored New York’s docks and headed uptown.

  By now he owned a decent pair of trousers and a clean shirt.

  He had grown tall, maturing to good looks. When he presented himself to the desk clerk at the Braun Hotel, he made a neat, even pleasing appearance. The ferret-faced clerk informed him, however, that there were no openings. None at all.

  Of course, even if there had been an opening, the clerk added with a spiteful curl of his lip, the hotel was not in the business of hiring the Irish. Nor, he added, were any of the other “decent” businesses in the city.

  Patrick’s first real stroke of luck occurred right there, in the hotel lobby, that Monday afternoon in early autumn. As it happened, John Braun, the hotel’s middle-aged German owner, was there, nosing about the premises to see what sort of excesses he might discover on the part of his staff. Watching the German, Patrick sensed he was somebody of means. It took only a few minutes of keeping his ears open to discover Braun’s identity.

  At that point, Patrick slipped into one of his flash-fire changes that would stand him in good stead for years to come. The green Irish youth was transformed to an experienced, sharp-witted young man with the gift of the blarney and a ruthless penchant for seizing the advantage.

  Near a small group of businessmen across the lobby, two aging bellmen were struggling with a hefty pyramid of luggage. Not wasting a moment, Patrick sprinted across the lobby to hoist a bulging valise under each arm. “I’ll get the heavy ones, gents,” he said cheerfully, shooting the elderly porters an engaging smile as he started off toward the stairs. Nodding their approval, the businessmen followed.

  In a short time, he returned to the lobby and boldly presented himself to John Braun. “Your desk clerk said you do not hire the Irish, sir, which is a mistake, as you can see. I’ll work for less than any of your more experienced men, and you’ll get twice the work for your money. Perhaps there’s lighter work about the establishment that the elderly gents could manage.”

  Taken with Patrick’s audacity, Braun stood staring at him for only a moment before breaking into a horsey laugh and hiring him on the spot. It bothered Patrick not in the least that his boldness eventually cost the two old bellmen their jobs.

  From that day on, he made it a point to ingratiate himself not only with John Braun, but with the desk clerk and even the kitchen help. In no time at all he was being described as “quick,” “industrious,” and “a good enough sort for an Irisher” by the entire staff.

  With the patrons of the hotel, however, Patrick made his best mark. They took to his charm like fleas to a dog, easily impressed by this fine-looking, well-mannered youth who had an answer for every question, a solution for every problem. It was not long before Patrick Walsh was considered indispensable.

  His charming usefulness did not escape the notice of John Braun. Within months Patrick was promoted to the desk, then to assistant manager. By the age of eighteen he could do no wrong in the eyes of his German employer, who had no son on whom to lavish his paternal instincts.

  Braun did, however, have a daughter. Alice Braun was twenty-three, short and squat like her mother. She was a good, dutiful daughter who seemed to accept her plainness and lack of appeal by devoting herself to her parents, her church, and her two cats.

  When Braun invited Patrick home for dinner one night, the crafty young Irishman immediately saw how things were. Alice was the only daughter. Her parents both adored her. And, most importantly, she wasn’t likely to find an acceptable suitor on her own.

  By playing to Braun’s personal liking for him and plying his considerable charm with Mrs. Braun, Patrick managed to turn his first dinner invitation into a weekly custom. During these occasions he was propriety itself, staring at Alice only a bit too intently, allowing his hand to linger on hers only an instant longer than might have been necessary.

  Mostly, he concentrated on Alice’s mother, sensing her to be the real force in the family. Within a short time, he had ingratiated himself with the formidable Ula Braun until she fairly simpered every time he stepped over the threshold.

  Poor Alice still seemed incapable of anything more flirtatious than to peep at Patrick over the dumplings, her round cheeks flushed and damp. After a few weeks, Patrick took things a step further, requesting a private audience with John Braun.

  During this meeting, he candidly admitted his affection for Miss Alice. Yes, he acknowledged, there were a few years between them—but Miss Alice seemed so young, so sheltered, that in truth he felt years older than she, rather than younger. Besides, it was a fact that the hardships he had endured in Ireland had matured him quickly. Oh, of course, he realized that Miss Alice was leagues above him in every way—he had not found so fine and pure a woman in all of Ireland, after all. But could he possibly dare to hope that the family would consider him an acceptable suitor?

  At first, Braun was stunned, then overwhelmed to the point of tears. He assured his young employee that social station had never been of major concern to him, although of course it had to be considered in relation to Alice, since she deserved only the best. Still, he thought himself a good judge of character, and as far as he could tell, Patrick’s was exemplary. There was no substitute for sobriety, integrity, and hard work, now was there?

  There was one matter which did concern him, however, that being Patrick’s Roman faith. His church was his own business, of course, and Braun had never been much bothered by the Catholics. Still, with Alice being a devout Lutheran, it was a subject of some concern to her mother and father.

  Sober-faced, Patrick expressed his understanding and stated that he quite understood such parental concern. He would, he offered, give the matter serious consideration.

  In the meantime, could he call?

  He found it incredibly easy to woo Alice. She was already wild about him, he knew; the only thing left was to break her out of her shell and convince her that he was wild about her as well.

  They went for long walks, during which he coaxed her to talk about herself, sensing that nobody aside from her parents had ever shown her the slightest interest until now. He made it a habit to compliment her, paying her the kind of attention that would have turned the head of even a more worldly, confident young woman.

  The first time he kissed her hand, the poor thing almost fainted. The first time he kissed her
lips, he thought she would weep.

  They were married six months later. Having given serious consideration to his Roman faith and deciding it could present a hindrance in attaining his goals, Patrick cheerfully rejected it and became a Lutheran.

  John Braun presented the newlyweds with a home on Staten Island and a fine new carriage. In addition, he handed over to Patrick full ownership of the hotel where he had first employed him.

  In Alice, Patrick gained a slavishly devoted wife who asked no more from her existence than to make him happy. To be fair, she did make him happy. Patrick liked his comforts, and Alice saw to it that he lacked for none. Their home was tasteful and bright, peaceful and snug. His children were well-behaved, albeit rather dull, and Alice did her best to keep her weight from getting out of control. She was affectionate, supportive, and fiercely protective of her husband and family.

  In return, Patrick played the fond, if somewhat distracted, husband. Although he might lose patience with her from time to time and grow snappish, he always stopped short of hurting her. He found himself unwilling to deliberately wound the spirit behind those adoring round eyes.

  His affection for Alice was quite genuine—the kind of emotion a man might hold for his favorite house dog. Although he found his wife rather pathetic, he had an undeniable soft spot for her. But if the truth be known, his deepest motivation for marital harmony was the maintaining of his own comfort. He avoided situations that would cause Alice pain more out of the desire to keep his well-ordered life intact than out of any consideration for her feelings.

  Thus he kept his infidelities few and discreet, usually indulging in an occasional assignation when out of the city on business. He was wise enough to know the adoring Alice was no fool. More to the point, he knew John Braun would never forgive a man who humiliated his daughter. Patrick was therefore exceedingly careful to ensure that Alice never had reason to doubt his affection.

  It bothered him not in the least that his feelings for his wife ran scarcely deeper than those he might have lavished on a pet. The truth was that Patrick was not capable of caring deeply for another human being, could not really attach himself to anyone or anything for more than a token relationship.

  He was utterly self-centered and totally without conscience. His ambition, his desires, and his comfort mattered far more to him than did his wife and children. Alice had been a means to an end, and he was not without gratitude. But he could not help it if, most of the time, he simply tolerated her.

  As for their children, Isabel, the oldest at twelve, was a ringer for her mother. Plain and plump, as heavy in mind as in body, she was not the little girl Patrick might have chosen. Even less to his liking was the eight-year-old Henry, whom Patrick thought to be incredibly fussy for a small boy. Patrick more often than not avoided both his children, for they bored him.

  Somehow, he could not envision either of the two inheriting the varied Walsh enterprises, which were by now considerable. In addition to the hotel where he had gotten his start, Patrick now owned another pretentious uptown establishment, plus half a dozen moderately priced boardinghouses in lower Manhattan. Using his managers as a front, he also held the deed on three grog shops and a number of dockside taverns.

  His most extensive holdings, however, were in the Five Points slum. The tenements were a veritable gold mine for landlords like him, far more profitable than respectable property. As many as five families could be crowded into one room. Whereas well-to-do tenants could demand repairs, the poor were afraid to demand anything of the landlords. If the beggars got behind in their rent, they were evicted at once and immediately replaced.

  Run-down taverns abounded in the miserable slum, and Patrick owned more than his share of them. But all of his holdings in the area were deeded and leased in names other than his own; not a hint of scandal or illegal activity could be allowed to smear his reputation or endanger his family.

  In the past year he had discovered a new, highly lucrative enterprise. Using a middleman in England or in Ireland, he would purchase, under the name of a broker who did not exist, the entire list of steerage passengers for several of the immigrant ships coming over. When they arrived, two or three runners hired especially for the purpose quickly herded the bewildered immigrants off the ship, whisking them away to various tenements along the docks or in Five Points—all of which were owned by Patrick.

  Once they arrived, the unsuspecting immigrants forfeited all their worldly goods—to be held as “security” until they found work—as well as their remaining funds, which went to pay the exorbitant rent for their lodgings. The entire venture was almost entirely free from the risk of exposure. Neither the middleman who arranged the purchase nor the runners had any idea of Patrick’s identity.

  Patrick could number on one hand the men who knew the truth about a single one of his vast business activities. To these few he paid a ridiculously extravagant salary in order to guarantee their silence.

  To those who thought they knew him best, Patrick Walsh was a paragon of virtue, a family man, and a shrewd but honest, highly successful businessman. To the members of his church, he was known as a good-natured, generous Irishman who had made something of himself—a man who cared for the poor and the widow. To his in-laws, he was a prince. To his wife, he was a king. To his children, he was a sometimes stern but always cheerful papa who seldom expected more from them than that they do well in their studies and not annoy him.

  In his own eyes, Patrick Walsh was a success, a self-made man whose luck had held and whose prospects looked brighter with every sunrise. It bothered him not in the least that a great deal of his wealth came at the expense of the downtrodden poor from his own homeland.

  Hadn’t Christ himself said they would always have the poor among them? To Patrick’s way of thinking, he was actually doing the poor wretches a service, providing them affordable lodging as well as drink in which to drown their troubles.

  After all, somebody was always quick to turn a profit from the ignorant Irish. It might just as well be him.

  9

  Unnatural Enemies

  We dreamt of a freedom akin to the wind’s

  For the skill of our hands, and the strength of our minds;

  But we wake to a chain that confounds and controls,

  With its amulet circle, our limbs and our souls—

  To the cold chain of poverty—binding us all

  In the fathomless depth of our national fall.

  JOHN DE JEAN FRAZER (1809–1852)

  Michael Burke and Denny Price stood in the middle of Anthony Street attempting to aid a cart driver, whose wagon full of manure had overturned.

  The owner of the wagon, an aging Irishman Michael knew only as Pete, was one of the many small contractors in the city who made his living doing what nobody but the Irish were willing to do—clearing New York’s streets of the waste of thousands of horses.

  The city’s manure problem had surpassed the garbage dilemma. By now, there were enough stables in New York to house at least fifty or sixty thousand horses, horses that furnished the power for all the city’s public and private transportation: they hauled garbage, pulled carriages and omnibuses, towed milk wagons and fire wagons—they even hauled incoming railroad cars into the city.

  The resulting tons of waste presented New York with what almost seemed an insurmountable task of disposal. Although the worst problem existed between the Battery and Canal Street, few districts were exempt. It had fallen mostly to the Irish, desperate for employment of any sort, to load the waste from the stables into containers and haul it away by cart to the manure scows docked at either side of the city.

  Overturned carts were a common occurrence. With the wagons precariously unbalanced by overloaded barrels and boxes, it took only a deep rut or a sudden turn to tip the wagon onto its side.

  When this happened, it was the driver’s responsibility to clean up the spilled load and get on his way as quickly as possible. That was easier said than done, however, for with the
other wagons and carriages flying by, it was all the poor cartman could do to get his wagon back on its wheels and manage even a cursory cleanup.

  If a policeman happened to be nearby, it was expected that he would help, the assumption being that a copper was long past having his sensibilities offended—besides, weren’t the lot of them Irish, in fact? But even a policeman would shun the odious job if at all possible.

  Michael Burke was no exception. Whenever he happened upon one of the overturned carts, he would actually moan aloud and do his best to think up a means of escape. Denny Price carried on even worse, spitting out his disgust in a terrible harangue before grudgingly conceding to help.

  Presently, Michael and Price were both out of sorts. The aging driver’s clumsy attempts to clean up his stinking spill had only created more of a mess. Grumbling, the policemen now put their own broad shoulders to the wagon, forcing it back onto its wheels.

  Bracing himself to face the rest of the job, Price stood for a moment, scratching his chin. “You shovel it in, and I’ll hoist the barrels,” he suggested, looking at an undetermined point past Michael’s head.

  “We’ll both shovel it in, and we’ll both hoist the barrels!” Michael countered, grabbing a shovel from the wagon bed and thrusting it at Price.

  “What about your back, then?”

  “What about my back?” Michael stopped to look at him.

  “Why, wasn’t it yourself just complaining last week about your back?” With a frown of concern that appeared almost genuine, Price leaned on the shovel and looked at Michael. “The day we moved the captain’s household for him.”

  “Aye, but that was last week, wasn’t it now?” Michael grated, taking up the other shovel. “Let’s just get on with it, why don’t we? The sooner it’s done, the sooner—”

  At that instant a shout and the slap of running feet made them both whirl around to look.