Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  His own belief that the dire straits of Ireland’s starving people spelled certain failure for any attempted rebellion led him to disavow the fiery prose and militant verse of The Nation’s leading writers. His refusal to use his pen in support of violence had made him many enemies within the Confederacy. Ironic, this, considering the enemies he’d already made outside the movement during his more rebellious, dissident days.

  He knew himself to be caught in the middle: Unable to endorse the heedless militancy of Mitchel and his followers, he found it equally impossible to accept British rule in his own land. Ireland belonged to the Irish, not the Queen, and he was committed to doing all within his power, and within the confines of his conscience, to see the country free of England’s boot.

  So he continued to publish in The Nation, trying not to mind that his present works were received with little interest and even a degree of contempt. No longer was he revered as the Red Wolf of Mayo, the rebel-patriot who had inspired fear in the landlords and devotion among the peasantry. No longer did his Young Ireland contemporaries turn to him for counsel; most disdained even his company.

  He was the grandson of an Englishman, a patriot whose voice could no longer be heard above the whispered rumors and insinuations about his loyalty; a poet whose words no longer stirred the hearts of fellow Irishmen, except to anger—anger that he would dare to call for common sense and brotherhood in a land of warriors and displaced chieftains.

  Indeed, some Young Ireland members had gone so far as to label him a traitor to the movement, inferring that his inheritance from his grandfather had turned his Irish blood to English ice. The contempt of former comrades grieved Morgan more than he would have them know. Only O’Brien and two or three others within the movement continued to show him the same degree of loyalty and friendship as in the past.

  O’Brien, especially, had remained unswervingly firm in his support. Morgan genuinely liked the aristocratic Young Ireland leader. He valued his friendship and trusted his integrity. Therefore, although he questioned his own judgment, he was prepared to see this trip to Belfast through to completion.

  An unexpected knock at the bedroom door made Morgan straighten and turn. Surprised to hear his grandfather’s voice, he crossed the room to let him in.

  As soon as the old man entered, Morgan saw that he was having one of his frequent attacks of the rheumatism. It was all he could do to manage the few steps to the chair beside the bed.

  It was a rare occurrence when Richard Nelson invaded the privacy of his grandson’s rooms, and so his visit caused Morgan to wonder what he was about.

  The old man’s eyes went to the folded clothing on the bed. “So…” He paused on the word. “You are still going.”

  Morgan nodded, returning to the bed to sort the remaining few articles of clothing. “Aye, I am,” he replied, avoiding the old man’s searching eyes.

  His grandfather said nothing for a moment, but simply sighed and continued to watch Morgan.

  “I’ll be away only a few days,” Morgan said in an attempt to make conversation. “When I return, we’ll start in on the library again.” Some weeks earlier, at the old man’s request, he had begun the monumental task of cataloging his grandfather’s vast, magnificent library.

  “It’s not the library I’m concerned about, as I’m sure you know,” said Richard Nelson, his pale hazel eyes regarding Morgan with a worried expression. After a slight delay, he went on. “Belfast is not friendly to the Young Ireland movement these days, I’m told.”

  Morgan continued his packing. “Nor is Dublin, for that matter.”

  “That’s quite true, but at least in Dublin you have friends among your enemies.”

  Morgan said nothing.

  For a few moments the old man was silent. At last he said, “I had hoped you might separate from these…Young Ireland people altogether. You’ve already distanced yourself from some of their politics.”

  Morgan straightened and turned to face the old man, who was now leaning forward, his thin hands clinging tightly to the chair arms. “You told me you respect much of what Smith O’Brien is attempting to do within the movement. And I happen to know that you like and admire him as a person. He is the reason I’m going to Belfast.”

  Richard Nelson drew his mouth into a disapproving line. “You are going as his bodyguard.”

  Surprised at the old man’s perception, Morgan attempted a dry laugh. “I would hope you’ll not say such a thing to Smith O’Brien. He has enough worries without being told he needs someone to guard his back.”

  “The young fool needs more than protection these days!” His grandfather’s hands were white-knuckled on the arms of the chair. “He needs to choose his place and stick to it. O’Brien is trying to be all things to all people, and if he isn’t careful he’s going to spread himself so thin he’ll accomplish nothing.”

  Morgan made no reply, but in truth he feared that the old man might be right. In a deliberate move to change the subject, he sat down on the edge of the bed, saying, “You haven’t told me the news from your talk with Clarendon.”

  The fourth Earl of Clarendon, an old friend of Richard Nelson’s, had reluctantly accepted the Lord-Lieutenancy of Ireland this past summer. His grandfather made no secret of the fact, however, that he held no real faith in his friend’s ability to help the country.

  “There is no good news, that much is certain,” Richard Nelson replied sourly. “Had it not been for the panic in the money market, things might have improved by now. There was a sizable sum earmarked for Ireland last summer, you know. But our esteemed Chancellor of the Exchequer now claims that England is dangerously short of money, thanks to the panic, and there will be no funds forthcoming for Ireland’s relief.”

  Morgan uttered a sound of disgust. “There is never enough money for Ireland, so it would seem. It would have made no difference, had there been no financial panic. Wood and Trevelyan would have simply found another excuse—anything to avoid saving the Irish.”

  His grandfather nodded. “Clarendon is in a state about things. He admits to the Irish people’s despair, feels England has pushed them too far. With such widespread hatred and desperation, he thinks a rising is a real possibility. He says there’s been an alarming number of landlord assassinations everywhere, even some mutilations.”

  Morgan grimaced but said nothing. He didn’t condone the acts, but he understood all too well the desperation behind them.

  “Clarendon is convinced the murders are part of a planned rebellion,” his grandfather went on. “He says the idea is to frighten the landlords enough that they’ll simply give up on the land and leave, allowing the tenants to win by default. He’s beside himself with worry. He even went so far as to request an Act of ‘Extraordinary Powers’ to impose fines and prohibit the holding of arms.”

  Morgan looked up.

  Nodding, his grandfather explained. “Oh, his request was turned down, of course. The Prime Minister isn’t about to give the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland excessive authority. Clarendon, by the way, is threatening to resign.”

  Morgan pushed both long arms straight out, bracing his hands on his knees. “Clarendon’s fears about a planned rebellion are without foundation, in any event. The people are in no condition to manage their own survival, much less a national rising.”

  His grandfather regarded him with a measuring look. “Clarendon believes the plans are being made by Young Ireland, not the people.”

  Morgan shook his head, then got to his feet. “O’Brien has retreated from all talk of a rising.”

  “But Mitchel and the others have not,” the old man pointed out sharply. “And it would seem that many are listening to them.”

  Morgan gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “There are even more who listen to you, Morgan. And your voice is sorely needed in Ireland. Don’t…endanger yourself.”

  Morgan gave a wry smile. “I fear words on education and peacemaking are not the popular thing these days. The Irish have ever had a
fierce love for rebel verse and inflammatory essays. And,” he said ruefully, “I must admit to having written my share of both.”

  “The times are different now,” the old man insisted. “The need today is for caution and reason.”

  Morgan looked at him, still smiling. “Ah, but the sons of Eire have never been fond of either, now have they, Grandfather?”

  15

  Binding Wounds and Broken Hearts

  The dwellings of the virtuous poor,

  The homes of poverty,

  Are sacred in the sight of God,

  Though humble they may be.

  ELIZABETH WILLOUGHBY VARIAN (“FINOLA”) 1830–1903

  New York City

  Daniel had been working for Dr. Grafton for over a month, but Monday marked his first time to accompany the physician to Five Points.

  With the help of Pastor Jess Dalton, a weekly clinic had been established in the notorious slum. His congregation had reluctantly agreed to rent two rooms above Duke Neeson’s pub until such a time as an entire building could be located for the use of the mission.

  It had taken the pastor’s intervention to convince the mission committee, but they finally agreed that using rooms over a pub for medical treatment of the poor was a viable alternative to having no facilities at all. From now on, Dr. Grafton would take turns with other volunteer physicians, treating walk-in patients and, as time allowed, making calls on some patients known to be bedfast or simply too ill to visit the clinic.

  Arriving immediately after school, Daniel soon realized that the mission clinic would undoubtedly be his most hectic—and most distressing—experience as the doctor’s helper. Both Uncle Mike and Tierney had warned him about Five Points, of course, and Pastor Dalton also had tried to tell him what to expect. But all their combined descriptions and warnings fell far short of the gruesome reality of the vicious slum.

  Not since leaving the devastation of his homeland had Daniel been forced to confront such abject suffering, such unmitigated despair. Those who came to the mission clinic were not only ill and destitute; most were illiterate and wretchedly dirty. All seemed sad beyond imagining.

  In a grim way, Daniel’s former experience with the suffering and misery in his home village now worked to his advantage. Because of the horrors he had endured in Ireland—and on the coffin ship that had brought them to America—he could confront the agony of Five Points without revulsion.

  In addition, Dr. Grafton’s skill and willingness to teach made the clinic experience far more positive than it might have been otherwise. In his entire life, Daniel had known only two physicians: Dr. Browne in the village, a good man but sorely limited by a lack of proper equipment and medicines; and Dr. Leary, the surgeon aboard the Green Flag, a sad, drunken individual who had committed suicide at the end of the voyage. Limited as his experience had been, Daniel knew that Dr. Grafton was a fine physician—skilled, conscientious, and caring. It thrilled him to watch the doctor work, knowing he was learning in the process.

  Today he seemed destined to learn more than his mind could take in all at once. In the two hours since he had arrived, the doctor had treated three boils, a baby with a scalded hand, an old man with a broken wrist, a young boy with a gunshot wound, and two cases of scarlet fever.

  And the patients were still lined up in the hallway, waiting. In the midst of applying a poultice to a young mother’s ulcerated arm, Dr. Grafton fretted aloud about the impossibility of the situation. “Why, we could bring them in for another two days straight and still not attend to everybody out there! And there are calls yet to make with Pastor Dalton.”

  Daniel nodded, feeling no less overwhelmed by the enormity of their task. He had seen for himself the milling lines of the ill and pain-wracked in the hallway and wondered how on earth so many had managed to pack themselves into the small, gloomy space.

  Just then, Pastor Dalton stepped into the room and came to stand close by. “You didn’t come down here alone, did you, son?” he asked, giving Daniel’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

  “No, sir, Uncle Mike wouldn’t let me. He and Officer Price gave me a ride in the Black Maria.”

  The pastor nodded. “Good, good. It’s no place to venture alone—I don’t allow my son to come by himself either.” Turning back to Dr. Grafton, the pastor said, “I can accompany you on calls whenever you’re ready, Nicholas. It’s getting late.”

  The doctor looked up with a frown of frustration. “I can’t leave now! You saw that crowd in the hallway.”

  The pastor nodded. “But you can’t possibly treat them all in one afternoon.”

  Dr. Grafton removed his spectacles for a moment to rub the bridge of his nose. “We’ve simply got to have more help, Pastor,” he said wearily, replacing his eyeglasses. “The situation down here is a nightmare. A few hours a week doesn’t even begin to make a difference!”

  As he spoke, he carefully lowered the sleeve of his patient, then helped the pale young woman to her feet. “Now don’t forget, Peggy, you must change these applications twice a day.” His voice was firm but kind. “I’m sending plenty of lint pieces along with you; just apply the bread-and-milk poultice as I showed you, and then cover it with lint. Be sure to keep it clean—that’s important.”

  The young mother stared at him incredulously. “Sure, and we’ve no bread or milk for the babies, Doctor, much less for a sore arm!”

  Dr. Grafton stared back at her, an angry flush rising to spread across his noble features. “Yes. Yes, of course, I should have realized. Well, then,” he muttered, fumbling inside his medical case, “take this.” At her blank look, he stopped to explain. “It’s a mild solution of nitric acid, to soak the lint pieces in. What you do is to soak each piece in a small amount of the solution and then apply them to the sore. And I want to see you here again next week.”

  “I have no money, that’s the thing,” the woman said softly, looking down at the floor.

  “You’re not to concern yourself with that. Just you be here next week so I can see how you’re doing.” When she didn’t answer, he pressed his face closer to hers, searching her eyes. “Peggy?”

  The young woman nodded. Before hurrying out the door, she darted a quick, grateful smile over her shoulder.

  A collective wail went up in the hallway when Pastor Dalton informed the waiting patients they could not be seen until next week. Many grumbled angrily, while others only sighed, as if being put off was nothing new to them. Within a few moments they began to disperse.

  As soon as the hallway was cleared, Daniel left the mission room with the doctor and Pastor Dalton, heading for the dismal streets of Five Points.

  “Is your Uncle Mike still nearby?” the pastor asked Daniel once they were outside.

  “Oh no, sir, he had special duty at the Astor Place Opera House tonight. For the opening, you see.”

  “Ah, yes,” the pastor said, nodding. “Tonight is to be quite a lavish evening for New York society.”

  Daniel was uncomfortably reminded that the night was not only special for the society folk. His mother would be there, too, thanks to Mr. Farmington. In addition to supplying tickets for her and Evan Whittaker, he had even provided a carriage for them to ride in!

  Daniel had concealed his uneasy surprise, had even managed to pretend a pleasure he did not feel when his mother first told him about the opera. His unsettled feelings had nothing to do with Evan Whittaker. Daniel was more than fond of Evan—indeed, he counted him a close, true friend. Nevertheless, his reaction to his mother’s excited announcement had been fraught with conflicting feelings.

  On the one hand, he was glad for her, pleased that she would have such a rare opportunity. On the other hand, however, he was seized with an odd sort of apprehension that she would be spending the evening with a man other than Uncle Mike. She was already spoken for, after all.

  Spoken for, but not promised…

  Why should that fact distress him so? He was getting as bad as Tierney fretting over the relationship between his m
other and Uncle Mike. And wasn’t he the one defending her more often than not those times when Tierney happened to make an impatient remark about her keeping his da “at arms’ length”?

  Tierney. Wouldn’t he be fit to be tied if he learned about this business of the opera? And there was an uncomfortably good chance that he would, what with Uncle Mike assigned to duty at the Opera House. If he should see Mother and Evan, then there was no hope of keeping it from Tierney.

  As they trudged down one of the filthy, dark alleys off Paradise Square, Daniel told himself he was being foolish. Even if Uncle Mike didn’t happen upon them tonight, his mother was too excited not to mention her experience. Perhaps she already had.

  Stumbling over a loose stone in the street, Daniel twisted his ankle, but went on before the pastor or Dr. Grafton noticed. He winced, not from the pain in his ankle, but from the thought of how angry Tierney would be if he learned about the opera.

  Tierney was determined that his da and Daniel’s mother would wed. Why, he had virtually planned it all out in his mind before they ever stepped foot on American soil!

  That was his way: Once he got an idea in his head, he would not stop until he saw it through to completion. If it occurred to him that events might not work out as he planned, he merely brushed the thought aside and tried a bit harder.

  Stubbornness, Daniel thought with a grim twist of his mouth, is one of the few things Tierney has in common with his da.

  It was nearing dusk by the time they reached their first house call, a rickety tenement on Cross Street. In front of the dilapidated building stood a number of young toughs with mean eyes and cruel mouths. When they made no move to let the doctor and his company pass by, Pastor Dalton simply parted them with a firm hand and a challenging smile.

  Upstairs, on the second floor, the pastor led them down a dim hallway reeking with noxious odors. He stopped at a dark, scabbed door hanging by a single hinge. “The little girl I want you to see is five years old,” the pastor told them, his voice low. “She’s been extremely ill for weeks. Her name is Ellie—”