by BJ Hoff
Rossiter, the bookkeeper for numerous Walsh businesses, served as a middleman between Patrick and the brokers who sold steerage lists from the immigrant ships. Charlie Egan, a food inspector who had been on the Walsh payroll for nearly four years, acted as manager for the Irish runners, who herded the immigrants off the ships, then delivered them to selected tenement houses in Five Points. Houses owned, as it happened, by Patrick Walsh.
The hotel, middle-class and respectable, proved an ideal place for Rossiter and Egan to funnel the steerage lists back and forth from the brokers. In addition, the safe in the hotel office served as a temporary “bank” for the operation’s continuous flow of cash.
In one of Patrick Walsh’s most lucrative ventures, thousands of dollars passed over the hotel desk every month, under the unsuspecting eyes of Tierney Burke. Walsh was beginning to wonder if it might not prove interesting to test the boy, find out exactly what he was made of and if he were worth grooming for bigger things.
Patrick considered the envelope in his hand. After a moment, he looked up, then tapped on the window and motioned the boy inside.
In the bright winter sunlight flooding his employer’s study, Tierney Burke stood, cap in hand, waiting.
Walsh was taking his time coming to the point. Seated behind a gleaming, massive desk, he appeared relaxed and confident, as always. As he studied Tierney, his long, narrow fingers danced idly on an envelope in front of him.
“I’ve already told you I’m pleased with your work,” he said matter-of-factly “Both at the hotel, and here, at the house.”
Unsure as to what was expected of him, Tierney merely inclined his head, saying, “Thank you, sir.”
“Your father must be very proud of you,” Walsh went on. He flashed a tight, fleeting smile that was gone before it ever reached his eyes. “We Irish set great store by good sons.”
His remark caught Tierney by surprise. Walsh seldom referred to his own Irish roots. Indeed, the one thing that made the man suspect in Tierney’s eyes was his blatant disavowal of his Irishness. Still uncertain how he should respond, he gave another small nod and a guarded smile.
“I believe in rewarding an employee for work well done,” Walsh said, handing the envelope to Tierney. “You can think of this as a bonus—a Christmas gift. This time of year, a young fellow like yourself can use a bit of extra cash, I should think.”
Surprised, Tierney stared at the envelope for only an instant before accepting it. “Thank you, sir! That’s very generous of you, I’m sure.”
Walsh waved away his thanks. “You’ve earned it.” With the impassive, measuring gaze that Tierney had by now grown used to, his employer continued his scrutiny.
Walsh’s eyes were a pale, peculiar shade of hazel that in the natural light of day looked almost opaque. He had the long upper lip of the Irish, but otherwise his features bore no hint of his Celtic origins. His nose was straight and narrow, his mouth thin and somewhat cynical—giving him the impression of a continual sneer.
The light in the room faded to a less startling brightness as clouds moved across the winter sun. Shadows played over Walsh’s face, changing his features to a cold, unpleasant mask. Tierney felt a momentary chill at the transformation. Walsh was a cold, hard man, he had no doubt. He had seen through his employer’s agreeable, good-natured facade early in their relationship. The man was a fraud. Yet he did not actually dislike Patrick Walsh. While he might be a disappointment as a person, as an employer he could be tolerant and even generous.
Sensing that Walsh had more on his mind than presenting him with a Christmas bonus, Tierney planted his legs a bit more firmly, waiting.
“What are you planning to do with your life, boy?” Walsh asked unexpectedly. “You’re reaching the age to make some plans, I should think. How old are you now—sixteen? Seventeen?”
“Fifteen, sir.”
Walsh’s eyebrows lifted. “I’d have taken you to be older. Well, then, perhaps you’re too young to have ambitions after all.”
“No, sir.” Tierney dropped the envelope into his pocket and linked both hands behind his back. “I have plans.”
“Career plans?”
“Eventually. First off, I intend to go to Ireland. When I can raise the money.”
Walsh sat forward, his fingertips touching to form an arch on the desk in front of him as he regarded Tierney with a thin-lipped smile. “To live? Or just to search out your roots?”
“Both, sir.”
Walsh shifted his gaze to his fingers. “I assume you’ve a reason. Most folks are bent on leaving Ireland these days, not going for a stay.”
“Aye, and things will not improve as long as that’s the case.” Tierney’s eyes flashed.
Walsh lifted his face, and Tierney caught a glimpse of amusement. Angered, the boy looked away.
“Don’t be too quick to condemn all Irishmen for leaving, Tierney. There’s more than one way to help the country, you know.”
Tierney looked back to his employer. Walsh was smiling, but it was not the disdainful smile of a moment before.
“Leaving Ireland doesn’t always mean abandoning her entirely,” Walsh said. He spoke slowly, as if measuring his words with care. “Some of us choose to make a difference from over here. We can make a great deal more money in America than we ever could in Ireland. That being the case, there’s nothing to say we can’t use a bit of that money to help the country. Some of us, like your father and I, chose a different way. That doesn’t necessarily make it the wrong way.”
Tierney attempted to hide his impatience. “My father is a policeman, sir. There’s little left over to send to Ireland, if we’re to live. Da is one Irishman who won’t be getting rich in America.”
Walsh lifted one brow, still smiling. “But some of us will,” he said quietly.
Tierney looked at him.
“I’m keeping you from your work,” Walsh said briskly, pushing himself back from the desk and getting to his feet. “Perhaps after the holidays we can talk more about your plans. I can’t help but admire your ambition, and if you’re really set on getting to Ireland, you’re going to need some money. Who knows, we may come up with a job with more—responsibility—for you in a few weeks. Something that will pay better than clerking at the hotel.”
Walsh walked around the desk and started toward the door, making it clear that his young employee was dismissed.
On the way out, he threw an arm around Tierney’s shoulders. “Now, I want you to treat that father of yours to a nice gift for Christmas. He may not make a lot of money as a policeman, but it’s not because he doesn’t deserve more! I, for one, have the greatest admiration for our police force.”
For the first time since going to work for Patrick Walsh, Tierney squirmed beneath the man’s touch.
Going back around the house, Tierney hoisted the shovel and resumed clearing the walk. He was keenly aware of the envelope in his pocket and chafed to know the amount within. But Walsh might be watching, and he was unwilling for the man to see his eagerness. The envelope would keep.
This was the first time Walsh had behaved in such an odd fashion, asking Tierney personal questions and speaking openly of his own Irishness—even hinting that he believed in helping the old country with gifts of American-made money!
What, then, accounted for his own feelings of suspicion and annoyance? Why had he been so put off, even uncomfortable, with the man’s questions?
Partially, Tierney supposed, it was because he did not trust Walsh’s sincerity. His instincts told him that Patrick Walsh was interested in little other than himself and in making more money. Nor did he swallow that ridiculous tale about helping Ireland. Walsh was too eager to forget where he came from—and to have everyone else forget it, as well. That kind of Irishman didn’t send money back.
But what bothered him most, Tierney realized, was the fact that the man had obviously been patronizing him. From the moment the conversation had shifted to Tierney’s interest in Ireland, there had been a gli
nt of contempt, a hint of mockery in Walsh’s manner that even now set Tierney’s teeth on edge.
Uneasily, he realized that his employer’s actions had caused a seed of distrust to take root, a seed planted earlier by his father. Da continued to insist that Patrick Walsh’s reputation was not what it might be, that a number of his “business interests” were suspect. He made no secret of the fact that he questioned the man’s phenomenal rise to success, what with Walsh being an Irishman in a city where the Irish seldom rose above the police force or the fire department.
It was a rare thing, indeed, for Tierney to concede the possibility that his father might be right. They seemed to disagree on everything lately, from what to have for breakfast all the way to politics and religion.
But he resented Walsh’s probing and his condescending manner. The look in his employer’s eye when he referred to Da and the police force had been patent contempt.
Tightening his jaw, Tierney flung another scoop of snow into the yard, stepping up his pace to get the job done. He and Da might have their differences—and in truth, they seemed to have a growing number of them—but it was another thing entirely to think that an orange-blooded Irisher like Patrick Walsh might dare to mock them.
Tierney thought again of the envelope in his pocket and its enticing contents. Walsh had said to get his da a Christmas gift, and so he would. What with the sum he already had stashed in the sock under his pillow, this unexpected bonus should give him enough to buy gifts all round.
He already had a fine knife picked out for Da. And he’d get Daniel a gift, too.
The thought of Daniel made Tierney wince, remembering the terrible row they’d had the night Da had run into Nora and the Englishman at the Opera House.
It wasn’t Daniel’s fault, of course, but Tierney was still steamed with Nora. He’d lost his temper and said some pretty rough things to Daniel about his mother. But what Daniel didn’t seem to realize, or refused to admit, was the hurt Nora had brought upon Da.
He wished now he hadn’t blown up as he had, and he was eager to set things right between himself and Daniel before Christmas. Perhaps the right Christmas gift would help break the ice.
He’d get a present for a few others as well, like wee Tom Fitzgerald, the poor, long-faced little tyke. He was soft toward both those Fitzgerald kids, and that was the truth.
Especially Johanna—Johanna with the sad eyes and silent voice. Tierney could make her smile well enough, could sometimes evoke a strange, voiceless laugh from her. He liked that. Somehow, it made him feel a man.
Aye, for Johanna he would buy a silk scarf. Something bright that would make her sad eyes smile.
“Hello, Tierney.”
Tierney tightened his jaw and went on shoveling, digging at the walk a little more vigorously. He did not look up, but he was irritably aware of Isabel Walsh standing nearby, watching him.
He knew only too well that his employer’s twelve-year-old daughter had a fierce crush on him. To date, Tierney had not worked a Saturday but what the lumpy Isabel, who seemed to have inherited all her mother’s worst features, did not make a nuisance of herself at least once.
It was all Tierney could do not to be insulting. Something about the girl set his teeth to grinding. Indeed, all Isabel had to do was say his name, and he wanted to spit. He tried his best to avoid her whenever possible.
But here she was, decked out in one of those abominable fur-trimmed coats that made her look for all the world like a stuffed beaver. Balanced precariously on top of her fat sausage curls was one of those silly little plumed hats that reminded Tierney of a dead goose.
The girl was usually overdressed in heavy, ornate finery like some sort of European princess. Yet, like Mrs. Walsh, poor Isabel only managed to look squat and dull and frumpy in whatever she wore.
Tierney tried to be civil to both Walsh youngsters. Obviously, they were the darlings of their mother’s heart, although he had observed Mr. Walsh’s impatience with his children, especially with the fussy eight-year-old Henry.
He gave Isabel a cursory glance, pretending great interest in his work. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that she was holding a package, wrapped in shiny paper with bright ribbons tied around it. With dismay, Tierney knew at once it was for him.
“This is for you, Tierney,” said Isabel, thrusting the package at him. “It’s a Christmas present.” She had a reedy, staccato way of speaking that always made her sound out of breath, as if she’d just run up an entire flight of stairs.
Reluctantly, Tierney straightened. Leaning on his shovel, he fixed his gaze on the mangy brown plumes adorning Isabel’s hat.
“You oughtn’t to be giving me a Christmas present,” he said uncharitably. “I didn’t get you anything. Or Henry.”
Isabel stepped closer, extending her short arms straight out with the gift in front of her. “That doesn’t matter, Tierney. Henry and me—Henry and I—will get a lot of Christmas presents. You probably won’t, Mama says.”
“Indeed,” Tierney answered, straight-faced.
“Mama helped me pick it out,” Isabel droned on. “She knew I wanted to get you something special.”
“That was kind of her,” Tierney replied evenly, wondering what sort of contraption made those cigar-sized curls that stuck out all over her head. He reached for the gaily wrapped gift as if it were a toad. “Thank you and Merry Christmas to you,” he mumbled, immediately setting the gift down on the walk and hoisting his shovel. “I’d best get back to work now.”
Isabel stood staring at him a full five minutes more, indulging herself in a meaningless monologue as she watched him work. Tierney muttered in reply once or twice, paying no attention to her whatever. Finally, she went back inside.
Tierney drew a long sigh of relief. He could almost feel sorry for Patrick Walsh, although certainly his employer would not welcome his sympathy. Still, there was no getting around the fact that Walsh’s family fell far short of the man himself. Mrs. Walsh did seem a very kind woman and entirely devoted to her husband and children, but she wasn’t the least bit attractive. Walsh’s son was prissy and dull at best. And his daughter—well, sure, and that one would try any man’s good nature.
No wonder Walsh showed little enthusiasm for anything other than making money!
Well, and wasn’t it a fine thing to have money in the pocket, after all? Tierney could certainly appreciate the feeling. And now he had hopes of a job making even more!
Hoisting another shovelful of snow, he began to whistle. Christmas was coming, he had money in his pocket, and school was dismissed for the holidays. Tierney felt so good he could even allow himself to speculate on the contents of Isabel Walsh’s gift.
20
Tearing Down Walls
Have we not all one Father? Did not one God create us?
MALACHI 2:10
Arthur Jackson was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in New York City who wasn’t Irish.
He was staying in an Irish family’s home. Oh, the preacher said he was born in America, but he was mostly Irish, all the same. The strikers who had ganged up on him and the other black boys—they had been Irish, too, including the one who shot Arthur. Even the policemen who had jumped into the riot had been Irish.
Now here came a doctor named Grafton with a boy—his assistant, they said—named Daniel Kavanagh. The doctor talked normal enough, but his boy didn’t sound as if he was long off the boat.
His time in New York had taught Arthur that he should steer clear of the Irish, that they were the enemies and competitors of the blacks. But except for the strikers who had jumped him, all these strange Irishers were being so nice to him! It was hard to take, and pretty confusing to a black boy from Mississippi.
Never in his life had Arthur been touched by a doctor—until he got shot. And this one was a rich man’s doctor, you could tell. He wore a fine suit and had a watch fob hanging from his waistcoat. And he had an assistant—the Irish boy.
Arthur wondered briefly if these t
wo would still be so decent to him once Mrs. Dalton and Casey-Fitz were out of the bedroom.
But the doctor’s hands were gentle as he examined Arthur’s wound, then pressed the tender places around his back and ribs. He smiled a lot as he worked over him, as if he knew Arthur was skittish and wanted to reassure him.
The Irish boy also grinned at him now and then. Arthur wondered how a Paddy, and such a young one, managed to land a job with a gentleman doctor. This Daniel Kavanagh might be a little older than Arthur, but not by much, he’d judge. Still, he seemed to know what he was doing. He had all the tools and stuff ready and waiting, almost before the doctor told him what he wanted.
He must be awful smart, but where did an Irish boy get all that learning?
“Deep breath, Arthur. Again. Does that hurt?”
It hurt plenty, but Arthur just shrugged. His daddy had taught him not to whine about pain.
They had him sitting up in bed, which made his sides and chest hurt even more. The doctor pressed on a tender spot, and in spite of himself, Arthur yelped.
“Mm-hm,” was all the doctor said.
That must have meant something to the Kavanagh boy, too, because he frowned, just like the doctor. When he looked at Arthur again, though, he smiled.
Arthur let out a long breath of relief when the doctor finally helped him lie down.
“Your lung still has a ways to go before it’s all healed,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay in bed a while longer.”
“How come if I was shot in the back I hurt so bad in my chest, too?”
Smiling, the doctor closed up his black case. “Because part of your rib punched a hole in your lung. You’re very lucky that bullet didn’t go on through your heart.”
Arthur swallowed. He didn’t want to think about that.
There was a long, awkward pause between Arthur and the Irish boy after the doctor went downstairs to talk with Mrs. Dalton.
