The Daughters of Jim Farrell

by Sylvia Bambola

  Oh, God, keep Patrick from further folly. And please don’t let Superintendent Foley die.

  Virginia hurried to the library and scribbled a note, then rushed down the stairs, passed the front parlor where several of the boarders were still discussing the morning’s news. And before anyone could see her, she darted out the door heading for Main Street and Michael O’Malley.

  Though the wind was warm, Virginia clutched her hooded cloak as she tried to avoid the dips and holes in the narrow footpath. The hovering shadows and red sky told her little daylight remained. She quickened her pace. She wanted to reach the church before dark, and before the rain came. Even now she could smell it in the air. Any minute the heavens were sure to open.

  But this was madness, heading for Higgins Patch at this hour! She had tried to leave earlier. But dinner and dishes had taken longer than usual. And when finally done, she had donned her brown broadcloth cloak, then darted out the kitchen door mumbling something about taking a walk.

  What was she going to tell her mother and sisters when she returned? How was she to explain where she had been, and why? Oh, she couldn’t think of that now. Best to think about how to dissuade Patrick from doing more harm. But would he even be there? He never replied to her note. Perhaps there just hadn’t been time. Still . . . what if . . . .

  Thunder rumbled in the distance as an owl screeched in one of the nearby trees. The wind had picked up, and now whipped her cloak, flapping it like wings. And when she reached the church, she felt a sense of dread as she peered through the dim light and saw that the grounds were deserted.

  Should she wait? Maybe . . . yes, certainly . . . but only for a minute or two. As she gathered her cloak around her, she heard a familiar voice and saw a man step from the shadows of the arched portico.

  “Jenny? Is that you, lass?”

  Though it had started to rain, Virginia removed her hood as the figure approached. “Patrick, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “What has happened to make you come like this?” His voice was laden with concern as he led her to the shelter of the portico. He smelled of sweat and coal dust, and his dirty black overalls and heavy black boots made him nearly invisible in the ever growing darkness. “Why have you come, lass?” he repeated.

  “Superintendent Foley. Oh, Patrick, if he dies they’ll hunt you down like a dog.”

  “And why would anyone be doin’ that?” He leaned closer as if to better see her in the fading light. “Ah . . . so that’s it. Well, put your mind at ease. It wasn’t us that done it. We had no hand in the Foley beatin’.”

  “We? So . . . it’s true. You are one of them . . . a Molly.”

  “Be certain you want to know a thing before you ask, Jenny, for I’ve already told you I’ll hold nothin’ back from you. I’ll speak plainly, and I’ll speak true.”

  Virginia’s insides quivered as she leaned against one of the arches. “Are you . . . part of the Molly Maguires, Patrick?”

  “If you’re thinkin’ there’s some sort of organized group by that name, you’d be wrong. But if you’re askin’ if I’m one of many men who want to improve conditions in the mines, if I believe in retributive justice, and that more wealth should be redistributed so working men can live like human beings, and if you’re askin’ if I’m willin to use force to accomplish it all, then yes, I’m a Molly.”

  Virginia’s breath caught. “Have you ever . . . ?”

  “Killed anyone?” Patrick put his arm around Virginia’s waist and drew her closer. “No, my sweet lass. I’ve derailed a coal car or two in my time. Even wrote a few coffin notices for them that couldn’t write. But I’ve never taken a life.”

  “If you want to change things why not work through the WBA? Like your friend at the Monitor?”

  Patrick released her and began pacing. “Open your eyes, Jenny! Look at what the railroad is doin’ to coal country. It’s clear they mean to own everything before they’re done. Don’t you see the writin’ on the wall? Gowen is already goin’ after the WBA. And that’s not me talkin’, neither, that’s from my friend at the Monitor, who like you, always thought he could win by peaceable means. But now even he believes that sooner or later, Gowen, with the full power of the railroad behind him, will try to crush the union.”

  “No matter what you say, you can’t justify violence, Patrick. You must work within the confines of the law.”

  “The law?” The rain was falling harder now and pounded the roof of the portico. “You mean the Coal and Iron Police? The ones that crack a boy’s knuckles for tryin’ to earn a livin’ by collectin’ a few bags of coal from the culm pile? Or throw a man and his family out of their home for accusin’ the company store of cheatin’ ‘em by not deductin’ all they had paid on their bill? That law?”

  “Oh, Patrick, I don’t want to argue. I just want you to be careful. You must not try to avenge your friends.” She quickly told him about the article she was writing. “Wait it out. Give my pen, and the pen of others, a chance to change things.”

  Patrick stopped pacing and stood staring through the archway into the night. “You have a good heart, and you mean well, and what you’re doin’ might help some, I’m not sayin’ it won’t, but you’ve never been hungry, Jenny, or cold, or desperate. You’ve never seen your wee ones with rat bites on their arms or die from the stinkin’ squalor they’re forced to live in. But I’ve seen plenty of it. And my people have seen plenty of it. Just how long must they wait?”

  Virginia stood beside him, listening to the water cascade off the roof and feeling its spray as it covered the open arch like a veil. “You overwhelm me, Patrick. And frighten me, too. You love with such intensity, but you hate with as much intensity, too. You’re like a wild man, capable of anything.”

  He turned and drew her so close Virginia felt the air from his nostrils brush her cheeks. “All I know is I love you, lass. And the kindness and concern you show me gives me hope that someday . . . you’ll be strong enough to admit that you love me, too. It’s what I live for. And I’ll not be doin’ anythin’ to spoil it. You have me word on that. Me and the other Mollies will not be makin’ trouble. I’ll see to it. And I’ll see to it that the one who did this will not be doin’ any more damage.”

  “You know who did it? Who nearly beat Superintendent Foley to death?”

  “I might.”

  “Then you must report him to the authorities. You must tell what you know.”

  “What manner of man would turn on his own? I’ll not be doin’ that, for sure, Jenny, and I’ll not hear another word on the matter. We, in Higgins Patch, handle our own affairs.”

  The rain had slowed, though it still made a soft pitter-patter noise on the roof. It was useless to push the matter further and Virginia needed to get home. Patrick had already given her his word that he had no hand in injuring Superintendent Foley. He had also promised there would be no further trouble. And she knew she could count on his word. If he really knew who assaulted Superintendent Foley, perhaps in time he’d be willing to bring him to justice. It was something she’d pray for, but now she was content he had no hand in the Foley matter. And that was no small thing.

  “Thank you, Patrick,” she whispered.

  Only a sliver of moonlight penetrated the archway, but it was enough to see the fire in Patrick’s eyes as he leaned closer and cupped her face in his large coal-stained hands. Without a word he tilted her chin upward, then kissed her. Virginia felt his love and passion flow through her, felt her heart stir, and just as she was about to put her arms around him, he dropped his hands, then gently drew the brown hood over her head.

  “I’ll be walkin’ you home now, and no use arguin’. And when I see that you’re safe, I’ll leave, though to be sure it will grieve me to part from you.”

  And so they stepped out into the dark, damp night.

  Virginia didn’t realized how long it had taken to get from the chu
rch to her house until she saw that all the windows were dark except for those in the front parlor. Just how many hours had she been with Patrick, anyway? It’s true, they had walked like snails, as though neither wanted to reach their destination. And it’s true they had stopped numerous times along the way and just stood on the dirt path, she listening, he talking—telling stories about the old country: what it was like growing up in a family of ten in County Donegal, its limestone cliffs, the smell of the bogs, the rocky soil that wasn’t much good for farming but fine for raising sheep.

  He spoke of how his father, and his brother, Tom, who was only five at the time, left Donegal eight years before Patrick was even born, to work in the mines of Wales and England, and how they sent money home every month, but only managed to come themselves once a year. He talked about the poverty, how most nights he and his mother, his brothers and sisters, had only potato mush to eat, and how he would hunt red deer or rabbits to help feed them; how when he was twelve, he finally joined his father and brother in England and worked as a butty, carrying tools and equipment for the miners, and helped shovel several tons of coal into railcars each day. He described how his brother, Tom, met Mary, and after a few years wanted to take his young family and Patrick to America where there was more opportunity, and ended up settling in Schuylkill County; and how it was another seven years before Patrick could join him because their father had come down with miner’s asthma and Patrick didn’t want to leave him, so worked by his side then tended him while he was dying.

  But there was a noticeable hardness in Patrick’s voice when he spoke of how he had not wasted those years in England, but had learned to be a top notch miner, skilled in setting props, and drilling and blasting coal, and how when he came here his skills didn’t mean anything because all those jobs were given to the Welsh and English, and the only work he could get was the same work he did as a butty when he was twelve years old. His stories had made her both laugh and cry.

  Now, as she climbed the steps to her house, while Patrick remained on the path below, she realized they must have been talking for a very long time. She braced herself for what lay ahead, then opened the front door and tiptoed inside. She wondered who was in the parlor, and found herself hoping it was anyone but Kate. By the time she took off her damp cloak and hung it on the corner rack, the parlor door opened and there was Kate, fully dressed, standing with her hands on her hips.

  “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick! Only this past hour was I able to persuade Mother to drink some hot milk and go to bed, though I had to promise I’d wait up, and if you weren’t home by midnight, I’d wake both her and Charlotte, and then we’d all go looking for you. I’ve rarely seen her so upset.”

  “What time is it?”

  “After eleven!”

  Virginia shook her head. “No, it can’t be. Not that late, surely.” She followed Kate into the large front parlor, surprised to see the overhead crystal chandelier lit. Its light, bouncing off the two giant pier-mirrors between the windows, made it painfully clear that Virginia’s muddy boots were leaving a trail of dirt across Mother’s prize English loom carpet. But she dared not stop for Kate was too angry. So she tried walking on tiptoes as she maneuvered her way around half a dozen chairs, two marble-top tables and their piano from Paris. Her breath caught when the small clock on the thick marble mantel sounded eleven-thirty. She realized, for the first time, the heartache she had caused her family.

  “Oh, Virginia,” Kate said, taking her sister’s hand when they settled on the moss-green sofa by the fireplace. “What is going on with you? You are normally so sensible.”

  “I had to see Patrick O’Brien. To find out if he had any hand in the Foley matter.”

  “And did he?”

  “No, and I believe him, Kate.” Virginia looked at her sister, wanting desperately for her to say she believed him, too.

  But Kate just sighed. “I suppose that was Patrick I saw from the window.”

  “It was. He wouldn’t hear of me walking home alone in the dark.”

  “Yes . . . that was thoughtful, but did it have to take so long?”

  “I know. Time . . . well, it just got away from us. He started talking, and oh, my, how that man can talk! He told me about Donegal and his childhood, and . . .well here it is eleven-thirty. I’m so sorry, truly. I never meant to worry anyone.”

  “You’ll have to face Mother in the morning.”

  “I know.”

  “But she’s always liked the O’Briens, so I doubt she’ll say much, though you gave her an awful fright.”

  “But you don’t, do you? Like Patrick, I mean.”

  “Does it matter?” Kate frowned. “You don’t care for this man, do you? I mean really care for him? You haven’t gone and lost your heart now, have you?”

  “No . . . no . . . of course not. But he’s a decent person, Kate, though a complicated one. And this I must tell you so you understand that I’m not hiding anything or covering for him . . . you were right. He is a Molly. He told me so himself. Still, believe me when I say I have nothing to fear. I ask you to trust me in this.” Virginia leaned her head against her sister’s shoulder, suddenly feeling very tired. “But he sees things so differently than we do. He believes violence is justified in the face of injustice.”

  “Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

  “Yes . . . but we haven’t lived his life or walked in his shoes. Is it right to judge him? I fear having to scrape and scratch for everything has made Patrick bitter. But perhaps we would be, too, if our lives were as hard as his.”

  “That’s a poor excuse. Many people face hardship and don’t turn to violence. We must be a nation of laws or crumble into chaos. Might can never make right, nor fists rule the day. I’ve been reading your articles, Virginia, and I . . . .”

  “You have?”

  “Well, what I’m trying to say is that your articles have pricked my heart. They have brought home what we’ve known all along, that life in coal country is hard. It’s a fine thing you’re doing, Virginia. We all need our hearts pricked from time to time. But if Patrick wants to change things, let him do it peacefully. It’s time to break the cycle of violence. Time for both sides, labor and management, to settle their differences, to make peace and forgive the sins of the past.”

  Virginia removed her head from her sister’s shoulder. “You can say that with a straight face?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you forgiven? Have you forgiven the sins of the past? Forgiven the people of this town for what they did to Father?” And by the look on Kate’s face, Virginia knew the answer was “no.”

  Kate was stunned when the invitation arrived; delivered to their door by a footman. Written on small, expensive linen notepaper and stamped with Benjamin Gaylord’s monogram, it requested the pleasure of Mrs. James Farrell, Miss Kate Farrell, Miss Virginia Farrell, Miss Charlotte Farrell and Mr. Joshua Adams’ company at a formal dinner party a week from Saturday. And as soon as it was read the tears and squabbling began, with Kate finding herself in the middle. At times like this she hated being the eldest.

  “Just tell me again why you don’t want to go, Virginia,” Charlotte said, clutching the mantel of their back parlor fireplace with one hand while holding a handkerchief, dampened with tears, in the other. “Don’t you see that by inviting all of us, even our cousin, Benjamin means to make amends? That he is extending an olive branch and saying he wishes to put aside our differences? If you don’t go, it will be a slap in his face; a clear rejection of his kind overture.”

  “I really don’t think I’d be very welcome. My new article for the Monitor is coming out tomorrow, and is sure to vex your Mr. Gaylord and many of his guests. It’s best for all concerned that I don’t attend. I think only of you, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Kate, tell her it’s not true. Benjamin has swall
owed his pride in extending this invitation. He well knows Virginia’s involvement with the Monitor and that their sentiments differ greatly. Please tell her that to refuse would be a gross insult.”

  “Well . . . .”

  “Oh, I know you think I’m foolish for still wanting Benjamin after all he’s said, and even after what Mr. Adams told us about the Gaylords. But I still love him, Kate, though I’m not as impressed with his family as I once was. Nor will they be able to influence me to the extent they once did. But that doesn’t negate Benjamin’s fine qualities. In the end, I suppose we can’t always help who we love.” Charlotte left the fireplace and settle in a nearby chair. “Can’t you both see how important this is to me?”

  Kate sighed. How was she to resolve this? Like Virginia, she, too, would prefer not to go, but for different reasons. She had no desire to socialize with the likes of Martin Roach or any of the other prominent citizens sure to be there. Still . . . her heart went out to Charlotte.

  “I do know how important this is to you, Charlotte. But you must understand Virginia’s position. Her new article will anger those associated with the railroad.” Virginia had let Kate read her last article before sending it off with Michael O’Malley. “It will put her and many of Benjamin’s guests in an uncomfortable, perhaps even contentious, position. And I must confess, I’m not eager to be in the company of some who will be guests that night. But I understand your dilemma, too, Charlotte. You hope to win back the man you love, a man who has humbled himself with this gesture. So, for your sake, dear, I shall go.” She turned to Virginia. “And I hope you will, too.”

  As Virginia rested her elbows on the arm of the chair and tented her fingers, Kate could see the struggle going on within her. “You’re right, Charlotte, we cannot always help who we fall in love with. And I don’t want to do anything to spoil your opportunity to mend things with your Mr. Gaylord. So, yes, I’ll go, too.”