CHAPTER 16
September 1846
A few days into September, Rory awakened at daybreak to the crunch of marching feet. He threw on his breeches and shirt and ran to the door.
Under an overcast sky, a detachment of dragoons and Constabulary officers tramped down the road toward the farms. With a glance, he judged that twenty-five to thirty men were headed toward the manor. The Constable of Belmullet, Edmond Davitt, who had questioned him about Sir Thomas’s shooting, led the way on his horse. The dreaded time had come.
Rory pounded on Jarlath’s door. His brother, swiping the sleep from his eyes, answered. “What’s going on?” Jarlath’s wife and son huddled, arms around one another, near the turf pit.
“They’re here!” Rory pointed up the road, and Jarlath gazed past his outstretched arm.
“By all the Saints,” Jarlath said as he eyed the men. “Hell has finally broken loose.”
“Try to slow them down—as we planned,” Rory said.
“I’ll do my best,” his brother replied, and then shouted to his wife and son to gather their belongings.
“I’ll get Brian.” He left his brother and sprinted down the lane past Lear House to the cottage, a faster path than jumping fences and potato ridges. His heart thumping, he looked back at the marching column of men and, trailing behind them, a large wagon pulled by two horses. That sight sent shivers racing over him because it meant the officers had come prepared to evict. He stumbled to the cottage door and threw it open to find Brian stooped in front of the turf fire.
“They’ve come!”
His father-in-law jerked his head toward him. “Blakely’s made good on his pledge.”
The waiting, the long discussions about eviction, had taken a toll on Brian. Rory could see the despair in the older man’s sunken eyes. His father-in-law had shriveled under the weight of losing his daughters and the manor. His sagging shoulders reflected his dejection.
Rory, Jarlath, and Brian had tried to formulate a plan for the remaining tenants, but no one knew exactly what to do. It wasn’t a question of surrender but of insufficient choices. Many had already fled looking for work. From letters coming back to Mayo, the tenants had learned that working conditions were as terrible in Dublin and in England as those in the county. The public works projects had been suspended because of government costs. Jobs were scarce everywhere.
With nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, his father-in-law had decided to stay at Lear House until he was forced to leave. At least he would be at home where he belonged. Only a few families were left now: Connor and his wife and children and many others had deserted the estate for what they hoped would be a better life in England. Rory had tried to convince Jarlath to leave, but his brother refused to desert him, saying they’d “be stronger together.” Only four other families remained, despairing of their situation but clinging to the small hope they could survive.
Brian remained seated, apparently in no hurry to confront the men. “We knew this day would come, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Come on,” Rory urged him. “Maybe they’ll listen to you—the landlord’s agent.”
Brian shrugged. “What can I do? Neither you nor I can fight an army. We must obey the law.”
His father-in-law slowly rose and clasped his hands behind his back. He seemed a faded remnant of his former self, as if he had already been defeated by the men who were coming to Lear House. The respect that Rory had always felt for Brian turned to pity. He was a man impoverished by age, lack of money and food, and most important the will to fight. Rory could see the specter of defeat in Brian’s eyes as he shuffled away from the fire.
“We can at least try to stop them,” Rory said.
Brian cornered him at the door. “Don’t be a damn fool. You’ll die. My grandchild needs a father.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t think he would do it. I hoped it would be different.”
His words pricked Rory like a needle, and he considered them wise, but what of the obligation to protect one’s home? Where did that responsibility end and forced subservience begin?
Brian put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to them,” he said. “Perhaps they’ll listen.”
Even as his father-in-law spoke, Rory knew there was nothing either of them could do other than save what they could from their homes, like the pistol still hidden in his bag; he couldn’t let the soldiers get the weapon.
They trudged to a stop in front of Lear House. Jarlath, his shirt hanging over his breeches, walked beside Davitt’s horse. The officer ignored his pleas to stop their march. The constable held up his hand, pulled the chestnut mare to a halt, and dismounted.
“Good morning,” Davitt said in a cordial tone and looked at Rory. “Mr. Caulfield, as I recall. . . .” He cocked his head and continued, “I’m sorry I couldn’t personally receive the information you provided about the incident at Lear House, but I was away on business. The possible suspect has not been found. The investigation remains in force.” He directed his gaze at Brian. “And, sir, you are?”
“Mr. Brian Walsh, the landlord’s agent.” He extended his hand, and Davitt shook it.
The constable lifted a rolled paper from a brown saddlebag strapped to his horse and handed the document to Brian. “You are named in this legal order.”
Brian barely glanced at it before handing it back.
“Don’t you want to read it?” Davitt asked.
“No,” Brian said. “I know what it says.”
Davitt looked back at his men and the wagon, coughed, and then said, “I should inform you . . . all tenants are to be evicted from manor property, including the agent, Mr. Brian Walsh, and that all dwellings on the estate, except Lear House and the shed housing the horses, are to be demolished in order for the land to be made suitable for farming and grazing.”
“Farming!” Rory’s anger nearly choked him. “That’s what we do now!”
“I understand, Mr. Caulfield,” the constable said, remaining calm, “but Sir Thomas Blakely’s order calls for all the land, not just the current cropland, to be put to better use—moneymaking use—through farming and grazing to support the estate.” He turned to Brian. “This pains me as well, Mr. Walsh, being an Irishman myself, and I hope you understand that I have no choice in this proceeding. The men are here to carry out Sir Thomas Blakely’s legal rights.” He held up his hand as a signal to his men. “We’ll give you an hour to gather what you need before we begin.” Most of the paid soldiers seemed complacent about their task; other officers, Irish who had friends or family members in the same position, glowered at the thought of what they had to do.
I want to kill him. Rory thought of squeezing his hands around Davitt’s neck, then striking out in a blind rage against all the men who stood in the road. His fists were of no use against dragoons, and one traveling pistol couldn’t take on thirty men. I want to kill them all, but it’s . . . hopeless. The farmers who remained stood no chance against armed soldiers. And standing among the soldiers stood Irishmen who were being paid to do their duty. They surely had wives and children too—the likely reason they were willing to go to blows with their countrymen.
His fury faded and common sense took over. He pulled Jarlath aside so that he could confer with him and his father-in-law. “There’s nothing we can do.” His voice faded as the resignation sank in. “Let’s save what we can and gather in front of Lear House.”
Realizing he had little time to lose, Rory sprinted to his cabin. He collapsed in a heap on the straw that made up his bed. Not only had he been lonely—at wits’ end—since Briana left for America, but now he was losing his home, their home, to that English bastard. He slammed his fists on the small table near the bed. It shuddered and tipped over, the candle holder tumbling to the floor. What good is any of it? What the hell good is it? Where was Father O’Kirwin? Where was anyone who could save them?
He swiped a tear from his eye. Briana had taken the few clothes she wanted to Boston—the rest would remain in the cabin. He opened the bag containing the pistol and began shoving his clothes inside. What else was there to take? A pot, a pan? No, he could find others if he had to. There was little to remind him of his family—no drawings, no mementoes other than his mother’s rosary. He spied it on the peg where his clothes normally hung. Rory lifted it gently and fingered the small beads that made up the holy object. His spirit broke and the tears flowed. Why did God allow this curse to happen? No food . . . families destroyed by a plague we can’t control. We must have been horrible sinners. He flung the rosary into his bag.
A scream shattered his thoughts and he rushed out of the cabin. Midway up the slope toward Lear House, he spotted Brian and Aidan Golden clutching Mrs. Golden as she extended her thin arms between the lintels surrounding the door to her home. The woman clamped her fingers onto the wood and refused to budge. Their two children cowered behind her dress.
Her anguished howls fractured Rory’s heart. “It’s my home—I’m not leaving!” She continued to cry out until her husband finally clawed her away. She collapsed against him and then fell, sobbing, to the ground. The children rushed to their mother and threw their arms around her. Aidan and Brian leaned over her as she wailed into the ground.
Rory shot an angry look toward the constable and the armed men. Most stood in a row, leaning against their weapons. Six of the dragoons had positioned themselves at the wagon. The men off-loaded a wooden apparatus that stood like an inverted V. Soon thick chains and a heavy log, the full length of a man, were strapped to the crude machine. He knew what it was—a battering ram to destroy the cabins. Their homes would be smashed to pieces until there was nothing left. Then the land would be cleared.
Aidan disappeared into the cabin as Brian comforted the distraught woman.
The few who remained walked down the slope. Jarlath and his family, Noel and his wife and children, the others, all were walking away from the land that had been their home for generations. They gathered near the constable’s horse, which was tied to a bush loaded with a late summer profusion of leaves on the cusp of turning from green to gold. The children clambered about it, engrossed by the animal. They didn’t realize they would have no home in a matter of hours. Soon they would have no food, no place of shelter from the late summer weather.
He couldn’t stand to see his father-in-law so preoccupied with another home when his own was about to be destroyed. He hurdled the fences and potato ridges to reach him and then put his hand on Brian’s shoulder.
Brian looked up as he held the woman. “There’s nothing I want. If it all has to go, it goes.”
Why was his father-in-law giving up so easily? Didn’t he want to save any of the memories that lived within the cottage? What about his wife’s crucifix that Briana had admired so often? The man who comforted the grieving woman was giving up not only on his claim to land but his life.
He only had a few minutes before the men would start—enough time to go to the cottage and then return to get his bag. The men were setting up the ram in front of his door. His home would be the first to go.
Rory, propelled by a mixture of fury, horror, and sorrow, ran to the cottage. The books in Lucinda’s bedroom, the simple furniture that had lasted for centuries, would be gone. Nothing could be done about that. He went into Brian’s bedroom and gathered the crucifix and a small chalk drawing of his deceased mother-in-law. At least he could save those things for Brian. He ran out the door knowing it would be the last time he would set foot inside its walls.
Davitt was giving the order to begin when he arrived at his cabin. He glared at the man. “Give me a minute to gather my bag.” The officer nodded and held up his hand to stop the order.
Rory took a deep breath as he stepped inside. The cabin smelled of the smoky odor of burned peat, the scratchiness of the straw. He muttered a quick prayer, said good-bye to his home, and, after placing the drawing and crucifix in his bag, clutched it to his chest.
He stepped out of his cabin and closed the door.
The men pulled the ram into position near the entrance.
Rory stepped away, watching his father-in-law walk down the hill with the Goldens and their children.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Davitt give the signal.
He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t stop from hearing the sound as he walked away. The chains creaked, the air rushed as the log hurtled toward the door; but even more distressing was the awful crash, the splintering shock, as the wood smashed to pieces. After that, the heavy thunks continued as the ram battered his earthen cabin into bits of sod.
* * *
Sir Thomas Blakely stretched his legs on the brocade ottoman in the grand salon of his Manchester home and sipped brandy from a crystal snifter. The Andersons and the Rogerses had departed a half hour earlier, so he no longer had to play the host. Only the housekeeper and the valet scurried about the dining room, removing the porcelain dinner plates from the mahogany table before carrying them to the kitchen. He observed that “his man” was acting more as a superior to the housekeeper than as a helper by ordering her about. That was the way it was supposed to be in all grand English homes, particularly in one run by a gentleman.
He took another sip of the pale French brandy, placed the snifter on a side table, and gazed at the blazing fireplace set into the far wall. The birch logs hissed and popped, sending an occasional shower of sparks arcing toward the fire screen. The sun was setting, and he took pleasure in watching the light fade across the lawn, throwing the linden and ash trees into deep shadows. His mood was as dark as the nascent evening.
Since the shooting at Lear House, entertaining had not been foremost on his mind. He found himself wandering the house during tedious days, finding little comfort in his business dealings, and thus, alone and miserable, forced into early retreat to his bedchamber. His shoulder still ached, and he found it uncomfortable to sleep without the aid of laudanum. The combination of liquor and opium usually served its narcotic purpose, but often he found himself startled awake at night, his bedclothes soaked in sweat.
As far as visitors were concerned, the Wards and their three sons were seldom seen because he couldn’t stand the noisy commotion created by the boys. If their parents stifled them, the children turned sullen and silent, which was often worse than the exuberance they naturally exhibited. He had restricted the Wards’ invitations and often refused those he had received, developing a newly found appreciation of Lucinda’s skills as a governess.
He was also tired of the constant badgering by the Wards—the Andersons and Rogerses were included in this scheme—for him to find a suitable wife. Yes, there were a handful of potential companions to choose from, but he found them vapid and vacant of the charms he wished from a woman. None of them exhibited the slightest room for maneuvering, no willingness to take a chance, no joie de vivre, except for beaming faces if he mentioned ledger books or plans to attend a horse race or gala ball. He was bored by those amusements and sought other pleasures than those trifles from a suitable wife—pleasures he sometimes found himself ill-equipped to define.
The valet appeared at his side and asked if he required further service. He declined, adding that he would take to his bed shortly, but asked his man to fill the washbasin and make sure his nightclothes were laid out. The servant bowed and left the room.
Sir Thomas returned to his brandy and thought about the prospect of marriage his friends’ badgering had produced. One woman, handsome with a zest for life, fired his imagination, but she was already married to a poor farmer. In his dissolute way, he had admired her for many years, and his feelings had been brought to the forefront by his last visit. How strange that the famine and his brush with death could focus his attentions on a woman. Previously, his business and social obligations and his parents had stood in the way of anything he desired. Those restrictions were gone now that his mother and father had died within weeks of each other in the past year. Fortunately, his father’s will made no mention of marriage or whom he was to marry, and thus was incontestable. So the door had been opened to a vault that had been sealed by his parents.
By the time he’d had any chance to act on his imaginative fancy, the marriage had been carried out in Ireland. He’d kept his eye on Briana skillfully through her sister, only to have the prize wed another, a man beneath even her station. He understood that Briana was below his standing, but obsessive thoughts of love were hard to scour from the mind amid the chance that somehow all could be rearranged.
The fire deepened from orange to crimson, and the melancholy atmosphere of summer shifting to fall overtook him. He sank back in his chair, mentally fretting about the lackluster days to come, the short-lived beauty of golden leaves, the falling temperatures that would turn the moist, pliable earth to frozen hardness.
The woman he dreamed of was independent, her own thinker, headstrong but not obstinate, a woman who participated in life rather than eschewed it for societal convenience. That was the woman he wanted to marry. He hadn’t yet found such a prize in England, so Briana dominated his fevered thoughts. He slapped his head sometimes hoping to get her voice, her features, out of his head, knowing that his life would be easier and more rational if he was rid of her.
Lucinda was nothing like Briana—he had known that from the time he had met them both years ago. She was stern, lacking in the kind of vitality he wanted—intelligent, yes; comely, no, but not hideous by any means. He had kept the governess around as a charm, a route to Briana, but the good-luck piece hadn’t paid off, and the years had drifted by as his parents kept tight control of his ways and means.
Now that he was free, why didn’t she realize how much he could do for her? Was she unable to comprehend how he could release her from the trouble and worry of a life that kept her one step away from falling into a pit of poverty and despair? He had even hoped to impress her with the ball he had thrown at Lear House, only to get shot for his trouble.
The question that kept him awake at night was, How can I change her mind? That question was easier to ask than to solve. The family was complex: Briana would have nothing to do with him now that she was married; his relationship with Brian was strained. He had observed Lucinda’s fawning ways toward him and disregarded her attention except when it came to news of Briana. Considering the Walsh family, there was little chance that Briana could grow to love him even if he offered to bring the entire family to England.
The shooting had changed him. Now he realized how life could shift in an instant, and, as surely as one day follows another, desires could be fulfilled only if you worked toward them. Money, parties, all the licentious trappings of life were useless when it came to true love.
He drained the remaining brandy and set the glass on the table. The housekeeper would pick it up and tend the fire before she went to bed.
He yawned and rose on legs stiffened by the tension of his thoughts. He climbed the stairs, entered his bedchamber, and closed the door. Illuminated by candlelight, the milky liquid of laudanum sat on the night table next to his bed. He drank a draft before turning in and hoped that his sleep would not be interrupted yet again by strange dreams. It was a wish in which he had small confidence.
* * *
The Newton on Beacon had been their home for several weeks, but Briana, instead of finding it comfortable and homey, found it gloomy and depressing. She had taken a mild dislike to the building when she and Lucinda had first arrived on its steps. It was brick, flat and plain, but taller at three stories than she had imagined. They paid a month’s worth of room and board, about fifteen dollars, for a top-floor room near the back of the building with a window that looked out upon a similar structure.
The woman who registered them flaunted her long, glorious Boston history and English heritage, and eyed them with a suspicious squint. Nevertheless, money won out and the last available room became a temporary home.
She wrote to Rory as soon as they arrived and posted the letter at the front desk. She had no idea whether it would make it to Lear House or whether he and her father would still be there.
As September drifted on, the weather changed: The wind sharpened to a pronounced chill, the clouds thickened, the leaves fell in profusion from the few trees on the open greens, the days grew dark by late afternoon. Fall added to Briana’s dull mood. There was no getting around it—she missed Rory, her father, and Ireland—and the thought of having a baby in a foreign country depressed her because she likened it to not having a permanent home for her child. She often found herself staring out the window into the neighboring building, a warehouse as far as she could tell. Men hauled large crates into the empty spaces and arranged them until nothing showed in the window except wooden slats.
Both of them found it hard to make friends—even Lucinda who, on the whole, could be more gregarious than Briana because of her teaching experience. The women who dined with them at the house were mostly American or English rather than Irish. The Americans came from strange places Briana had never heard of like Vincennes, Indiana; Schenectady, New York; or coal-mining cities in northern Pennsylvania. A woman from one of the latter settlements told them that the Irish were “infiltrating” her hometown and that she wanted nothing to do with them. In fact, that was one of the reasons she’d left—because the Irish were taking away jobs meant for Americans. After that pronouncement, the woman turned on her heel and stalked away.
Failing to make congenial friends, they took it upon themselves to look for work on their own but found jobs scarce. Briana soon realized that the NO IRISH NEED APPLY signs in the windows were meant for them despite whatever hope she might hold out for even a menial job.
One mid-September Sunday morning, after a night of cold rain, the gray clouds pushed off to the southeast and the early morning sun blazed against the bricks. When they returned to their room after breakfast, Briana pulled the small chair in the room to the window and stared out across the rooftops. A hard blue sky to the north beckoned.
“Well, I’m certainly not going to sit in this room all day and wait for something to happen,” Lucinda said while pulling on her sweater. “I’m going to search for any new Help Wanted signs.”
Briana ran her hands over the bump on her stomach, her child now entering its fifth month, and wondered what excuse she could come up with to get out of looking for a job. The task had frustrated her beyond all measure and taken an emotional toll that had begun to border on physical resistance. “Can we take a walk by the river or at least do something fun today? We’ve looked for work for three weeks.” Briana pictured herself barefoot walking along the cliffs at Carrowteige, enjoying the sun and the crash of the waves.
The baby kicked in the womb, and Briana patted her abdomen, acknowledging the strange sensation. She longed to see something besides the insides of shops and manufacturing concerns, to have conversations other than those with arrogant, surly men and rude women.
Lucinda fidgeted with the buttons on her sweater. “You can stay if you wish, but I’m worried about money—we’ve gone through it faster than I’d hoped.” Her sister’s eyes flashed. “Don’t fool yourself. We can’t carry on like this for long. Not only are we outcasts, but employers can see you’re pregnant. I’d do my best to hide it.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” She turned and stared out the window, although she realized that there was a great deal of truth in her sister’s words. “I’ve applied for positions as laundress and housekeeper and gotten nowhere,” Briana countered. “I’m afraid I have too little to offer Boston. I don’t have the teaching skills that you do.”
“We have to try harder,” Lucinda said, wiping her handkerchief over her scuffed shoes. “Do you remember the name of the man who saved us from those horrible brothers when we arrived in Boston?” She stuffed the handkerchief back in her sleeve. “I believe it was Declan . . . Coleman?”
“Yes, why?” Briana had committed the man’s name and address to memory because she instinctively felt she could trust him. In the back of her mind she thought one day they might have to call on him despite their initial urge to strike out on their own.
“Mr. Coleman said we could call on him for help. Considering our luck so far, I’m willing to try anything. I’m going to pay him a visit in—”
“South Cove.”
“Yes, that was it.” Lucinda started for the door. “What was the address?”
“Ten Royal Street,” Briana said, and rose from the chair. “I may go for a short walk while you’re out.”
Her sister shot her a withering look. “Don’t exhaust yourself.” She took a room key hooked to the wall and walked out.
The other key glinted in the light. Briana sat again for a few more minutes before freshening up in the bathroom at the end of the hall. Most of the women had already left the house. As she dried herself with a towel, she decided to journey past Long Wharf to an area near the waterfront where many Irish immigrants lived. She longed to reconnect with her people even though she was in Boston. Her face flushed as she fought back tears. She was homesick.
* * *
Briana made her way to the waterfront and then north until she was in the shadow of the white spire of Christ Church steeple. The walk cheered her, and she found herself stepping with more energy than she’d had in days. The sun warmed the clean, crisp air until she ventured into the heart of the Irish district. She had heard from the less-than-kind proprietress of the house that there were “swarms of bog burners” scattered throughout Boston; in fact, too many for her taste. She added, however, that if not for the Irish, Boston’s swamps wouldn’t get filled in, nor fancy houses built.
A strange odor filled the air around her as she walked through the lane that divided the flat, wooden buildings. Its greasy hardness drifted from the windows of the densely packed homes. The sizzling smell of fried potatoes carried on the air, a way of cooking little known in Ireland. And there were other odors as well: the bile-inducing odor of human waste after the slop jars were emptied on the muddy street, the potent stench of urine pooled in doorways, the dregs of stale liquor and beer drained against the sides of buildings.
Church bells pealed; muffled snores arose from open windows. Children laughed, or cried in pain, from the depths of clapboard houses. Dim Irish voices sounded in her ears, but many of the accents were strange and unintelligible. She gazed at the houses, some tilting at an angle from dereliction. Some doors couldn’t be shut, yellowed newspaper covered cracked windows, and piles of stinking garbage clogged the lane.
Anxiety prickled up her arms and into her chest. Was this the promised land of America? Neither she nor her sister nor anyone in her family really knew what Boston would be like. Everyone assumed—like those heading to England to find work—that life must be better outside of County Mayo. Perhaps living like this was preferable to starving by the side of a road, but if this was what America promised, the outcome she imagined was no better than living in a slum in Dublin or Manchester.
She walked carefully, dodging the slop and garbage, preoccupied with the squalor around her. What kind of life was she offering her newborn? She banished the question from her head, hoping that when Rory and her father arrived, the family situation would improve. Rory and Lucinda would find enough work to provide a reasonable accommodation for the family, and when the baby was old enough that her father could take care of it, she would also find work. Then their troubles would be over, and America would be a welcome home. Perhaps they could buy a small farm outside the city and grow their own potatoes, breed their own goats and pigs. The thought of having her husband and father close again brought her hope. But what of Ireland?
She passed a small square that held a plot of pale green grass. The color wasn’t the rich, deep emerald of the land she loved. The sight saddened her and made her more homesick than ever. The houses closed around her again.
Briana heard the woman’s County Mayo accent before her head poked from the doorway. Eager to contact anyone who might be considered a neighbor, she picked up her step. The woman wore a white blouse, a plain gray dress, and black shoes stitched along the sides. Nestled in the folds of her dress was a child—a small boy of five or six—whose eyes were as red as the top of his head.
Briana slowed and gave the woman a look but decided to get no closer in case the child was sick. She couldn’t tell if he was ill or showing the results of a good cry.
The woman looked at Briana with a face filled with pride and courage rather than contempt or fear as she brushed back a wisp of red hair that had curled against her forehead.
Briana admired her courageous stance and asked in Irish, “Are you from Mayo?”
The woman scoffed, as if she couldn’t believe Briana would have the gall to ask such a foolish question. “You must be new to Boston,” she answered.
Briana felt like a fool and clasped her hands together.
The boy scrunched up his mouth and looked at her suspiciously.
“Yes,” Briana answered.
“How new?”
Briana stepped closer to the stairwell that concealed the pair.
The woman shook a finger, bent over, and wrapped her arms around the boy’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t come closer—I don’t know what’s ailing him—a cold or something worse, but from the looks of you, you have no business approaching sick strangers with a baby in your belly.”
She stopped. “A few weeks in the city. We’re staying at a boarding house on Beacon Street.”
The woman eyed her up and down. “Oh, the Newton. That costs enough to feed us for six months.”
The sarcasm in her voice stung Briana. She had hoped to find something different in Boston—a friendly Irish community that stuck together despite the hardships thrown at them. She had no desire to spar with the woman. “I’ll be on my way.” Briana shifted, her hands resting on her waist.
The woman hesitated for a moment before asking, “What’s your name?” Her tone was kinder now.
“Briana Caulfield from Lear House, near Carrowteige.”
“Lear House? Never heard of it.” She smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, but everyone on this block is from Mayo. We all ended up here and you’ve wandered square into it. Roscommon’s a block away.” She sat on the step above her son and stroked his curly red hair. “Addy Gallagher, and this is my son, Quinlin. He’s named after my father, who came from even farther north in our country than we did.”
Briana looked at her expectantly.
“Ballycroy. My husband and I used to farm east of the town . . . until the . . .” Her eyes clouded over and she grimaced.
Briana nodded. “I understand.”
“I’d ask you to come in, but there’s no place to sit with twenty-five of us in the house and some children in worse shape than my Quinlin.”
Twenty-five? The house had two stories, but she couldn’t imagine that many people in such a small dwelling. “Where are they from?”
“All over Mayo, but most not as far north as you.”
She fidgeted, her fingers unintentionally forming closed fists, which she opened and closed to release the tension. “I’m sorry to bother you. I have to get back or my sister will be worried.”
The woman looked at her with longing eyes, as if she wished she could leave her cramped home behind.
A callous veneer enveloped Briana’s heart, and the unsympathetic feeling distressed her. She had witnessed horrible scenes in Ireland, but she’d never expected similar conditions in America. It saddened her to see Addy and her son in such deplorable conditions, yet she could do little to help them. Clearly Addy had no money and, most likely, little to eat, but charity had to begin at home. She and her sister had to be prudent. The woman was right—room and board was expensive at the Newton on Beacon. Their money wouldn’t last forever. The only way to keep her spirits up was to recognize that life here might be as hard as in Ireland and then go on her way, leaving them behind—a cold thought that pierced her soul.
She had turned away when Quinlin coughed and cried out in pain. The boy doubled over on the step and clutched his stomach.
Instinctively, she ran toward him. Addy thrust out her hands, entreating her to come no closer.
“What’s wrong, Quinlin?” Briana asked. Sweat broke out on the boy’s forehead.
“Don’t know,” the child answered. “My stomach hurts.”
Addy wiped away his tears. “I know what’s wrong, and I can do nothing about it,” she told Briana.
“What is it, Addy, tell me? Maybe I can do something.”
“Maybe it’s the same as killed my husband and forty-one others on the Elizabeth and Sarah. We left Killala in July and didn’t get to Quebec until this month. We threw my husband, naked as the day he was born, into the sea. My son and I had nothing, and if it hadn’t been for the kindness of a few others who were coming, we wouldn’t have made it to Boston.” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “I regret the day we boarded that ship. If only we’d known, we’d never have sailed. We’d have taken our chances in Mayo. My husband told me the night before he died he’d rather have given his body back to Ireland than be delivered to the Atlantic.”
She wanted to reach for Addy, and the woman read the gesture from her eyes.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, unwilling to accept a sympathetic hand. “Who knows if I have it too.” She peered at her son. “He’s been on the pot for a couple of days now. He can’t hold anything down. I didn’t know he had slipped out of bed until I woke up. He was sitting on the step, shivering like he’s half crazed, when I found him.”
Briana studied the boy. His face and fingers had a withered look about them. She had been told about the fever, but Father O’Kirwin had described an even worse disease called cholera. Quinlin’s feverish eyes had no bluish ring around them, and they weren’t sunken in their sockets. His skin was still warm and red, not the translucent blue of the cholera victim.
“I think he ate something he shouldn’t,” Addy said. “He was fine until a few days ago. He even escaped the plague on the boat—but if—he . . .” She turned her head away and cried.
“I’ll find a doctor,” Briana said as Addy sobbed.
“We’re all so close, living on top of each other.” She wiped her nose on her arm. “I try to keep up, but I’ll be indebted to you for anything you can do for my son.”
“I’ll do my best. I’ll remember your name—Addy Gallagher.” Briana looked up and positioned the house by the sight of the Christ Church steeple.
“It’s famous,” Addy said, drying her eyes and attempting to smile. “A man hung lanterns there during the American Revolution. Everyone in the house says we’re lucky to live by such an important church, but I don’t think an Irishman is allowed to step inside.”
Briana forced a smile. Maybe the church was important, but living in its shadow didn’t do any good for the thousands of Irish who were struggling to make this land their home. She waved good-bye to Addy and Quinlin and struck off toward the boarding house. In the forty minutes it took to get home, all she could think about was the sad woman and her sick son.
* * *
Lucinda arrived at the boarding house about an hour after Briana. Her sister wore an unseemly frown, a sober look equaling her own disquiet, and appeared to be in no mood to talk. Briana hesitated to bring up the visit to Declan Coleman in case something unpleasant had happened. Lucinda removed her sweater, rearranged a few things on their small desk, and then disappeared down the hall. Briana lay on her small bed and watched the afternoon sun inch across the windowsill.
When Lucinda returned, she burst forth with the angry words, “How dare they!”
“Who?” Briana asked, wanting to know but not wishing to incite her sister’s rage.
“Bostonians—the English—all the puritans who live here.” Lucinda plopped on her bed and gripped the spread with both hands. “We may have to move in with the Colemans because”—she paused, allowing her anger to steep—“because it seems there are few jobs for us unless we are willing to shovel dirt or haul lumber. Who knows? Perhaps we can lay railroad ties.” Lucinda’s unexpected laugh brimmed with sarcasm.
“I’ve seen it. It’s worse than I expected.” She understood why her sister would be frustrated. It only made sense, now that they had experienced what Boston had to offer the Irish.
Lucinda continued, ignoring Briana’s words. “You’ll be lucky to get a job as a laundress, while I, because of my teaching abilities, might have the privilege of serving some high-minded society lady her tea.” She shook her head in amazement. “Can you imagine? We’ve traveled three thousand miles to be cooped up in this infernal house with no prospect for a decent job. Mr. Coleman told me how hard it is for Irish women to get along here. I was indulging in a fairy tale hoping that those “no Irish” signs didn’t apply to us. Even our men are little more than cattle, driven to haul dirt, dig ditches, fill in swamps. He and his wife live somewhat comfortably because he’s a skilled woodworker. Otherwise, they’d be as unfortunate as we.”
“It’s hell, Lucinda. I’ve seen it.”
Turning a deaf ear again, Lucinda continued to stoke her fury. “The Colemans have a room about the size of this on the third floor they now use for storage. It would be too hard for you in the last months of your pregnancy to deal with the steps even if they cleaned it out. The kitchen is in the basement. We can’t have the second story yet because Declan believes his sisters may yet come.”
Briana sat up and glared at her sister. “I understand. Can I tell you about my day?”
“I’m thinking about both of us,” Lucinda fumed. “What’s so important?”
“We’re not only dying in Ireland, we’re dying here, too. A boy . . .”
“God in heaven, preserve us from my sister who thinks she can save the world.”
Briana gazed at her hands. What could she do with them? Perhaps she could wash or sew, for she had experience at both. But what of the boy? She couldn’t get Quinlin’s face out of her mind. “He needs a doctor.”
“You have no business being around sick children,” Lucinda said. “For God’s sake, Briana, you’re going to have a baby in four months. Don’t be a fool.”
“I won’t be near him if I can help it, but I’m sending a message to Mr. Coleman. Maybe he knows a doctor who can help.”
“If you must, but I hope his services are free.” Lucinda moved to the desk, where she wrote in the small expense book she kept there.
“Yes, sister.” Briana shifted to the edge of her bed so she could look out the window. The sun had dropped below the buildings that sloped to the west. The distant trees had begun to turn from leafy green to orange and red.
After a few minutes, she left her sister and walked downstairs to the front desk. A young woman on duty dispatched a boy to the Coleman residence with Briana’s message. The delivery cost only a few cents, but she knew her sister would be upset with her “frivolous” spending. Lucinda didn’t need to know. Thinking of Rory and her father and Quinlin, Briana made up her mind that she must find work soon, whatever the cost, or they might end up like Addy.