Chapter 31

The Storyteller

Four months later, at 8:30 a.m. on Wednesday, August 18, 1905, Patrick Donohue made his debut at the Bath Soldiers’ Home assembly hall. Millicent Hastings sat in the rear, the only woman there. She had helped him write his speech and rehearse it. Mr. Drummer made his way onto the stage, where he introduced Pat, neatly groomed and dressed in his clean, pressed blue uniform.

“Gentlemen, let me introduce to you Private Patrick Donohue of the 155th New York Volunteer Infantry, an all-Irish regiment formed in Buffalo. He served three years and fought at Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor, and Petersburg with General Grant’s Army of the Potomac. He was captured at Reams Station and spent eight months in such lovely garden spots of the Confederacy as Libby and Belle Isle, Virginia; Salisbury, North Carolina; and Florence, South Carolina before escaping.” The men snickered knowingly. They had friends who had suffered grievously in Confederate prisons. Some had died in them. A number of residents knew these prisons first hand.

“Pat, as many of you know, is a resident here at the Soldier’s Home. I believe he has a story you might find interesting.” Drummer took his seat again on stage.

The sun was shining through the six floor-to-ceiling windows of the south wall. A hundred men clustered in seats on the north side of the center aisle to avoid the heat of its rays and toward the front to better hear the speaker. Hall capacity was rated at 1,000. The windows were open and the room was cool and comfortable. Those who came were there because they wanted to be and their mood was receptive. They knew only that Pat, who was known among the residents for his antics in Bath and for his care of the Belgian horses, was to recount his own personal story.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m honored to be on stage with Mr. Drummer and to have so many of you come to hear me. I know you have other things to do and I’ll be brief.” He paused to phrase his opening remark. “Did I tell you sorry old soldiers the story of Peter O’Toole?”

A craggy vet in the front row yelled, “No, you dumb mick. This is your first time on stage or are you into the drink already this mornin’?”

The crowd laughed. Pat laughed, too, good-naturedly. “No, indeed, I’m not.” He paused and then added, “Not that I never drank in the morning.” The men laughed again. Then Pat waited for quiet and began.

“Peter O’Toole was a short little man in Company I of the 155th, barely five feet tall, with one leg an inch shorter than the other. You’ve heard of rich men who paid someone like us to serve for them. Well, O’Toole had to pay off a recruiter to join the 155th.” Some of the men snickered at the irony of O’Toole’s behavior. “For the first year, every time we got into a skirmish, O’Toole was nowhere to be seen. He was always straggling in the rear of the regiment. He complained his Springfield was too heavy for him, so the captain requisitioned a carbine from a navy friend and sawed off half its barrel.

“In April 1863, Longstreet laid siege to Fortress Suffolk in southern Virginia. He picked out Fort Dix and the 155th to probe Union defenses. If the rebs could have broken through there, they might have captured the whole coastal Virginia Union Army, 30,000 men.” The men became quiet and leaned forward. “But O’Toole, from high on a tree, firing a rifle not much bigger than a revolver, mowed down the butternut lines three times when they attacked on the first day of the siege.

“At Sangster’s Station in August of ’63, our company was attacked by Mosby’s crack cavalry. Imagine, one company about to be overrun by two regiments. O’Toole ran up a tree and shot the front rank of the cavalry, including a captain, like he was shooting tin cans off a fence. That slowed the cavalry charge enough for most of us to escape.

“O’Toole was our hero. He was our secret weapon. We got so used to his marksmanship that the moment the enemy attacked, the captain would count sixty and we would counterattack. We just knew within the first sixty seconds O’Toole would have the field bleeding Confederate red.” Pat paused to observe the expressions on the faces of his audience.

“One night, the company carried O’Toole on their shoulders to the middle of the camp and raised him up on a tree stump. Every officer toasted him and gave him a drink of the best Kentucky bourbon. They wrapped a full bottle in a gold cloth bag and gave it to him for his very own. Over the next month, they fed him bourbon at every campfire and toasted his exploits.

“In March 1865, outside of Petersburg, three regiments of rebs, massed in just 100 yards, charged our flank. Our captain counted to sixty and the 155th, 500 men, stood and counterattacked, confident of their secret weapon. The rebel regiments didn’t waver a bit. O’Toole had never made it up the tree. He lay drunk at its base.”

The audience took a deep breath, anticipating what came next.

“The 155th lost a dozen men killed in the counterattack and twice that number wounded and captured. Fortunately, General Gibbon had moved two regiments into position to support us. The rebel attack was turned back.

“O’Toole should have ended the war a national hero and received a gold medal from the president. Instead, he sat two weeks in the brig and was treated like an outcast by the regiment for the rest of his service. His shame will outlive his grandchildren.”

Pat bowed to the audience and walked off stage. A bewildered look came over the faces of the crowd, then cautious applause.

Pat remained faithful to his pledge to have not even one beer. He drove carriage for the WCTU women and helped them with their presentations. He spent many hours with the Belgian horses, exercising, feeding and combing them, and meticulously cleaning their stalls in bad weather and in good.

He accompanied the WCTU women to Rochester and, at Millicent’s request, made a presentation in the downtown Odd Fellows Lodge. Pat spared no detail in telling his story. “I rioted on the streets against coloreds and used a club on them and ended up in jail. I came to my grandmother’s wake drunk and to her funeral so hung over I had to hold my head with two hands. I had a beautiful, educated, loving wife and beat on her. Once, as a prison guard, I brought home my pistol and shot it at her feet. I slapped my son around because he got close to my wife and I mocked and abused him for over thirty years. I favored one daughter and then another and made their lives so miserable they fled my house. One of the two is lost today in Hell’s Kitchen on opium. Because I talked maliciously and drunkenly about the Larkin Family in a local bar, I lost a job at the Larkin Company that would have sent my children to college. I wasted my whole adult life and God knows how much money because of alcohol.”

His story led a few men to come forward and swear off alcohol.

From then on, he became a regular part of WCTU presentations wherever Millicent scheduled them.

Over the next two years, Pat spent many happy hours with Millicent on and off the Home grounds. He cared for the Belgian horses and, with other residents, tended flowerbeds, worked in the greenhouse, and placed flags on the plaza parade ground every Fourth of July and on graves every Decoration Day. He joined Company H’s funeral honor guard and accompanied residents to their final resting place in the Home cemetery. He attended numerous funeral services conducted by Home chaplains and gradually came to grips with his own mortality.

His heart strengthened and his overall health improved to a state he had not known since his youth.

A letter arrived from Johanna in November 1907.

Dear Pat,

It is a sad time in this house. I felt I had to write you. Our John Joseph has come down with the consumption and is very sick. We had no choice but to bring him, his wife, Amelia, and their three children into the house and nurse him as best we can. Amelia is a strong woman and takes on most of the load. Katherine and I occupy the grandchildren.

John Joseph asked for you and would love to see you, as would we all. But we would understand if you decide not to come.

Your brother sends his best. He is pretty much recovered, thank God, and is back to work on the Michigan Street Bridge.

Our Lady of Perpetual Help has become a very active parish in the ten years since it was built. Our pastor, Father O’Connell, died in February. We miss him, as he was most kind to all. Father Lynch is the new pastor. He is full of life. We see him visiting families and bringing communion to the sick. We’ll tell you all about it if you get home.

Lots of love . . .

Pat arrived from Bath at the Delaware Lackawanna and Western Depot and walked to the Michigan Street Bridge. It was 6:00 p.m. and dark. He met his brother just as he got off work. This was the first time he had been home since he had sworn off the drink. He had not seen his brother in four years. John spun around in surprise at hearing Pat’s voice. Pat had greyed, but was trim and cheerful. John grabbed Pat by the shoulders, smiled, and shook him gently.

“I knew you were coming. I can’t tell you how much I missed you.”

“It’s great to see you, too.” Choking with strong feelings for his brother, Pat asked, “What’s the word on John Joseph?”

“It doesn’t look good. He’s barely able to breathe. The consumption is destroying his lungs. We need another miracle like mine. I don’t think you should enter the house.”

“Ah, I’ll wear a mask and say my prayers.”

They continued in silence. The house was crowded with family and neighbors. Like most of the houses in the Ward, it was a four-room cottage. Pat was used to the spaciousness of Bath and felt a bit uneasy. He stood for a moment at the door and sucked in a deep breath. The heat and smells of body and kitchen odors bothered him. For all the people crammed into it, the house was subdued, so unlike the noise and laughter he remembered was a natural part of John and Johanna’s home. James, Mary, and Katherine rushed to him. The rest followed. Soon he was surrounded with family grabbing his arms and hugging and kissing him. He was overwhelmed and struggled to hold back the tears. Johanna introduced Amelia and her children to Pat. Pat leaned in and kissed her gently on a cheek. He held each one of the children, making silly remarks that had all around them smiling. Pat was a natural with kids.

He entered John Joseph’s bedroom, where Johanna sat leaning toward her son. Her dress was messy and stained from feeding John Junior. Streaks of grey in her hair and a haggard expression told a tale of long days and nights at his side.

She, too, had not seen Pat in years, clutched his hand, and held it to her face with obvious affection. “Oh, Pat, you are looking so much better than that last Christmas home. I don’t think you should be in here, but you’re a sight for sore eyes and we’re so glad you came.”

A pall settled over the group gathered outside the bedroom. Pat grew conscious of John Joseph’s labored breathing.

“Ungle Pat . . . Ungle Pat . . .” His voice barely wheezed out the words.

Nodding to his brother and sister-in-law, Pat fumbled to cover his mouth and nose with the linen cloth she had given him. John stayed at the door, as there was little space inside the cramped room. The room was lit by a single kerosene lamp and was warm and stuffy. John Joseph was covered by two comforter blankets. Gaunt and pale, his breathing was deep and irregular. He emitted low gurgling sounds. Pat had heard the sounds of death before and his thoughts flew back to the General Hospital in Philadelphia. He bent over toward his left ear and in a low voice said, “John, lad, how are you? Your mom wrote and told me you were sick. But I know you’ll be well again soon.”

Time stood painfully still as John Joseph pushed out a few phrases, mostly just single words. “Ungle Pat . . . Ungle Pat.” The rest Pat could not understand. He leaned down to his head again and said, “John, I’m with you. Rest a minute. No need to say a word, just rest.”

John was a strapping young man when last Pat saw him, a hoisting engineer. Now his face was ashen and his head and neck stuck out of the covers, skin over skeleton. Memories of Salisbury and of his parents’ last days flashed through Pat’s consciousness.

John coughed weakly, but could not clear his throat. “John, let’s just rest a minute.” Pat pressed John’s hand. His nephew’s choking was disturbing. John’s flesh was cool, clammy, and trembling. The longer Pat held it, the more he sensed a life easing away. Johanna wiped her son’s cracked lips with her wetted fingers and wept openly. Pat motioned to his brother to take his place and stood in the doorway. After a half hour, John lapsed into unconsciousness and died moments later. The three adults hugged one another and cried aloud. The sound of deep sobbing spread like a wave through the rest of the house.

Pat stayed in Buffalo at the home of his son. Bob, Mame, Annie, and Pat openly shared the grief they felt for John, Amelia, and their children, for his parents and brother and sisters as well.

Throughout the wake, which began the next day and lasted two days, Pat stayed in the front room with his brother and Johanna, greeting mourners, most of whom he knew. The smell of whiskey wafted in every time the kitchen door opened and eventually brought on a strong desire to join the men in the kitchen. Pat left the front room about midnight and poured a shot without thinking. His niece, Katherine, now an adult of twenty-four, walked up to him, leaned toward his ear, and whispered, “Uncle Pat, I thought you weren’t supposed to drink.”

Pat touched her cheek with one hand and said in shaky voice, “Right you are, my dear one, and I thank you for reminding me.” He poured the shot back in the bottle and left.

He stayed for the funeral and then returned to Bath. On the train trip, as he reflected on the death of his nephew and on his own mortality, peace spread through him like sunshine emerging after a month of March greyness. He sighed in relief that by the grace of God and his niece he had not given in to the temptation to drink. He reminded himself that it would not be the last. Other temptations would follow.

A deep desire for confession came over him. He had not been to confession for two years. He wanted to make his commitment firmer and his quest for inner peace stronger. He resolved to find another caring figure like Father Hogan, but he did not have to be Catholic. Pat’s opposition to some Catholic teaching and rules, his attendance at many Protestant funerals and other services, and Drummer’s classes had opened him up to a broader spirituality.

On quiet evenings before heading back to the barracks, Pat stretched out on Millicent’s couch, his head in her lap. On a May night in 1910, he told her, “I feel strangely free, like just released from prison. Since you and the rest of the Bath crew came into my life, I don’t need the Ward, Kennedy’s, and drinking. I have a new life and you’re at the center of it all, Milly.”

She smiled. Her eyes moistened. She took her glasses off and cleaned them with a handkerchief. She leaned down, put her lips on his, kissed him, and said, “I have a surprise for you.”

Taking his hand, she led him outside to the barn.

“I drove it yesterday from the showroom in Buffalo. Isn’t it a beauty? And you didn’t even know I was away.”

“Let me tell you what happened while in the Pierce Arrow showroom ten days ago. I told the salesman why I wanted a Pierce Arrow. He warned me that while the Pierce Arrow Touring Car was the best car ever made, driving a car long distances was something women did not do. Rough roads make for perilous driving and frequent maintenance, he said.”

“That only made you want one more,” Pat grinned.

“How right you are!”

“Did he ask you what you could afford? I bet he did.”

“Not in so many words, but he found out nevertheless. He walked me onto the shop floor and showed me the car they had built for George K. Birge, the famous Buffalo wallpaper designer and maker.

“Mr. Birge took me for a ride in his car the next day and had me drive it to Niagara Falls with his wife.

“A week later my car was finished and I spent two days being trained on driving and doing simple repairs like changing tires or spark plugs.”

“This car shines in the dark and it’s a monster. It must have cost you a fortune!” exclaimed Pat.

“Ten thousand dollars! Am I gone mad, Patrick? What else would I do with the money I inherited if not invest it in the work we’re doing?”

She opened the car door and jumped up on the running board with an energy that belied her advancing age. She was now sixty-one, and Pat was sixty-six. “Pat, we’ll hook a trailer to it and carry all we need to present our case with pictures and graphs wherever we go. The Pierce Arrow will take us to cities we’ve never visited.”

“You’re willing to try out new things, Milly, but I don’t know if I’m up to it.”

“Pat, a Pierce Arrow car won the New York to Bretton Woods Race. It’s the best there is. President Taft owns one.”

Pat had never ridden in a car. “And to think it is made in Buffalo!” He shook his head and smiled proudly.

“Friends have lined up a presentation in Boston on the 28th. Will you come? We need you. Your stories hit the men in the audience between the eyes. They have little but scorn for us women, but they listen to you.”

“Of course I will. ’Twill be grand to ride with you ladies, as long as I don’t have to drive that machine, Millicent.”

The two-day trip to Boston with Millicent, Kirsten, and Abigail delighted him, every bouncing mile of it. The Pierce Arrow made it in style and relative comfort in spite of few paved roads, just as Milly thought it would. She was so proud of herself for buying the Pierce Arrow. She prized no material possession like it.

They rehearsed their act in a hotel on the Hudson and performed it in the Boston Downtown Masonic Temple. It was homey and fun. The women sang popular ballads with lyrics they had rewritten. They moved among the crowd and involved them in refrains and responses to their simple one-act musical. The moral was that real men and women didn’t need alcohol to enjoy themselves. The crowd laughed at their corny jokes, sang the refrains, and cheered at the end of each song.

Then Pat got up and stood silently looking down at the stage. The audience stilled. Deadpan, he recounted the story of his life. Two men interrupted his talk with loud and scornful shouts in the middle of it. Pat smiled, kept silent while he calmed himself, and responded with humility and humor. The crowd shushed the hecklers into silence. Soon the whole audience was with him.

Men empathizing with the tragedies he brought to his wife and children bit their lips and fought back tears. Women freely broke down.

That evening after their presentation, Kirsten and Abigail returned to the hotel to give their friends time alone together. Millicent took Pat to the English Manse, an expensive restaurant seating 300 people, decorated in Victorian reds and blacks and frequented by Boston’s elite. It rested regally above the Boston Harbor, electric lamps and candles shimmering out onto the open porch and waters beyond. Seated at their table was a well-dressed man in his late thirties.

“Pat, may I introduce you to my son, Thurman?” He rose: tall, dark-haired, bright-eyed, handsome, an imposing man. Pat shook his hand energetically and then mother and son embraced tenderly for a long moment. The night was revealing a side of Millicent that Pat had not seen: mother of an adult son.

Millicent chose dishes from an elegant menu for Pat and herself. Thurman ordered lobster. They ate while Millicent and Thurman talked about his new post at Northeastern University. Thurman was proud of his appointment as an assistant professor in the English Department and told Millicent about his students and his research into the works of early American poets. An hour later, Pat went off to the rest room, which at his age took a little more time. He stopped at an empty bar on his way back when an Irish bartender greeted him and started a brief conversation.

When he came back to their table, Milly was standing alone and angry. Thurman was gone. She gave a curt explanation that they had quarreled over his drinking and he had cut off their conversation and left the restaurant. Later on, in the car returning to their hotel, Pat asked her what she said that angered her son. She raised her voice and told him it was none of his business. Her words hit him hard, but he calmed himself and said nothing. Before they parted for their separate rooms that night, she apologized and gave him a sweet kiss on the lips.

On the ride back to Bath, Pat thought about the WCTU gatherings he had been part of and how they had changed him. He relished the experience and thanked God for having met Potter, Drummer, Hogan, and especially Millicent. Change in him had not come evenly or easily, but it had finally come, nonetheless.

He noted to himself the one thing all four had in common: their education. He no longer resented educated people, but sought their company and appreciated the way they thought about life and the world around them. He had begun reading books that Millicent suggested from the libraries on the Home campus. Reading had always been a struggle for Pat, but with coaching from her, it was becoming easier and less something he had to force on himself to please Millicent.

He continued attending classes given by Drummer and listening to speakers Drummer brought in. Learning excited him and new worlds were unfolding. He wrote to his brother about what he was doing. John replied in his neat handwriting, “Wow, I can read your writing and understand it. What’s going on?”

That August, Milly took Pat to the Chautauqua Institution on the shores of Lake Chautauqua in Western New York during its annual summer program, which focused on the arts, religion, education, and recreation. They stayed at the Hotel Athenaeum for a week. It was her belated gift for his sixty-sixth birthday. The two attended as many presentations as they could cram into each day. At the end of the week, Pat surprised Milly by revealing that he was thinking about becoming a Protestant. Milly counseled him to wait a while and think about it, as he had deep Catholic roots.

In the early days of his second stay at the Bath Home, Pat had volunteered to plow fields behind two Belgian horses. They bucked and pulled apart when he first took the reins. After several minutes of struggle, he lashed out at them with a whip. They bolted, dragging him across the deep furrows of recently plowed ground. Pat was badly shaken and suffered broken ribs and multiple bruises.

G. Edwards Smith, the farm director, saw it all, but was powerless to prevent Pat from his fate. Days later, when Pat was able to walk, Mr. Smith called him to the barn. He led the two Belgians out of their stalls and harnessed them to a plow. He talked to them gently and stroked them across their broad shoulders, down their noses, and behind their ears. Then he led them out of the barn, took the reins, and clucked for the horses to draw the plow across the field. After a half-hour of plowing, he stopped, fed them a handful of oats, and let them take long draughts from a tub of water. Then, with a relaxed grip on the reins and constant patter, he began to plow again. He never used a whip.

Pat understood what Smith was saying. To whip a Belgian draft horse sent a message to the animal that the driver was not its friend.

Every year in April thereafter, for the month of spring plowing, Mrs. Hastings and the other women did their WCTU presentations alone. They missed Pat and he missed them, but once he put his hand to the plow, he would not turn back. This was sacred time. The Belgians and Pat morphed into a perfectly synchronized team and plowed daily, dawn till dusk with only breaks for dinner at noon and supper at five. Pat came to understand how easily these intelligent beasts would follow calm words and gentle touch. They plowed tirelessly and obediently without rearing up, kicking, or pulling off-line.

In 1909, Pattie, a mare whom Pat had often shown to women visiting the home on Sundays, died of old age. The Home’s Michigan-born superintendent as of December 1902, Colonel Joseph E. Ewell, replaced her with a pair of Belgian geldings from Michigan State University. Pat adopted them and cared for them like sons.

The next year, Mr. Smith invited neighboring farmers to come by and watch Pat plow. They were amazed at how the Belgians responded to Pat after plowing, neighing and nuzzling him as he washed and combed them down. As one said, “Pat and his horses belong in church. They are more spiritual than a Sunday service.”

At sixty-seven, Pat found the work of tending the horses too much for him alone, so he took on a delinquent fourteen-year-old from Bath named Perry Stedman. Perry was short, stocky, with dark hair and a sneering gaze. Over the next year this young man, whom neither father nor judge could control, worked with Pat driving the Belgians and accompanying him on WCTU trips. Pat let Perry try his hand at all the jobs the horses performed on the farm, modeling each task so that Perry could see how it was to be done. Then he had him do the tasks alone, but under his supervision. Finally, he turned Perry loose. Perry failed at times and learned there were consequences to every action. Mr. Smith hired him the day he turned sixteen.

Pat enjoyed his relationship with Perry. He saw the boy make real progress and thought perhaps he, Pat, could make a similar contribution to other problem adolescents. Pat talked to local judges about sending him other troubled youth and for two years, judges sent him delinquents from their courts until Pat grew unable to teach them first-hand any longer.

In 1913, at age sixty-nine, Pat relinquished plowing and care of the Belgians to younger men, Perry above all. Still, he could not absent himself from the opening of spring plowing. Standing at the edge of the grain field leaning on a cane, he coached and encouraged.

In the summer of 1913, in addressing veterans and other men at the Broadway Masonic Hall in New York City, Pat related this story: “Ronald Cleary was a New Yorker whose father, Jeremiah, emigrated from County Cork, Ireland, in 1842. Jeremiah was a clever tenant farmer who tended his farm and paid his rent even after it doubled. But he refused to pay it when it doubled again the next year. In the dead of night, he burned cottage, barn, and yard and walked thirty miles to Cobh, leaving his intended behind with her family.

“In New York, he bartended, learned the ways of American business, and saved every cent he could. He paid for his fiancé’s passage to America and married her soon after arrival. They moved to Buffalo, rented space in a new hotel on Main Street, and imported New York stage acts and plays.

“Jeremiah sent his son, Ronald, to the University at Buffalo to study medicine, the only Catholic in his class. He overcame prejudice from his professors and fellow students and graduated first in his class four years later. Ronald set up practice on Pearl Street in downtown Buffalo. Within ten years, he married, had a family of five, and moved into a mansion on Delaware Avenue, where the rich and famous of Buffalo lived. With his father, he bought a dozen rental properties.

“Every night, Ronald’s wife prepared a tumbler of bourbon on the rocks. It had been a long day of surgeries at Buffalo Sisters of Charity Hospital where he was chief of thoracic surgery. The whiskey relaxed him. Ronald found that two glasses relaxed him more. Then three . . . four . . . five . . . Over time, he changed character completely, began abusing his wife and children, fought with his father, frequented brothels on lower Main Street, and invested heavily in a horse ranch in Florida and a gold mine in California.

“Doctor Ronald Cleary went bankrupt in the crash of 1893. He lost his home and family, was reduced to panhandling, and died in agony of cirrhosis of the liver. Think about it. Like a thief in the night, alcohol brought down in a decade all that a father and son and their wives and families had accomplished over five decades!

“Be honest. Have you convinced yourselves you can handle a few drinks? Are there signs the drinks are handling you? That’s what it did to me.” Then he told his own story.

When they arrived home from New York, Pat sat quietly with Milly in her living room. The sun was passing into the horizon of a clear, warm evening.

“Pat, our next trip is to Rochester. That story you told in New York will go over well with that crowd. I know them.” Milly was trying to make small talk and to subdue her affection for Pat, which had overcome her suspicious nature and past bad experiences with her husband and Pat. Pat took her hand and squeezed it firmly to stop her from talking.

“God is good, Millicent. I know He is because you are so good to me.”

“So why do you look so sad, Pat?”

Pausing, his brow furrowed, he took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “Millicent, I want to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. I abandoned someone I loved. I’ve never forgiven myself. She was an ex-slave girl I met while guarding the Orange and Alexandria Railroad at Sangster Station, Virginia in 1863. She was pregnant with my child. After we left Sangster Station that summer, I never dared to find out what became of the child. The memory torments me. I never told anyone about her, not my brother, not a priest in confession, no one. Her name was Annabelle Lee.”

Pat went on to tell Milly the whole, long story in as much detail as he could remember. She listened silently, holding his hand with barely a hint of shock on her face. She waited to speak until she could see he had said all he wanted to say. She looked down at the floor and pressed Pat’s hands to her bosom. Then she kissed him on the forehead firmly and said, “Pat, let’s go find them.”

Milly took a day to rearrange two presentations. The next morning, they packed the Pierce Arrow with suitcases and left early for Virginia.

The drive down rutted dirt roads crossed four states through sunny valleys and rain-swept mountains. The further south they went, the rougher the roads became. Milly drove cautiously until Pat, in exasperation, urged her to take a few long straightaways at speeds of thirty-five or even forty miles an hour.

Maps were often inaccurate and out of date. The two targeted small cities, towns, and villages, stopping at hamlet shops to ask locals about the best route to Washington.

From Washington to Sangster Station the road was flat and smoother, the weather hot and humid. People reacted to them with a mixture of awe at the Pierce Arrow and hostility toward two Northerners. Milly was tired at the end of each day from driving, but her excellent health stood her well.

Pat’s side and back continuously pained him. He asked Milly to stop frequently so he could urinate in bushes along the road. Since it had not rained in days, dust filled their nostrils and coated their hats and oversized goggles.

Milly talked with Pat about his feelings as they neared Sangster Station and how he would speak to Annabelle, if they found her. During the long daytime rides, Pat thought about it and decided he would just do it—with respect, with gentleness, with honesty above all.

They arrived in Sangster Station shortly after noon, bought a few supplies and gifts at a general store, and asked directions to St. Luke’s African Methodist Episcopal Church in the colored section of town, the church Pat remembered Annabelle attending. He knocked on the door of the rectory, which was set back alongside the church. It was an old, modest, two-story, brick building. As the door opened, a mild smell of mold and old furniture mixed with stronger odors of fried cooking. An elderly colored woman invited them in to a heavily curtained parlor. Streaks of bright sunlight striped the carpet. The minister entered, an imposing, athletic man about sixty years old, with a threatening demeanor. Pat and Millicent stood up to greet him, a bit taken aback at the height, size, and scowl of the man.

“Yes? What may I do for you? I am Reverend Pastor Simmons,” he said curtly.

Pat stumbled over his words as he started. “Reverend Pastor, my name is Patrick Donohue and this is Millicent Hastings, my good friend, who drove me here from New York State. I won’t trouble you with a long story. I am trying to find a woman I met while fighting with the Union Army here in Sangster Station. Her name was Annabelle Lee.”

He paused waiting to see if the name meant anything to Reverend Simmons. He could see it did. “We were both young. I was nineteen and she was seventeen. She was tall and very beautiful. We fell in love. When I left, she was pregnant.” He paused and sighed. “I do not have long to live and would like to find her and ask her forgiveness. I never tried to locate her and I didn’t help raise our child. Can you help us?”

Reverend Simmons listened. He asked Pat and Millicent a few questions of a personal nature. Then his face softened into a smile.

“Mr. Donohue, I believe I can. Annabelle was a member of this parish until her death, over twenty years ago now.” Pat had told himself that Annabelle might no longer be alive. He imagined she had lived a very difficult life. Still, the fact of her death hit him hard and he expressed his sincere sadness to learn of it.

After a few moments’ pause to let Pat regain his composure, Reverend Simmons continued. Death was a familiar theme in his ministry and he handled it like a doctor.

“She married Cassius Cambridge after the war, and they had eight children, the eldest being a daughter who is much fairer than the rest. That must be your daughter. The daughter and five boys survived. Annabelle, Cassius, and their children worked a forty-acre farm outside Sangster Station all her married life. She died at age forty-five. After Annabelle died, her daughter, Maybelle, and Maybelle’s husband Jonas occupied the farm with her father and five brothers. Cassius died a few years after Annabelle in 1895.” He turned and looked off into space, remembering happy times with Annabelle’s family.

“Yes, I know that family well. I baptized, married, and buried many of them. The five brothers married and moved away. You see, Annabelle had left the farm to her only daughter and eldest child. That is not how things usually go in this part of the country. Maybelle’s five sons took the place of her brothers raising crops and animals. Two are still on the farm with their parents.”

Pat again expressed his sadness at Annabelle’s death, but was pleased to hear all the minister had said about his daughter and her family’s good fortune.

Reverend Simmons continued. “If you have room in your riding machine, I’d be happy to ride with you and take you to their farm. I’ve never ridden in a car before.”

“That would make things much easier, Reverend. There is plenty of room. We would appreciate your coming along,” said Millicent.

They rode out of town a half mile south over a road that had never seen a “riding machine” and was not kind to the first one. Negroes on forty-acre Reconstruction spreads poured out of their houses or stopped their work to stare at the Pierce Arrow and to comment excitedly about it. The sun broke through shallow white clouds as though witnessing a triumphal Roman procession.

Two miles farther along the dusty road, they came to a modest, whitewashed farmhouse set near the road with several outbuildings of varied sizes and shapes looking as though grown by nature. The farmyard was bordered by apple and peach orchards and a vegetable garden. Behind them yawned fields of corn, soybean, and cotton.

Pat saw his daughter. She walked confidently, gracefully from the front door toward them in her long blue dress and white apron. Her hair, worn in a bun, accentuated her handsome face. She favored her mother, but was lighter, with a narrower nose and a sharper chin. He could see his daughter, Katherine, in her. Her eyes fell on the Pierce Arrow, Reverend Simmons, Millicent, and then on Pat. Puzzlement spread across her face and that of the tall colored man standing with her.

Reverend Simmons greeted Maybelle, her husband, Jonas, and their two teenaged sons. He inquired of their health and then introduced Pat and Millicent. Jonas was a dark, burly farmer, fortyish, with a few strands of grey hair, rough, thick hands, and broad facial features. All stood silent for a few seconds staring at one another. Then Reverend Simmons started to explain the reason for their visit.

Jonas moved closer to his wife and took her gently by the arm, saying, “Please, let’s sit down on de porch.” He led them a short distance to a white-railed front porch and bade them be seated on white washed wicker chairs. Maybelle remained standing, clinging to a post. Her body moved side to side and she began to cry as Reverend Simmons spoke on. Jonas stood next to her and held her left hand, looking at her, then at Pat, then back at his wife, still puzzled about all he was hearing. A crow cawed defiantly and flew away as though in regret.

Pat looked away uncomfortably. Millicent squeezed his right hand.

The yard was neat, Pat noticed, unlike the small farms in and around Buffalo, which he remembered as strewn with broken plows, stumps, discarded pots, pails, and furniture. Thirty yards away, a cow and calf grazed behind a fence. A westward breeze carried the fresh scent of their waste across the yard. Only the sucking noise of a nearby calf pulling on its mother’s teats competed for their attention.

As the reverend relaxed them with a brief story of the old farm under Annabelle and Cassius, the two parties became freer with their questions. They traced the lives of Annabelle and her family and Patrick and his after the war.

Reverend Simmons, pleased at how open the parties had become, decided his presence was no longer necessary. He excused himself, saying he would walk back and visit with families on the way.

Jonas assumed the patriarchal role of the pastor. He stayed close to his wife and held her hands when feelings threatened to overcome her as she talked about her mother and father. Pat’s attention fixed at first on the beauty of her face, then on the calloused hands, strong arms, and shoulders. This woman, he knew, spent most of her life in heavy work, gardening, tending animals, and cooking. He guessed she was at least two inches taller than he.

As the conversation slowed, Jonas broke it off and invited the two visitors to remain for dinner and the night, if they wished. Pat and Millicent went to the trunk of the car and brought back food, soft drinks, and the small gifts Millicent had bought in town.

After a dinner accompanied by light conversation, Maybelle sent the boys out to feed the cows, the chickens, and the geese. She waited until she was sure they could not hear her before speaking. “My Mammy was in love with you, Mista Pat, and never lost those feelins. She loved my father, sure ’nough, but she kept you deep down in a secret store. She never held hate in her heart for no man, least of all for you, Mista Pat.”

“Maybelle, I felt the same way about your mother. I dreamed of her all my life. I have suffered terribly not being able to make up to her or you for what I didn’t do. Now I can die in peace because I’ve seen you, the flower of your mother.” Pat struggled to his feet and pressed his lips onto her forehead. That night, everyone went to bed, but no one slept through.

By the second day, Millicent became the center of attention. Maybelle wanted to know more about this strangely elegant and sophisticated lady. Later on, when they were alone, she and Jonas talked about Patrick and Millicent, but she dismissed any thought of a long relationship with them. For one thing, she could see he was not well; also, seldom did white people befriend colored folks, even when one of them was a daughter.

Jonas agreed with her. He said he doubted they would ever see these whites again, but he liked them and trusted them. They had come a long way to see her because they knew Pat was near the end of his life. He had no fear they would cause them any trouble.

Toward noon, after lunch and a guided tour of the farm, Millicent tried to focus conversation on Maybelle and her family, but Maybelle turned the conversation to her.

Pat and Jonas walked through the orchard until Pat became tired. They sat under a tree and Pat questioned Jonas about the farm. Jonas talked at length about his plans to increase his acreage, as forty acres barely sustained them. “Let me help you do that,” Pat pleaded. “It would ease the terrible guilty feelings I’ve had over the decades and allow me to die a happy death.”

Millicent contributed $100 to the gift, Pat $25—all he owned. Jonas and Maybelle talked by themselves about their reluctance to accept such a large amount of money from these two white folks. At length they agreed, however, that the offer was too important to the whole family to refuse. Once their decision was made, elation swept over them and Maybelle and Jonas expressed their deep gratitude to these generous strangers.

For the boys, the two days had been an unusual experience. They had white friends, both boys and girls, but understood that these friendships would end when they all got older. Millicent and Patrick were the first adult whites they had spoken to in anything but short, polite phrases, eyes averted.

Just before Millicent and Pat drove off, Maybelle gave her father a red scarf that first her mother and then she had treasured for thirty years. Pat held it to his cheek and a tear traced a glistening line to his chin as they left.

Pat and Millicent returned home with a world of new feelings and thoughts, wonderful thoughts about Maybelle, Jonas, and their family. They had had no contact with Negroes in the North. They admitted to close friends that it had been hard to understand the family’s speech, but that it was easy to see how much they cared for one another and what good parents Maybelle and Jonas were.

Following Pat’s annual physical in January 1914, the doctors told him he had but months to live. His kidneys were inflamed. Movement brought pain to both sides of his body. He could not lie down comfortably, let alone walk or sit at table to eat. His pulse had slowed; his heart was beating unevenly.

He was not surprised at the news and decided to make one last trip to Buffalo to visit with John, by train because it was a smoother ride and more comfortable. Milly accompanied him.

On Sunday afternoon, Bob’s wife, Mary Alice, cooked a huge dinner. Around the dining room table sat Bob, John and Johanna, their children James, Mary, and Katherine, their widowed daughter-in-law, Amelia, Amelia’s children, and Patrick and Milly. Bob’s six children crowded the kitchen table and included a toddler, William Joseph Donohue, born in 1912. They talked of happy memories and good times. They cried and laughed and they sang the latest from Broadway well into the night, around an upright player piano pedaled by Mame’s eldest daughter, Alice.

On Sunday, April 14, Milly accompanied Pat to Buffalo by train once again. His niece, Mary, was dying of consumption. As they taxied to the Ward, anger overwhelmed him. How could God take his beautiful niece? She was so full of innocence and joy. He idolized her. By the time he got to Mary’s side, she was in a coma and the coarse sounds of death were all that remained of her life. An hour later, she died in Johanna’s arms. Pat shared cries of pain with Mary’s parents.

Certain this was his final visit to Buffalo, Pat asked one more favor of Milly, to accompany him to Holy Cross Cemetery. There, because Pat no longer knew exactly where it was, they inquired at the office and asked that a workman accompany them to Mary’s grave, unmarked for nearly twenty-five years.

Garrett had offered to pay for a stone for his daughter’s grave, but Pat had refused. “It’s my duty alone,” he had said. Garrett had left an amount for a large monument in his will two years later, but once again, Pat had not allowed his children to use any of his father-in-law’s money for that purpose. “I’ll do it,” he proclaimed loudly. “It will just take time.”

As they stood alongside the grave and prayed a silent prayer, Pat said to himself, “I will use my last dollar to remember you, Mary.” He made up his mind he would somehow fulfill his promise.

In late July, Johanna wrote to say the consumption had reappeared and John was gravely ill. Pat insisted on visiting John once again, even though he was not much stronger than his brother. In a most unusual ceremony, both men asked to receive Extreme Unction at the same time from Father Lynch, the pastor at Our Lady of Perpetual Help. It was common practice to administer the last rites at the point of death. For them, Father Lynch made the only exception he would make in thirty years as a priest.

As Pat left the house, leaning on Milly, he knew he was leaving his brother for the last time, but with a smiling face, he promised to celebrate Christmas with him.

On the train returning to Bath, he said his rosary. His mind slid through the ghosts of a lifetime like they were all players on a New York stage: his parents, Patrick and Catherine; Gramma Joy, Theresa Haggerty, and Bishop Timon; the 155th and the 164th fighting side-by-side; Tipping and Mooney and PM; his wife, Mary, and his children, Katherine, Bobby, Minnie, Nellie, and Annie; John and Johanna and their children, Mary, John, James, and Katherine; Annabelle, Maybelle and Jonas; and this marvelous woman holding his hand.

Four women were the great loves and anchors of his life. His brother had kept him in the game, at bat, and flying around the bases for seventy years.

His sudden sobbing startled Milly and the others in the car with them. He knew he had no funds for Mary’s grave. It was now up to those he left behind.

Pat died at seventy years of age on Saturday, August 8, 1914, with Millicent easing him into eternity. John lingered on and died peacefully two months and a day later, Johanna stroking his forehead and whispering a prayer. Both men died without fear, and with only a deep sense of the people they would miss, especially their wondrous women.

Both men’s burial services had the same recessional, written a year earlier, ironically by an Englishman, Frederick Weatherly, and played perhaps for the first time at funerals in North America at their services. It was their request before dying that only the second verse be sung and that it be dedicated to the women they loved.

And when ye come, and all the flowers are dying

And I am dead as dead I well may be

Ye’ll come and find the place where I am lying

And kneel and say an Ave there for me

And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me

And all my grave shall warmer, sweeter be

For you shall bend and tell me that you love me

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Pat had one other request, one that left everyone but Milly wondering: to be buried with an old red scarf in his hands, woven around his well-worn rosary.