They had lost track of time on the next stage of their trek. All they knew was it was December, and they were cold. It tuned out December would experience low temperatures in the teens for the last two weeks of the month. Newspaper articles advised citizens to avoid going out in the cold weather to avoid possible heart attacks and frostbite.
A white passerby told them they could try to seek shelter from Father Murphy. “He’s got that YMCA in Birmingham,” they were told.
Tucked into the Jones Valley, the YMCA facility was a three-story, English revival-style, auburn-colored brick building with contrasting trim, a stepped parapet, and a shallow Gothic archway framing the heavy oak front door.
Douglas studied the building and asked through teeth chattering from the cold and the vicious wind, “Suppose this it?”
“One way to find out,” John said.
John pulled on the massive door, but the wind made is slow to open. Douglas stuck his foot in the doorway, allowing John to grab the door above the handle. John pulled hard. Greeny scrambled in first, followed by Douglas, then John.
About two dozen men and boys were gathered around a fireplace dancing with flames and heat, listening with rapt attention as a white man read aloud passages from Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. The man spied the new arrivals and motioned with his right hand for them to sit with the others. Douglas and John sat on small wood chairs, and Greeny dropped to the floor, nestling in between John’s legs. Greeny had a straight line of sight to the orange flames shooting from the splintered logs. He furrowed his brow each time a log popped from the fireplace.
John removed his wool mittens, put them in his coat, then rubbed his hands together to create some much needed heat. He turned to Douglas and said with his eyes pointed at the reader, “That must be Father Murphy?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” someone whispered. “Shhh.”
Satisfied that his hands had warmed up after several minutes of rubbing, John turned slightly in his chair. A few people had formed a line, the beginning of which led to a cider tank with steam erupting from its top.
When Murphy stopped reading, John stood up and walked around to the back of his chair where Greeny had already slithered out. As he often did when he wanted Greeny to stay put, he held out his right forefinger to tell Greeny not to move. Greeny whimpered softly and slithered back into position.
John walked to the back of the line and Douglas followed. They had a wider view of the lobby. Most of the people were white, with a scattering of colored. They had the same look—despair in their eyes and tattered clothes on their backs.
Just as it was Douglas’s turn to scoop the piping hot cider into his glass, Murphy said with a thick Irish brogue, “Be careful with that; it’s hot. Don’t want no accidents here the day before Christmas.”
Douglas nodded, then took a sip of cider.
“Did Jack Frost bite your tongue?”
“Who’s Jack Frost?”
Murphy emitted a hearty chuckle.
Murphy was a middling handsome Irish American with titian hair, a dimpled chin, a long angular face made more dramatic with heavy eyebrows, and oversized emerald-green eyes.
Murphy had first settled in Charleston after coming to the United States as part of the third wave of immigrants out of Ireland. He had been a priest in Dublin. He heard that men were needed to work in the railroad and iron and steel businesses in Birmingham, so he packed his few belongings and moved there, a city that erupted out of an abandoned forest in the 1870s. It was a city within five miles of three main ingredients that served as the bedrock of Birmingham’s early development: iron, iron ore, and limestone. It wasn’t long before the entire US economy was surging with industrial fervor, generating a ravenous appetite for Alabama’s precious iron ore.
Murphy was lucky to be a lottery winner, which allowed him to work for one of Birmingham’s giant industries—Sloss Furnace—making iron, but after he injured his right foot while working at Sloss, he could no longer do the heavy labor.
Two years later Murphy found a job running the YMCA. He knew first-hand the deep poverty in Ireland. His mother had taken in strangers in their slum home, and the memory of that, coupled with his devotion to his faith, made him ideally suited to run the YMCA. He commonly wore a black shirt with a white clerical collar and black pants.
“I run this place,” he said while Douglas blew into his cup of piping hot cider. “Just call me Father Murphy. Ya got a religion?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, we’ll have to do something about that.” Murphy turned to John. “How about you? You got a religion?”
“Yes, sir, my mama saw to it,” John said.
“Good, but we’ll need to work on this one,” Murphy said, placing his hand on Douglas’s shoulder.
John moved two steps away to check on Greeny.
“I saw the mutt,” Murphy said. “He made some kind of noise each time the logs popped. What’s his name?”
“Greeny,” John said.
“You looking for a place to stay?”
Douglas told Murphy that he and John had trekked from Richmond and needed a place to stay for a few days.
“Yer welcome to stay here, but to do so requires ya work.”
“Whatever you need,” Douglas said.
“Atta boy,” Murphy said. “This is the season for us to have a cracking good time. But we all will be working very hard soon.”
Like he did for all new arrivals, Murphy told Douglas and John about his rules, ones that were in keeping with the YMCA’s mission: to develop young men’s Christian character of high standards. Murphy’s brand of Christianity differed widely from the perverse idea of Christianity that had been suffused in the South for so long: He rejected the notion that God considered Negroes to be inferior to whites.
Murphy turned serious. “You must obey the rules. They’re simple. Rule number one: I already told you about. You must work. Rule number two: No alcohol. Rule number three: No fighting. Rule number four: No smoking. Rule number five …” He turned and looked at Greeny still resting under the chair. “No pets.”
John stood motionless. Eyes that had begun to be enlivened a bit, turned dark. “Douglas and Greeny are the only family I got in the world. And it’s cold outside.”
“The dog can lie next to the steam vent in the back of the building to keep warm. You’ll just have to check on him from time to time.”
“If Greeny must go, then I go.”
John walked over to his chair, sat down, and tightened the matted strings of his black brogans, picked up his haversack, put on his moldering linsey-woolsey coat, and headed to the front door with Greeny in tow.
He turned to Murphy, who looked nonplussed. Douglas recalled what Murphy had read about Ebenezer Scrooge. “Don’t be like Scrooge on Christmas Eve.”
Murphy appreciated the irony and relented. “I see ya was paying attention.”
John opened the door and a gush of icy wind whooshed through the lobby. Murphy shouted, “C’mere, laddie! Greeny can stay.” John and Greeny reversed course, and John ran to Murphy and hugged him, nearly knocking him over.
Murphy put two fingers from each hand and whistled loudly, piercing all conversations. The clatter stopped. “Dinner’ll be ready in five minutes,” he announced.
Every year the moguls of Birmingham expiated their excesses by delivering a bountiful supply of food and clothes to the YMCA during the Christmas season. They would eat more than the leftover watery stew called slumgullion. Recalling the menu as best he could, Murphy said, “We’re having wigs, trotters, jugged hare, sweet potatoes, marrow pudding, soda bread, collard greens.… Tonight, we eat like kings.”
“Hooray!” someone yelled.
The men and boys ran to the dining area and sat at picnic-style wooden tables. John was not put off that Murphy demanded that Greeny could not enter the dining area. He told Greeny to lie by the fire and he would retrieve him after he ate. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll bring you something back,” he said as he massaged Greeny’s head.
After feasting on Christmas Eve dinner, Douglas and John were weighed down with bellies full of food. Feeling logy, Douglas asked Murphy where they’d sleep.
“There’s a room on the second floor for ya boys. Take two-oh-two. There should be two more bedrolls in there. Already two guys in there—Ian and Jeffrey. There’s a lantern near the bottom of the steps. Use it to help you find the room.”
“Okay, thanks, Father Murphy,” Douglas said.
“Good night, Father Murphy,” John added.
The door was open. Douglas walked in first, followed by John, then Greeny. Two white men sat on the floor with their backs resting up against the wall next to a lantern. The room was spartan in appearance—only a small table and a dresser kept the room from being completely bare. Douglas put the lantern he had carried in on the small table near a window that admitted phosphorus light from the moon.
Looking at their roommates for the time being, Douglas said, “I’m Doug. This here is John. And that there be our dog, Greeny.”
Silence.
John then asked which one was Ian and which one was Jeffrey.
No response other than a death stare from both men.
Greeny moved to the other guests and began to sniff them. The taller and heavier guest, who was carving an apple with a pocketknife, pushed Greeny away, causing him to whimper.
John didn’t want any trouble. “Greeny,” John said, “over here.” Greeny complied.
As Douglas and John put down their bedrolls, the man holding the pocketknife said, “We ain’t rooming with no slaves.”
The other companion piped in: “Yeah, you heard what Jeffrey said.”
Douglas turned, and snapped, “Then leave.”
“You a stupid somma bitch,” Jeffrey said.
Douglas ignored the comment.
After realizing he had killed two men before, John knew he could fight and kill again anyone who meant to cause him harm—if he didn’t find Cousin Riley, at least he’d fulfill half the promise he made to Ann by making it to Mount Hope. In this instance, he’d be prepared to fight if it came to it, but for the moment he just wanted a place to rest and let his Christmas Eve meal digest. He nestled himself in his bedroll. Greeny fell to the floor near John’s feet.
k
It was midnight. Christmas had arrived and so had the pealing of church bells. Ian and Jeffrey stood together and walked slowly and in a determined manner toward Douglas and John. Greeny lifted his head and growled.
Jeffrey rushed Douglas and then Ian jumped on John.
Douglas used his left arm to block the knife aimed at his chest. He grabbed his attacker’s shirt with both hands and pulled him to the floor and began hitting him in the face.
The attacker managed to get up as Douglas relaxed his hold, only for the attacker to rush Douglas, who then used his right leg to kick the attacker in the stomach, sending him flying against the wall, where he slumped to the floor breathing heavy. Douglas grabbed the pocketknife, folded it, and placed it in his trouser pocket.
John had quickly thrown Ian, the smaller man, to the floor and stood ready to do more harm. John inched toward Jeffrey with clenched fists, but Douglas extended his arm and held John in place.
John was impressed with Douglas’s ability to fight, especially to fight someone who probably weighted significantly more than Douglas; where John would have to move to avoid getting in the bear’s arms, he knew Douglas’s height and strength would allow him to outpower and outlast the bear. Responding to the hullabaloo, Murphy rushed into the room holding a lantern while shouting, “What the hell is going on?”
Silence.
Murphy raised his voice. “I asked, what the hell is going on?”
Douglas told Murphy that he and John were only defending themselves when they were attacked.
Murphy looked at the Ian and Jeffrey. “Ian, Jeffrey, say something.”
They’d started working together at Pratt Mining in Birmingham where they made coke. Jeffrey’s drunken diatribes against colored workers got him fired. Ian left Pratt out of loyalty to his best friend. They had trouble finding jobs elsewhere and had become vagrants, staying at Murphy’s YMCA periodically.
“Ian, Jeff, I want you out of here right now. I gave ya a chance to explain things, but ya said nothing. You know the rules around here, no fighting, eh?”
“If we go, the slaves should go.”
Murphy cheeks turned ruddy. “Enough blather. I say who stays and who goes around here. Grab your things. Start stepping before I call the gardai.”
“We being kicked out on Christmas Day?” Ian asked.
Murphy nodded.
Murphy walked with them down the stairs to the lobby. He told them to wait in the anteroom off to the side of the lobby while he walked to the closet.
“Here,” he said, handing them each a bag.
“What’s this?” Jeffrey asked.
“Merry Christmas,” Murphy said. Each bag contained a blanket, wool pants, and a dreadnought. “I can’t let you boys stay tonight, but you can come by later today for Christmas dinner.”
“But we ain’t got no place to go,” Jeffrey whined.
They were weak young men and Murphy had reached the end of the line with them. Murphy’s steely eyes pointed in the direction of the door.
An hour after Murphy entered the room and had sent Jeffrey and Ian packing, Greeny used his nose to nudge John on the leg.
Half-dazed, John said, “What it is, boy?” Greeny continued to nudge. “You hungry?” John got up and walked over to his haversack that was on the table and retrieved a bit of pork sausage. He threw it on the floor. Greeny ignored it.
The commotion woke Douglas. “I think he wanna go pee,” Douglas said quietly.
John hated the thought of going outside in the frigid weather in the dark.
“Unless you want a foul-smelling room, I’d suggest you take him outside now.”
John sat in a corner and donned his socks and brogans. He stood and put on his coat. Greeny was waiting by the door. A glimmering light from a gaslight from outside a large window in the lobby aided them as they walked down the stairs. John unlocked the front door and Greeny burst out, happy to feel the brisk, cold air. John looked up at the clear sky and saw the Big Dipper. He thought of his mother and wondered how she’d spend Christmas Day. He hoped Billingsly would be as generous with gifts as he had been in the past.
John jogged around the corner. Greeny was at the other corner doing his business on a strip of grass. After Greeny finished, he walked in the direction of the steamed air, which he thought was coming from a vent.
“Greeny, let’s go,” John snapped.
Greeny ignored him and soon disappeared. John resumed his jog on the lightly snow-covered sidewalk to retrieve his pet. As he was halfway to the other corner a sudden gust of wind knocked him over. He bounced up, furious with Greeny for delaying his return to warmer quarters.
As he turned the corner, he saw Greeny sniffing at what appeared to be two rolls of blankets. As John inched closer, he realized it was two people sleeping on top of the steam grate. Just as John reached down to touch one, his tormentors rose quickly.
Seeing John, Jeffrey said, “Well, look what we got here.”
Before John could say anything, Jeffrey rushed him and pinned him against the wall of the YMCA with his right forearm pressed firmly on John’s neck, choking him. He leaned forward within an inch of John and blew stale breath in John’s face. “I oughta kill you right now,” he said as he wielded his pocketknife.
Greeny charged after Jeffrey, who kicked Greeny in the muzzle with such force that he flew a foot into the air. Greeny was dazed, in apparent distress, and he hobbled a few feet before collapsing in the street. Within minutes a wound opened, and blood streamed from Greeny’s mouth and nose.
“Go ahead, Jeff,” Ian said. Jeffrey hit John in the stomach five times with his fist; the last blow sent John slumping to the ground.
“Get up!” Jeffrey snarled.
John was disoriented, his strength sapped.
Jeffrery qucikly grabbed John by the lapels of his coat and lifted him up against the wall. Fear roiled in John’s eyes as Jeffrey thrust him against the wall, each time harder than the last. A wound opened at the back of John’s head, and blood oozed out. Jeffrey took his pocketknife and held it horizontally against John’s jugular.
Adrenaline shot through Jeffrey’s body. Like a wild animal that has his prey in a death grip around the neck, Jeffrey was ready for the coup de grâce: He slid the knife across John’s neck, opening a superficial wound to give John a taste of a slow death.
“Jeff, we can’t kill him. We don’t want to face no murder charge.”
“Ain’t no jury going to convict us of killing this coon,” Jeffrey shot back. He spat in John’s face and let him fall to the ground next to the steam vent.
k
At seven a.m. on Christmas Day, Douglas, still snug in his bedroll, called out: “John?”
No answer.
A little louder: “John!”
He used his arms to sit upright. There was nowhere for John and Greeny to hide in the room. He raised both arms high in the air and stretched mightily to convince himself he was fully awake. He donned his shoes and went down the steps to the lobby.
Murphy sat at an old Knabe upright piano near the fireplace playing “Jingle Bells.” As Douglas moved toward the music, Murphy said, “Okay, all together now … Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells …” His chorus of about ten people joined in. Douglas sat on a chair near the piano, swiveling his head to look for John and Greeny.
The music stopped a few minutes later. Murphy saw Douglas. He picked up a cup of chicory and took a swig, then walked the few feet to Douglas and sat down next to him. “Merry Christmas. This is the day Christ was born. Ya know, He died for our sins and because of that we live to celebrate his life.”
Worriment filled Douglas’s eyes. “That’s real good,” Douglas said.
“Something wrong?” Murphy asked.
“Have you seen John?”
“Probably in the chow line getting his fill of rashers and bangers—sausage and bacon to you—and eggnog.”
Douglas nodded. “Yeah.”
“Go get your fill.”
Twenty minutes later Douglas had his fill and returned to the lobby where he saw Murphy talking to a patrolman near the front door. It was Birmingham Patrolman Bernie Ahern, someone whose beat included the YMCA. They were both immigrants from Ireland and loved swapping stories from back home.
“What can I do for ya, Bernie?”
Ahern asked Murphy if he knew there was a colored boy passed out on the steam grate at the back of the building. “Probably some drunk,” Murphy said.
“He may be dead. Take a look for me,” Ahern requested.
Murphy agreed and wished the patrolman and his family a Merry Christmas.
“Will do.”
“Can I get you a cup of chicory?” Murphy asked.
“No thank ya. Already had some.”
“Yer a good Irishman, a good American,” Murphy told him.
Murphy lifted his linsey-woolsey shirt from the antlers on a mounted stag’s head, donned it, and walked with Ahern to the back of the building.
A shoeless and coatless body lay prostrate on the grate. Murphy moved closer. “Dear God, that laddie is John. He came yesterday with Douglas.”
Ahern strained and groaned as he picked John up. He was out of shape, with a belly that lopped over all sides of his waistband. He struggled to carry John inside through a side door. Ahern breathed heavily as Murphy led him to a room that had a bed. Ahern placed John on a hard, thin mattress.
Murphy removed John’s socks and felt his pallid feet; they were icy cold. He wrapped John in a woolen blanket to conserve what heat John’s body still held.
John’s right leg twitched. Murphy looked at John’s face and noticed his pallid lips, nose, and ears. A trail of dried blood ran from his nose to his pullover cotton shirt. Looking into John’s eyes for the first time, Murphy felt dread. But there was hope, as John blinked periodically.
Ahern said, “Looks like he was roughed up, eh? Any idea how this happened?”
“No.”
“Did he have any enemies that ya know?” Ahern asked.
“Maybe. He and Douglas had a fight with Ian Dunst and Jeff Reynolds a few hours earlier today.”
“Jeff Reynolds. Huh. I arrested him a while ago after he banjaxed property owned by Pratt Mills. He’s a real yob. Why’re ya so concerned about this colored boy?”
“This boy has no family, except for his dog and his friend Douglas. He needs a helping hand.”
Ahern removed his hat and a forelock of unruly hair, gray and thin, fell over his forehead. He swept it back with his right hand. “Suppose so. Get him some medical attention. Don’t hesitate to call on the gardai if you need us.”
Murphy sent for medical help, which arrived the day after Christmas. In the meantime, John slept on a small bed covered with blankets. He ate nothing and only took a few sips of hot cider from time to time.
A colored physician attended to John the day after Christmas. He told Murphy that John’s toes were frostbitten and that he needed to convalesce for a few more days.
As John recovered over the next few days, Douglas told him that Greeny had died. John’s heart sank. His sisters were gone, his mother was just in a reserved placed in his heart, as he didn’t know whether he’d ever see her again—so for now, she was also lost. And now he lost Greeny, another family member. The only family he had left was Douglas.
When Douglas asked Murphy whether their short-term roommates had had anything to do with John’s near demise, Murphy was silent, but his expression told the answer. A sharp pain grabbed Douglas’s body like an alligator’s jaws. He was ready to kill.