THERE WERE three aged sheets of paper on top of the manuscript. One was a letter from Galway dated in 1875 to Mrs. Patrick Gaughan at a Union Park address in Chicago.
Dearest Mae,
It’s been a long time since I’ve written you. There are hard times again here in the West of Ireland, the most god-forsaken part of the world, thanks to the English tyranny. We’ve been suffering from another famine, not like the big one back in ’45, but bad enough, and the winter has been terrible cold all together. There’s sickness too, some kind of affliction which wipes out whole families, even ones which seemed healthy are all dead in twenty-four hours, Lord have mercy on them. Then the weather has been terrible, bitter cold and piles of snow which melts and then turns to ice so that neither man nor beast can walk down the roads.
I am writing to you about a fourteen-year-old who is the only survivor of a family of six, two parents and four children. David kept her in quarantine after the parish priest brought her to us. She did not, by the grace of God, succumb to the fever that killed the others in her family. David says she has a strong constitution which resists the miasma that spreads the fever. We kept her in quarantine even on the day her family was buried, the priest insisted. Neither David nor the priest nor the grave diggers have picked up the infection, thanks be to God, but the town lives in mortal terror of her. She is a pretty little thing with bright blue eyes and pale blond hair, like a Viking, very intelligent, plays the piano and picked up a little bit of French in our school—she works very hard. Our children love her but are afraid. There is, to tell the truth, no room for anoher child in our house though, poor weak little thing that she is, she does most of the housework.
We think of sending her to the orphanage down in Galway Town, but the nuns there are very rigid and will crush out of her what little spirit the poor child still has. We wonder if you would ever think of hiring her as a servant girl. She works very hard and never complains and her fare from Kinsale to New York would cost you only ten dollars and you could take it out of her pay until she has earned it. If you would be willing to hire her, send a draft to our bank in Galway and we will arrange for her transfer to Kinsale. David says I shouldn’t ask this of you, but I say that you and Paddy have always been very generous and that this is a request that might save a great spirit. I ask God in advance to bless your generosity to poor little Angela Tierney.
Pray for all of us here. Ireland must have committed terrible sins to have earned so much of God’s Holy Wrath.
Your Loving Cousin,
Agatha
The other slip of paper was a trans-Atlantic cable.
FIFTY DOLLARS FORWARDED YOUR ACCOUNT GALWAY BANK. STOP. OBTAIN NON STEERAGE TICKET. STOP. NEW YORK CENTRAL TICKET CHICAGO. STOP. BUY CHILD PROPER CLOTHING. STOP. THANK YOU. STOP.
PGAUGHAN MD.
Then another letter.
Dearest May,
David and I are grateful that you sent the money for Angela’s journey to America. She sailed from Kinsale on the Duke of Kent yesterday. The ship should arrive on December fifth. I hope you can arrange to have someone meet her and put her on the train to Chicago. It was a cold gray day, and the poor child was silent as she left us to go on the boat. I believe she wants to start her life over again in America.
Angela’s baby brother, a cute, mischievous little tyke, was the last to die. She laid him on the floor next to his mother and covered him with the last sheet in the house. When the police came to bury the family, they would discover that the Tierneys kept a neat house to the bitter end.
Angela herself rested on the floor among the bodies, rosary in her hand. There would be no one to cover her. That did not matter—her soul would join the rest of the family in heaven before morning. Jesus and Mary would take her home. The smell of dead bodies was terrible. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. A terrible waste of ashes. Not my will, but thy will be done. By morning her body would smell too. What would her life have been like . . . foolish question. We will all live again.
The sun woke her up in the morning. She was still alive. Why would God not take her as he had taken all the others? She heard snow sliding off their brand-new thatch roof. Water began to fall on the floor. The thaw for which they had hoped and prayed had finally come. Too late.
She still clutched her rosary. Eternal Rest grant unto them, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and all the souls . . .
She should walk down to the parish house and tell the priest . . . wrap herself in Ma’s Irish tweed blanket.
She wanted only to stay where she was and die. Maybe God didn’t want her to die.
She struggled to her feet, went into the children’s sleeping room, “borrowed” her sister’s walking shoes and her brother’s jacket, and her mother’s blanket, walked around the bodies and paused at the door.
“Good-bye. I’ll be with you soon. I’ve gone to get the priest.”
Her mother favored her sister and brother. She felt guilty because she had taken their things. In heaven, she hoped, they would forgive her. Outside it was warm for the first time in weeks. The snow on the road was melting, she plunged into it, fell on her face, pushed herself up, and struggled down the road towards the parish house.
If the weather had changed yesterday morning, perhaps the doctor could have come and saved at least her mother and the baby. Or at least the priest might have anointed them. None of them wanted to die. Their pain was unbearable. They cursed one another and they cursed God.
“They didn’t mean it, Lord, you know that.”
Her ma had died while Angela held her hand.
“Why didn’t you get the priest?” Ma had demanded.
“You told me not to leave the house.”
“God damn your selfish little soul to hell for all eternity. Always thinking of yourself.”
Those were the last words Ma had said.
“She didn’t mean it, Lord, she was in terrible pain. Please forgive her.”
Ma had loved her and she had loved Ma back. But they had fought all the time. Ma told her often that she was too smart for her own good.
Then she began to cry, for the first time since the family began to die.
I’m not going to die, she told herself. For some reason you decided I should live. I suppose I should say thank you.
Then, shivering and exhausted, she was at the parish house.
She knocked on the door. No answer.
She pounded harder and then shouted.
“Everyone is dead,” she howled, gasping for breath.
His wolfhound howled in protest. Too early in the morning to wake the priest. The housekeeper wouldn’t answer. Soaked to the skin from melting snow, she was trembling now. Maybe she would die after all.
Then the canon, in his long crimson robe, answered the door.
“Who are you child? Why do you dare to awaken me at this hour?”
“Angela Tierney, your reverence. My family is dead, all except me. They died yesterday, first my father and then everyone else, down to the poor little baby.”
The canon shook his head as if to clear it from sleep.
The dog, MacCool, pushed his way out of the house and embraced her. For some reason she was one of his favorites.
“To ask you pray over them and to say the Mass for them.”
He shook his head again. This was not a dream.
He took her little hand in his huge paw.
“I should have recognized you, Angela, and yourself with the Viking hair . . . I’ll get dressed and we’ll find the doctor.”
He didn’t ask her inside the house.
She waited outside, cold and now very hungry. Yes, she was going to live. Why, O Lord, why? Why didn’t you take me home with the others?
More tears. Ma didn’t approve of my weeping so much. She thought it was a sign of weakness.
The canon emerged, wearing the thick cloak he had brought home from his years in Rome. He handed Angela two big slices of soda bread slathered in butter.
“Eat it slowly, little one, your stomach is still unstable.”
“Everyone in my family vomited as they were dying.”
“Don’t worry,” he said gruffly. “God still loves you and so does this poor little town.”
Angela wasn’t sure that either still loved her. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore. They came to the doctor’s house. His trap and pony were waiting outside.
“Good morning, David,” the canon said. “Miss Tierney here tells me that her whole family died yesterday.”
“Dear God, no! Angie, how terrible.”
“Everyone!”
“My parents and all the children. Their bodies are out there in the house.”
“You feel all right?”
“I’m tired and terribly sad. I’m not sick. I vomited once in the house when my little Kevin died. I thought my turn would come during the night, but then the sun came out. I knew God wanted me to tell you and the canon. We must bury them properly.”
He put his hand on her forehead, looked into her eyes, took her pulse.
“Was there something your family ate recently that you did not eat?”
Angela hesitated.
“Pa found our last lamb dead in the field. Ma insisted that we eat it for supper. I didn’t want to because I loved the little thing.”
“He’s been terribly hungry.”
The doctor looked at the priest.
“Poisoned,” he said curtly. “Rotting meat.”
“You’re not going to die, Angela,” the canon said softly. “Thanks be to God.”
“We’re going to have to put you in quarantine for a few days, Angela, so the people will know that you were not affected by the poison. Do you mind?”
“What’s quarantine?”
“We’ll put you in a small room in my surgery and isolate you from others. Just for a few days. There’s lots of books in there. As I remember, you were quite a reader.”
“Can’t I go to the burial?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s for your own good.”
“I’ll say a requiem Mass for them later,” the canon said. “Just for you.”
In Ireland in those days of famine burials were quick and requiem Masses were infrequent. Doctors disagreed about whether diseases were contagious and might be spread from one person to another. Later Angela would argue for contagion against miasmas. She never forgot the horror of a week in quarantine, cut off from everyone in the village as her family was buried in the old cemetery behind the church. Nor would she forget that her family had died from eating rotting meat. The quarantine was unnecessary but the doctor had to impose it so that the town would not be afraid that she still had the disease.
The small room had been a closet in the corner of the doctor’s surgery. There was a cot and a hard chair and a tiny window.
Poor Ma killed everyone but me—the thought haunted her through the days when food was brought to the door of her tiny prison and a knock would signal that she should open the door. She waited till she heard her good friend Eileen run away, and then opened the door. The Gaughans fed her well during those days, even though hard times affected the doctor too. She was taking the food out of the mouths of Eileen and her brothers and sisters. Some of her strength came back, and she still clung to her rosary. Yet she realized that she had no future. She had no family. In the West of Ireland, a time of famine meant you had to take care of yourself.
She would have to become a beggar, walking the muddy roads, seeking alms from people who had no alms to give.
She spent most of the time in the little room sleeping. She dreamed often that ma and pa and the childer were still alive.
The doctor came to see her the day of the funeral.
“It was a grand turnout, Angela. Grand altogether. The whole townland. They were greatly concerned about you. The canon explained what happened. People are dying of corrupted meat all over the West of Ireland . . . I don’t think they’ll be afraid of you . . . we’ll see what they’re saying in a day or two . . . Have you thought about what you want to do?”
She had not.
“I suppose I could become a beggar. I’m no use to anybody.”
“There are much better alternatives. I’m not without influence in the orphanage down in Galway Town. They would teach you some skills. They are too rigid altogether. The life of orphans is not easy, but there will be food and a roof over your head.”
“That would be better than walking the roads like the Travelers do.”
“Agatha had another idea. She has a cousin who lives in Chicago, married to a doctor, who is a cousin of mine.” He laughed uneasily. “Quite generous people. Wasn’t she thinking of writing to her to ask if they could find use for an intelligent and hardworking young woman? She could send a letter.”
“I can’t remain here in the village,” Angela said. “I don’t want to add to the burdens of any other family.”
America was both intriguing and terrifying. She squeezed her rosary and made a decision that would shape the rest of her life. The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider them.
“If they would have me, I’d love to go to America.”
Dr. David seemed surprised by her enthusiasm.
“It’s a difficult trip, not as bad as back in ’45 with the coffin ships. Most people survive them now, especially if they’re young and in good health like you are. But I don’t want to deceive you about the risks.”
“Life is a risk, Dr. Dave,” she said, the words again leaping out of her mouth.
“Well, I’ll ask Agatha to write a letter, and we’ll see what happens.”
Angela was released from quarantine just before the canon said the requiem Mass for her family. All the young people her age in the townland came to the Mass. The canon preached powerfully. Angela did not understand anything he said, but she realized that the sermon and the ceremony did console her and most of the others in the church. Was that the way it was with Catholicism? Sometimes the sounds were enough. In his final words, the canon seemed to be saying that she was a child chosen by God for special deeds, and that everyone should pray that she rise to the challenges.
What if he were right?
Angela had never realized that she had so many friends. Maybe there was much she had not realized.
“Are you frightened, Angela?” Eileen asked as they walked back to the doctor’s house.
“I suppose I should be. Now I don’t think . . . well, the worst has already happened, hasn’t it?”
“I don’t want to lose you, Angela.”
“We’ll never lose one another, Eileen.”
Though no one had asked her to help, Angela took over the responsibilities of keeping the doctor’s surgery neat and clean—cleaner, Mrs. Gaughan said, than she had ever seen it.
“Child, you don’t have to work,” she said kindly.
“Och, Missus, I’ve been working all my life. Me ma, poor dear woman, used to say that cleanliness is next to godliness.”
“Sure, that’s a Protestant saying, isn’t it? But sometimes, maybe, they’re right.”
Later in life, Angela would realize how important it was to maintain clean premises. “You should be able to eat off the floor,” the Polish nun had said to her.
She had even started back to school and had rapidly kept up with the studies she had missed. She had become part of the doctor’s family, a much more peaceful and pleasant family than the one she had lost. She loved her ma and pa and her brothers and sisters, but they were often very difficult to live with, no matter how hard Angela had struggled to keep them happy.
There was room for her in the doctor’s house. “Sure, you don’t eat more than a few bites,” Eileen had said.
Then, one day, a post office man had come up from Galway with a cable from Chicago.
“They’ve sent money for your trip to America,” Agatha said. “Sure, Angela, you don’t have to go. Why don’t you stay here with us?”
“Won’t we be missing you something terrible?” Eileen groaned.
“It’s up to you child. I could go into Galway tomorrow and buy the tickets or send a cable back, saying that you’d rather stay with us . . .”
I’ve lost one family this year and now I’m about to lose another.
“Hadn’t I better go and them Yanks expecting me?” she said, the words again jumping out of her mouth.
It all happened quickly. She had a ticket for the Duke of Kent, a steam liner that everyone said was clean, safe, and fast, a note to someone who would meet her at Ellis Island and take her to Grand Central Station, and a ticket to Chicago . . . What a strange name for a city. But the Yanks were said to be strange people.
“They say the steerage,” Uncle Dave insisted as they waited in the railroad station in Galway Town, “is better than first class was even twenty years ago. And you’ll be there in no time.”
“They’re terrible nice people, aren’t they now? They’ll give you a wonderful start in America,” Aunt Agatha said.
“I’ll never see you again!” Eileen sobbed.
Angela hugged her friend.
“We will see each other again, Eiley. We surely will.”
“I know . . . In heaven.”
“In this world.”
There had been no American wake before she left. Those who left for America were thought to be as good as dead. If they survived the trip, they might well die in the American slums. Very few would return to Ireland. But the American wakes, like the real wakes, were often orgies of drinking or lovemaking in the fields. It would be a waste of good money. She had lived off the doctor’s family long enough. They should not have to spend more money to get rid of her. She should learn not to feel sorry for herself. Her friends from school had come over to the doctor’s house to say good-bye as they put the tweed blanket, which held all her possessions, into the pony trap. Many tears were shed, but none of them were Angela’s. She was leaving on a great adventure.
She had terrible dreams. Her mother came out of the grave, an angry, half-dead skeleton, and accused her of deserting the family, “and our bodies not cold in the ground. Isn’t it the way you were when we were all alive. You thought only about yourself and your future. I hope the boat sinks.”
“Ma, I’m going because God wants me to!”
“God will damn you to hell for all eternity because you killed us.”
“Ma, I didn’t! I didn’t! The meat was poisoned.”
“You were always a great one for thinking up excuses . . . Why don’t you kill yourself and come to hell where we are . . . You belong here!”
She would wake up shivering and hot at the same time.
The dream was not true. It could not have been. She loved her mother and so did God. They were all in heaven. She prayed for them many times every day. They would watch over her and keep her safe on the journey to Chicago.
She had never been on a train before. The trip to Cork was miserable. The rain beat against the dirty windows but did not clean them off. The car was cold. Other travelers complained to the conductor, who told them that if they didn’t like the train they could get off and walk.
The train was also late at the station in Cork City. She had to transfer to another train to get to Kinsale. No one in the train station could tell her where the train to Kinsale was.
“I need to get to the Duke of Kent,” she told one uniformed train man.
“Shite, isn’t that focker at Buckingham Palace?”
“Gypsies like you should be arrested.”
“Go away or we will call the police.”
Angela was swept away by a wave of despair, the same feeling she had experienced at the cottage when the baby died. She had failed to save his precious little life. There was no escape from her fate. America was a foolish dream. She’d die soon, sitting on the steps of the Cork Railway Station.
She dragged her rosary out of its honored pocket in her dress, not to toll her beads but to cling to her God, who was suddenly distant. She wept for the first time since she had fled the cottage.
“Now why would such a pretty little woman be weeping in such an unpretty place?”
She looked up at a sturdy country woman, from Clare by her accent and herself with two small ones in her arms with a third child clinging to the hand of his da, a cheerful-looking fella if there ever was one such.
“Don’t I have a booking on the Duke of Kent and meself lost in this terrible city?”
“Are you the only childer in your family and going to Amerikay all by herself?”
“Aren’t me brothers and sisters and me ma and pa all dead and buried and our house burned to the ground up above in Connemara?”
Annie Scanlan, for that was her name, folded Angela in her arms.
“Well now, don’t you have a family to go over across with you to Amerikay?”
She slipped her rosary back into its proper place, told God she was sorry, and took the nervous second child out of its mother’s crowded arms, and didn’t the child sleep there all the way to Kinsale and the Duke of Kent?