Chapter 25

The Irish Society

The wind swept up as Clare walked out of Molly’s store, and had she not raised her hands to her new hat, it would have blown off her head. If the breeze had its way, it might have taken her new wig as well.

Glancing back into the glass of the storefront, pretending to be adjusting her hat, she admired her reflection, hardly remembering the frumpy woman who entered the shop less than an hour earlier. Off to her side, her uncle was grinning broadly, his arms full of boxes of other items he had purchased on her behalf. He had told her, “A lady needs more than one dress.”

For a moment, the thought came upon her, What have I done? But she brushed it aside as quickly as it came. Not today. She was tired and felt entitled to one day of reprieve from poverty, oppression, and sickness. Clare felt new, clean, alive, and she liked the way it felt.

“Really, this is much too much,” she said to Uncle Tomas as she turned.

“What good is hard work if it doesn’t allow an old man to experience joy on occasion?”

Clare felt an impulse to hug him, but something inside held her back. They looked at each other awkwardly.

The cheer on his face faded to one of more seriousness, a touch of melancholy. “Clare, dear. I know you have questions of me. Concerns. Rightly so. Shall we talk?”

Clare peered into his eyes and saw sincerity. “I’d like that very much.”

“Then come with me.” He held his arm out to her and she received it. “I have a place I’d like to share with you. It means a great deal to me.”

She began walking with him but then stopped. “What about Seamus and Pierce?”

Her uncle laughed as he looked toward the tavern across the street. “I believe the boys will be content. Don’t you?”

“I suppose,” she said, with a hint of disappointment. But then with all of the months of difficulty they endured, there shouldn’t be anything wrong with Seamus and Pierce having a time of it.

They started moving again, stepping out of the way of a woman who passed them with a crying baby in each arm.

“Margaret?” Uncle Tomas watched her closely as he spoke her name.

“Yes,” Clare said, her body tightening. “Tell me about Maggie.”

He glanced up as if he was searching for the proper words. “You must first understand how much I loved your sister. Both of you girls. But if I’m speaking honestly to you, and I am, Maggie had a spirit in her as no other.” He chuckled to himself.

“What happened? We heard your ship was lost.”

“No. The ship made it here just fine. Just the usual hardships of voyage. It was when we arrived that the real troubles occurred.”

Tomas shook his head. “Ahh, your sister Margaret, she was so full of life when we arrived here. She was dancing in the streets, breathing in this new place as if she was to take it all as her own. And she would of. Maggie would of. I’m quite sure of that.”

An elderly woman wearing rags and with one eye missing from its socket came up to them as they walked. “Mister?”

Uncle Tomas dipped into his breast pocket, pulled out a few coins, and placed them in the woman’s cup. He turned a corner on the road and gently tugged on Clare’s arm. They stepped past a couple of pigs rummaging for food.

“But we struggled,” Uncle Tomas said. “It was a hard life, it ’twas. We found a place in the Old Brewery building. We slept with the rats and the filth and with the dregs of the city. Some of us were just off a ship with no place to go, but many were thieves, murderers, and miscreants of society. If one ate, we all ate. But most of the time, none of us ate. We didn’t have any fuel for the fire, and on snowy nights the only warmth we had would be from sleeping tightly together.”

Uncle Tomas crossed the street with Clare on his arm, and they waited as a carriage passed by before dodging the mud holes in the street on the way to the other side.

“Good day, Patrick,” said a man pushing a cart full of manure.

“Lovely day,” Tomas said with a lift of his hat.

“It was Maggie’s spirit that kept us all from giving up, I’m sure it was. She labored harder than all of us. While I’d try to scare up jobs at the harbor or in the streets, she did all she could. At one point she was even gathering hair from grates in the street for the wig makers.” He looked up toward Clare’s wig. “Yes. Imagine that.”

The thought brought Clare shame, and she wished he wouldn’t have shared that detail. “Your story is quite sad. I pray it ends happily.”

“I’m afraid not, dear.” He pointed her to a bench outside of a sundries store. When they sat, he placed the boxes down carefully and pulled out a pipe and lit it. As he exhaled, the cool air filled with smoke and mist.

A chill came over Clare and she shuddered.

“At one point, Maggie was even down to begging.” He looked to Clare and nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s so. It made me ill to see her lower her pride to such a level.” His voice began to waver. “I suppose I shouldn’t have let her. We tried, we did. But she said it was a far better outcome than starving, and on this we could muster no argument.

“One night, when it was snowing heavy, which was good, actually, because it meant I could earn with a shovel. And earned I did. So much so I had bought us some corn meal and even a small piece of salt pork. Couldn’t wait to share the news with Margaret, but when I got to where we were staying, she was not around. No one knew where she was.

“I grabbed a lantern and went into the throes of the storm. I walked every street, over and over again, until I could feel no toes in me boots. The snow grew angry and I couldn’t even see me own hand even if I held it before me eyes.

“Who knows how long it was, but I finally saw Maggie.” Uncle Tomas paused and gathered himself. “She had fallen to sleep in the snow on the side of the street. I could see the tracks where people had just circled around her as if she was rubbish. Her body was froze and stiff. Margaret was gone.”

Clare put her arm around her uncle and pulled him into her.

“I’m sorry, Clare.” He looked at her as a tear traveled down his wrinkled cheek. “Breaks me heart. I failed yer ma. I failed yer pa. I know he’d never forgive me, and I don’t think that he should.”

She gazed at the man who so closely resembled her father, and her emotions sparred with her sensibility. Her hopes to see Maggie again were dashed. It was as if her sister had died in her arms twice. How much cruelty could she bear? What kind of a God would allow so much hurt and pain?

“We didn’t have enough to buy her a coffin,” he continued. “I didn’t want her body to end in the soil of this cursed land. I couldn’t get her back to Ireland, but I could get her to sea. That very evenin’, in the face of the storm, I carried her for miles to the shoreline o’er me shoulder, warmed by the flames of me anger. I pinched an oar boat off of the docks and gathered rocks and rope. I took Maggie out as far as I could row in the waves and dropped her body into the sea, with stones as weights.

“I came wee close to jumping in after Maggie and finishing it all. A shamed, broken man. It would have made the stories you heard truthful. But something kept me from that fate. A force drew me, powerfully, and I fought to keep me life. Having drifted out far, it took all of me being just to make it back to shore.

“That’s when it all changed. No one knew who I was or cared if I sunk to the water’s bottom. I decided I had enough of being Tomas Hanley, the poor Irish farmer. What had that gotten my father, your father? In that moment, I realized there were no thieves, no villains, just survivors. Shamed of who I was. That’s when I became Patrick Feagles. It would be later when I would change my name to avert a scrap with the law. But that was the day it really happened.”

Clare didn’t know how to respond. She stared ahead blankly. On the street she saw two men scouring the road for fruit that had fallen from wagons. They carried it in baskets nearly as large as they were.

“What about Aunt Meara? Why didn’t you ever write?”

He shifted. “Is that what she told you? I never wrote? I nearly wore these fingers to me bones writing that woman.” His voice started to grow in intensity. “It was her idea for me to go to America. She told me she would come right behind me. As soon as I had enough for passage, she’d come out with me. I must have sent her twenty letters without one coming in return. Well, there was one received. She actually said, and I remember it to this day, word by word, ‘If you don’t have any earnings to include in the envelope, don’t bother sending the letter.’”

“That’s seems unlikely,” Clare said with a huff. “She’s heartbroken to this day.”

“Believe what you will, child.” Uncle Tomas’s voice became harsh and he stood. “I’m not out to convince you.”

Then, as if embarrassed by his expression of distemper, he softened his demeanor. “Come, Clare. Let us not cloud this day. These are difficult memories for me. Harder times. Forgive me and allow me.” He lifted up the boxes and positioned them in one arm, then held out the other to Clare.

She stood, straightened out her dress, tightened the fit of the hat on her head, and then accepted his arm.

His smile returned to his face. “Right around the corner there is something I need to show you. It’s the main purpose of our little walk together. I believe you’ll be pleased.”

Clare offered no resistance, although her mind was a flurry of emotion. She didn’t know what to believe at this point.

Just a short way farther, they arrived at the corner of the street where an impressive building rose out among all others. It appeared newly remodeled and had the semblance of a bank, with its walls freshly painted in dark green and with gold trim framing the ledges and windows. Carefully crafted oversized cherry doors gave the storefront a sense of richness and exclusivity.

Above the entranceway was a large sign with the words “The Irish Society” and underneath in smaller print was written “International Headquarters. Five Points, New York. America. Established 1843.” To the left of these words was the very symbol Clare first saw when the keener handed her the necklace, a clover of three leafs. Clare grasped for the pendant hanging around her neck.

Uncle Tomas grasped for the door handle, but it opened before he could reach it.

“Good day, Mr. Feagles.” The man who greeted them was short of stature, and although sharply dressed in a long coat with tails, he seemed hardened by life, full of years and out of his class in these surroundings. “Let me take these boxes from you. And your coat as well, sir?”

“Thank you, James,” Uncle Tomas said.

The inside of the building didn’t match the appearance of its exterior, but still it was well kept with understated furnishings. There were tables against the walls, with several people seated writing on parchment with ink-quill pens. At the back of the room, a man sat behind a caged booth, and a short line of people were waiting to be served, in what fashion was unclear to Clare. Upon the walls hung gold-leaf framed portraits of men who she did not recognize but who posed in a way that made them seem important.

He smiled at her with yellowed teeth. “Go ahead. Sit yourself down, Clare, find a pen, and write home.”

Things became clear as Clare realized the others at the table were composing letters. Without hesitation and feeling her heart rise on the news, she found herself a seat at the end of the table, next to a man in a dark wool coat who smelled of soured ale and whose eyebrows sprouted like gray weeds. He slid his chair to the side to allow her more room and then gave her a second look, this one accompanied by a lusty grin.

As she settled in her seat, her uncle squeezed her shoulder. “Write what you wish, Clare. And if you find it in your heart to spare mention of me for now, I’ll be grateful to you.”

Not knowing what to think of his request but overjoyed at the prospect of writing at last, she nodded and mutely smiled at him. But his attention was drawn toward the front of the room, and his face was etched with concern.

Clare turned to see the subject of his attention and locked gazes with a striking man, tall with blond hair and with circular wire-rimmed spectacles, which gave him an air of intelligence and refinement.

He was clothed with confidence and nobility, yet there was an underlying gentleness in his spirit Clare found powerfully alluring. The man bore a pure and gentle beauty.

Clare couldn’t tell if he was staring back at her or toward her uncle, but she felt embarrassed enough to look down. She grabbed a blank parchment and drew a quill, gripping it firmly in her hand.

Unable to take her mind off of the stranger, she peered up briefly, yet often enough to see her uncle greet the man, then they went outside and spoke in animated fashion.

After a few nervous glimpses, Clare dipped her quill in the inkwell and lost herself in the fondest memories of those she had left behind.

Dearest family,

I write to you from a parish called Five Points, in the city of New York in the nation of America. Certainly on account of your prayers and God’s favor, all three weary travelers—Seamus, Pierce, and myself—have safely arrived. Not to cause you concern and undue worry, but the travel across the sea was most difficult, and if not for the caring of my brother and Pierce, I surely would not have survived my fever.

After many months, and thousands of miles won by sea, we are now settling into our new lives. We have yet to secure full labors, but through good fortune appear to be on it soon. It is our earnest desire to share all of the harvest of our efforts we can spare. I pray it will come soon and steady, just like the rains I so miss from home. It seems, in fact, even things I once foolishly considered a burden in Branlow are now deeply longed for in my heart.

Most of all, we miss each and every one of you so dearly. I hope we can accomplish our great task soon and the land back there heals so we can be together, in laughter and, yes, I daresay . . . hard work. I miss the farm, the soil, and the green of the fields.

Davin and Ronan. Please mind your sister Cait. Such heavy burdens she carries now without me, more than you can imagine. I wish to hear stories of how you both were gentlemen to her and tended to your chores.

Ma, I pray you are feeling well, and Da, I appreciate you more each day we are parted.

I’ll have much to share with each of you soon. You can expect many letters to follow as my adventure is yours as well. What great joy it would be to receive your correspondences, so don’t delay so I know how to direct my prayers in your behalf.

Yours forever,

Clare

She blew gently on the letter to dry the ink, and as she held it up, she read it line by line. How dishonest it was of her to speak of prayer because in many ways, her faith was buried along with Grandma Ella years ago. Yet she allowed the words to remain because she saw it as a fresh and needed pledge.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

“Are you speaking to me?” the old man with the large eyebrows said.

“No. I’m sorry.” Clare was relieved to see her uncle entering the door. He paused and brushed his hair back, as if to clear his emotions, and then returned his hat to his head. Then the grin returned.

“Well? Is it ready?”

“It ’tis,” Clare said. “What happens now?”

“The very best part of it all, girl.”

She followed Tomas to the line formed at the cage, then lowered her head when she realized he was taking her to the front, despite glares shot at him when he passed.

The man behind the counter stepped to attention as Tomas approached, and a woman protested until she turned to see who it was. Thin to the bones with sunken cheeks, yet richly dressed in banker’s clothing, the man fumbled with the curl of his waxed mustache. “Mr. Feagles, sir. How may I assist you?”

“Let me have the letter, Clare,” Uncle Tomas said, and she handed it to him. He folded it without reading it. “Benjamin, post this to . . . are you ready to write this down? The Hanleys, Branlow, County Roscommon. On my credit, include a thirty pound note.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Feagles.” The teller scribbled the information and then reached through the square opening in the brass bars of the cage to receive the folded parchment. “As the rest, sir?”

“Yes. That’s right, Benjamin.” Uncle Tomas turned to Clare and raised his eyebrows.

“Thirty pounds?” breathed Clare.

He seemed disappointed in her response. “We’ll send more the next time around. You and your brother will be employed.”

“No.” Clare was flabbergasted. “I mean. That’s truly generous . . . um . . . Mr. Feagles.”

“Patrick.”

“Yes. Patrick. That’s our . . . that’s our full passage paid.” In Clare’s mind she could imagine the surprised faces of her family as they opened the letter. “How long will it take to get there?”

“That’s what this is all about. The Irish Society. We can’t trust the thieving English with our money, so we charter our own ships. A little over three weeks by packet ship with good winds. Isn’t that correct, Benjamin?”

“That’s about right, sir. Twenty-five to thirty days.”

Clare beamed and gave her uncle a hug.

He laughed heartily. “Let’s go, Clare. We shouldn’t keep these people behind us waiting.”

She glanced behind her and saw the wrinkled brows of her audience. She was too happy to be bothered by their grumbling stares. She giggled and locked her arm in her uncle’s. They were met by James, who handed them their boxes of Clare’s clothing before opening the door for them with a bow.

Clare nodded at James with an air of royalty as she and Patrick Feagles exited the offices of the Irish Society.