Chapter 27

The Escort

When the final bell rang that evening, Clare was relieved she still had a job. Not that she really believed it was possible for her to be fired. But a pall had come across the factory floor as the news of the dismissals brought palpable tension throughout the building.

The darkness of the evening was upon them, and in the sparse gas lighting hanging from poles in the street, a flurry of white drifting snow was visible, although it had yet to collect on the ground.

Amidst the exodus of tired seamstresses into the flow of the streets, Clare locked arms with Magdalene and Sara. They had a couple of blocks in common before they scattered in separate directions, and it was their ritual to sojourn together. Even Sara’s rattling was preferable to the eerie sounds of Clare’s shadowy Five Points commute.

The first time she had taken the journey home by herself, Clare was stricken with fear. Most of the streets she traveled were well populated with men who glared as she passed, drunks, prostitutes, beggars, as well as groves of stragglers from labor ending.

She felt comforted in these crowds, as malcontented were many of the faces she passed. What chilled her to the core were those patches in her journey where there was an uneasy quiet, and she was alone except for those whose presence could be felt, but not seen, peering out from alleyways and dark crevices.

This was why she cherished having companionship for at least the beginning of her nightly trek home.

“Is misery the snow and wind,” Sara said.

“Yes, it’s biting.” Magdalene wrapped her dark wool jacket tightly around her. “I hope it eases or we’ll be trudging through it in the morning. What about you, Clare, poor dear?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, although the bright red coat Patrick had bought her offered more style than warmth.

Sara tugged on the two of them and they stopped in the middle of the road as they were crossing the street. “Is that . . . ?”

“Why it certainly is!” Magdalene said in a startled whisper.

Clare traced the direction of Sara’s finger and saw standing on the corner, leaning against the gaslight with his arms crossed, none other than John Barden. When he saw he was recognized, John stood alert and tipped his high black hat, which was brimmed with snow.

What business could he have in ill weather at this time of night? Surely John couldn’t be waiting for her? Clare glanced to her left and right on the chance there was someone else beside her who could be drawing his gaze.

“I suppose there is more to the story,” Sara cackled.

“Come, Sara. Let’s not be two old meddlesome ladies.”

“There’s only one old lady here, Magdalene. But go, go.” Sara pushed Clare in his direction.

Clare tried to resist but stumbled forward. She had a terrible thought that her wig might be askew, but a quick survey with her hands seemed to confirm it was properly placed. How presumptuous. What if he isn’t even here to meet me? There was no other choice now, as her two friends had abandoned her with trailing laughter.

Clare tried to recover her dignity and approached him with a trimmed gait. “Are you following me?” She tried her best to sound bothered by the notion.

He appeared amused. He stepped into the brightness of the lamp, and a glint of charm peered through the rough granite of his face. “If I say no, you’d be disappointed. Wouldn’t you?” He spoke in a slow, deep, and measured voice.

“Not short on confidence, are you?”

“Lacking confidence is a liability in my profession.” He smiled smugly. “Here.” He unwrapped his coal black wool scarf from his neck and then put it around hers with a gentleness unusual for such a large man.

It made her uneasy for this relative stranger to be doing this for her, yet it was comforting as well. She tightened the scarf, which smelled of a masculine blend of tobacco smoke and sweat and was flecked with snow.

“Shall we?” He held out his arm.

Clare took his arm and then struggled to keep up with his lengthy steps as they moved forward. She glanced behind her to see Magdalene and Sara giggling and waving at her. She grimaced.

“And what exactly is your profession?” she asked as her free hand felt again to see if her wig was aligned.

“That would depend on who’s asking, I suppose. To my employer, I serve as what you might call a peacemaker.”

“A peacemaker?” she said with sarcasm.

“Yes. When I’m around, people seem to quiet their spirits.”

“I thought you were a prizefighter.”

He raised an eyebrow and smiled with mischief. “Now, Miss Hanley. Sport fighting is not legal in the city. Do I seem like someone who would venture outside of the law?”

“Then do you work for my uncle?” As soon as the words spilled from her lips, she tensed.

“Your uncle?” He frowned.

“Not my uncle.” Clare stumbled. “I don’t know what I was saying. I meant Patrick Feagles.”

John met her eyes with a knowing glance, which made her wonder if he knew she wasn’t telling the truth.

“Patrick? No. He is not my employer.” He laughed. “I work for the man Patrick works for.”

Clare was puzzled and now curious. “Patrick. Mr. Feagles. He works for another?”

“We all work for someone.”

A strange chill swept through her body, and Clare stopped and glanced back toward an alleyway they had passed.

“What is it?”

At first Clare didn’t answer. She just stared into the darkness, hoping for an answer, but fearful of discerning a shape. “It’s . . . it’s nothing.”

“Did you see something?” His face showed concern for her, but there was a confidence as well that reminded Clare of how little she had to fear.

“Come.” She pulled him forward to continue on their way back home. She waited several steps before she glanced back over her shoulder. Tonight wasn’t the first time. All this week she had the strangest sensation she was being followed. Could it be a jealous Pierce? No. He made clear his affection for her and had been clinging of late, but certainly Pierce was above this type of behavior.

“These streets aren’t safe for you to be walking alone at night. I think I’ll escort you from here on out.”

Clare started to protest, but then she relented. “That would be lovely. I would like that.”

They progressed with few words and Clare felt comfortable in the silence. Occasionally she would glance over and admire his stature, his sense of strength.

As they approached their neighborhood, there were loud voices ahead. Men and women were shouting. No. Not shouting, but chanting.

“Oh no.”

“What?” Clare could see up in the distance the shadowy figures of a few dozen people in front of her building, holding torches and gesturing with their hands at the rooms above.

“It’s the do-gooders,” John said. “They take issue with Patrick’s . . . ladies.”

“What are they going to do?”

John laughed. “They might hurl a Bible. Just a cloister of rich, old crabby ladies too bored with their husbands to stay at home.”

“Set the captives free, set the captives free,” the group chanted loudly and not perfectly in step. A few offered their own refrains, such as “Come to Jesus,” or “Repent of your sins.” Others hummed melodies.

As Clare came closer she could see it was indeed mostly older women, many wearing fur jackets and fanciful hats. Some had their eyes closed as they fervently issued their petitions, pointed fingers, and held open hands in the air at the windows of the second floor of Patrick Feagles’s building.

A couple of the prostitutes peered down at the gathering below, and Clare glanced up just in time to see one of them hurl an object at the group. The sound of glass shattering didn’t seem to phase the gathering.

“Come.” John began to walk her toward the front of the tavern.

As he did, a man stepped in front of Clare, startling her. It was the tall, blond man with rounded spectacles she had seen outside of the Irish Society.

“Here, take this.” The man handed Clare a small printed booklet.

She took it from his gloved hand, mesmerized by the compassion in his face.

“Out of her way.” John gave the man a shove.

“John Barden,” said the tall man. “You know better than to stir trouble with me.”

Clare was amazed at the sense of calm in his eyes. Her father and the other men in her life were never ones to back down from a challenge. But they always did so with anger and bluster. The quiet confidence in the stranger’s posture was unlike any she had seen and she found it alluring.

The prizefighter pressed his chest against the man. “It won’t be stirring I’ll be doing.”

“Tell me what your boss will say when he makes the headline tomorrow morning.”

“You have nothing on us, Royce. Never will.”

A couple of the women who were singing came up to them. “What’s happening, Andrew? Shall we summon the police?”

John Barden stepped back. “Won’t be necessary, ladies. We were just conversing about politics.”

The man they called Andrew held out a tract to John. “There’s news in here for you.”

John nodded to Clare and they turned toward the tavern. She joined him but looked over her shoulder at the blond man and tried to resolve her curiosity in his striking demeanor. What was it about this man? Certainly, he was handsome. But there was something more profound. Something that aired a sweet fragrance hidden deep in her past.

When John opened the door to the tavern, the music of her homeland emanated from inside, and she spotted a fiddler and a wooden flute player accompanying a man leading the crowded tavern in song.

There was such a noticeable contrast to the earnest chanting outside and drunken frivolity inside that Clare found herself unsettled.

“Can you believe that?” John said, almost at a shout so he could be heard.

“What?” Clare’s thoughts drifted to the ladies who reminded her of Grandma Ella and the man who handed her the pamphlet that she had placed in her coat pocket.

“They thought you were a whore.”

“A what?” What could she have possibly done to conjure this image in their minds? Was it the way she was dressed? Her appearance? Clare’s joy drained and queasiness crawled through her skin and into her gut.

“Clare!”

She looked up to see Seamus flagging her as he worked his way through the crowd. John’s words were boring into her conscious, yet Clare found relief in seeing her brother. The busyness of her life and her brother’s odd hours had made it difficult for the two of them to connect, even though they lived in the same home.

Seamus, wearing his tweed wool cap, which covered some of his curly black hair, took a calloused look at the fighter but gave him a nod of respect. “John.”

Then he grabbed Clare by the shoulders and wove his charm, his blue eyes sparkling. “Can you spare a moment with us, sister?”

She didn’t answer, but Seamus didn’t wait for a reply. He took her by the hand and walked her through the dancing, drinking, and laughing toward Patrick’s table in the far corner. Clare glanced back and was comforted to see John was following as well.

As they approached, Patrick stood and greeted them warmly. “There’s the man we were discussing just now.” He turned toward a squat, balding man who was seated beside him. “This is John Barden.”

The man who looked decidedly overdressed for the tavern stood with gracefulness and flair and held out his hand. “That would be the great John Barden.” He spoke with a drawl, one that Clare had never heard before.

“Have a seat, John, and join us for a wee pour.” Patrick flagged one of the barmaids who arrived shortly with a bottle of Irish whiskey.

“There is something I’ve got to tell you,” Seamus spoke as quietly as he could in Clare’s ear.

She nodded but found herself distracted by the presence of this new stranger. John dragged a chair from the neighboring table for Clare before retrieving one for himself.

“This is Reginald Sanders,” Patrick said. “He’s managing affairs for Billy Tunnel. They’ve both come all the way up from Atlanta, Georgia.”

“Mr. Tunnel sends his regards,” Reginald said. “He’s anticipating a fine challenge based on all he’s heard about you, Mr. Barden.”

“Is that so?” John’s gaze met Patrick’s. “I hope there weren’t exaggerations.”

“Not so, Mr. Barden.” Reginald reached into the chest pocket of his vest and pulled out a piece of paper, which he unfolded carefully. “This is our Atlanta newspaper. This here is on the front page from just last week. It’s talking about Mr. Tunnel’s visit to New York, and I think you’ll see some flattering words about his opponent.” He slid the paper over toward John, who gave it only a casual glance.

“Everything is in place for this Saturday,” Patrick said. “We’ve made the proper arrangements with the authorities.”

Clare looked into the eyes of John Barden and struggled to read his dark brown eyes. There was a strength, an air of pride, but melancholy as well. She sensed he was trying to cover up the fact that he didn’t want to fight.

As Patrick and the man from Georgia continued to discuss the details of the fight with John, Clare felt a tap on her knee and turned to see Seamus trying to get her attention discreetly.

“This is for you.” Seamus’s eyes directed her to look beneath the table where he was handing her an envelope. He put his hand over hers, as if to signal for her to keep it safe.

“What is this?” she said quietly, turning to confirm that their conversation was being ignored.

“It’s everything I lost. And then some.”

She opened the envelope a crack and could see it was filled with American bills. Clare closed it quickly and pushed it back toward him.

“Take it,” he said. “Save it for someday important.”

“Where did you . . . ?”

“We’re doing good work for Patrick. There will be much more where this came from.”

“I’m not sure I want to know . . .”

“You don’t need to,” Seamus said. “Send it home. Maybe you can include a note saying your brother isn’t the failure they thought he was.”

His eyes watered and Clare could smell his breath well enough to know he was full of drink. She didn’t approve of any of this, but her brother was desperate for a victory and she had no will to deny him of it now. She tucked the envelope in the pocket of her dress.

“There you are.” Seamus waved to someone in a crowd.

Clare turned to see who it was and saw a young woman with large brown curls and bright red lips, who was dancing to sounds of the music. She blew a taunting kiss at Seamus and began to gyrate and spin as she grinned mischievously and curled a finger, beckoning him to join her.

At the other end of the room, Clare caught sight of Pierce coming through the main door and then scampering to the stairs leading up to their room.

A flash of anger caused her to rise and scurry after him.

Clare burst through the door, where an alarmed Pierce spun around from where he was stoking the fire.

“What is it? Are you all right?”

“You would know, Pierce Brady, wouldn’t you now?”

The redhead stood erect and furrowed his brows. “What are you speaking of?”

“Why are you following me, Pierce?”

“I’m not . . .”

“Don’t lie to me, I know that you were.”

“Back down, Clare. You’re mistaken.” Pierce said this with such conviction, it forced Clare off her rampage.

“That was you, wasn’t it?”

Pierce took her hands, guided her to an upholstered chair, then dragged the oak rocker next to her and sat down. “What’s troubling you, Clare? Speak your mind. It’s just me.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not sure. I was coming home from the shop and John Barden was with me . . .”

“He was?” Pierce’s tone betrayed his disappointment.

“Well, listen. John was being a gentleman in escorting me home, and I’m gracious for it because I had a creeping feeling the whole time there was someone lurking behind. Please, Pierce. I’ll forgive you if you tell me the truth. Was it you? I need to know.”

“I already answered you,” he snapped at her. But then his face softened, and he sought out her eyes. “There’s something you ought to learn about John Barden.”

“I’m not interested in any gossip.”

“It’s not. It’s the plain truth.”

Clare paused, uncertain she wanted to hear what he had to say. She saw in Pierce what seemed to be a jealous spirit, but she nodded.

“It’s your uncle. He’s in a bad way.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There’s a man he works for. A business partner of sort. He’s got it out for your uncle. From what I’ve been hearing, he’s wanted to take Patrick out for a long time.”

“Where did you hear this?” asked Clare. It seemed nonsensical to her.

“It’s all true, I’m afraid. Much of it we heard from your own uncle’s lips, you know. When he drinks, there’s few secrets. He’s taken a liking to your brother and me.”

Clare tried to read through the veil of what Pierce was sharing. “What does John Barden have to do with any of this?”

“He’s a fighter, he is. And not just for prize. He works as a strongman.”

“For this business partner who has no name?” This was all too much for Clare to absorb. She wanted it all to be a lie.

“According to your uncle, few know he exists. Your uncle serves as this man’s voice, his face, his interaction with the world. He operates from the shadows. It’s part of their arrangement.” Pierce shook his head in response to Clare’s dubious glare. “I know I’m sounding batty. It’s strange for me and it’s coming from my own mouth, but you must believe me. Seamus and I . . .”

“What about Seamus?”

“We’ve seen things. We’ve done things.” Pierce glanced down at his lap.

“What kind of things?”

He looked at her. “Things you mustn’t know. But believe this, Clare. We’re in it deep. Deep as can be.”

Clare reached into her pocket and pulled out the envelope her brother gave her. She pulled out a stack of dollar bills and slammed them on the table beside them. “Is this what this is about?”

Pierce appeared startled. “He gave that to you?”

“Answer me.”

He stood and paced back and forth a few times, stroking his fingers through his hair. Then resolutely he kneeled down beside her. “Seamus and I have a plan. Here.” He pulled a folded piece of parchment from the front pocket of his herringbone wool trousers, opened it carefully, and handed it to her.

“What is this?” Clare saw the poster and her heart caved. It had been ripped from a nail and was worn from weather, but the words framed around a large ink-drawn eagle screamed to her in large letters.

“To Arms! To Arms! 500 Men for the United States Army! To the patriotic citizens who are willing to fight for their country.”

Clare had read enough. “What is this?” Her voice cracked.

Pierce took it back from her, folded it neatly, and tucked it in his pants. “We’re short on choices, Clare. Now listen. This is a good plan.”

“What do the two of you know about fighting? The American army? As strangers in this country? What good will you do your family buried in the soil?”

“It’s not like that. The war’s a hoax. They tell us there is little chance we’ll see a single bullet fly. The Yanks are walking right through the enemy, and the talk is they’ll be surrendered before we hit port. At the worst, it will be six months and we’ll be back for you and we’ll all go home together.”

Go home. The words rattled in Clare’s mind. Did she even want to go home? Yes, she missed her family, but she was getting accustomed to her new life and it invigorated her to be able to send her letters and support. The idea of crossing the ocean on a death ship again seemed distant and unwelcome.

“When?” she asked.

“After the fight. There’s more to tell, but I can’t right now.” Pierce reached for her hand and pressed it gently between his. “You mustn’t speak of any of this. Not even to your brother. He swore me not to tell you, but I felt you needed to know. And you can’t . . . listen closely . . . you can’t breathe a word of this to John Barden.”

Clare watched Pierce’s eyes as he mentioned the name, and they flickered with the flames of disdain. “What have you against John?”

Pierced paused and bit his fingertips. “If I tell you more, it may not be safe for you.”

“Now you must, Pierce.”

He curled his lip and nodded. Finally, he spoke in a soft voice. “Your uncle has something in his possession that has kept him alive. I don’t know what it ’tis. He wouldn’t tell us, but he said it would ruin this business partner of his if it ever comes to light.”

“But what does this have to do with John?”

“I believe he’s trying to use you to find out about your uncle.”

Clare had heard enough. She stood and he did as well, stepping back out of her way. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Pierce, it was all too much to bear. “I’m tired.”

He walked toward the door and lifted his jacket off of the rack.

“Where are you going?” Clare asked, suddenly not wanting to be alone.

He turned slowly. “I should join them downstairs. We’re supposed to be planning for the fight Saturday.”

“All right,” she said, disappointed.

“Clare. I can trust you on this, can’t I? All of it?”

“Yes.”

Pierce put on his coat and stood there awkwardly. “You do know why I told you all of this?”

Clare looked at the man who not too long ago was a boy. She could see the longing and the pain in his eyes. “Yes, I do.”

He nodded with sadness, turned, and the door closed behind him.

Clare felt terribly alone and frightened. There was so much going through her mind now, but her tiredness gave way to the pounding in her chest.

She took the candelabra from the mantel and lit the candles in the fireplace. She walked to the table, gathered the scattered dollars, and tucked them back into the envelope with her free hand and carried it to the bedroom. She set the candelabra on the small table by the bedpost, then lifted the mattress where she had hidden a leather pouch. In it were her earnings for the week, and she put in the money Seamus had given her as well.

Tomorrow she would visit the Irish Society and it would all go home.

As she returned the pouch to its hiding place, something fell out and hit the floor. Clink. Dragging her hand along the dusty floor she came upon a small object. It was the key she had found hidden under the third drawer of the cabinet.

She recalled Pierce’s story. Did the key have anything to do with what her uncle was hiding? Clare put it back in the pouch and tucked it under the mattress again.

It was hard to fathom how much their lives were unraveling. This wasn’t anything they could have dreamed. She went to the window, opened the latch, and pushed out the shutter doors to a frosty breeze. Clare looked below, hoping to see the strangers who were chanting and singing hymns.

But they were gone.

Just the wind, and the sounds of the tavern below. Disheartened, she closed the shutters, sat on the bed, and took out the pamphlet the blond man had given her. She held it to the light. On the front it said, “Have Ye Peace?”

Clare laughed in response. She was as far away from peace in her soul than she had ever been. The thought of peacefulness relit a fire in her heart she feared had died. She missed Grandma Ella, and tender thoughts of their times together swept across her with a dash of euphoria. Her grandmother lived as hard a life a person should ever endure, but she always bore an inner contentment and beauty Clare found herself craving.

She opened the first page and read the words:

“And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that it was now full.

And he was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow: and they awake him, and say unto him, Master, carest thou not that we perish?

And he arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.

And he said unto them, Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith?”

“How is it that you have no faith?” she whispered.

Clare reread the verses over and over. They spoke to her with healing and reassurance as if she had discovered a lost friend in her presence. She cried herself to sleep.