Chapter 38

Blackwell’s Island

“Are you certain I should leave you here in this condition?” Daphne’s brow furrowed.

“Most certain.” Clare continued to pace back and forth across the creaking wooden floor of their apartment, as a cup of a tea in a saucer rattled in her hands. Despite not returning from the celebration until late in the evening, she hadn’t slept at all last night. “Go, go.” She waved Daphne to the door. “You’ll be late on account of me, and without the advantage of courting the publisher’s only son.”

Daphne wrapped a scarf around her neck, glanced in the hanging mirror, and straightened her hat before opening the door. “Shouldn’t I come with you?”

“Leave!”

Her roommate exited and Daphne ascended the staircase leading from their doorway to the busy street above.

Clare glanced at the clock on the wall. What was keeping Andrew? Even with his father’s connections, he feared it would be difficult to get clearance to Blackwell’s Island, and now she fretted he might have failed.

She couldn’t fathom delaying her reunion with her sister even one more day. After all of these years believing she was lost, and now to be only hours away from seeing Maggie’s ebullient smile?

Yet Clare was plagued as well by the thought Maggie may have suffered her mother’s fate. Why would she be in an asylum? Of all people she knew, Margaret was the most carefree and unaffected by the worries of the world. It made no sense at all.

Hearing a stir outside, she felt the weight of her worries subsiding. Andrew must be back. But a glance through the window only increased her unease.

It was a man with worn blue pants, rolled up to his thighs. He was laboring down the stairway, with one leg nothing more than a peg of wood.

Clare panicked. Should she pretend she wasn’t home?

A firm rap came on the door and she froze, certain at any moment the hobbled stranger would peer through the window, only to discover her cowering inside.

“Clare. It’s me. I know you’re in there.”

She recognized the voice and was dumbfounded as she went to unlatch the door to open it for the visitor.

There before her, in a battle-borne United States Army uniform, and with his hat in his hand, was her friend from back home. Yet he was difficult to recognize as he had aged many years though having only been gone for months.

“Pierce?” Clare put her hand to her mouth at the sight of him.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in? Do I frighten you so?”

She clasped him tightly, trying to draw out his pain, and began to cry.

“Pity is an ugly welcome.”

Clare stepped back and brushed a tear from her eye, trying to recover some joy in reuniting with her friend. “It’s wonderful to see you. Can I . . . get you some tea?”

Pierce hobbled in and scrutinized the room before settling into an oak chair, groaning as his body lowered into it. “I’m not here for long, Clare. My ride is waiting outside.”

“But where are you going? You just arrived.”

He glared at her with cold, empty eyes. “Boston. One of my mates said his father could offer me a job. Fit for a cripple, I suppose. Not that it matters to you.”

“Of course it does. Why are you speaking like this? I want you to tell me everything.” She pulled a chair beside him and placed her saucer and cup on the table between them.

Pierce avoided her eyes. “Don’t you want to know?”

Clare paused. “Yes. Yes, I do. How did it happen?”

“The Battle of Cerro Gordo. A thousand heroes and I end up taking a musket shot to my foot while tending horses. Swelling set in and they decided a leg wasn’t worth a life.”

“I’m so sorry, Pierce.”

“You’re doing well enough,” he said with contempt.

She squirmed in her chair. “I’m so grateful you found me. It’s so good—”

“To think.” He scoffed. “To think I actually came to ask you to come with me.”

“Come with . . . ?”

“Fool that I am, huh?”

Clare shook her head. “I can’t, Pierce.”

“You can’t?” His voice rose.

“I don’t want to. I’m happy here.” From the edge of her view she saw someone descending the stairs. It was Andrew. She let him in.

“I would be ashamed to admit to you who I had to promise political grace to, but here are the clearance papers,” Andrew said. Pierce’s presence caught him off guard. “Clare, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware you had a guest.” His gaze appealed to Clare for an explanation.

“You aren’t leaving already?” Clare said with genuine disappointment as Pierce struggled to get up, waving off her offer to assist him.

“I can see it’s time.” He limped toward the door, buttoning his jacket.

“Pierce?”

He looked at her dispassionately. “Oh yes. Your brother?”

“Please.”

Pierce studied Andrew with distaste. “I’ll spare you the details. The news is not what you’d want to hear, I’m afraid.”

“Is he . . . ?”

“He may be alive, or he may have already been hung.”

“What do you mean by this?” Clare’s legs grew weak.

Apparently moved by her emotion, Pierce’s voice lost its edge. “There is no other way to say it, Clare. Your brother turned traitor.”

“What?” Clare collapsed back into the chair.

“He fought for the enemy.”

Even with Seamus’s history of failure, this seemed too much to fathom. “I don’t believe what you are saying. That’s not my brother you speak of.”

“San Patricios?” Andrew asked. “Irish defectors recruited by the Mexicans.”

Pierce seemed impressed. “Yes. How did you know?”

“We work for a newspaper.” Andrew bent down beside Clare and wrapped his arm around her.

“I don’t understand,” Clare said, her anger growing. “How did you let him do this?”

“Clare,” Andrew said softly. “Don’t.”

Pierce put his hat on. “Yes. Well. You know your brother, Clare. Maybe it was a mistake to tell you. You could have believed he died a hero.” He started to go out the door and turned back. “I don’t believe I’ll see you again.”

She didn’t see him go, and lost herself in her tears.

Andrew just held her in his arms for the longest time in silence. Finally, he whispered in her ear. “There is nothing you can do about your brother. But you can with Maggie.”

As they headed down the creaking boards of the pier, the seagulls waited until the last moment before scattering away and then circling in behind them. Ahead of them was a line of people waiting to embark the paddle-steam ferry, whose engine grinded as black smoke rose, though still moored.

“Is it happening to you already?” Clare asked of Andrew. His face was blanched and clammy.

“I’ll be fine.” He took off his glasses and wiped the profuse sweat beading on his forehead.

“I don’t expect you to do this.”

“You’re not going alone.”

They took their place in the back of the line as passengers handed their paperwork to one of the boat’s crew. With each step forward, Andrew’s agitation noticeably increased.

“What’s with him?” said the man when it was their turn to board.

“Just a bit of a dizzy spell.” Clare grabbed the papers from Andrew’s grasp and handed them to the steward, who seemingly read every line.

“Reporters? The New York Daily, eh?” He returned their credentials and nodded for them to move forward.

As they ventured across the plank to the steamship, Clare felt the full weight of Andrew on her shoulder.

“Please don’t do this,” she pleaded.

“Don’t ask me again,” Andrew snapped.

“Over there is a bench inside where you won’t have to see the water.” They were only a few steps away, but when they arrived, he nearly collapsed onto the wooden seating.

The woman next to them drew her children close into her arms. “He doesn’t look right,” she said with disgust.

Clare scowled at the woman and put her arm around Andrew and stroked his face as the ship lurched and began its short journey across Hudson Bay.

Being in the steamship brought back memories of her passage across the Atlantic and the depth of illness she suffered. Yet was there ever a day on her trip as difficult as this one was with Andrew? She felt incapable of placating his hysteria and could only hope the trip would end soon. As it turned out, Blackwell’s Island was the last stop on an elongated loop the steamship was navigating, and by the time they arrived at the boat landing, Andrew’s nerves had completely frayed. Fortunately, there was a doctor aboard, who tended to him during the last stretch of the trip.

Finally, the boat drifted into the landing and the nightmare drew near its conclusion as the rope tethered them to shore. The doctor received permission to leave before anyone else, and they bore Andrew away from the dock, each to one side of him, as he dragged along. Clare was already dreading the return trip to Manhattan.

For Clare, the day was overwhelming. Today’s news about her brother. The anxiety regarding Maggie’s state of mind. And now having to deal with Andrew’s condition. What more could she bear?

As it turned out, the doctor was also en route to the asylum and generously offered to share his carriage, an offer they promptly accepted.

Now, away from the water’s edge, Andrew’s recovery was swift, although he remained mired in embarrassment. The doctor, who was an Englishman as well, tried to downplay Andrew’s reaction by suggesting hydrophobia, as he described it, was a common malady.

“There’s only one proven way to overcome it, I’m afraid. The simple act of bravery you performed today. That’s what’s needed. It’s a fear to be faced.”

“I wouldn’t use the word brave in describing what just happened,” Andrew said. “Hopefully, Doctor, you don’t have plans to commit me.”

The doctor smiled as if in courtesy but became somber. “You’ve never been to Blackwell’s asylum, have you?”

They shook their heads, and glancing out the windows of the black cab, Clare could see the vast, gray walls of the buildings approaching.

“It is a despicable place, if I’m being honest. Devoid of all humanity. As physicians we do our best to treat our patients with care. But we’re mostly overrun. I apologize for my lack of manners. You are here in the capacity of reporters? Isn’t that what you told me?”

“The Daily,” Andrew said.

“In that case, I hope you have the courage to write what you witness.” He pulled out a silver pocket watch as the horses were drawn to a halt. “Quite late, I’m afraid. Good day to the two of you, and sir, I wish you better returns.”

The physician’s dire description was corroborated the moment they entered through the sweeping doors of the fortification. The stench of feces, urine, and vomit emanated from every pore of the building.

Having passed by the hallways of the woman’s wing, Clare had already heard and seen enough slivers of horror to have drained herself completely of whatever enthusiasm she had to see Maggie. In its place now was unfiltered dread.

Never in full sight of visitors, but caught in glimpses around bends and far ends of hallways, they saw pale, thin arms reaching out of cells, patients restrained in hideous buckled jackets, and the haunting sounds of clanging chains, moaning, frightful laughter, and emotional agony.

In Clare’s mind one clear thought was paramount: She would not leave this place without her sister.

After many false turns, they were finally directed to a processing chamber, where an ogrelike woman behind an imposing wooden counter greeted them with the callous disinterest of someone who loathed their position.

They were ignored as she scratched away on paperwork. After a while, Andrew cleared his throat. When that didn’t work, he tapped on a bell that caused her to raise her head with some clear irritation.

“We’re trying to find a patient.”

“And you are?”

“I’m Andrew Royce from the New York Daily and this is . . . Clare.”

“And on what authority?”

Clare handed Andrew their paperwork and he placed it before the woman, who pulled out spectacles attached to a chain and perched them on her nose.

After a few moments, the woman looked up from the papers. “What name?”

“Margaret Hanley.” Clare stepped forward.

The woman dragged over a large leather-bound book, opened it, and thumbed through pages. “Hanley, you say?”

Clare’s anxiety rose with each page turned, and she watched with intensity as the women’s finger slid down the list of names.

“No, I’m afraid not.” The woman closed the book and shrugged.

“What do you mean you can’t find her?” Clare said. “She has to be in there.” However, fear crept into Clare. Maybe they had it all wrong. Perhaps Greta met Maggie somewhere else.

“What about your uncle’s name?” Andrew said to her. “Could it be under that?”

“Yes,” Clare said, her hope flooding back. “Try in the name of Margaret or Maggie Feagles.”

The clerk gave her a wry expression. Then grudgingly she opened the tome, and sifted through the pages. “I’m afraid. She’s not here. No one here by any of the names you mentioned.”

Clare’s lips began to quiver and she fought to hold back the tears.

“Are you certain?” Andrew asked. “It’s quite important.”

“Yes. I am sorry for you.” The clerk’s tone had softened. “But there is nothing else I can do.” Then she raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “I thought you were here for the newspaper? Is this someone you knew personally?”

“Thank you,” Clare said, defeated.

Andrew pulled her into him and put his head close to hers and then turned to leave.

“Wait.” Clare thought of something insidious and in some ways hoped she wasn’t right. “Excuse me, miss. Can you look up one last name for me, please? The name is Margaret O’Riley.”

The book opened again, pages were turned, and Clare scrutinized the clerk’s every slight facial expression.

Please, God. Let me see Margaret. Let me see her once again.

The woman paused and pursed her lips in surprise. “Well, there is a Margaret O’Riley, after all.” But then her countenance fell. She looked up to Clare with an expression of charity. “Perhaps this is not the same woman.”

“Tell me,” Clare said. “What does it say?”

“We get quite a few O’Rileys in here, as you can imagine.”

“What is it?”

“It’s all right, Clare,” Andrew said.

“It’s not all right. Tell me what it says.”

The woman glanced to Andrew and then back to Clare. “The record shows a Margaret O’Riley being admitted on January 17th of 1845. Over two years ago. Checked in by her husband, a Mr. Gorman O’Riley, based on his claims she tried to kill him with an ax. This was witnessed by a Mr. Patrick Feagles.”

“I want to see her. Now.” Clare felt her blood rushing to her head.

The clerk kept reading, her lips moving as she did. Then she closed the book, this time for the last time. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” She removed her spectacles. “It says she was inconsolable in confinement and refused to eat. I’m sorry. But she died six weeks later.”

Clare sank into Andrew’s arms. There was profound grief in her pain. She had believed with all her heart she would see Maggie today.

Almost immediately, the hope of expectation was replaced by something deep and onerous, bubbling to the surface of her being. Black . . . black.

It was approaching.