Choices of the Heart

by Margaret Gay Malone

  The monotony of the ride made it endless. Liam longed for action. Whatever the outcome, let him control his fate. The din of the crowd grew, and people surged to the windows. Though they could not see, Liam and Maeve knew they were arriving in Queenstown.

  “Here’s your ticket,” Liam said, passing it to Maeve in the crush. As she looked at him in surprise, he whispered, “I’ll meet you on the ship. I’m taking a different route.”

  As the train pulled into the station, they craned to get a glimpse out the window. At several breaks in the crowd, they saw snatches of red, the hated Redcoats. Liam took no chances. He kissed Maeve and little Dermot on the forehead and pushed his way to the opposite side of the train, away from the station. It was almost impossible because of the crush of people. If the Redcoats were waiting, they’d expect him to alight from the train with the rest of the crowd. He was not about to do that. He heaved his shoulder against the window, but it would not budge. He prepared to break it, but before he had the chance, the train, full of humanity, surged ahead. The added pressure on Liam gave him the force he needed to push open the window. So focused were they on the door that no one in the train noticed a man throw his suitcase out the opposite side, then follow it, head first, out the window.

  He tumbled to the ground, ignoring the impact on his shoulder. In a moment, Liam was up and heading toward the waterfront. He hid among the crowds, hurrying along with them, trying to walk as straight as he could, but the wound and the pain had done their damage.

  Five hours to wait before he could board the ship, all of it in broad daylight. He walked with a group of men, some carrying bags, and he maneuvered himself into the center. He had just begun to think he could do this when he spotted two Redcoats crossing to his side of the street. They were talking and appeared not to notice the group, but Liam began to sweat. Stay calm, he told himself, and stay with the group. They’re not looking for a group. The Redcoats, burly, swaggering men, now walked just behind them.

  “Here we are,” one of the men called out, and the group stopped in front of a cottage. A woman in the window waved to the men. They laughed and gestured to one another through the window until the woman reappeared at the door, opening it wide.

  The Redcoats stopped to watch the scene, the woman and the men exchanging noisy greetings. One by one, the men entered the home until all were inside but himself and one other. Liam felt his pulse in his throat. He couldn’t enter the house, and he couldn’t limp away in front of the Redcoats. In desperation, he turned and pumped the last man’s hand.

  “Good luck on your trip,” he said, hoping the man would take it as a friendly gesture. Surprised, the man looked down at Liam’s hand, then at his face. Liam forced a grin. He could feel the Redcoats watching. He felt as though the man held his fate in his hands. Any kind of rebuff might bring them over, and he’d be forced to draw his gun. Come on, man, Liam pleaded silently, return the friendly handshake.

  “Have a good trip yourself, man,” the man said heartily, pumping Liam’s hand, before he turned and entered the house.

  “I’ll wait here a spell,” Liam said as the man disappeared inside, and he casually sat down on his baggage. The Redcoats hesitated a moment, possibly wondering why only one of the friends stayed outside, then continued down the street.

  Liam waited a few minutes more, until his heart stopped galloping and he could gather his thoughts. His nerves finally abating, he decided to stay off the streets. He had saved enough money that he could spend his few remaining hours in a pub. With his bag in hand, he made his way through side streets that sometimes wound away from the water, making his journey longer but safer. He stopped about a quarter mile from the dock, as close as he dared get until he could board along with the final rush of passengers.

  He stood in front of a pub and peered in through the small-paned window. It was dark inside, and that was good. A dozen or so men stood at the bar, a few sat at tables, and none looked like the authorities. He stepped inside.

  “I’ll have a pint, lad,” Liam ordered at the bar, then took his seat at a table in the front, alone. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, nor be trapped in the back in case he had to escape. Ordinarily he would have ordered whiskey, but he knew he needed a clear head, so he nursed a pint of ale. Half the men in the pub were headed for America, either single men or married men who were traveling first to their new country to find work and raise money to bring their families over.

  Liam was fortunate that his cousins could afford to send him the fare and wait until he earned enough to pay them back. Life must be good for them in America. He let himself dream, imagining what America looked like, Boston and New York, Philadelphia, Chicago and St. Louis—grand cities, he knew, ready and waiting. Wealth and freedom, within his grasp. By God, he vowed, I am not going to lose my future.

  A woman walked by holding a baby, and his thoughts were wrenched back to Maeve and Dermot. How were they getting on without him? It won’t be long, he tried to reassure himself, before they would be together, safe, or else… He refused to think of that. He wouldn’t leave his wife alone and his son fatherless.

  Although he sipped his ale slowly, the time dragged, and he found himself ordering another, and another. He started to relax, looking out the window at the passing crowds, almost enjoying himself. Then he noticed the pace quickening, and people scattered to the sides of the road, chattering and pointing. He stretched to look down the street, and caught a glimpse of them, marching two by two. In a moment, they passed in front of the window, a contingent of thirty Redcoats, heading for the dock. They looked strong and impressive, made to strike fear as their boots hit the road in unison, a crunch, crunch, crunch of unquestioned authority.

  Liam put his hand over his heart to quell the pounding. From his limbs to his brain, fear numbed him. Snatches of his life raced before him, as he had heard happened when dying. As if in a well, he was falling, swallowed up by inky darkness.

  Think. Liam shook himself. There has to be a way. He covered his eyes with his hand, willing himself to stay calm and rational. Their numbers are so great, my gun will be of no use, unless I turn it on myself. A bold plan is the only way, and I have less than two hours to devise one.

  Chapter 9

  The day of the funeral, Ottavia walked with the Gibellis behind the casket borne by Federico’s brothers and cousins from the village. A slow, sad procession wound to the windy hillside where old Giuliana and the other villagers who had gone before them were buried. Next to Signora Gibelli, who had to be supported in her grief by a man on either side, Ottavia stood stiff and solemn but dry eyed as Father Nollo asked the Lord for the repose of the soul of young Federico Gibelli. All of the tiny village, assembled a few days ago to celebrate their marriage, was there again to mourn his death.

  The women of the village admired Ottavia’s courage. The bride-widow, dressed in black, as were the groom’s mother and his aunts, seemed to accept the death of her new husband with serenity.

  “What faith young Ottavia has,” they whispered to one another. “She was so often in church,” they said, nodding their heads in agreement. “She has her strength from God, and his Holy Mother, and the many prayers she has said.” It was truly God’s work, they agreed, for her composure was a miracle.

  Ottavia embraced the miracle of her new life. For the first time in weeks, she looked to the future. On her wedding day, walking down the aisle dressed in white, she had known bleak thoughts of finality. Here, standing on the hillside, dressed in black, she was joyous, an eagle perched on a cliff, ready to soar. She knew no one suspected her selfish thoughts. They were unseemly, but she didn’t care. Her prayers had been answered.

  When the funeral was over, the family stood together, surrounded by knots of people hugging them, patting their hands, and offering assurances of prayers. Tears filled the women’s eyes when they approached Ottavia, so fragile-looking yet so strong inside. She accepted their condolences graciously, wishing only for this part of her life to be ove
r, truly over.

  She accompanied the Gibellis back to their home, and they were surprised, perhaps, but understanding when Ottavia told them she would not remain with them but would return to her family. She declined their offers to escort her, preferring to walk alone.

  At the door, Signora Gibelli wept, and Ottavia put her arms around her, imagining what it would be like for her to lose the child she now carried within her. She shuddered, understanding for the first time the depth of a mother’s loss.

  Ottavia walked slowly, reveling in the chill breeze that licked her face and blew her skirt around her legs, and in the clear blue of the sky, so bright she had to squint when she looked heavenward, the familiar road beneath her feet, the dust rising in puffs around her sandals. She embraced her mother at the door and walked into her home, looking around as though seeing it for the first time—the sturdy dining table, the flowers in pots at the window, the broom in its place in the corner. She walked into her room, so tiny and welcoming, and wanted to sing and weep at the same time. What she thought impossible had been made possible. She turned to the statue of the Virgin Mary, fell down upon her knees, and gave fervent thanks.

  Her mother entered the room. “Would you like something to eat, my child? You have not been eating well, and you should now, for the sake of your child. Thank God for the child that it will have his name. And thank God for you that you had time alone before Federico died. Time enough that no one need know.” She stood, prepared to urge her daughter to eat when she objected, but Ottavia nodded. “I’m hungry, very hungry,” she said, and followed her mother to the kitchen.

  Her mother could not remember when Ottavia had eaten so much, such large helpings of chicken and vegetables and fruit. She talked with animation and ate with relish. Her mother took it all in and finally leaned over and put her hand on her daughter’s. “I understand clearly now, Ottavia. You showed me in many ways, but I did not see what you were telling me. You never did love Federico.”

  Ottavia smiled. “You are right, Mama. I never loved him.”

  ****

  The months flew by as Ottavia awaited the birth of her baby. The women of the village were especially kind to her, believing that she had conceived the child on her wedding night. “At least you will have someone to remember Federico by, a child of your own. His memory will be honored,” they told her.

  As Ottavia grew large and her child grew more real to her, she thought of Vittorio. She dreamed that he would return to Argiano, see his child, and hold it in his arms. Most of all, she hoped that someday he would know he lived on in his child.

  Through the winter she stayed close to home, sewing little clothes for the baby, fussing around a cradle given her by an older sister. Then winter swept into spring. Though she knew the baby would be born very soon, she loved to walk in the fields and feel the glory of a spring afternoon.

  One afternoon, as she wandered through the fields, picking flowers and feeling the warmth of the sun on her face, the pains began, so slight at first and far apart that she paid them no heed, thinking that perhaps she had walked too far in her condition. She sat down on a rock and waited for the pain to subside. Instead, it grew more frequent and more intense. More fearful with every pain, she hobbled through the fields to the road. The walk home was far too long for her that day. Having no choice, she forced herself along, her body hunched over and sweat pouring down her face. Surely someone would come along to help her, she thought, a farmer in his wagon or a child who could run quickly into the village for her mother.

  As she continued along with no one in sight, she could feel the baby push within her, terrified at the pressure of the imminent birth. There was no waiting when it was time, she knew, and she was desperate to get home before the child came while she was on the road, alone. Slowly, she dragged one foot and then another in painful procession until a screaming pain brought her to her knees. She was unaware of anything but her pain, unaware that she repeated the name Vittorio over and over. When she felt arms around her and looked up, she saw the face of Father Nollo. He struggled to help her up and into his horse cart. The old priest, more terrified than Ottavia, drove the cart at a breakneck pace to her front door. Ottavia’s mother and father half carried her into the house, while the priest was dispatched to bring the midwife as quickly as possible.

  She was aware of the presence of her mother and the midwife, of being in her own room, and of her body wrenched by the most agonizing pain she had ever known.

  “Push!” the midwife urged.

  The pain and the effort left her limp. “I can’t…no more strength,” she wheezed. At that moment, the child’s head appeared.

  “It’s coming! You must push some more,” the midwife said.

  Ottavia’s mother held her hand and gently urged her, “Try, dear child. It’s almost over.” Her mother’s voice broke through her wall of pain, and somewhere she found the strength to push again until, before her, the midwife held a wet, matted, crying baby boy.

  Ottavia reached out to him. When they placed him in her arms, her heart flooded with love. “My baby,” she whispered. Her labor over, Ottavia cradled the tiny prize in her arms, her face transformed with happiness. She was suffused with a warm haze, and in a few minutes, she let her mother take the baby as she drifted into a deep sleep.

  The Gibellis visited Ottavia and the baby, then delightedly told the village that the boy was the picture of Federico.

  “You will name him Federico,” her mother cautioned her. Seeing the dismay in Ottavia’s eyes, she repeated her warning. “For the child, and for you, you must do it.” Ottavia knew her mother was right.

  He grew strong in the next few months, and by fall, it was time to take him to church to be baptized. The Gibellis were there as was Ottavia’s family, surrounding the holy water font as Father Nollo poured water over the forehead of the sleeping child, blessing him with the sign of the cross.

  “I baptize you Federico…” The Gibellis nodded to one another and smiles spread across their simple faces. “Vittorio,” the priest concluded.

  “Vittorio?” The Gibellis looked at one another. “No, no. Our son’s name was Federico Rocco.”

  The priest and the little group looked at Ottavia. She shook her head. “There is no mistake. I have chosen his name. It will be Federico Vittorio.”

  Signora Gibelli started to object, but her husband stopped her. “It is honor enough that she gave Federico’s child his given name. Let her choose another herself.”

  The woman became instantly silent, knowing the truth of her husband’s words. The baptism ended with a prayer over young Federico Vittorio, who had awakened and responded to everyone’s attention with a tiny yawn.

  After the ceremony, the grandparents went outside with the baby and left Ottavia, who wanted to speak to Father Nollo. “Thank you again for helping me when I needed it. If it weren’t for you, my baby would have been born in the road.”

  “I was merely God’s instrument that day, but I now feel a special attachment to your son,” he said. “I feel he will be blessed by the Lord.”

  Ottavia was about to leave when the old priest drew a letter from his pocket. “I wrote to Father di Rienzi to tell him the news of our village. I told him of Federico’s tragic death and the birth of your son, and he sent me this letter to give to you.” He handed her an envelope, on the face of which, in graceful handwriting, was written her name.

  Ottavia took the envelope and ran her fingers gently across her name. She folded it once and slipped it into her pocket before joining the little group outside.

  Father Nollo was a simple priest, but with age he had gained wisdom. He had heard the confessions of many a sinner, had seen the faces of human frailty, known the price to be paid for abandon. He looked at the young girl, the letter secreted in her pocket, and remembered her calling out the name Vittorio when she was in labor. A pain of recognition shot through his heart.

  Chapter 10

  Liam ordered another pint of ale and d
owned it quickly. He got up from the table, tottered to the bar, and ordered still another. He stood there, contemplating his pint a moment, then raised it in salute to the two men standing next to him.

  “Slainte! To our glorious Emerald Isle and to our future in America!”

  The men, who each had bags next to them, obviously waiting until it was time to board the ship, saluted him in return, and he struck up a conversation with them. They were tall and strong, young single men who were tired of laboring to exhaustion in the potato fields, they told him, only to have most of the profits go to their landlord, while they had to scrape by with a pittance.

  The three began a round of lustily castigating the British, which they drank to, followed by a round of tearful praise for Ireland, which they drank to, and finally, a bravado round of praise for their adventure in the wilds of America, to which they upended their mugs until they drained them.

  Liam leaned over the bar. “Barkeep, another for my friends, and while ye be helping them, another for me.”

  The bartender slid the mugs down the bar. The three continued their conversation in earnest, clapping each other on the back for old friendship’s sake, Liam talking as though he had known them all his life and waving his steamship ticket about, all the while, his speech becoming more and more slurred. The two with him had begun to feel their drink, too, but it had less effect because of their size. The bartender, an experienced observer of drinking men, shook his head. At the far end of the bar, he told his friend, “I’ll wager the smaller one won’t make it aboard the ship tonight. One more pint and he’ll be afloat in a sea o’ ale.”