Their laughter at the condition of Liam Dwyer was cut short at the sound of a thud. The bartender leaned over the bar to see Liam passed out cold on the floor.
“Will ye help me get the poor sot up and propped in a chair, and then we can decide what to do with him,” the bartender said. But Liam’s newfound friends had plopped him unceremoniously at a table in front of the window.
“Let ’im sleep it off there,” the bartender’s friend suggested.
The bartender walked to the door to search the crowd. “Can’t. The owner will have me head.” His friends remained at the bar, finishing their pints in silence, watching Liam, his head on the table, snoring. Outside, the bartender kept watch until he spotted a policeman, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him inside. “The bloke is taking up space in this establishment,” he complained. “Let him sleep it off in the pokey.”
The policeman prodded Liam. “Up with you, now. Move along.” He gave him a rough shake, but Liam’s eyes never opened, and he slumped back in his chair, his head lolling around. The bartender, anxious to be rid of a nuisance, offered to help the policeman move him.
In the distance, the sound of the Cunard steamship’s blasts cut the air, warning passengers who had not boarded to do so immediately.
“You two had better hurry off to your ship,” the bartender said to the men who had lingered too long over their ale, trading stories with Liam. “You’ll be runnin’ out of time,” he warned. The men roused themselves, signaled a goodbye, and left the pub as the policeman and the bartender struggled to get Liam to his feet. The two men joined the other stragglers as they headed toward the ship.
****
Maeve held tight to Dermot, struggling to stay near the ship’s rail so she could watch for Liam, but the crowds kept pushing her back. She thrust forward again, her eyes riveted on the gangplank, which was lined with Redcoats. Twenty or so watched every passenger who walked the gauntlet between them. When they spotted one hapless man they had been looking for, they swooped down on him, guns drawn, as the crowd swarmed past. He was carried away, screaming all the while. A shudder ran through her so violently that the baby jumped. As the time grew short, she grew fearful that he would not make it to that point, and terrified that he would.
From her vantage point at the rail, she saw in the distance a man limping along, and her heart stopped. He came at a quick pace, hidden somewhat by the crowd that approached the gangplank. Perhaps she was the only one who had seen him, surrounded as he was by a dozen people all heading in the same direction.
He was close to the gangplank now, and Maeve silently prayed him on. “Please, God, don’t let him limp. Don’t let them see him.” He was on the gangplank, in the center of the crowd, when a shout from a Redcoat rent the air, and like wolves, they descended upon him. He fought them fiercely until a Redcoat raised the butt on his gun and clubbed him to the ground. A cry rose up in Maeve’s throat, and she pressed the baby to her heart.
Liam’s two pub mates walked along with the crowd, and as they got close to the waterfront, they were jolted by another blast from the steamship’s stacks, ear-splitting because they were so near the mammoth ship. The blast drove through them like a call to action.
“Poor divil in the pub. He’ll miss the boat if we don’t help ’im.”
“Right!”
They turned and raced back, two huge men, bags in hand, running so quickly that people turned to gawk.
By this time, the barkeep and the policeman had dragged Liam outside, and the trio was leaning against the door of the pub, the policeman cursing the fact that he had ever begun this thankless task. The two friends clattered up to them. “He’s plannin’ to go to America,” one said.
The bartender jerked a thumb in Liam’s direction. “Not like this he ain’t.”
The big men just laughed, grabbed Liam under the arms, and swept him along with them, the tips of his shoes barely kissing the ground. They were helping a new friend, one who, like them, was bound for America, and it pleased them. They paid no heed to his weight; in fact, he hardly slowed them down, and they sped along because the next blast they knew would signal the ship’s departure. Their mission was to get their friend on board, and the challenge made them giddy. They laughed and sang rowdily, hardly out of breath as they ran, until the gangplank was in sight.
The Redcoats lined the gangplank like an angry red gauntlet. The two Irishmen were in no mood for seriousness, but the first two Redcoats stopped them in mid-song.
“Halt!” He thrust his rifle out to bar the three, and two more stood between the three friends and the ship. “We’re looking for a man with a limp. He’s wanted for murder.”
“We walk fine,” said one, his drink making him more jovial than sensible.
The redcoat pointed to Liam with his rifle. “Him! I want to see him walk!”
“Ye’ll have to wait a few hours ’til he can even stand.”
“Let him down. Now!”
They did as commanded, and Liam crumpled into a heap on the plank. Another soldier strode up to the group. The other soldiers jumped back and saluted. “What is going on?” he snapped.
“Sir, we’re trying to find out.”
The commander looked at the two big men. “And who are you?”
“Eamon Murphy.”
“Daniel O’Hanlon.”
“Identification.”
“We can vouch for each other,” Eamon said, with a beery grin.
“I want identification!” the commander snapped.
The two men jerked open their bags on the gangplank, blocking a dozen latecomers who tried to squeeze past, and rifled through their clothing, one holding up a pair of long johns, the other tossing shirts about as they looked.
“Don’t you have identification on you?” As he spoke, the commander gestured impatiently for the latecomers to squeeze past.
They shook their heads and continued to look. Finally O’Hanlon came up with identification. The commander looked at it and waited for the second. Murphy finally shook an identification card out of his underwear, to the amusement of the other soldiers. The commander was becoming nettled, and gave it a cursory glance. “Your friend?” he pointed to Liam, lying in a heap in the middle of the gangplank.
“Aye, he is,” said Murphy genially.
“I didn’t ask that. Who is he?”
“Dennis.” “Liam,” they answered simultaneously.
“Dennis Liam what?”
“Dennis Liam Francis Xavier O’Hare,” said Murphy, feeling creative, and O’Hanlon nodded his head.
“His identification, I suppose it’s in his bag, too?” Liam’s eyelids fluttered at the request for identification. The commander looked around, and seeing no baggage, which had been left at the pub, became more angry. “Get O’Hare on his feet!” he snarled. The big men lifted Liam and held him under his arms, his head resting on his chest.
“Does this man walk with a limp?”
“Certainly not!” In fact, the men had noticed Liam limp up to the bar, and though they had known Liam only a few hours, they were determined not to give the hated Redcoat an honest answer.
He walked up to Liam, hanging now on his friends’ arms, and lifted his head. “Hear me, O’Hare. You’d better walk up that gangplank yourself, or you’re not getting on that ship.”
Liam opened his eyes at the mention of the name O’Hare, and then his head sank down again on his chest.
“He can walk,” O’Hanlon said cheerily, and the two proceeded with what they had done before, carrying him just so the tips of his shoes grazed the ground.
“See, he can walk,” Murphy repeated, grinning foolishly, and they began to lift him up and down in a grotesque dance. Liam hung limply on their arms, moving only when they bounced him up and down.
A soldier ran up to the commander and announced that the ship was ready to leave. “Does he have a ticket?” the commander barked, angrier still now that time was so short and he was getting nowhere with these dull-witted
blokes. They nodded their heads yes and began to fish in his pockets, arguing with each other over which was the correct pocket, until the commander reached his boiling point. “Get him on that ship in thirty seconds or I’ll jail all three of you.”
Murphy and O’Hanlon agreeably picked up their bags and, Liam supported between them, walked up the gangplank and aboard ship. As soon as the ship left its moorings, Liam lifted his head. “Murphy and O’Hanlon, you’re the best friends a man ever had,” he said with slurred speech. “I’m a wee bit drunk, but I know what I’m sayin.’ I’m your friend for life. Anything ye want is yours.”
The two answered in unison, “Show us your limp!”
****
Thinking that Liam had been arrested, Maeve stood by the gangplank ready to bolt from the ship if Liam did not appear. Not until the men carried him on board did she realize it was he. Though she wanted to rush to his side, she waited until the gangplank was pulled and, with a last blast from its stacks, the ship left the dock. She leaned over him anxiously. “Liam, darlin’, are you all right?”
He grinned up at her. “Never felt better than when I’m outwittin’ an Englishman.”
Chapter 11
It seemed to Ottavia that little Federico Vittorio became more beautiful each day. Days melted into months and months into years, and he grew to be a slender but strong seven-year-old, with the same golden highlights in his hair and the same warm brown eyes that she loved in his father. Her days were busy. Caring for others as she had always done and caring for her own child too filled every hour of her waking time.
After Federico’s death and the birth of her child, other young men in the village tried to capture her attention, but she was not interested. Her child, whom she called Vittorio in private, was the love of her life and a constant reminder of her love for his father.
He put his arms around her as she put him to bed one night, his face close to hers, a lock of his golden brown hair tumbling in his eye. “Do I have a papa?”
The question took her by surprise, sending a shaft of pain into her heart. “Yes, you do, but he is not with us.” She hoped that that would be answer enough.
“Where is he?”
Ottavia sighed. She did not want to lie, but she had no choice. “Your papa is in Heaven.” Before he could ask another question, Ottavia said, “I am here with you, and that is enough. I will always take care of you.”
She went to her own room and knelt on the floor. “Dear Father in Heaven, I ask you to watch over the two most precious people in my life, my son, Vittorio, and his father, whom I will always love. I beg you to help my son to understand when he is a man that what his father and I did was out of love for each other. Please don’t let him hate us for it.” She did not realize that the depth of her son’s love for her would kindle a hatred for his father.
The joy she felt in her son made her ache for her sister Lucia, just three years older than she, who had remained childless through twelve years of marriage. Lucia had endured two miscarriages and a stillbirth before she and her husband moved to Florence. Carlo was wealthier and more educated than others in Argiano, and believed that if they lived in a big city, they would have better medical care to help Lucia carry a child to term.
Ottavia and her mother were overjoyed to receive a letter that summer from Lucia, announcing that she was to have a child in September. It closed with a request for Ottavia to come and stay a few weeks before the birth, because she was in bed most of the time.
“You must go to Firenze to help her,” her mother told Ottavia.
The thought of Florence made her heart jump at the possibility and the pain of seeing Vittorio. “I can’t do that, Mama. Please don’t ask me.”
“Lucia is your sister,” her mother said, and Ottavia was immediately remorseful. If she could help her sister experience the joy that she had known with little Vittorio, then she could give her no greater gift.
The mere possibility of seeing Vittorio left her sleepless in the weeks before she left for her sister’s home.
****
The city of Florence was at once alluring and frightening to Ottavia; it was alive with the energy of many people living and working together. She held tight to Federico Vittorio’s hand as they walked through narrow streets with buildings taller than she had seen before, and she pressed herself and her son against one of those buildings as two riders on horseback clattered past on the cobblestone street, then inched past business people as they hurried by. She was relieved to see her brother-in-law, Carlo Simonelli, at the bronze bear just north of the Ponte Vecchio, waiting for them.
Carlo, a leather merchant, had done well. Ottavia had never before seen such opulence as in his house. She stared openmouthed at the gold-and-velvet chairs and the paintings in gilt frames as she hurried through the rooms to see her sister.
Lucia was in bed, looking large and happy. Ottavia kissed her on the forehead, afraid to hug her.
“Federico Vittorio, do not bounce on the bed,” she cautioned as he climbed up to give his aunt a kiss. “I’m here now, Lucia. I’m going to take care of you.”
****
Father Vittorio di Rienzi dined alone in a simple trattoria on one of the city’s many narrow streets. He did that from time to time to escape the formality of dining with the other priests, the monsignor, and the guests he often entertained—bishops, cardinals, and statesmen from around Europe. At first it had been interesting to Vittorio, but he grew tired of the politics, where personal advancement took precedence over all. His monsignor, Lorenzo Giovanni Tulano, was less a man of the cloth than a man of the deal, a consummate politician with a desire for power.
The monsignor had immediately liked Father di Rienzi with his intelligence and his patrician ways. He knew he was an asset, and he groomed him to follow in his footsteps into the upper echelons of the Church.
At first, Vittorio had thrown himself into his work, hoping that the noise of activity would drown out the cries of his wounded heart. He hoped that, in the course of saving others’ souls, perhaps he could save his own.
He became a busy man indeed, but less in the service of souls than as the monsignor’s personal envoy, a representative of the church in worldly matters. His noble lineage made him perfectly suited for this life, but having lived more simply and meaningfully in the village of Argiano, he felt captive to this hollow existence. He prayed for Ottavia in every Mass he offered, thought of her first upon awakening and last before sleeping. He loved her no less as the years went by, and in fact understood more clearly that he had known more peace and love within the whitewashed walls of the villagers’ homes in Argiano than within the gilded palaces of the wealthy and powerful.
Dining in the little trattoria was a release for him. He got to know Franco and Maria, the husband and wife who owned it, an older couple who loved people as much as the good, hearty food they set before their customers. There he could shed the trappings of his position, and they treated him like a much-loved son.
The day that Ottavia and her child arrived in Florence, Vittorio was in the trattoria. “Paglia e fieno, just the way you like it.” Franco brought him a steaming plate, set it before Vittorio, and sat down. “Padre Vittorio, wait until I tell you what the fish vendor did this morning.”
Vittorio was at his usual table near the front of the restaurant, seated facing the window, where he sometimes watched with fascination the texture and variety of the city’s populace as they passed by in orchestrated confusion in front of the glass. He was unaccountably restless that day, and though he listened to Franco’s tale, it was not with his usual concentration.
“You call this fresh fish, I tell him…”
The clatter of horses’ hooves as two stallions sped through the crowd took his attention. They were gone in seconds, leaving a break in the crowd. Across the street, pressed against the building for safety, stood a young woman and child. Vittorio stopped breathing, heard and saw nothing in the trattoria. The woman—her long, dark hair, her
beautiful face, her slender figure. Is my heart playing tricks? She looks so like Ottavia. Hope rose in his throat like a song. Then they began to walk, and he knew.
He rose from the table so abruptly that Franco stopped in mid-sentence.
“Padre, your dinner.” He gaped as the priest raced for the door.
Vittorio cursed the tightly placed tables and chairs, whose legs caught the tips of his shoes and tripped him, slowing his flight. He flung open the door and wove through the crowds, dodging some, shouldering others as he dashed up the street. At the square, he turned in frantic circles, his body tense, his heart beating uncontrollably.
She is gone, but she has to be near. Vittorio ran down each street in turn, peering into open doors, studying young girls who swung their bags in the sunlight, listening for her laughter. The young people paid him no heed, but old women in black dresses blessed themselves as he hurried past. Surely, they thought, the priest is hurrying to someone sick or dying and in urgent need.
He searched the streets for hours, wending his way through the vendors who sold fruit, the women who carried home loaves of bread in mesh bags, the men who rode horseback or rolled carts that limped over the cobblestones as they did every day. He searched until his legs ached. Despondent, he dragged himself back to the trattoria because he knew he had to, that Franco and his wife would worry about him as they would their own son.
Franco hastily put down a plate of food he carried. “Maria!” he called to his wife, who emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and they both rushed to him.
“Sancta Maria, what happened? Are you all right?” Maria held her hands out as if in prayer.
“Sit down and tell us.” Franco pulled out the chair and motioned for him to be seated. Despite Vittorio’s protests, Maria hurried into the kitchen to return with a plate of food. They worried over him; his face was as pale as if he had suffered a long illness. Vittorio accepted the food in lieu of answering more questions.
“I merely caught sight of an old friend,” he told them. “I searched, but it was no use. The friend was gone.” He shrugged, trying to make light of his search. They saw he hardly ate, and for the first time, his hand shook when he raised the fork to his mouth.
Choices of the Heart Page 6