Unholy and unwise.
My Mary of the Curling Hair, Gerald Griffin 1803 - 1840
Daniel pressed himself further into the corner of the engine cab. The dark was his protection, but it felt overpowering. He could feel the sweat gathering across his upper lip. He tried to calm his breathing, fearing he’d be too easily heard. They were closer now and he could tell by the volume of the sound that they were coming his way. He heard a shout – “Over here” – and held his breath, hoping they had found what it was they were looking for. The seconds passed and he heard the boot steps starting again. He let out the breath he’d been holding and tried to regain his composure.
As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he could make out odd shapes around him. Perhaps the moon was rising and the light increasing. He began to wonder if anything around the cab could be used as a weapon to fight his way out of the situation. He saw a large shovel that must usually be used to help load the fire, but it was on the other side of the cab near the engine itself. He wondered if he should try to move to it, or try to bring it to where he was now, but with any movement there would be a risk. He reckoned he had the advantage, just by knowing it was there, and could reach it in a moment if the need arose. He pushed himself further back into the corner and waited.
Daniel could see the edge of the pool of light cast by the lantern now. They were close and advancing fast. He made ready to move, torn between running or staying to fight. It was still possible that it was not him being looked for, but the chance of his being left alone, whoever it was, would be slim. He thought about how to get away. He had little to carry and was fleet of foot. There were entrances to the cab on either side. He thought he saw a flicker of light to his right and he strained to hear if it was that side the crunch of gravel came from. That would put them on the track side of the train. The shovel was almost straight in front of him, but his first choice would be to head out to the left and run. There was no point heading towards the town; they’d find him too soon and he didn’t know the hiding places. He’d head back to the corn field and lose himself deep in the crop. It would take dogs to flush him out and by the time they’d mustered the help he’d have moved on and away, or so he hoped.
He was sitting on his haunches ready to spring, working hard to take slow and regular breaths. He could feel a trickle of sweat run down his back as he listened intently and heard the men stop. There was low muttering and his heart pounded. Now he knew for certain. It was him they were after. He would recognise Rick’s voice anywhere. He made ready to run like a wild thing, but the pool of light split and he realised they were coming around from both sides of the engine. He would have no choice but to fight, if ever he was going to get out of this. He had the advantage by only a second or two. If they were searching thoroughly, there’d be no way they would miss where he was. Of course, if he moved he’d blow his cover, but he’d have the shovel and be prepared. The element of surprise would be on his side.
As fast as he could, Daniel moved across the cab and took up the shovel. His eyes scanned from left to right, waiting for his assailants to enter the cab. Whichever one of them came first, he’d fight his way out and then run. He wasn’t sure whether he would have to swing the shovel left or right, but held it at the ready.
The steps quickened in response to the noise he’d made inside the cab and it was only a moment before a lantern, followed by the face of Rick, appeared to his right. Daniel brought down the shovel as hard as he could. It was heavier than he’d realised and not so easy to move swiftly.
There was an awful scream, followed by the lantern shattering and the sound of Rick falling back to the gravel. Daniel was paralysed with fear. The true nature of what he’d done hit him almost instantly. He dropped the shovel. So much for running. He felt a hand on his collar, but was almost senseless to what was happening.
Seemingly distantly, he heard Mr Hawksworth call, “Rick.”
There was a moan in reply but no words.
Hawksworth took his belt and tied Daniel’s arms. Then, leaving him attached to the rail of the cab, he went to where Rick was lying. “You son of a bitch, you’ve damn near killed him,” he heard Hawksworth shout.
Daniel’s heart leapt as he registered the word ‘near’. Rick was alive, thank God.
Then Hawksworth blew a whistle and Daniel realised there must have been others looking for him too. He heard boots at a distance running toward them and knew all chance of escape was lost. He could only hope that Rick wasn’t too badly hurt, but with shouts for a doctor to be fetched he feared things didn’t look good. Then, before he could find out any more, a Deputy came and took him from the cab, replaced the belt with handcuffs and led him off along the gravel in the direction of the town.
The cell was as barely furnished as it was possible to be, though ruefully, Daniel thought it little worse than the bunkhouse he’d left behind. It was daylight he missed most, as the small window, set high in the wall, let in precious little of the day. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the feeling of the sun on his skin, its warmth caressing him as no human had since his own mother died. He thought of the feeling of Duke’s rough fur beneath his fingers and determined not to give up on life, if it wasn’t ready to give up on him.
What light there was from the outside was his only measure of passing time. His meals came at irregular intervals, when the Deputy remembered he’d company below. A small stone was enough to record the days and he used it to scratch at the wall, a new line apart from others that had scratched before him.
He had no more idea of the workings of the law than he had of most other things. He thought there’d be a trial, but he had no certainty of it, and from the angry voices he’d heard from above he wondered if he might be better being forgotten than tried by a mob. What crime would they try him on? Was it for running away he was being held, or for hitting Rick with the shovel? He didn’t know which was worse, but couldn’t imagine that his treatment by the folks of the town could be any worse than it had been at the hands of Hawksworth.
It was hard to pass the time when you had all the time in the world and no idea when it would end, but there was one thing he was determined about; if they broke his spirit they would have won and he might as well be dead. He did the one thing he’d always done to get him through the darkest times. He sang. Quietly at first, but when no one seemed to object to the noise, he became bolder. He closed his eyes and remembered the days on the New York streets, singing in the hope of being able to eat. Gone were the days on the harbour-side, mimicking his father’s voice. Now his was that voice, grown fuller with age, the lilt of his Irish accent more fully apparent when singing than in speech.
“I’ve been a wild rover for many’s the year,
And I spent all me money on whiskey and beer.
And now I’m returning with gold in great store,
And I never will play the wild rover no more…”
When he first started singing he was doing it for himself, but after a day or two he became aware of shadows blocking the light from the grate above. Then the following day, to his surprise, he found a small package wrapped in paper dropped through the grate, and on unwrapping it found a small hunk of bread. Once again he was singing for his livelihood and his singing became bolder. Each day he was rewarded with small items that brought him great cheer and the hope that one day maybe he’d see the sunlight again and know the touch of another human hand.
By no means were all the people as generous of spirit. He’d heard many shouts of ‘Bog-rot’ and other slurs on his homeland. Although he’d lived in the United States of America longer than ever he’d lived in Ireland, there was no getting away from Ireland having been the only real home he’d ever known. He wondered if life might have been better if they’d stayed, but he doubted that would have been the case.
The days passed, scored in fives on the wall. He’d tried asking what was happening, but received no more than a shrug. He suspected his captors knew little more than he di
d. He wondered who it was that made the decisions, or whether a decision had been taken and they’d simply omitted to tell him.
The day was warm when the pastor called to see him. He’d already been in the cell for twenty-three days and it was the first visitor he’d had.
The pleasantries were hardly out of the way before the pale-faced but obviously well-fed man said, “And are you saved?”
Daniel blinked. He had not set foot in a church since he was a small child and had no grasp of what the pastor was asking him. He was all too aware, from responses on the farm, that mentioning his Catholic background was unlikely to be what the pastor was looking for. “Sir?” he said, for want of anything more certain to say.
“Are you saved, Flynn? Have you repented of the errors of your ways and of your parents’ ways?”
Daniel had regarded his parents as being good people and could think of little of their ways he should be repenting of. He’d read some of the Bible he’d been given, but that hadn’t made what the pastor said any the clearer. “I’m a God-fearing man, sir. Though I know little of the church. And I’ve never been to confession.”
The pastor shook his head, a look of sadness on his face. “Do you want to burn in the fires of hell?”
Daniel was becoming increasingly confused and on uncertain ground. “Sir, do you know how long I’m to be held here?”
“You should seek salvation, Flynn. When the good Lord calls you, what will you say?”
“Am I to be tried for a crime, sir?”
Before the pastor had any chance to answer – though Daniel doubted he would have got a response to what he’d said – the Deputy called the pastor away and Daniel was left in a confused silence once more. He tried to remember the words of Hail Mary, but suspected that would no more impress the pastor than anything else he’d said. He set to wondering about the sort of God that could abandon him to this life. As far as he knew he’d done no real harm, and for the first time he started to lose hold of the determination that had brought him this far. He sat with his head in his hands and could find no song.
Chapter 18
Miss Ellie had been right. Wanatah was very similar in character to Pierceton. Molly felt disappointed that there wasn’t more to distract her. Tom’s statement that she shouldn’t contact him was weighing heavier, the nearer to him they travelled. However, without the farm to focus on, Miss Ellie had been relaxed and talkative about her own life and that was providing Molly with much to interest her as they journeyed on to Michigan City.
She was glad of the safety of company and soon realised her plan would have been almost impossible for a young lady on her own. She hoped that once Tom had seen reason he might choose to travel on with them to find Daniel. Surely, he would be mightily pleased to see her, wouldn’t he?
Molly started to imagine the possibility of a life with them all together again and wondered what Tom might think of the farm in Pierceton. Then she stopped. From the response to her note she just couldn’t picture it, but she couldn’t understand why. Somehow, it was like doing a puzzle and finding an extra piece. She was quiet as she thought about it. Maybe she was even wrong to go in search of them, and in her own grief was being selfish, but she’d started now and she’d never been one to give up easily.
When they alighted from the train at Michigan, Molly felt in awe of the place. Somehow the streets seemed wider and the buildings stood straighter and taller. She remembered back to the wharfs in New York. These buildings weren’t that tall, but they looked better kept and less sinister, more respectable somehow.
They walked a while in silence and Molly felt the weight of her quest. What if she couldn’t find Tom? What if she didn’t recognise him? She laughed at herself. Of course she would recognise her own flesh and blood and if nothing else the unruly red locks would give him away. She had a sudden thought. “Miss Ellie, what if he’s gone off to war?”
Ellie Cochrane turned to Molly, her face clouded for a moment. “Well, child, that’s a prospect we’ll have to face if it comes. From what you’ve said, it’s a possibility. He’d be old enough to be gone.”
Molly felt the corners of her eyes prick with tears, as she thought of Henry and the sudden prospect that others she knew might be caught up in the fighting. Despite the fact there was no more to be done on that day, she felt an urgency and stepped out a little faster, leaving Miss Ellie to stride to keep up with her.
Ellie laid a hand on her arm. “Child, it will be fine. Just you see.”
The strength and certainty in Miss Ellie’s voice was like balm to Molly and she reached her hand down to cover the inner pocket of her skirt, felt the rosary safely in place and slowed her pace to a more normal level.
In their lodgings, Molly was fascinated to see the Singer sewing machine on a small table in their room, and presumed it was used as a work room when there were no guests. She ran her hand over the black and gold of the lettering and wondered if one day she might own such a beautiful and, of course, useful item. She sighed, thinking how much times had changed from the hand-to-mouth life she used to lead, and wondered what Mammy would make of being able to sew clothes so easily.
She slept little that night, tossing and turning as she thought what her first words to Tom might be. In her mind she pictured the boy she’d known and tried to cast him forward into the man he might have become. She saw shoulders strong and muscular from labouring, and hair as wild and untamed as it had always been. She tried to remember what Mammy had looked like and their da, but saw only vague shadows that flitted out of focus on the edge of memory.
Sleep did come eventually, but when it did it was short and lacked the refreshment she longed for. She woke with the dawn light and a thousand thoughts to unravel to make sense of any of them. After all this time, the day had finally arrived. She breathed deeply and tried to steady her shaking hands as she buttoned her boots. Then she prayed quietly for Mammy’s soul, before packing up to face what the day might bring.
The journey to Dowagiac was not a long one and the fields passed much as they had done the rest of the trip. Molly spent the time rehearsing in her mind the words she would use to enquire of Tom. She had no idea of the numbers of children who’d stayed here from the train all those years ago. It was obvious from Daniel’s whereabouts that not all of them would be here, but she hoped there might be enough that some would know or remember Tom and point her in the right direction. He could be on one of the outlying farms and rarely enter the town itself. Molly’s thoughts were distant when she felt a hand rest on hers.
“Stop your sighing, girl,” Miss Ellie said. “You’ll be fine. I know you will.”
The warmth of Miss Ellie’s smile gave Molly comfort and she smiled in return, a strong determination within her.
They alighted from the train in the early afternoon and waited while the porter brought their luggage along. Molly wanted to lose no time in the quest and as he drew the cart toward them she stepped forward, shielding her eyes from the sun that her small hat brim was failing to keep out. “Sir, excuse me, but were you here when the children from New York were brought to the town by train?”
He stopped short, seeming surprised to be addressed on any subject other than the cases. He straightened his hat and scratched his brow as though trying to remember. “Which train would that have been, Miss? There’s been several over the years.”
Molly looked up sharply. It had not occurred to her there might have been multiple trains stopping there with children. “I… I… I…” she stammered as she thought. “… I think it was the first one, but I’m not so sure. If I remember rightly it was September in the year 1854.” She searched his face for the answer.
He shook his head. “I’ve only worked here since ’57, when Old Ted gave up the post.”
“And Ted, where can I find him?” Molly’s fingers twisted the edge of her shirt.
The porter spoke slowly. “When I say ‘gave up’, I don’t rightly mean he did it voluntarily. He was moving an old trunk w
hen he breathed his last.”
Molly nodded her comprehension. “Well, thank you anyway. Maybe I could ask the station master too.”
The porter simply lifted the end of the cart and continued to wheel it towards the station entrance.
Molly had no more success in asking the station master, or the lady at the house where they had arranged lodgings. The next step would be to find the Town Hall and see if there were any official records which could be referred to.
By the time they ventured out, it was too late to make their enquiries so they settled for a stroll to investigate the town. Molly wanted to absorb every detail of the place her brother called home and only wished he could have been there to show them around.
“There’ll be time for that soon enough,” Miss Ellie said when Molly shared her thoughts.
“I know, but don’t you think it would have been nice for this first time?”
Miss Ellie smiled. “Happen it would, child, but I’m guessing it means more to your romantic soul than it would to your brother.”
Molly thought those were wise words, but they did nothing to quell the longing that things could have been otherwise.
They were at the Town Hall the following day, as soon as someone was free to see them. Molly was fidgeting with her sleeve as they waited in the reception. She felt as though she were so close to her goal and yet this final step was the most significant.
“Thank you for seeing us,” she said when they were shown through. “I’m trying to find my brother. I know he lives here somewhere abouts, but I don’t rightly know where to look.” She explained the story of his being sent on that first train and asked about the records they might have.
The gentleman shook his head. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, in what Molly could only presume to be a fatherly tone. Not having a father to compare it to made her uncertain, but he sounded sincere in his concern. “We don’t have any specific records of the children who stayed here from the trains. They would have been kept by the Society in New York where they came from. His is not a name I’m aware of.” He paused, rubbing at his neat beard. “You might try asking at the schoolhouse. They should have records of the children who joined their classes over the years.”
New York Orphan (Tales of Flynn and Reilly Book 1) Page 16