“Isaac, I want you to meet my family. Will you come to Mass with us tomorrow?”
Nine
O’Reilly’s Daughter
For O’Reilly played on the big brass drum
O’Reilly had a mind for murder and slaughter,
O’Reilly had a bright red glittering eye,
And he kept an eye on his lovely daughter.
O’Reilly’s Daughter
Traditional Irish Bawdy Song
Sunday, April 14, 1872
Back Bay, Home of Kayleigh’s Parents
Mass had finished. The meal following communion had been eaten. Griffin was with Jim MacKenna, Kayleigh’s father, as he and Kayleigh had planned. Kayleigh accompanied her mother to the garden.
Mary MacKenna spoke. “It’s gonna to be so pretty this summer, Kayleigh. There’ll be a path of zinnias leadin’ t’ the gazebo. There, under the shade, that’s where the lilacs will grow, and over there, the lilies.
“Let’s sit in the gazebo; ’tis not that chilly t’day. I suspect you’ve somethin’ to say t’ me. Peggy, would yer bring us some tea? Don’t hurry with it.”
Mother and daughter entered the gazebo. The daughter stood near the railing, looking off into the distance. The mother sat on the bench to Kayleigh’s left.
“Sit by me, Kayleigh, here.”
Kayleigh joined her mother on the bench. They turned to face each other, their knees nearly touching. Both assumed a pose of readiness, of anticipation to hold each other, to take each other’s hands in hers.
“Ma, I love him. He’s the man I want to marry.”
Their hands joined.
“When did this come about?”
“I knew it when I met him, Ma.”
“You’re sure?” Her mother smiled.
“Yes, I’ve never felt anything so strongly. I love him and I know he loves me.”
Kayleigh saw her mother’s eyes redden as if to tear, then change suddenly, intensely. “Is your man Catholic?” Mary answered her own question, “Well, I know he’s not. He’s never been ter mass before. I could see that this morning.”
Kayleigh stiffened. “What will Pa say?”
“He won’t like it. It has nothing ter do with Isaac personally, just that he’s Protestant. Would your man convert when it comes t’ that?”
“I don’t know, Ma. I don’t understand what he believes in. There’s something. He does feel something; I know that. Will you help me convince Pa?”
“This Griffin just can’t refuse to do anythin’ at all. Does your man love you that much?”
Kayleigh nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, we’ll see. I’ve always wanted you to be happy. Never have I seen you as happy as you are now. You’re my sprog—always.”
The two women embraced.
“Still, do you think I’ve not seen how you’ve behaved these years? What’s been going on with you, Kayleigh?”
“Ma, please don’t. I thought you promised to stop. Let the past stay buried. I only care about Isaac now.”
Kayleigh continued, “We’ve come so close. We went to Hanna’s house Friday. We were alone in the parlor. He built a fire for me in the fireplace; that was all the light. We had been talking about a painting of a girl, where she’s setting the table for her mother?”
Mary then inquired, “What happened before Isaac? Why did you change so suddenly?”
Kayleigh pretended she had not understood her mother. “I sat on his lap. I wanted to and I did it. I guess I was thinking about how I used to sit in Pa’s lap when I was a girl. I can’t lie. I let my hair fall and then took his face in my hands and kissed him. I don’t have to tell you, do I, Ma?”
“No.”
“I think if he had pressed me, I could not have forced myself to stop him. Then when I felt him—”
Kayleigh paused to see if her mother understood. She was reluctant to speak that word. Her mother sat bolt erect on the bench, her hands lying palm down on her lap; she bent slightly forward at the waist.
“I was afraid, Ma. I wanted him but was afraid of him all at the same time.”
“Would he hurt you? Would he force you?”
“Oh, no. He’d never hurt me. It was my fear, my memory.”
“Memory! What memory? Tell me!” Her mother’s face seemed to flush with anger.
The two women, mother and daughter, moved instinctively away from each other at the mention of the word “memory”—one in fear, the other in frustration. The daughter continued her story and ignored her mother’s question, although she wanted to tell her mother what had happened. She wanted to be free of the fear possessing her.
“I let him hold me and kissed him again. That’s when I told him to go. Then I said we could be together Saturday. I hoped he understood—”
Her mother interrupted her by suddenly taking hold of her shoulders as if she was about to scold her child. “Kayleigh, I have eyes in me head. Someone’s hurt you. I knew it wasn’t Isaac. You’ve tried ter hide somethin’ these years. You’re hiding it now. It has ter do with that college boy. I just know it does. It hurts me you won’t tell me. Please—?”
Mary MacKenna stopped, obviously searching for the correct words. Kayleigh realized her mother did not need words; her mother’s face revealed deep unshakable love.
“Don’t you think I heard you cryin’? Don’t you think I know you took baths mornin’ and night? What were you tryin’ ter wash away and couldn’t?”
Mary shook Kayleigh’s shoulders gently, then stopped when it seemed she realized what she had done.
“There was the week you spent with the Dominicans at their convent, a cloistered convent. You can’t imagine the sorrow that caused me. After that, there were no more men in your life. Those ugly dresses too, and the hospital. Tis plain ter me you were hurt badly. And—and all you ever say is ‘Things happen.’ What things? You let my imagination torture me.”
Mary’s face implored her daughter.
“Now you’ve hurt me, ’cause you won’t tell me. Tell me now, please.”
“Ma, things happen; that’s all.”
“No. No. No. Don’t tell me that. Tell me what things.” Mary released Kayleigh’s shoulders to raise her hands near her own shoulders. Mary’s hands seemed to shake in frustration and then dropped to her lap. Kayleigh imagined her mother’s mind pleading with her but expecting silence. Things happen, things happen, Ma. Kayleigh could not restrain her own tears.
“Ma, I’ve never wanted to hurt you. I know what your brothers did in ’sixty-seven. I know they were transported. You don’t need more—”
“Stop it. Remember who I am. I love you. I’m not made of plaster. The potatoes had turned black before your father and I left Ireland. There were corpses rotting, people begging t’ get into the workhouses—I know evil. People were desperate then. They did anything t’ stay alive. What d’yer think it was like fer us when we got here?”
“Ma—no.”
“Trust me. I love you.” Kayleigh felt her mother’s hands on her shoulders again.
“Ma, I disobeyed you. I trusted him, and—and he raped me.”
“It was that boy.”
“It’s my fault, Ma. It’s all my fault.”
“Oh. And I suppose the bastard had nothin’ t’ do with it?”
“That’s what the priest said. It’s the woman’s fault, always the woman’s. It started with Eve.”
“What have celibate men ever known, but fear of us? Did they send you ter the Dominicans?”
“I couldn’t accept holy orders. I felt so soiled, so guilty.”
“You should have told me. Have you told him?”
“I’m afraid to.”
“Why?”
“Men don’t marry women who aren’t virgins.”
“Does he love you? Tell him. He needs to know.”
“What if he says I’ve tricked him? What if he says I’m immoral?”
“You have t’ trust him. Tell him, Kayleigh. You can’t build a marriage on lies
.”
“But, Ma—that’s not all, Ma. That boy, he was—I saw his—he forced himself into me—he beat me.”
“So now you’re afraid. That’s not the way it is when a man loves you, nor you him.”
Kayleigh saw her mother smile, a wonderful smile, a knowing smile, filled with assurance.
“No, not at all. Trust yourself. Trust your Isaac. Peggy is coming with the tea.”
***
Isaac Griffin saw that Kayleigh’s father, Jim MacKenna, was not a handsome man. He was aging, his features showed the remains of physical conflict, and his suits were from the best tailors but could never add dignity or grace to his stature. No, he might not be handsome, Griffin concluded, but he was as imposing as all hell. Kayleigh’s father smiled and spoke in a velvet brogue. “Well, boyo, I’d say there’s a lot to talk over. Come into me library.”
Griffin had spent the entire night thinking about the words he was about to speak. He would ask the father for permission to court Kayleigh.
“You’re not Catholic, are you, Griffin?”
“No, sir, I’m not. I know what Kayleigh’s religion means to her. I’d never interfere.”
“Come over t’ me desk. There’s something I want to show yer. See?”
Jim MacKenna handed Griffin a badly charred piece of oak.
“I don’t understand. I’m sorry, you’ll have to explain.”
Jim continued, “I thought so. She’s not told you about me, has she?” Jim MacKenna slipped increasingly into a brogue as he spoke.
“That wood came from County Sligo, in ’forty-six. ’Twas was a piece of the door ter me father’s little cottage, our home. I saved that piece after the landlord threw us out and burned the cottage down. My father died in the fire. He tried to save my cradle. It was part of me mother’s dowry. In her family, it went to the firstborn girl. The roof collapsed on me pa. The beadles made a sham of saving his life; the rent agent said he had it coming t’ him, the tossing. The soldiers tried, but it was too late. Thatch and all.”
Jim MacKenna opened a hidden compartment in the desk and removed a hand-forged butcher knife. “I killed him with that, the man who collected the rack rent and threw the torch. I was seventeen.” There was a pause. “You’re not goin’ to ask how I killed him?”
“No.”
“So you think ya know what happened. No, ya don’t. Not all of it. I enjoyed it, the killin’. He wasn’t the last either. I fled to Antrim. Made a livin’ fightin’ with me fists fer prizes. The killin’ only stopped when Mary an’ me immigrated to America. We came over in ’fifty.”
“What’s your point?”
“I don’t want yer t’ see Kayleigh again. I don’t want a Protestant seeing my daughter. If she’s t’ marry, it’ll be an Irish Catholic, Irish like me. Not a Yankee Protestant.”
“So the wood and the knife are a threat?”
Jim MacKenna smiled, then answered, “Yes.”
“Does Kayleigh have a say in this?”
“No. I’d rather see her die a spinster than marry the likes of yer.”
“You don’t know me. I love her. You won’t stop us.”
“Yer better leave now. Say good-bye t’ Kayleigh and me wife and excuse yerself. I won’t throw you out if yer’ll do that.”
Griffin saw him pick the heavy knife up from the desk again. He held the handle in his right hand with his thumb and forefinger where the blade and handle joined. He was poised to thrust it. His left forefinger tested the point.
“Do you think it’s that easy? Has she told you about us? Has she told you anything about me at all?” There was no reaction on MacKenna’s face. Griffin stepped closer. The point of the knife was now just inches from his chest. “I’d rather die than give her up.”
“Go on, leave now. There’s time fer that later.”
***
That evening Mary MacKenna sat with her husband on their bed. She wore a loose cotton chemise that exposed her shoulders and revealed the shadow outline of her breasts in the gaslight by her nightstand.
“Jimmy, brush out me hair, fifty strokes.”
Then Jim MacKenna spoke, ignoring his wife.
“She has to let him go. He’s no good for her. I’ll see ter it meself, Mary.”
“Do you think it’s that simple, Jimmy? Can’t you see they’re just like we were? Could me pa stop us with threats?”
“Didn’t matter. We were Catholic.”
“If they’d known, Jimmy, the church’d excommunicate yer for sure, for that night, fer that priest, th’ traitor.
“Do yer think me parents approved? They knew. Every Catholic in Antrim knew who yer were. Didn’t yer hear the whispers, ‘Shhh, that’s Jimmy MacKenna walkin’ down the street’? My pa and ma let us marry because I told them. I told them we were making love. I told them I was pregnant.”
Jim MacKenna rose to his feet. His face showed surprise.
Mary would not stop. “How long do you think Kayleigh and Isaac can hold out? Lord, it burns in ’em, just as it burned in us, Jimmy. Remember? I don’t give a damn about mortal sin. Did that stop us? Sooner or later Kayleigh and Griffin will do the deed. Do yer remember when we snuck off and did it the first time? I was so scared I’d have yer baby and you’d git yourself killed.”
The anger returned to Jim MacKenna’s face. “I’ll kill him if I have ter. She can have her bastard in a convent. No one will know.”
“Do you want Kayleigh hating you? Can’t you understand that, Jimmy? My God, man.”
“I don’t care.”
“No! That’s your hate talkin.’ Remember the little girl that once sat on your lap. She’s a woman now, a woman. She was violated, raped, and I guess yer were too busy t’ notice, brotherhood business and all, or was it just making money?”
“Griffin?”
“Jesus, Jimmy, not him.”
“That college bastard from Beacon Hill!”
Jim MacKenna slammed his fist on the dressing table, knocking Mary’s jewelry box onto the floor.
“Now look what yer did. What I’m trying t’ tell yer is she’s a woman, she’s a woman, not a little girl saying, ‘Yes, Pa. Yes, Pa.’ She’ll ignore you, Jimmy. She wants her man. Help her. Make her happy. Talk t’ the bishop for her. Don’t you want her t’ hang round yer neck, t’ thank you, ter kiss yer cheek and cry and say she loves you?”
“Damn it, Mary, I—”
“No, Jimmy, I’ll not let yer. I’ll not share my bed with a man who could do that ter his own daughter. Take your boots from under me bed an’ go. I’ll pick up the spilt jewelry.”
Ten
Conspiracy
So the chief captain then let the young man depart, and charged him, see thou tell no man that thou hast shewed these things to me.
—Acts 23:22
Friday, April 19, 1872
Boston
It had been a good evening at the Harp and Plough. Eamon Kavanagh had finished cleaning the bar glasses and returning them to their shelves for use when men working nights were released and would come to the saloon. He hoped the two well-dressed men huddled in the corner had noticed and had decided to leave. They had not. So the muscular Irishman started to stack the chairs on their tables noisily. He spoke to gather the attention of the two men. “Damn chairs! A rayle paddy drinks ’is Guinness standin’ on ’is legs.”
One of the gentlemen turned toward Eamon and flashed a hand sign. John J. O’Corkerane had informed the barkeep that he was a member of the Clan na Gael. Had Eamon continued, O’Corkerane would have raised the walnut stock of his Colt pocket pistol out of the right-hand suit coat pocket. Jim MacKenna, the older of the two, the one with the broken nose and a build like a boxcar, rose from his seat and placed a five-dollar bill in Eamon’s hand and said, “Quiet. We’re almost finished.”
Jim MacKenna returned, sat in his chair, and addressed his acquaintance. “I want yer t’ do this fer me, Jack.”
O’Corkerane replied, “Killin’ a man’s not exactly like askin’ f
er a match to light yer pipe.”
“You know what I’ve done fer Clan na Gael, all that money, places fer people to hide. I’d do it meself, but you know the risk. If I’m caught, how will yer replace me? How would yer find a paddy that’s done as well as me? That’s out in the public eye like me. That’s as connected as me.”
A ridge formed on O’Corkerane’s brow. “All I’m saying is that killin’ a man t’ revenge his daughter is hardly our line of work. We’ll do it, though; he’s Protestant. But after all these years?”
“All I care is he’s done it. Besides me, you’d be revengin’ a few Irish families too. This man has raped more than one man’s daughter. He thinks our shame protects him. He thinks there’s nobody that cares for these poor girls. Send a message, Jack. Once it’s known, just watch the money pour in.”
“What about this Isaac Griffin?”
“Ah, he’s a thorn in me side. Mary’s being hard on me. Won’t even—damn women.”
“So he’s still seeing yer daughter?” No emotion showed on the Clan na Gael man’s face.
“Yes, Mary knows it too. Says he’s a good man, a sea captain, going to be a full partner in a shipping line. Damn women, heads hard as pig iron.”
“Where does this line trade?”
“They ship grain from California to Liverpool, then back to Boston or else to Australia, general cargo.”
“Have ya ever thought how helpful that could be to us, Jimmy? I mean, just think about the money we could smuggle in; arms, too. The Sassenach would never suspect it from Boston blue bloods. We could get a brither or two out of Australia too, maybe Mary’s.”
“Yer asking me to let me daughter wed a Protestant?”
“Hold yer horses, man. Ya’d kill yer daughter for us if ya had to—remember the oath ya took.” He observed Jim MacKenna shudder. “If ya wouldn’t, we’d kill her and ya, too; that’s the oath we both took. Soon or never, Jimmy lad, soon or never. Remember Cleary in East Boston? Ya’d not be the first. I’m just saying think this through. The blue blood’s enough fer now.
“Do ya want to kill the Beacon Hill lad yerself, fer old times’ sake? Ya know he didn’t murder yer daughter. Ya could beat him. Maim him even. Better justice than we’d get.”
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 7