by Ann Moore
Morgan’s heart thudded and his vision blurred, then he got hold of himself; he’d not come all this way to accept secondhand news as the truth.
“Where was Ogue’s saloon?”
“Down near the waterfront, on Chatham. Page twenty-three in your book’s got a map of that neighborhood.”
Morgan thumbed to the right page and then held the book down so the hawker could show him where they were now and how he was to travel in order to find the old place. Morgan thanked him and started off in the right direction but was quickly lost again. Despite the mud and ice, traffic in the street was heavy and fast, snarled in places, around upset carts and overturned carriages, and pedestrians seemed to cross anywhere they thought they had a chance. He had to keep an eye out in all directions, and it was exhausting and confusing; he missed the names of streets and boulevards, other landmarks. Anytime he left the main thoroughfares, he found himself in neighborhoods both amazing and frightening; gangs of raucous young men had emerged now the twilight had given way to evening, and they were simultaneously boisterous and menacing to those they pushed past on the sidewalks. Morgan felt again for the knife at his side and decided that he would have to find lodging for the night and a place to feed and bed his horse; it was bitterly cold now, and the poor animal was skittish and exhausted. Up ahead was a stable; he rode the horse in, then dismounted and called for the owner.
“Will you be wanting a stall for the night, then?” The squat man with the pug face eyed Morgan’s getup suspiciously. “’Tis three dollars, but that’ll get you water and oats beside.”
“You’re Irish!” Morgan declared with relief.
The man scowled around the cigar in his mouth. “Half the city’s Irish, pal. What’s it to you?”
“I’m looking for an Irishman owns a saloon—” Morgan was cut off by a rude laugh. “Mighty Dugan Ogue,” he finished.
“The boxer?” The stableman worked his cigar over to the other side of his mouth. “What business you got there, pal?”
“Personal business. One Irishman to another.”
The stableman squinted at him through the smoke. “Sure and you sound Irish, but you dress native.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Makes me no nevermind. Ogue’s place burned to the ground a few years back, but he runs another round the corner from here. The Emerald Isle, he calls it. Hey! Hey, pal—where you going, then? ’Tis the other way!”
Morgan changed his direction, leading the horse along the street, barely able to believe his good fortune. Light spilled onto the sidewalks from restaurants and saloons, snow flurries swirled in the halo of street-lamps, and Morgan’s breath hung in the air before him. And there it was, a small but well-kept establishment, the sign above the door creaking gently in the breeze. Morgan tied the horse to the rail outside, where two other horses stamped their hooves and snorted in the chill air. He removed his pack and slung it over his shoulder, then stood outside the door for a moment, looking in, willing himself to calm down—’twas only a starting place, this. Ogue would be able to tell him where Grace and Sean were, he assured himself; they would not be here. But still, his heart held hope.
Morgan took a deep breath and pushed open the door; he was instantly met with a rush of warm air, the sound of Irish voices arguing everything under the sun, and the smell of good ale. The voices nearest him died momentarily as men set down their mugs and leaned back on their stools to have a look at the oddly dressed gentleman who’d clearly come to the wrong address. Morgan ignored them and headed for the bar, nudging through the crowd at one end and waiting patiently until the formidable-looking man pulling drinks saw him and came over.
“I’ll have a pint of your bitter,” Morgan ordered.
Ogue looked him over, taking in the buckskins, the fringe, the fur. “That how they’re dressing in Ireland these days?” he inquired.
“I wouldn’t know,” Morgan replied evenly. “Been away a long time. You the owner here? Dugan Ogue?”
“Aye.” The barman pulled a dark, foamy pint, then slid the glass down to Morgan’s waiting hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a man called Sean O’Malley. Do you know him?” Morgan took a long drink, eyeing Ogue over the rim.
Ogue shrugged and wiped up a spill. “Used to. Don’t anymore. He left town a few years ago.”
“What about his sister, Gracelin?”
Ogue put down the rag and leaned across the bar, eyes narrowed. “What would you be wanting with her, then?”
Morgan leaned forward, too. “She’s my wife,” he said.
Ogue’s bushy eyebrows knit together in suspicious puzzlement. “She’s no one’s wife, is Grace. Widowed twice over, she is.”
“Widowed once,” Morgan corrected him. “Her first husband was Bram Donnelly, the father of Mary Kathleen. Her second husband is Morgan McDonagh, who stands before you now.”
“But”—Ogue blinked once as if to clear his vision—“you’re dead.”
“Not anymore.” Morgan allowed himself a wry smile.
“No, man, you’re not McDonagh! He was a giant of a man! Barrel-chested, long of leg, handsomest fellow alive! And you’re …” Ogue looked him up and down, then shook his head in disbelief.
“Sorry to disappoint you, friend. I guess I’ve not aged as well as I might’ve liked, but I am Morgan McDonagh and I can only hope my own wife will still know me.”
Ogue frowned deeply. “Where’re you from, then, if you’re him?”
“Ireland, County Cork, Macroom, the Black Hill.”
“Bah,” Ogue spat, disgusted. “Everyone knows that.”
“Ask me something else, then. Something about Gracelin only her husband would know.”
Ogue thought for a moment and then he jabbed a finger into Morgan’s chest. “What about her wedding ring, then? What do you know about that? Nothing, I’ll bet!”
“’Twas my mam’s,” Morgan answered confidently. “Bears an inscription—‘Mary and Nally, Evermore.’ I gave it to Grace the night we were wed by Father Brown with Lord David Evans as witness. And”—Ogue’s mouth had fallen open—“she may have, as well, my own ring which was Lord Evans’, thick gold with his signet.”
“Wears it round her neck,” Ogue whispered, then crossed himself. “Blessed Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Is it really you, son?”
“Aye.” Morgan sighed with relief. “’Tis.”
With a great bark of joy, Ogue leaped over the bar and wrapped the young man in a mighty bear hug, rocking him from side to side.
“Where’ve you been, boy? Where’ve you been?”
The boxer stared into Morgan’s face again, then turned him around and whistled for silence, waving one arm in the air.
“Folks! Folks, listen to me now!” The room fell silent, every neck craning toward the front. “’Tis a miracle and only that, God bless him. Standing here beside me is …” Ogue paused, his voice choked with emotion. “Our countryman … the Great One himself—Morgan McDonagh.”
Dead silence filled the room as the news sunk in and jaws dropped, and then a great cheer arose as everyone leapt to their feet and rushed toward Morgan, embracing him, clapping him on the back, touching him, shaking his hand, tears flooding their eyes and running down their faces, Ogue’s the wettest of them all. Morgan was overwhelmed as women and men kissed him and thanked him, blessed him and pressed money into his hands, spoke to him though every word was overridden by every other word and he couldn’t understand any of it, didn’t know why in Heaven’s name this was happening.
“That’s enough now. That’s enough,” Ogue roared above the din. “Give him room to breathe.”
The patrons fell back respectfully, but not too far, their eyes lingering on the face of the one who represented, to them, all the young sons they’d left behind.
“After all,” Ogue continued in his normal booming voice, his eyes merry, “hasn’t he been dead now these many years, and not used to close society?”
They laughed then and returned to their tabl
es, their benches and stools, their glasses of ale, talking among themselves with joyful awe and wonderment, their eyes turning again and again to the dark, bearded man who stood at the bar.
“No wonder the Irish come to New York, with a welcome such as that.” Morgan smiled weakly.
Ogue laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, half dragging him back up to the bar. “Take a seat, boyo, and have a drink on the house. You’re a hero to these people; never forget that.” He pulled a bottle of good Irish whiskey out from under the counter and poured a shot for each of them. “Drink this now and collect yourself, for you’ve a great many questions to answer, starting with this one: Where the hell’ve you been, man?” He tossed back his drink.
“’Tis a long story, but … where is she, Ogue? Is she here?” Morgan looked back over his shoulder as if he might have missed her in the crowd.
“No, boy, she’s not.” Dugan leaned on the bar, wondering where to start. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“The night we wed. I know she carried our child, but whether it lived or died …” Morgan swallowed hard. “Is she married again? Is that it?”
“Last I heard, she was not,” Ogue reported truthfully.
“Where do I find her?” Morgan was on his feet, ready to go.
“She’s on the other side of the country, boy. Thousands of miles away from you still.” Ogue could hardly bear the look on the other man’s face. “Sit yourself back down there and I’ll tell you what I can.”
Disappointed, Morgan resumed his place at the bar, tossed off his shot, drained the rest of the pint in one long swallow, then slumped over the empty glasses. Ogue reached beneath the counter for the whiskey bottle and found the plate of sandwiches that was his dinner; he took one off the pile and set it before the dazed young man.
“Eat up,” he ordered. “You look half-dead.”
“Might not believe it, but I’m actually on the uptake,” Morgan reported wearily as Ogue refilled both their glasses, then leaned across the bar.
“Here’s the story.” The barman looked him square in the eye. “Grace and Sean lived with me and Tara—my wife—in the old saloon, ’til it burned the summer of forty-nine. Sean had joined the Latter-Day Saints—fanaticals, they are—and got himself into trouble. He disappeared and we never heard from him, though Grace was sure he’d gone out to Utah Territory.” He paused and took a drink, wiped his mouth with the back of a massive hand. “Grace now, she went on up to Boston to live with the Frees; then after Jack come, they all went out to Kansas. ’Twas hard living, though, and in her last letter she’d decided to take the children all the way to Oregon. To homestead. Free land, you know. Hundreds of acres out there.”
Morgan had stopped listening after one word. “Children?” His grip tightened around the glass.
“Well, now.” Ogue regarded him with a satisfied smile. “Here’s a bit of good news, then—you’ve got yourself a son, Mister McDonagh. John Paul Morgan, he’s called, though Mary Kate tagged him Jack and it stuck. Spitting image of you, Grace says.” He laughed at the look on Morgan’s face. “I guess he takes after you, as well—coming back from the dead, like.”
“Jack?” Morgan repeated. “Jack?” He shook his head. “What do you mean, he takes after me?”
“Well, he was sickly at birth and she had to leave him behind, you know. Word come later that he’d died, along with her da. Turns out, though, he was with a Miss Martin—”
“Julia!” Morgan was astonished. “Julia kept him alive?”
“Well, she kept him,” Ogue allowed darkly. “Why she didn’t write, I’ll never know, but your Grace won’t hear a bad word, so grateful she was to get the boy back. Your Miss Martin brought him out when he was two years old, and a firecracker already, that one.” He chuckled, despite himself. “He’s a handful, is young Jack. Can’t see how she managed him on a wagon train.”
“Are they all in Oregon now?”
“I expect so. We’ll hear from her soon enough.” Ogue hesitated. “I said she wasn’t married … but, you know, she may well be, by the time we get her letter.”
Morgan paled; Ogue saw it but pushed on anyway, thinking it best to give him the honest truth.
“There’s a man been courting her—captain of the ship brought her over, and her friend here in the city. She wasn’t prepared to marry, so he went off to San Francisco, but they’ve been writing all this time and I think she might be going out there to be with him.”
Morgan’s shoulders slumped in dismay.
“You listen to me now, boy. That girl loved you, and that’s the thing kept her from marrying. But the years pass, you know,” Ogue reminded him as gently as he could. “They do pass.”
“I know.” Morgan’s head was swimming.
“Jack and Mary Kate, they need a father’s hand. And Grace …” Ogue thought about it. “She’s lonely, you see. Never says in her letters, but we can tell as much. She’s grown weary from it all.”
Tears burned in Morgan’s eyes, but he gritted his teeth and refused to let them fall, afraid that if he began to weep, he might begin to wail, and if he began to wail, then all that was left was to tear this place apart.
Ogue watched as the internal struggle played itself out upon the young man’s face. “So where have you been all this time?” he asked. “Can you not tell me?”
Morgan realized his hands were tightened into fists and he forced himself to relax them. “Canada,” he said. “I’ve been in Canada.”
Ogue poured out more whiskey; if ever there was a night worth killing a bottle, it was this one.
“I barely remember being dragged out of the jail in Dublin. Dying, I was—couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Thought I was bound for the pit and there to breathe my last.” Morgan licked his lips. “Next thing I know, I’m on the ship and a priest is caring for me, and then he dies. Most of them died. Don’t know why I didn’t, other than God.” He paused and in his mind’s eye saw the hands of strangers who’d offered him bites from their own meager supply of food, sips of precious water, a blanket, the comfort of his own language. “We were quarantined on an island, the sick ones, for most of a year. I got out and found work to pay off my debt, then broke my legs.” Anger tightened his grip again. “Four years,” he said tersely. “Four years, I lost up there.”
“You stayed alive,” Ogue reminded him, his voice low. “You got yourself here.”
“True enough, though not without help.” Morgan took another drink. “I came out with a Mi’kmaq family, then met a French priest who led me the rest of the way. Left him in Boston. And now”—he made as if to get up again, swaying slightly—“I’m leaving for Oregon.”
“No, son.” Ogue shook his head. “Not if you want to get there alive. You’re thin as straw, eyes half-sunk in your head, and your hand shakes when you lift that glass. No, son,” he repeated. “You stop with us a while, now. Rest, and let us help you make a plan.”
“No.” Morgan pushed off the bar. “Got to keep going. She’s alive, Ogue, you don’t understand …”
The barman stopped him. “Hasn’t the Lord brought you safely this far? He’s putting you in my hands for a little while, and I’ll do everything I can to help you. Don’t lose faith now, boy.”
They stared at one another until, from the back of the room, the sweet sound of the fiddle floated above the talk of the crowd. The fiddler warmed up quickly, then began playing the first notes of a song they all knew and loved, a song Morgan himself had sung a hundred times, in a hundred lanes in the land he loved. He turned now to watch, and all eyes fell upon him as one by one the people stood, each voice adding itself to the growing chorus, their offering to him, the boy who’d stood against Goliath. It was beautiful, and it moved him to his very soul, reminding him of who he was and the strength of the people from whence he’d come. And when it was over, though the echo would cling forever to these walls, the people saw that tears coursed down the cheeks of their hero and they loved him all the more, because his heart
was like theirs. One by one, they doffed their hats and shook his hand, shyly for Irish, until the room had emptied and was silent but for the sound of the crackling fire.
Ogue stood quietly beside him. “If love were money, my friend, you’d be the richest man on earth.”
He handed the key to the barmaid, instructing her to lock up, then returned to his guest, the man he’d looked forward to meeting one day when they’d all got to Heaven.
“We’ll talk more in the morning, but now ’tis time to rest yourself, for weary you surely must be.” Ogue put an arm around Morgan’s shoulders and guided him toward the stair. “Stay as long as you like, son, and, by the way, if I’ve not said it before—welcome home, boy. Welcome home.”
Twenty-five
Sean looked up from his work and peered over his spectacles at the grim woman who stood before the counter.
“Nice to see you back again, Missus … ah …” Sean hesistated, unable to remember the name she always used.
“Smith,” the woman prompted. “Missus Smith, same as always.”
“Of course.” Sean smiled congenially. “What can I do for you today, Missus Smith?”
She narrowed her eyes as if the question were a trick. “Same as always,” she said shortly.
“Of course.” He reached under the counter for a green velvet mat, which he then unrolled ceremoniously.
Missus Smith reached deep into her coat pocket and pulled out a packet wrapped in kitchen linen. From this, she carefully extracted a pair of delicate earrings, which she set out on the velvet.
“Lovely.” Sean bent over them. “Garnets, are they? In a silver setting.” He picked them up and held them so they caught the light. “Lovely, indeed. Must be hard to part with them, though hopefully you can reclaim them in the near future.”
Missus Smith nodded and gave a little sniff as if tears were near. “My grandmother’s,” she lied. “But with Mister Smith still laid up after his mining accident, and most likely his leg coming off soon, well … our finances are in no small way compromised. And me with six children.” She sniffed again and even pulled out a handkerchief to dab at the pretended tears.