by BJ Hoff
He didn’t know young Sheridan well enough yet to speculate on what sort of man he might become. New York would make it difficult for him, of course; the city was no friend to the immigrant, especially the Irish immigrant. The battles he was almost certain to face would challenge him mightily. Given the predictable difficulties, combined with whatever was obviously gnawing at him, who could say whether the boy would succeed or fail in his aspirations?
Jack found himself hoping that his solemn young driver with the wounded eyes would prevail over his demons, whatever they happened to be. Cavan Sheridan had been in his employ only a week, but Jack was already coming to like the youth, even to gain a measure of respect for him. He wanted better for the lad than a life of guilt and regret.
He knew only too well what that kind of life could do to a man.
9
TO CATCH A THIEF
The end of ages is drawing near;
As the world grows withered and old,
Charity will grow icy cold.
FROM SAINT BRENDAN’S PROPHECY,
EARLY SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
THE CLADDAGH, WESTERN IRELAND, MARCH
An oppressive fog shrouded the Claddagh in the early-morning hours. The mist hovered low over the district’s narrow streets, its talonlike fingers creeping between the houses as if to beckon the unsuspecting to a deadly tryst.
Terese Sheridan stood shivering in a doorway, clutching a basket of stolen bread as she assessed her chances to break and run without being caught. Her stomach pitched at the smells from the river and the fish market. Her heart pounded crazily as she scanned the marketplace near the old gates.
She could not be caught! Under English law, she could swing for stealing. Somehow, she must get away!
Terese held her breath, watching for the right moment. At another time, she might have berated herself for the act she had just committed. She was no thief. Time had been, and not so long ago, that she would not have stolen a crumb from another’s table, much less bread from a stranger. But the rules that once governed her behavior had succumbed to the burning misery in her belly. If she was to survive, she must eat. Her two dollars were long since gone, and she had not been able to locate even the most menial employment in the whole of Galway City. So for the past few days she had lifted a fish here, a crust there, until by the time she came upon the two housewives gossiping in the marketplace, a basket of bread resting nearby, she did not stop to consider the deed but merely acted upon instinct.
Even when the women had begun to screech at her and give chase as she dashed across the quay, Terese had felt no real guilt. There had been only a scalding flash of anger—anger at landing in the kind of circumstances that would bring her to such a thing. Another day or more without food would find her too weak to search for work, too weak to withstand the raw March wind as it came gusting in on the abandoned door stoops or alleyways where she sought shelter at night. It had come down to stealing or begging, and Terese would die before she would beg.
The damp chill steamed her breath and stung her skin, and she reached with her free hand to tug the ends of her shawl more tightly about her. If she had any real regret at all, it was for having drifted into the Claddagh earlier that morning. She had not intended to come this far, but in the fog she had lost her bearings.
If the old city of Galway had unnerved her when she’d first arrived, the Claddagh discomfited her altogether. The people in the Claddagh were known to be reclusive and somewhat peculiar. The colony was made up mostly of fishermen and their families, who had not changed their ways for centuries. Here, the inhabitants married among themselves and lived their lives along the narrow lanes of small but well-built houses of mud walls and thatched roofs. Outsiders were not encouraged to enter.
It was said that the people of the Claddagh were so religious—or so superstitious, depending on who happened to be giving the account—that the men would not go out in their boats to fish except at certain prescribed times blessed by the priest. They believed that the presence of God was always among them and tried to live accordingly, even refusing to greet one another without first invoking the name of God.
She wondered bitterly if these peculiar folk still felt so piously inclined toward their God after the monster wind he had unleashed upon them. For here in the Claddagh, as well as in Galway City, the storm’s devastation was evident everywhere. Many of the small, sad houses lacked a wall or a roof, while others had been reduced to no more than a heap of thatch and mud.
As Terese’s attention returned to her surroundings, she recalled with uneasiness that the Claddagh fishermen claimed complete rights and control over the bay and the entire district. It was rumored that if those rights happened to be violated, the people had been known to become so violent that there was no withstanding them.
Perhaps she might have chosen a better place in which to commit her thievery, but now was no time for such speculation. She could hear the voices of her pursuers, their shouts strangely muted by the dense fog overlying the entire district. Fear gripped her. At the same time, the heavenly aroma wafting up from the bread basket filled her senses, causing her stomach to wrench in a fiery spasm.
The angry voices were closer now. Terese knew she had no time left if she was to avoid capture, but fear and weakness threatened to buckle her legs. Only the thought of the precious, sweet bread so near at hand—and her resolve to survive—gave her the courage to bolt from the doorway and go charging down the street, intent on ducking into the nearest alley.
With her long legs and lean form, Terese was uncommonly fleet. But hunger and the bitter elements had taken their toll. Her lungs felt ablaze, her heart banging against her chest so fiercely she thought it would surely explode. Her ears roared with the thunder of her own pulse as she ran.
Behind her, the angry shouts began to close in. She felt like a fox with a pack of slavering hounds at her back. Dizziness washed over her, threatening to bring her down. An alley opened before her, and she lurched into it, gasping for breath as she sprinted over the cobbled street.
She heard the heavy tread of boots scraping the stones and knew others had joined in pursuit, turning into the alley behind her. Suddenly, at the exact instant when Terese feared she would go sprawling facedown into the street, she saw a man appear at the exit of the alley, blocking her escape.
She was trapped!
She stopped, pivoted about to see the mob of enraged pursuers closing in from behind, then whipped around to see the man at the other end of the alley coming toward her. She lowered her head and butted forward, hoping to push by him and gain her freedom. But he was upon her in two easy strides, a hand shooting out to break her flight.
Terese twisted, attempting to wrench free. The bread basket went flying out of her hand onto the street, its precious contents spilling onto the wet stones.
She threw her head back, a long wail of despair tearing from her throat. The man eased his grip on her but only for an instant before catching her by the arm and pinning her in place.
Terese’s eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut, refusing to weep in front of her captor and the others. Even now, though she knew she had lost all hope of escape, she tried to shake free. But the man’s grip was like an iron band about her arm.
She opened her eyes, surprised to encounter a gaze more curious than hostile. Indeed, the dark, deep-set eyes sparkled with something that almost hinted of amusement. Fury welled up inside her, and Terese found herself wanting to slap his smug face. Wasn’t it enough to be starving and on the run from her own foolishness? Must she be an object of this amadon’s entertainment as well?
She tried again to break free of his grasp, a vain attempt, for he was strong, his hold on her unyielding. She caught an expression of impatience in the dark eyes, but nothing more. “Stop it, you little alley cat!” he grated out. “I’m only trying to save your hide.”
Terese stared at him in surprise. He wasn’t Irish, and he was no Britisher either, not with that accent.
She thought he might be American. He was young and nice looking, his clothes casual but obviously of good quality. He had the look of a man who wanted for nothing. Who else but an American could sport such a well-fed appearance and the clothing to go with it? But what under the sky would an American be doing in the Claddagh?
A few renegade tears had spilled over in spite of her best efforts, and Terese lifted her free hand to brush them away. The man’s expression seemed to change slightly as his eyes followed her movement.
Shamed as much by the tears as by her capture, Terese twisted to avoid his gaze. To her surprise, he turned to face her pursuers, bringing her gently, but firmly, around to stand at his side.
He raised a hand as if to ward off their complaints. Then, without waiting for the angry accusations and outcries to abate, he called for their attention. He spoke to them in English, his voice deep and well controlled, but with a distinct note of authority.
Terese had no choice but to face the crowd, and when she did she saw that, although their tempers were obviously still inflamed, they were at least paying heed to the man who stood before them.
To her astonishment, the American—if that’s what he was—seemed to be defending her!
“Will you look at yourselves? Running down a defenseless girl like a pack of wild dogs! Why, you ought to be ashamed!”
“Defenseless in a pig’s eye! She’s a thief!” someone shouted from the crowd.
“Is she now? And what did she steal, this dangerous felon?”
One of the red-faced housewives who had been standing near the bread basket stepped out and jabbed a finger at Terese. “Didn’t she steal me bread? The entire basket!”
Someone in the crowd muttered a dire admonition Terese took to be from Scripture, something to the effect that “bread gained by deceit tastes sweet but leaves the mouth full of gravel.”
Terese was surprised that they were speaking in English. Even though many in the west knew the language of the Crown, most preferred their native tongue, especially on the islands and here in Galway. She wondered if some of these people knew the American and were speaking English out of deference to him. Yet they did not seem in the least deferential.
The American glanced at the basket in the street and its spilled contents, then turned back to Terese’s accuser. “Two loaves, mother,” he said, his tone laced with contempt. “What were you going to do, tear the girl to pieces for two loaves of bread?”
“We’ll see her in gaol!” shouted another woman.
A collective cry swelled from the crowd. Terese’s dark-haired rescuer dug his free hand into the pocket of his trousers, tossing a few coins at the housewife. “This will pay for your bread! Now go home and leave the girl alone.”
From the back of the mob, a lantern-jawed man pushed forward, his eyes blazing as he confronted the American. “Who do you think you are, to be telling us our business? You’re the one who had best be going home, Yank, if you value your neck!”
Again the crowd began to grumble among themselves, but the American shouted over them. “You’ve been paid for your bread! Now back off, and leave this girl alone!”
“Or you’ll do what, Yank?” his challenger bellowed.
Now the grousing among the mob grew louder and more agitated. Terese saw two other men wedge their way to the front. One of them, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a red kerchief around his neck, came to stand directly in front of her and the American.
“Claddagh men don’t take kindly to meddlers, Yank,” he grated out.
“Nor to desperate young girls either, it seems,” countered the American.
He didn’t look a bit frightened, Terese decided, wondering if he was fearless or merely foolish. At the same time, she caught a glimpse of movement, and as she watched, a dark colossus of a man stepped into the alley.
He was an intimidating giant with a head of curly black hair, an inky beard, and shoulders wide enough to block the light. Involuntarily, Terese flinched, again reviling herself for the folly that had brought the wrath of these savage people against her.
The American was standing his ground, but she felt his grasp on her arm tighten as he began to draw her slowly behind him. The man in the wide-brimmed hat took a step forward, his expression ugly. The crowd too began to press closer. The American muttered something under his breath and suddenly dropped Terese’s arm.
“Run!” he cried, shoving her toward the exit of the alley.
At that moment, a shout exploded from the back of the mob. Terese whirled around. The towering figure who had entered the alley only a moment before was now parting the crowd, shoving his way through to the front.
The American uttered something that sounded like “Gabriel,” then, “Just in time!”
The giant reached them, locked gazes for an instant with the American, then, ignoring Terese entirely, turned to the crowd. “Go back to your homes and your work, the lot of you!” he commanded them in the Irish.
His voice was like a low rumbling of thunder as he raised a fist the size of a dinner plate and jabbed it at them. “The girl is hungry! She’s one of the islanders, can’t you see? No doubt the big wind drove her out. Haven’t you seen more of the same these past weeks, roaming the streets half-starved?”
At last the pandemonium subsided, and the crowd’s anger and hostility began to ebb. There were a few additional murmurings, but these, too, soon faded as the giant went on. Terese could scarcely take in the fact that he seemed to be rebuking the others instead of her. More amazing still was the effect of his words. Watching the facial expressions in the crowd, it seemed to Terese that this was a man they respected, a man of great influence among them.
He called to the owner of the bread basket, whose face was still flushed. “The American paid you for your bread, Bridget O’Brien!” he roared. “Go home now, woman! Go home, and say a prayer of thanks for your blessings and one for mercy on those less fortunate.”
Relief washed over Terese as the crowd began to disperse.
Not waiting until they were gone, the giant turned to face her and the American. This time he spoke in English, his tone dry as he faced the younger man. “That was a foolish thing to do, Brady Kane. The blow to your head must have been worse than I thought.”
The American grinned. “You may be right, Gabriel. In any event, you are a welcome sight, I can tell you!”
So they knew each other, then! Dazed by this sudden turn of events, Terese shrank back as the giant turned a piercing blue glare upon her. “Are you slow-witted, girl, or daft entirely, to try such a stunt? You’re from the islands; you must know about Claddagh law. It might have gone much harder for you.”
Terese refused to let the man think he could intimidate her, though in truth he did.
Despite her own height—she was taller than most women—he was an oak, towering more than a head above her, and he looked somewhat wild, with that unruly hair and black beard.
He continued to impale her with his fierce, hard stare until Terese had to look away. “ ’Twas steal or die,” she muttered.
His dark brows lifted. “Some would say the one deserves the other.”
Terese lifted her head to meet his gaze straight on. “I would have gotten away,” she said stubbornly, “if it hadn’t been for him.” She jerked a finger at the American.
Anger flared in her when she saw the younger man’s impudent grin break even wider.
“I saved the girl from jail, and she’s angry with me,” he said, shaking his head as if to bemoan Terese’s mental state.
“It seems to me that the both of you need to be locked away,” the big man said sourly, “if for no other reason than to let you collect your wits. ’Tis obvious you’ve lost them somewhere along the way.”
The two men proceeded to ignore Terese, speaking over her head as if she were no longer there. The giant did a great deal of mumbling and glaring, but it seemed to Terese that in truth he wasn’t all that vexed.
Even so, she had had quite enough of
their boorishness. Her legs were trembling, her entire body shaking from cold and exertion. Even her head seemed to be swimming, making it difficult to see, much less think.
Somehow she managed to draw herself up and stand without swaying as she looked first one, then the other, in the eye. “If the two of you will allow me a word,” she said, mustering what was surely her last shred of dignity, “I will thank you both for ‘rescuing’ me, and then I must be on my way.”
10
ANGELS UNAWARES
The luck of God is in two strangers meeting,
But the gates of Hell are in the city street
For him whose soul is not in his own keeping
And love a silver string upon his feet.
T. D. O’BOLGER
Brady had all he could do not to applaud the girl. She was absolutely magnificent! Even with the smudges on her face and the shadows beneath those great smoke blue eyes, she was nothing less than splendid: all fire and passion and bravado.
Nearly as tall as most men and willow slim—she stopped short of actual gauntness—she reminded him for all the world of a high-strung mare. He half expected her to toss that wild mane of russet hair over her shoulder and go bolting down the alley.
Despite her fiery pride, however, she was obviously about to fall where she stood—no doubt from hunger, given the fact that she had been caught stealing bread. If that was the case, if the girl was actually hungry, what were they to do with her? They couldn’t very well set her off on her own to steal again. As Gabriel had pointed out, she could bring real trouble down on her head.