Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  There were many questions he would have liked to ask, so much he wanted to know about her. But he didn’t want to pry, didn’t want her thinking he was too bold.

  As it happened, she had questions of her own. “What is it like working for Mr. Kane?”

  They were at the front of the building now, and Cavan held the door for her, then followed her out before replying. “Jack Kane is a fair man, I suppose. Some might find him demanding, but it seems to me he asks no more of his people than he does of himself. He treats me fine, I’d have to say.”

  “Really? He has a, ah…rather questionable reputation, doesn’t he? I would have thought—” She broke off. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Mr. Kane is your employer, and his reputation is certainly none of my business, after all.”

  There was just enough light from the streetlamp across the way that Cavan could see the golden flecks in her eyes, and for a moment he couldn’t seem to find his tongue. “I’ve heard the stories,” he finally managed. “And I expect Jack Kane is no saint. But I’ve seen nothing to indicate he’s the blackguard some claim he is. In fact, I would say I have it pretty good—” he grinned—“for an Irisher.”

  It was too dark to tell if she was blushing again, but she smiled up at him somewhat ruefully. “Haven’t I heard that Mr. Kane is Irish himself?”

  Cavan nodded. “He is. And he makes no apology for it.”

  “I should hope not.” She stood there a moment, regarding Cavan as if she couldn’t quite decide whether to go on. When she did, her words surprised him. “I must say, I think it’s a disgrace, the way the Irish are treated in this city. I want you to know, Mr. Sheridan, that not everyone feels unkindly toward them.” She blinked. “That is…toward you…and your people.”

  She was obviously finding it difficult to express herself. Sensing her hesitancy, her awkwardness, Cavan warmed to her that much more.

  “Well,” she said, turning to go, “thank you for seeing me out, Mr. Sheridan.”

  On impulse, Cavan put a hand to her arm. “You’re not walking, sure?”

  Her glance went to his hand before she again met his gaze. “I always walk. I really don’t live that far away.”

  “Still, you ought not to be walking alone in this neighborhood, Mrs. Harte, a lady like yourself.” He dropped his hand away. “I’ll be happy to drive you home.”

  Cavan thought she was about to agree, but instead she shook her head. “No, really, that’s not necessary, Mr. Sheridan. It’s only a short walk, and I don’t mind it at all.”

  “Please?” he insisted. “It would be my pleasure. I have the small buggy, you see. Mr. Kane lets me use it most nights I have class.”

  “Well, I don’t know—” Still she hesitated. “You’re quite certain you wouldn’t mind? But what about Mr. Kane? Are you sure he wouldn’t object to your using the carriage for someone else?”

  Cavan again took her arm, starting toward the street. “Jack Kane would never allow a lady to go home unescorted if he could help it. Why, if he were here, he would insist on driving you home himself.”

  She raised one eyebrow in a skeptical glance. “I must say, I can’t quite see myself getting into a carriage with your notorious employer, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “Ah, well, I’m a very unnotorious fellow myself, so you can feel entirely safe with me,” Cavan said as he helped her into the carriage, then draped the lap robe over her. She leaned forward, settling herself, and for a moment her face was very close to his, making it nearly impossible for him to catch his breath. “If you’ll just tell me where you live?” he finally managed to choke out.

  “Oh, it’s not far. Bleecker Street, near Thompson. Do you know it?”

  Cavan nodded, vaguely aware of the district.

  “It’s a brick four-story,” she said, adding, “I have a flat on the second floor.”

  Living in such an area of decent but modest brick fronts, she would not be well-to-do, Cavan reasoned as he climbed onto the driver’s seat and took up the reins. A comforting thought, that. Her being an educated woman was obstacle enough. He would not have had any chance whatsoever with her had she been a wealthy woman as well.

  Later that night, Samantha Harte sat at the small painted table in the kitchen of her apartment. Her intention had been to grade papers. Instead, she found herself drifting back in time, an exercise she would normally have avoided because of the pain that inevitably accompanied it. Tonight, however, she seemed unable to stop the memories.

  And all, she thought with a sad smile, because of a carriage ride.

  The carriage had felt strange to her, almost unnatural. For a long time now, she had availed herself of that sort of luxury only on rare occasions, for special events—holiday dinners or the rare wedding or funeral. Tonight, it seemed as if each bump of the wheels had jarred her back to another time, a time when she had taken things like carriage rides and fur lap robes and handsome, high-stepping horses for granted.

  It wasn’t that she minded walking; to the contrary, she thrived on it. During that awful time after Bronson died, the long, solitary walks had helped to bring about a kind of healing in her. She had actually sneaked out of the house numerous times, just to extricate herself from the smothering solicitude of her family, sometimes walking for hours before returning home.

  She smiled at the irony, to think that a habit initially born of willful desperation had turned into one of sheer necessity. The reality was that she simply could not afford a carriage, not on the meager wages she earned as a textbook proofreader and a part-time teacher for some of the immigrant societies.

  She knew that her family and few remaining friends thought her a little mad. She could almost hear them whispering among themselves, speculating as to whether Bronson’s death might have unhinged her mind. What else could possibly account for her decision to leave the fellowship and seek independence from her family?

  There were times in the dead of night when Samantha wasn’t at all sure that they weren’t right. Even she would be hard-pressed to cite a sensible reason for the direction she had taken.

  Although Samantha did feel a sense of purpose in her life these days, if she were to be altogether honest she would have to admit that she had gained far more from her new lifestyle than she had given. There was never any real thought of any kind of “sacrifice.”

  So even though some might view her behavior as a reaction to grief, others as an act of foolishness, Samantha knew it was more an act of self-preservation. She did hope that the Lord approved. Whether anyone else recognized the truth or not, she could not escape it: Her decision to break with her past, and by doing so reject all the comforts it would have offered, had been an almost desperate attempt to finally make something meaningful and worthwhile of her life.

  For a long time after Bronson’s death, she had been unable to focus on anything more demanding than getting through one day at a time. It had been months before she was able to grasp the reality that, even if her marriage had produced nothing else of any lasting value, it had at least enabled her to grow to the point where she could no longer return to the shallow, self-centered creature she had once been.

  She knew now that if she had gone back to her former useless mode of existence, she might well have perished, might never have come to believe that her life could have some real value after all.

  Her thoughts went to the awkward young Irishman who had driven her home earlier that evening. Perhaps her prize student wasn’t the best example of why her work mattered—Samantha suspected that Cavan Sheridan would attain his goals with or without her help—but she was helping him, and others like him, to improve their lives, even as she enriched her own. That was worth something, surely.

  With a rueful smile, she admitted it had also been nice to have a handsome young man like Cavan Sheridan pay her a measure of attention. He had been so sweet in his insistence on seeing her safely home. His thoughtfulness had almost made her feel young…even attractive…again.

  She had a
lmost forgotten what it was like to feel that way…

  Immediately, the memory of Bronson’s voice forged a stern rebuke in her spirit for such frivolous, worldly thoughts. With an effort, Samantha shook off both her girlish musings and the echo of her husband’s denunciation. Then, straightening, she raised the wick on the lamp and returned to her students’ papers.

  14

  A LETTER OF OPPORTUNITY

  All for the good comes an unexpected word,

  God opens a window, a door,

  And hope comes in.

  CAVAN SHERIDAN, FROM WAYSIDE NOTES

  A week later, a letter from Brady finally arrived. Jack stood by the fire as he read the first few words, breathing a deep sigh of relief once he learned the young pup was safe.

  He scanned his brother’s account of the devastating windstorm, giving most of it little more than a quick glance, since he had already read much of the same information in some of the city’s rival newspapers. Another sore subject, and one he meant to raise with Brady as soon as he returned. The Vanguard was usually first to report European news of any significance, not last!

  As he continued to read, his initial relief gave way to exasperation, then anger as he realized Brady’s intentions:

  I know I agreed to stay no longer than two months, but I’m sure you’ll understand that, in the wake of the storm and all that’s happened, I can’t possibly complete the job in such a short time.

  There’s so much to tell, Jack! Surely there never was a country like Ireland, so rife with poverty, so oppressed by invaders. Why, what the British Crown has done to our people is nothing short of an abomination!

  So, it was “our people” now, was it? And this from the same little brother who was always so quick to rib Jack about his “insufferable Irishness.” A grim smile played about his mouth as he went on reading:

  The Irish are magnificent, Jack—so bold and fearless. They may be held captive to the British, but you won’t hear them crying “uncle!” For the first time I’m beginning to understand the “Celtic soul” you used to speak of. I always knew I’d love this land, Jack, and I’ve not been disappointed a bit. I’ve already made dozens of wonderful sketches, some from my memories of the storm, others of the landscape and the people. I think you’ll be pleased when you see them.

  What I want to propose, Jack—and I fervently hope you will agree, for there is a far bigger, more important story here than either of us could have imagined—is this: every two or three weeks, I’ll post to you a series of articles, along with the appropriate sketches, for your use in a kind of serialization of the Irish condition. My idea is to first present Ireland as it was before the windstorm—in all her agony and glory—and then cover the storm itself and show what terrible devastation it wrought upon an already desperate land.

  Think of it, Jack. There are thousands and thousands of Irish in New York alone, not to mention the countless numbers within the circulation area of the Vanguard. Add to that the benevolent societies springing up all over the place, and the interest in this kind of story should be extraordinary! Just imagine what it can do to generate financial aid for Ireland. And wasn’t that one of the primary reasons you sent me across in the first place?

  Jack’s scowl deepened as he read on. Brady knew him too well, knew exactly how to work him. Any newspaperman worth his salt would not miss a story like this, especially an Irish newspaperman. Not only would it make a banner serialization—if he agreed to run it Brady’s way—but it might actually help the Irish, both here and across. And while this wasn’t exactly the kind of information the Committee was looking for, it was a start. Certainly, it should help to increase the contributions. He dared not hope it would put an end to the rank prejudice and hostility leveled against the Irish, but at the same time it couldn’t hurt.

  Jack had little faith in the “basic decency of man” some of the do-gooders in the benevolent societies were always blathering about. He was far more familiar with man’s basic depravity. Even so, he was willing to concede that the first step in gaining acceptance for those who were “different”—foreign—might be to foster understanding of them. Perhaps a measure of compassion would eventually follow.

  Certainly, he would be the last to underestimate the power of the press. Cavan Sheridan had simply echoed Jack’s own conviction with his remark that “the press can change people’s minds…even their lives.”

  He had seen it happen. Look at the way Horace Greeley, though little more than a pawn in the hands of Thurlow Weed and his bunch in Albany, had all but guaranteed their man Seward’s election as governor—the first New York governor in forty years who wasn’t a Democrat.

  Jack shook his head. Ah, yes, his clever little brother knew just how to get his attention—and get his own way in the process.

  He almost smiled at the rascal’s cunning. As he read on, however, he quickly sobered. Apparently, Brady had rented a flat for himself in Galway City and meant to stay “for a time.” He had even taken up with some strange Claddagh fisherman and his brood.

  Jack drew a sharp breath. His hands shook as he stared at the letter. Of all the rotten luck! The one place in Ireland he had hoped to keep Brady out of, and he had landed right in the heart of it!

  Galway. There was no telling what he might come upon there. Not in the Claddagh; he was unlikely to stumble onto anything of any real importance there. In fact, Jack was surprised to learn that Brady had found his way into the place. Odd folk, the Claddagh people.

  But in the Old City itself—in Galway—there was always a chance the lad would unearth something that was best left buried. He thought for a moment, searching his memory. So far as he knew, they had no close kin left in Ireland. Both uncles were gone, along with their father. That left only Aunt Selia, and she had remarried and gone with her new husband to live somewhere near Killaloe. Their mother had been an orphan herself, so there was no immediate family there.

  But Jack had spent his boyhood in Galway, and Brady had been born there. Da and his brothers had been well known in the district. Wasn’t there a possibility of a distant relative or acquaintance…someone who might remember?

  By the time he reached the end of the letter, Jack was grinding his teeth:

  I hope you approve of my plan, Jack. Now, I know that with my past history, you might be thinking that I’m just loafing around, looking for excuses to avoid any real work. But I swear to you that I am working, and that’s the truth! I’m writing and sketching like a madman—I’ve never been so inspired—and I think you’ll be pleased with what you see. So what do you say, Jack—can we try it my way for a couple of months more? Then if you’re not satisfied I’ll come home at once, my word on it.

  In the meantime, give my best to everyone. Tell Mrs. Flynn that I miss her cooking in the worst way. As I told you, the food situation here is a disgrace. Once I get back to the states, I doubt that I’ll ever want to see another potato again!

  Write soon, big brother. Just post any letters to the Galway address. I’ll be here for at least a few more weeks.

  My best to Addy, of course, that terrible, fierce woman!

  God bless us all…Your brother, Brady

  A few more weeks, was it? Slowly, Jack folded the letter and stuck it in his pocket before going to stand at the window. It was a bitterly cold evening, already dark, with nothing to be seen but the shadows cast by barren tree limbs quaking in the wind. Much as he tried to shake off the infernal Irish darkness that sometimes overcame his spirit, on nights like this it was as thick and heavy as a grave shroud.

  Brady’s letter hadn’t helped the melancholy that had plagued Jack for years, even as a boy. In truth, it had been on him that first day off the ship, his first day in America…

  He had been fourteen at the time and doing his best to act as both father and mother to his baby brother and little sister, though he was little more than a frightened child himself.

  With Brady in his arms and his sister, Rose—no more than seven or eight at t
he time—clinging to his free hand, Jack had taken his first long look at the city of New York. They trudged along the docks, pressed on all sides by countless other immigrants—all of whom seemed to be carrying babes in their arms and shouting at one another in foreign tongues.

  Rose was squeezing his hand hard enough to send pain shooting up his arm. “I don’t like it here, Jack! Please, take us home.” Her curly black hair was wet from sea water and perspiration, her tiny face streaked with sweat and dust. She looked like a street urchin, and Jack was ashamed he hadn’t been able to clean the children up better before they got off the ship. But their bunks had been squalid, their water foul, and their clothing long ruined from weeks in the dark, wet steerage.

  Rose began to cry then, and wee Brady took up the chorus, wailing against Jack’s shoulder. For one interminable black moment, a flood of fear and despair overwhelmed Jack, and he almost turned and ran.

  The noisy, teeming city terrified him, and he wanted nothing so much as to rest his head on his mother’s bosom and weep. But his mother was dead, had died in childbirth with Brady, and their father was in the ground as well. The wee ones had no one to look after them, no one but Jack. And the truth was that they could not go home to Ireland. There was nothing to go back to, and even if there had been, there was no money to take them. They were poor—poor as beggars.

  But Jack would not beg, nor would he allow his siblings to demean themselves in such a manner. So somehow, instead of giving in to his own terror, he found the courage to calm the children and go on walking. They made their way past the docks and merged onto the stinking, filthy streets of New York, where at some point, Jack realized that he would conquer his fear of the city only by conquering the city itself.

  Sometimes Jack deluded himself into thinking he had accomplished that boyish resolve. But a deeper, saner part of him knew that that sort of thinking was only illusion. The truth was that New York would not, could not, be conquered, not by any man. She was a terrible, mean woman who ate princes as easily as paupers and spit them out of her mouth without a thought, showing no pity for those who allowed themselves to be swallowed up. Anyone who believed otherwise was a fool, and he was no fool.