Wild Geese

by Caroline Pignat

  “Rolling in money?” Joe teases. I have to laugh, for Billy has nothing but the ragged clothes upon his back. “Have you forgotten where you came from, boy? We’re Irish, and poor Irish at that. Don’t be filling your head with such nonsense.”

  “The captain says many Irish have made their fortunes here in Upper Canada. Politicians and businessmen. Barons of land and lumber. Imagine that, Kit. Me, a baron.” He tucks his thumbs in his armpits and stares off into the wooded shore drifting by us. “Just like Nicholas Sparks.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Joe moans, rolling his eyes as Billy grins, excited to have an audience.

  “Nicholas Sparks. The captain said Mr. Sparks came here from Ireland thirty years back. Right off the boat, so he was, young Nick.” Billy’s eyes are aglow. He’s a fair storyteller, that Billy. I could well imagine him sitting by the fire weaving tales. “Nick starts working as a farmhand for a wealthy man named Wright.”

  “So? Sure, that’s no different than in Ireland,” Joe says, as hooked as a gaping cod.

  “So,” Billy continues with a knowing grin, “five years later, Nick’s earned enough to buy himself two hundred acres.”

  “Two hundred?” I blurt. “B’jaysus, that’s the size of Killanamore town!”

  “... and,” Billy continues, “he married Wright’s widowed daughter-in-law. They live in a grand stone house in Bytown.”

  I can almost see the waterwheel turning in the currents of Billy’s thoughts. If Nick Sparks can do it, anyone can. Maybe the Canadas really are different than back home. Billy’s enthusiasm spreads as quickly as the fever. Soon I’m as excited about it as he is.

  “Sounds like the captain said a lot of things,” Joe mutters; he sounds annoyed. “Did he tell you about the canal?” He nods at the stone locks appearing in the dusk light as we round the bluff. Six giant steps cut the cleft, climbing to an arched bridge at the hilltop. “That’s the start of miles and miles of canal. Did he tell you how many Irishmen met their death digging it for the British soldiers?”

  I shudder, suddenly chilled at the thought of my Da and all the other men who died on the road works back home. Billy doesn’t speak.

  “Did he tell you about the French?” Joe continues. He scowls as though the words taste bad upon his tongue. He’s not enjoying what he has to say. “About how they hate the Irish for coming here and taking their jobs? Did he?”

  “No,” Billy mumbles.

  “How do you know all this, Joe?” I ask. For he’d not said a word about it the whole way over.

  “My uncles came and worked on the canal with Grandad’s brother. Grandad never talked about it much. He didn’t want them to leave Ireland.”

  “I thought his brother worked in the lumber camps,” I say, remembering the day Murph told me that in the ship’s hold.

  Joe nods and leans his folded arms on the rail. “After the canal was built, his brother Daniel got work as a cook in a lumber camp, but my two uncles wouldn’t go with him. They stayed in Bytown.” He takes a deep breath. “And died in Bytown.”

  “The fever?” Billy asks.

  “A bullet. Both of them shot dead in riots on the streets of Bytown.” He clenches his jaw and turns his back to the locks. “Killed for being Irish.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  We don’t talk as the steamer moors at the base of the locks, each of us lost in our thoughts. What sort of a place is Bytown, I wonder, for it sounds like both hell and heaven on earth. Stepping onto the wharf, fat rain taps our shoulders, reminding us it’s time to go home, reminding us we have no home to go to.

  “Joe! Brigid!” a man shouts, waving madly as he climbs out of a wagon. In the fading light, I mistake him for Murph at first. He’s a Murphy, all right, Murphy’s son. Brigid charges for her father, who catches her and throws her in the air just like Da used to do with me. My eyes sting at the sight of their reunion, at the reminder of my loss. Joe, Billy, and I walk over to join them as Joe’s father looks past us onto the ship, looking for his wife and youngest daughter. For his father, Murph.

  “They didn’t make it, Da,” Joe says, his voice soft. He stares at the dirt road. “Mam and Mary, they caught the fever and ...”

  Grief pools in Mr. Murphy’s eyes as he rests his hand on Joe’s shoulders, the shoulders that bore the burden all this way.

  “... and Grandad caught the fever at Grosse Isle,” Joe ends.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Murphy,” I say. “I knew your father. He was a great man, God rest him.”

  “I wish he’d the strength for the journey,” Joe’s da answers. “But he got you here safe and sound, didn’t he?” He hugs Brigid and claps his arms around Joe. After all he’s lost, what is found is all the more precious.

  Mr. Murphy looks at Billy and me and wipes his eyes. “We haven’t much, but you’re both welcome to stay with us in Richmond until you get your feet under you,” he says, so like his father before him. “There’s room in the barn loft.”

  “Thanks, just the same,” I answer, even though my body feels like it could sleep for days on end. As inviting as a bed of hay sounds, I haven’t come all this way to quit now. “But I’m looking for my sister.”

  “And I’m off to see the town,” Billy says, and before any of us can stop him, he’s up the path and into the shadows.

  “Well, the door is always open at our place if you’re in need,” Mr. Murphy says as I hug Brigid goodbye. Hand in hand they head back to the wagon.

  “Won’t you come with us, Kit?” Joe asks. “This isn’t a place for a lost girl.”

  “That’s why I’ve to find my Annie,” I answer. “Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine.”

  He seems unconvinced. “Well, you know where I am if you need me,” he says. “After all we’ve been through, you’re like a brother to me … or sister.”

  We laugh. I want him to stay. I need his strength more than ever. I don’t want to be alone. Again.

  “Go on, now,” I say hugging him quickly and pushing him away. “Your da is waiting.”

  They climb into the wagon and set off home. Joe waves as they climb the dirt road up the side of the hill. And then they’re gone.

  Home. Will I ever have one again?

  The rain falls harder, muddying the banks of the river where I stand with a hundred others. Though the June air presses heavy and humid around me, I can’t stop shivering. We line the bank of the river like abandoned cargo. Men, women, children. Old and young. Most of us still sick from the fever and the journey. Survivors.

  We’ve arrived. We made it. But where? What now?

  I know no one. I have nothing. Nothing but a few coins from Father McGauran, a rosary I’ll never pray, and the dirty clothes on my back. Rags that aren’t even mine, truth be told, for I’d stolen them as a disguise all those long weeks back. Only ten weeks but, good Lord, it feels like another lifetime.

  Scraps of family huddle together; others just lie down where they are to wait for help or death. I wrap my arms tight around me, trying to hold myself together. In clothes that make me someone I’m not, in the shadow of a town that’s not my home, I know only one thing for sure.

  I’ve never felt so lost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Not long after we arrive, five robed figures emerge from the shadows. Each one carries a basket and bucket. As they draw nearer, I notice they all wear the same dress: a long brown robe, a black bonnet, a black squared cowl like a bib draped over their front and back. From their dress and their big silver crosses glinting in the lanterns’ light, they must be nuns.

  Behind them follows a girl a bit older than me in a long purple dress, white cowl, and bonnet, and a tall man carrying a medical bag. He stops and kneels by a little girl lying in the mud. By the way he touches her forehead and throat I know he’s a doctor. The doctor says something and the girl in the purple dress gently lifts the child and carries her to a wagon waiting on the path back in the shadows.

&nbs
p; The shortest of the nuns approaches me. She’s young, not yet thirty, I’d say; still there’s something in her gray eyes that makes me think she’s older. A wise soul, Mam would have said.

  “Bread, son?” she asks, dropping her bundles and kneeling beside where I sit, heedless to the drizzle and mud. She hands me a hunk of bread and pours a cup of milk from the jug within her basket. I’d never tasted anything so good. Wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, she rubs my back gently like Mam would. The tenderness of it makes me cry.

  “You have journeyed long, oui?” she says, gently touching my forehead, checking me for signs of the fever.

  I nod.

  “You miss your home?” She looks around and realizes I’m alone. “Your family, mon cher?” But I don’t need to answer. Her eyes read my very heart.

  Taking a cloth, she wets it in the bucket and begins washing arms and legs, rinsing away all the filth from the journey. Her chapped hands are surprisingly gentle as she washes my face. She wrings the cloth and hangs it on the bucket lip before lathering soap in my hair. I close my eyes as she combs my curls, stopping her rhythmic strokes every now and then to pick out the lice as I had done for Jack on Grosse Isle.

  “I will cut this shorter for you.” She pulls out a pair of scissors. “It will be easier to keep it clean and free from pests.”

  I nod, not bothering to tell her I’m a girl. The other robed women are doing the same for other immigrants, combing and cutting hair, washing bodies, shaving the men. Such simple things, really, but it amazes me how wonderful it feels. To be clean. To be cared for.

  “Are you French?” I ask, for I recognize her accent. It sounds like some I’d heard on Grosse Isle.

  “Oui, from Montreal,” she says, continuing to comb my hair. “I, too, left my home and family. But Bytown is my home now.”

  “Why are you helping me?” I ask, thinking of what Joe said about the French and Irish in Bytown. “I’m Irish.”

  She stops brushing and turns me to face her, her gray eyes stern. I’m sorry I asked.

  “Irish, French, what does it matter, mon fils? We are all God’s children. We are family. I hope that you would do the same for me.”

  I don’t answer, for truth be told, I doubt I would.

  She pulls a new pair of pants and a clean shirt from her basket. “Tiens, put these on.” She motions for me to change behind a row of bushes.

  When I come back, she takes my dirty shirt and pants and moves on to tend to the other immigrants further down the bank. Giving clean clothes and fresh food. Giving her time and attention. Giving dignity.

  An upturned rowboat lies on the bank, propped against a boulder. Not wanting to get my fresh clothes wet from the rain, I crawl underneath. A few small children come and join me, tucking their muddy feet under them as we watch the nuns move from person to person, until all are visited.

  “Mother Bruyere,” the girl in the purple dress calls and the short woman turns. I hadn’t realized she was the Mother of the order. “Doctor Van Cortlandt has sent the worst patients to the hospital. But it’s full now and the sheds are not finished.” She looks around at the immigrants. About two dozen of us, the healthier ones, if you could call us that, are left. “What are we to do?”

  “Martha,” Mother Bruyere answers. “We shall have to make the best with what we have.” She glances around and, seeing us under the boat, smiles. “See? The Lord always provides.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I rise with the sun, eager to start my search for Annie, anxious to get out from under the stuffy boat, where five of us huddled to keep dry last night. My back cracks like kindling as I stand and stretch, taking in the landscape. Other than trees and water, there isn’t much to see down at the river’s edge, but a quick climb up the path by the locks brings me atop the arched bridge.

  So this is Bytown.

  The canal continues from under the bridge, splitting the town in two. Buildings of all sizes cluster on either side of the canal banks like women at the market. Further ahead, the canal loops into a small bay edged by warehouses, mills, and moored barges and boats. The banter of workmen unloading barrels and bags drifts to me on a hops and barley breeze. A brewery, no doubt, which doesn’t surprise me, given the number of taverns lining the canal.

  Bytown is much bigger than I expected, at least a hundred Killanamores. Finding someone in Bytown is going to be difficult—good news when it comes to hiding from Henry Lynch, for I’ve no doubt he’s out there on the hunt, too. Still, it’s bad news when it comes to my search for Annie. I glance at both halves of the town, unsure of where to start.

  Great stone buildings stand on the right at the upper end of the bridge. They’re much bigger than any of our cottages in Killanamore, though not as grand as the Big House. Men in suits and black bowler hats travel the planked walkways. At first, I think they’re landlords, but there are so many. Surely they can’t all be landlords.

  It’s as though the bridge spans two different towns, for down to the left end of the bridge is surely a working man’s world. Farmers’ wagons travel the muddy roads that crisscross lower town like a dirt tartan. Two men tie their horses’ reins to the hitching post and, brushing the dust from their breeches, head into the harness maker’s shop. I can’t read the lettered names over the windows, but even I know a blacksmith from a baker. I’ve only to look at the picture on the sign hanging out front. Grocers, hotels, chemists, saloons, furriers, saddlers, and that’s just on this corner of town. Squealing draws my eyes to the muddy ditch where two muck-splattered boys grapple with a slippery pig rooting in the street’s garbage. Their antics remind me of Mick and Jack, making me smile, making me wince. Will I ever see Jack and Mick again?

  “Kit!” Billy calls from the other side of the bridge. His eyes are sparkling with excitement as he crosses to meet me, dodging the wagons and carriages. “Isn’t Bytown brilliant?” he asks, breathless. “Wait until you see! I spent the night just wandering up and down the roads. B’jaysus, there’s a lot of them. But you’ve got to see this first! Come on!”

  Grabbing my wrist, he pulls me to the right, to the upper part of town.

  “Slow down, Billy!” I call, for he’s near running now, and me clattering behind. We’ll surely end up in a heap, the pair of us, or run over by a cart, for there’s many on the road even at this early hour. He stops outside a two-storey stone house and stands in the street looking up at it. We don’t dare let our dirty feet mar the planked walkway running before it.

  “This is it!” Billy says, like we’ve found the Holy Grail.

  “Is Annie here?” I ask, suddenly excited. Maybe he’d spent the night looking for her. I should have gone with him.

  “Who?” He looks back at the house. “No. Sure, this is the very home of Nicholas Sparks. He lives here, Kit. And some day, I’m going to have a house just like it.”

  “Move along there, you pair!” A man in a suit waves his cane at us as he approaches the house. “You’ve no business in Upper Town.” He stops and opens the gate.

  “Are you Mr. Sparks, sir?” Billy calls, as bold as brass.

  The man stops. “I am Mr. Miller. Not that it is any of your concern.”

  “Well, Mr. Miller, would you be so kind as to tell Mr. Sparks that Billy—I mean, Mr. William Farrell—would like to meet him?”

  My mouth drops. Leave it to Billy. Sure, he’d ask for one thread and shear the whole sheep.

  Mr. Miller walks up to Billy and lowers his voice. “Listen, messenger boy. I don’t know what sort of man your boss is, but you may tell Mr. Farrell that the civilized book appointments at the office and not through the bellowing of street urchins.” His scornful gaze makes me stare down at my muddy feet. Even my new clothes leave me feeling shameful.

  “Yessir,” Billy exclaims. “I’ll surely tell him. My boss, that is. Mr. Farrell.” He lifts his hand and speaks behind it as if letting Mr. Miller in on a big secret. “He’s only off the boat, you see. He still has a lot to learn.”

&nbs
p; Mr. Miller shakes his head. “Lower Town scum,” he mutters, slamming the gate shut behind him.

  “Hungry?” Billy asks me, totally unfazed by the whole thing.

  I nod and he leads the way back down to the bridge.

  “You’re not planning on making an appointment with Mr. Sparks, are you?” I ask. He can’t be serious.

  “And why not?” Billy says, with that grin of his.

  He flabbergasts me, so he does. But he’s looking at me, waiting for an answer.

  “Well … you can’t just … you’re a ...” I stammer but the words are slippery as eels.

  “I’m a poor, illiterate, Irish immigrant?” Billy says for me.

  “Well, yes!” I laugh.

  “So was Nicholas Sparks and dozens of other men just like him.”

  “But Billy, you have to know your limits.”

  He stops on the bridge and turns to me, his face serious. “Says who?”

  I shrug. Lynch said it to me a few times when I was working in the Big House. But everyone knows. It’s the way of things. Everyone has their place. “’Tis common sense, Billy.”

  “I had a dog,” he interrupts, “by the name of Cullen. Oh, he was a cracker of a thing. Smart as a whip—you could learn him anything, but he had a bit of wolf in him, so he did. Da didn’t want him running away so he trained him. Taught him to mind the boundaries of our farm. Day after day he’d walk Cullen around the farm limits and discipline him to never step foot off that property. Whipped him if he did. But Cullen knew there were great adventures beyond those limits. He could smell them.” His eyes stare off into memory. In all our time together, Billy never spoke of where he came from, of his family or past. He looks at me, serious again.

  “Limits are manmade things, Kit. Things other people invent to hold us back. ’Tis up to us to bide them or not.”

  He has a point. Sure, haven’t I crossed many the line in the past year? Not just farm limits and county lines, but even theft and murder.