Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  “Some days I can hardly bear it.” Grace’s mouth trembled.

  Tara nodded. “I thought I’d lay myself down and die when Caolon was killed. ’Twas ages before I knew I’d come alive again, and that was a sad day, as well. But God is good, and Dugan Ogue loves me, and I’m to have his baby. I survived the blackest days of my life,” she said firmly. “And you will, too. Because he loved you.”

  “He did,” Grace said, and dried her tears.

  Twenty-two

  “SIT down, Mister … Boardham, is it?” Callahan motioned him in with his lit cigar.

  Boardham stayed in the doorway. “I done nothing wrong,” he growled. “I come to report a wrong done to me.”

  “I heard that.” Callahan leaned back in his chair. “Interesting story you told downstairs. I’d like to go over it with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Curious.” Callahan shrugged. “Like a cigar?”

  Boardham licked his lips. “Don’t mind if I do.” He sidled over to the desk and took it, then sat gingerly in the chair.

  “Now let me see if I’ve got this straight.” Callahan puffed, the ember glowing. “You sailed an American ship out of Liverpool in November, correct?”

  Boardham lit his own cigar. “The Eliza J, P. Reinders, Captain.”

  “And you say Captain Reinders illegally discharged passengers—including a known criminal—before going back out to Staten Island, still correct?” Callahan eyed him through the smoke.

  “Aye.”

  “You and a Doctor”—he glanced at his notes—“Draper, Doctor Draper—the two of you objected to this and were beaten up.”

  “Right.” Boardham jabbed his cigar at the police captain. “I never seen Draper after that, but they took me to Boston, they did, and dumped me in the harbor! I had to make my way back on my own, no money nor nothing!”

  “Why did you wait until now to report this?”

  Boardham tensed again. “Well, I was afraid for my life, wasn’t I?” he whined. “Said they’d come after me if I told, and they will. I’m not happy about sitting here.”

  Callahan leaned forward. “Then why are you?”

  “Got myself in a bit of trouble, I guess,” Boardham mumbled.

  “You got in a knife fight and slit a man’s throat.”

  “It’s what I’m telling you! He’s one of the crew done me over! Not the one I’d like to get, mind you.” Boardham glowered. “But he’s a start.”

  Callahan regarded him with interest. “Do you realize you’re sitting in a police captain’s office, talking about the murders you’d like to commit?”

  “Not murder,” Boardham corrected. “Revenge. And he started it.”

  “So it was self-defense? You were defending yourself against this man?”

  Boardham sat up straight, excited. “Yeah! Yeah, I was defending myself. He come at me first.”

  Callahan nodded. “You could go to jail for a very long time.”

  “But you said—”

  “I’m interested in hearing more about this captain.” Callahan puffed casually. “These were Irish immigrants, you said?”

  “Yeah.” Boardham’s heart was pounding.

  “We are a city overrun with Irish immigrants.” Callahan eyed him. “You’re not Irish, are you?”

  “No,” Boardham spat. “English as they come.”

  “You look Irish, though. Small and flinty. Drink like an Irishman, obviously.”

  “Boardham’s my name.” Two red spots appeared on the steward’s cheeks. “It’s an English name. Not like Callahan.”

  The police captain’s eyebrows went up. “Very good.” He nodded approvingly. “Very deft. Yes, you’re quite right. Callahan is an old Irish name, and I am descended of Irishmen, though my family has lived in this country for two generations now.”

  Boardham said nothing, unsure of his ground, then decided to hedge his bet. “My mother’s name was Ceallachan,” he offered.

  “So you are Irish.” Callahan looked pleased.

  “My father was English. I grew up in Liverpool. I consider myself an Englishman.”

  “And I consider myself an American.” Callahan set down the cigar. “The Irish coming off the boats these days are all riffraff, beggars and thieves, drunkards and spoilers. And they come in droves. Dumped into the city every day, an embarrassment frankly to those of us who’ve made something of ourselves.”

  Boardham glimpsed the path to redemption. “It’s the captains bring ’em in for profit,” he said. “Close ’em down and—no more Irish.”

  “Yes.” Callahan nodded. “They are certainly part of the problem, especially if they’re bringing in criminals. He’s wanted for murder, you said—what’s his name?”

  “Donnelly.” Boardham couldn’t get it out fast enough. “Missus Grace Donnelly.”

  “A woman?”

  “A bitch,” Boardham spat. “Come at me with a knife, she did.”

  “You seem to attract that.” Callahan flashed a quick smile. “Know where she’s living?”

  “No. I’m looking, though.”

  “Good.” Callahan closed his notebook. “When you find her, I’d like you to tell me first. Before you do anything. In the meantime, I’ll look into this Captain Reinders and his immigration trade.”

  “Is that all?” Boardham asked carefully.

  “For now. But I may want to see you again. I may charge you with killing poor Mister”—Callahan checked his notes again—“Dean.”

  Boardham gritted his teeth.

  “How would you like a job?” Callahan asked point-blank. “Working for me.”

  Caught off guard, Boardham pretended to consider. “What’s it pay?”

  Callahan laughed. “You’d do any job for the right price, is that it, Mister Boardham? That makes you a man worth hiring. My partners and I own a few buildings up in the Five Points district. One on Little Water Street, two on Orange. You know the area?”

  Boardham nodded. It was a rough place—saloons and whores; he went up there quite a bit.

  “It’s overrun with Irish. And they don’t pay their rent. I need a man who’ll make them pay or make them move.” He leaned forward. “You’ll get your room for free and two dollars a week, plus part of all the rent you collect.”

  Boardham sat back in surprise. “That’s a good deal.”

  “I’m a fair man. As long as I get what I want. Occasionally I will call in a favor.” He paused. “Do we understand one another?”

  “We do.”

  “Good.” Callahan wrote something down, then handed the piece of paper over. “Here’s the address. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk a little more.”

  “Thank you, Mister Callahan, sir.” Boardham stood to go. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “No.” Callahan smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I never am.”

  Twenty-three

  THE first day of April was surprisingly cold, a steady rain beating against the roof, and Grace listened as she tidied their rooms under the eaves. In the corner, Mary Kate played with her doll bed, a gift from Liam for her fourth birthday in February; he’d made it himself out of a small crate Dugan had tossed in the alley. He had cleaned it up and painted it white, spelled BLOSSOM on the headboard. Grace had stitched together a doll quilt and stuffed a tiny pillow, and Mary Kate kept it next to her own bed. She’d been given a picture book from Sean, a dress and apron from the Ogues, an apple from Mister Marconi up the block, a hair ribbon from Sean’s friend Marcy Osgoode, a pair of new boots and a bar of chocolate from Grace. The new four-year-old had eaten her cake, opened her gifts, and then burst into tears, overwhelmed with it all. But today she was wearing the dress, playing with the toys, and sharing her breakfast with Liam, whom she adored.

  Grace eyed the boy sitting by the window, looking at the picture book. He was filling out now, getting big, and she knew he’d need new clothes come spring. And boots. He’d settled in so bravely with them all, and never let down his guard, though he sl
ept with Alice’s hair comb and Siobahn’s sock under his pillow. He was devoted to Mary Kate, teaching her draughts and rope skipping, and even playing dolls when he thought no one was looking; Grace was so fond of him.

  She was tired this morning, echoes of last night’s stimulating conversations swimming in her head. Sean had taken her to the Livingstons’ for dinner and she’d met his friends Jay and Florence—Jay was a terrible flirt, but she took no offense as he flirted equally with every young woman there; and Florence was kind and funny, her eyes blazing with intelligence, much like Julia’s.

  Grace had been seated next to the American author Herman Melville who’d written a book about Polynesians that Florence said was scandalous, but that had earned him so much money he was writing another. He’d confided in Grace at dinner, though, that what he really wanted to write was a book about whale hunting. It haunted him, he’d said after several glasses of wine: man and beast alone, the raw elements of nature. He was sure it would be his best book ever, and he promised her a signed copy. She had liked him very much. Another writer, Edgar Poe, had also been invited but had not come, and Jay had speculated privately about opium dens, though Florence said his wife had just died and to have some pity. The governor had also been there, a singer, two bishops, Florence’s abolitionist ladies, and Jay’s publishing friends. Grace had found herself tongue-tied, but had watched with admiration as her brother held his own in this dazzling crowd; he had come so far in America, and she was proud of him.

  “Grace!” He called from the bottom of the stairs now, interrupting her thoughts. “Gracie! Will you come down a minute?”

  She glanced at the children, playing happily, then went to see what all the urgency was about.

  “They’ve found him!” Sean took her arm and led her to a bench against the wall. “Liam’s da. They’ve an address for him over at the Irish Emigrant Society.”

  Grace’s heart fell. “Sure and there are a thousand Kelleys in the city. Are they sure? Seamus Kelley from Dublin?”

  “Aye. They sent a man round. Wife called Alice, two children. They told him what happened on board, and he wants to see the boy right away.” He took her hand. “I know how you feel, Grace, but it’s his very own father.”

  “He never speaks of his da. Alice told me he was a drinking man, and I promised to be careful.”

  “We’ll go together,” Sean reassured. “The three of us.”

  “When?”

  “Today,” he said as gently as he could. “Go and tell him now—it should come from you—and get him ready. Dugan’ll drive us.”

  “Today?” She couldn’t believe it. “Can it not wait until tomorrow, then? Go over in the morning?”

  Sean shook his head. “They’ve told him we’re coming, and what if he’s a good man, Grace? What if he’s been waiting all this time for word of his boy?”

  She understood. She was waiting so anxiously for word of her own. “All right, then. I’ll tell him.”

  “That’s a good girl. I’ll go help Dugan.”

  Grace climbed the stairs wearily, then stood in the open doorway for a moment, looking at the boy she considered family.

  “Liam!” She forced excitement into her voice. “Liam, we’ve had some news. About your da!”

  He looked up at her then, his eyes wide.

  “He’s alive,” she added quickly. “He’s alive and he wants to see you right away. Today.”

  “Today?” He glanced at Mary Kate, who was staring at him.

  Grace crossed the room, picked up her daughter, and sat on the bed; she patted the spot next to her, and Liam came at once.

  “’Tis a bit of a shock, I know. Sean’s been checking regularly, but I’d begun to think that maybe your da was …”

  “Dead,” Liam finished.

  “Aye, and I’m sorry for that.” She put an arm around his shoulders. “Because here he is, alive and well, and looking for you all this time, he was.”

  “He was?” Liam looked doubtful.

  “Well, of course he was because haven’t we all found each other now, and isn’t it grand that we have, that we’ve found him, and he’s found you?” I’m rambling, Grace thought.

  Mary Kate looked at her mother and frowned. “I don’t want Liam to go.” She took hold of his shirt in her fist.

  Grace sighed. “Nor do I. I’d be lying, if I said otherwise.”

  “Do I have to go?” Liam looked up at her so longingly that she squeezed him tight so as not to see his face.

  “Aye, Liam, you do. He’s your da, and he loves you. You’re all he has left now.”

  He pressed his head into her shoulder for a moment, and then he stood up. “All right then,” he said, her brave boy. “I’d best get my things. Is it far? Will I be far away?”

  “No,” she assured him. “Not far a’tall. Dugan’ll drive us in the cart today as we’ll have your trunk and it’s raining so hard, but Sean says we can do it in a walk. You’ll be seeing us all the time.”

  Relief flooded his face. “I can walk, then.”

  Grace nodded. “Anytime. All the time.”

  He had more questions, none of which Grace could answer, but it filled the half hour it took to gather his few things together, and then they went downstairs.

  Dugan had brought up the Kelley trunk from the basement, and Liam set his small pile inside.

  “Well, boy.” The big man put his hands on his hips. “You won’t be forgetting your old friends here at the Harp and Hound, will you now?”

  “No, sir.” Liam put out his hand stoically, but was yanked instead into a giant bear hug.

  “Ah, you daft beggar.” Dugan nuzzled the boy’s neck, making him giggle. “What’ll I do without all your mischief round here? Who’s there to drop the tray, spill the drinks, bring back the wrong thing from the grocers, ask me a million questions? Eh?” He blew a big raspberry and Liam laughed out loud.

  “Mary Kate!” He looked over his shoulder. “You’ll drop his trays for him, won’t you?”

  “No.” Mary Kate stamped her foot, and Grace looked at her in surprise. “I won’t.”

  Liam wriggled away from Dugan and came right over to the little girl, whose arms were folded in a huff.

  “Ah, now, don’t be mad,” he said, going down on one knee. “I’ll be back to see you plenty and we’ll play jump rope and tag.”

  She shook her head, eyes filling with tears.

  “Ah, now.” He put his arms around her and whispered something in her ear, then kissed her cheek.

  “Promise?” she asked.

  He crossed his heart and spat, and she did the same.

  Sean came in from the back. “All set, son?”

  “Aye.” Liam took a long look around the place, then winked at Mary Kate. “See you later.”

  Grace looked over his head at Dugan, who just shrugged.

  They left Mary Kate to play in Tara’s room, then headed north toward Five Points. The rain had stopped, but mud splattered up from the cart wheels; the neighborhoods grew progressively worse until at last they reached Orange Street, where pigs—turned loose from their corner pens—ambled through the muck, and already men leaned against the walls waiting for anything to happen.

  “Terrible place, this,” Dugan muttered. “Gets worse every day.”

  “How much farther?” Grace asked.

  “We’re here.” He stopped the cart in front of a narrow brick building, behind which rose up a wooden barrack. “I better go first.”

  Grace noticed a loose gang of young men eyeing the cart. “You better stay here.” She tipped her head in the direction of the men. “We’ll take him up.”

  Carrying the trunk between them, Sean and Grace picked their way through the piles on the sidewalk to the front door, then inside.

  “Which is number nine?” Sean asked a tired-looking woman sitting with her baby on the rickety stairs. “Seamus Kelley.”

  The woman snorted. “Through the alley,” she directed. “Back behind, then up three flights
. Waste of time, if you ask me.”

  Sean and Grace exchanged a glance, then picked up the trunk again and left the building, turning down a narrow alley intersected by other suspect paths, their shoes sinking into the muck. They came out into a small courtyard, the source of the putrid, cloying smell that hung over the neighborhood and could mean only one thing—bone boilers. Men and women stood over the rank cauldrons, stirring a nasty stew of animal refuse collected from the streets and markets, the bones and innards and scraps of skin boiled together. These were the new masters of the “offensive trades”—bone-boiling, horse-skinning, glue and self-igniting match-making—the jobs no one else wanted, but the desperate embraced. Grace could not imagine how horrible this would be in the hot summer months. They skirted past ramshackle privies with a steady stream of people going in and out, many with buckets they simply dumped; the slime on the ground was shiny and greenish, its smell adding to the suffocating air, and yet, not five steps away, there was a cheap groggery, windowless and dark, with pools of standing water and piles of decay in the doorway, where a man leaned, arms crossed, watching them.

  The wooden barrack was no more than an add-on to the back of a brick building, and when they entered, Grace realized it had been divided into such cramped quarters that many had no windows. She could not see where she was going and touched the wall, damp with mildew. She tried to stay in the middle of the narrow hall, towed along by her brother. Doors cracked open, faces peered out, and Grace caught glimpses of light from candle stubs. This was no better than the worst lanes in Skibbereen, she told herself—no chairs, no beds, only piles of straw or rags, piles of children or exhausted adults, the smell of sweat and sickness. She could hardly breathe. Liam moved closer in behind her, his hand gripping her skirt, until at last they came to number nine. Sean set the trunk down and knocked. There was a cough from within, the shuffle of feet, a thud and a curse, and then the door opened.