Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  “Ready?” She held out a hand, then noticed her daughter was crookedly buttoned up, her hair ribbon askew. “And who dressed you this morning, might I ask? Was it yourself did such a fine job?”

  Mary Kate shook her head. “Liam. But he was cross and said, ‘Hold still, hold still.’”

  Grace laughed and quickly redid the buttons, smoothing Mary Kate’s new collar and tucking her hair—longer now and curling at the ends—behind her ears. “Well, and where is he then, your manservant?”

  “Down. I’m to bring you.”

  “How on earth did you all get up and me not hearing a thing?” She put her hands on her hips.

  “Uncle Sean set us to dress by the fire.” Mary Kate lowered her voice and glowered in imitation of him. “‘Shush now, you hooligans, shush!’” She paused. “What’s a hooligan?”

  “Sure and I don’t know, myself.” Grace laughed. “Wait!” She went to her trunk and took out a small box, offering it to Mary Kate. “Would you like to wear the pretty ring Aislinn gave to you? ’Tis Christmas, after all. A special day.”

  Mary Kate’s eyes went wide. “Oh, aye,” she breathed, opening the box and taking out the band with the Connemara stone. She put it on carefully and showed it to her mother.

  “It’s almost as lovely as you are, wee girl,” Grace said. Blessed Christmas, Aislinn, she prayed. We’re thinking of you over here.

  “You have to come now, Mam.” Mary Kate giggled and pulled Grace by the hand, leading her out the door and down the stairs.

  When they emerged below, there was a great burst of “Merry Christmas!” and Grace saw the long table near the fire was set with a lovely breakfast and herself given place of honor.

  “Since you’ll be spending the rest of the day cooking and waiting on all of us here, we thought we’d treat you to breakfast,” Sean announced, looking very pleased with himself. “Tea?” He held up the pot.

  “Thank you.” She sat down, eyes shining. “How grand. Merry Christmas to all of you—Merry Christmas, Tara … Dugan. And happy first Christmas to you there, wee Caolon.”

  The Ogues beamed, and Liam kissed her cheek, then shyly handed her a clunky, carefully wrapped package.

  “Are we passing round our presents, then?” she asked, and everyone shrugged good-naturedly.

  “Well, now, that’s a special gift,” Dugan revealed in his growly voice. “Why don’t you open it? He worked plenty hard on it, didn’t you, boy?”

  Liam nodded, his smile tight with anxiety. Grace patted his cheek, then untied the string and gently pulled away the butcher’s paper.

  It was a small wooden box with a fitted lid, sanded and oiled so that the grain glowed. In the center of the lid was carved the rough outline of a masted ship sailing on uneven waves, and on the front of the box were painstakingly carved letters that spelled out MOTHER.

  “Sean and Dugan thought it would be all right, seeing as how you’ve cared for me all this time.” Liam held himself stiffly. “Is it, then?”

  Grace set the box carefully on the table as though it were the finest thing in the world, then stood and put her arms around him, holding him until she felt his arms go round her waist.

  “Aye.” She smiled down into his dear face, then covered it with kisses until he grew embarrassed and tried to squirm away. “No, no, son,” she scolded lightly. “’Tis a mother’s right to kiss her boy whenever she pleases. Do you wish to change your mind, then?”

  He stopped wriggling and shook his head, then raised his chin stoically and presented himself to her.

  “That’s better.” She kissed him once more on either cheek. “’Tis a beautiful gift, Liam. I’ll treasure it always. Thank you.”

  Mary Kate pounded the table with her spoon. “Let’s eat!”

  They all laughed at her enthusiasm, then dished up the eggs and sausages, Christmas bread and butter, and ate and laughed and laughed and ate until all the food was gone.

  After breakfast, Grace carried the cherished wooden box back upstairs, setting it on the table by the window. She had been near tears all day, but had not given in—there was much to do still to prepare for Christmas dinner. Sean had gone off with the Osgoodes, and Dugan had taken the children to Mass, leaving Tara to rest with the baby; Grace had the kitchen to herself.

  Going back and forth between the cupboard and the long table, she listened for the sound of a knock upon the door, knowing it was sure to come. Had she not attended Sunday meetings with Sean? Had she not read what they’d given her to read, heard what they wanted her to hear, said what she was supposed to say? The women were always warm and kind, offering clothes for the children, advice on how to raise them, bottled preserves and medicinals; they’d done everything in their power to make her feel welcome, a part of the group—the fault lay within her, not them, but not for lack of trying. Her daily talks with God were full of pleas and promises; she had been patient and obedient, she had trusted and believed—surely God would not disappoint her yet again.

  The table today would be filled with family and friends—the Ogues, the Osgoodes, Lily and her children. Liam’s father could not be persuaded to join them, so Liam had tacked a message on the sailor’s board inviting Captain Reinders if his ship was in. All would be in attendance when Grace’s father came striding through the door with young Morgan in his arms, and Grace would rush to embrace them both, holding her boy again after so long—she could see it, she could hear it, it would be.

  Thirty-three

  IT was cold up here, bitterly cold; dirty snow lay in clumps all over the wharf and the sky threatened more. The ship had been secured, paperwork submitted, cargo unloaded, but Reinders was still tense.

  Mackely was below even now, checklist in hand, keeping the crew away from the two large, padlocked trunks in the back; these belonged to Reinders, as everyone knew—he often took one or both on short runs to the South to haul back personal stores of rum or molasses, cigars, cloth, the odd antiquity for Lars’ wife, Detra. The crew thought nothing of the presence of these trunks, and no longer bothered to ask what treasure he’d come by this time. He was grateful for the lack of curiosity, as this trip he’d come by the most precious treasure of all.

  He thought of this now, and fought the urge to go down and check. They’d made it this far, he told himself. It wouldn’t be too much longer; he mustn’t do anything out of the ordinary.

  “All done, Captain.” Mackley presented the checklist to him.

  Reinders looked it over, thanked his crew for a good voyage, and dismissed them, wishing them all a Merry Christmas and he’d see them in the new year. Only when the last man had gone, did the captain and his first mate breathe a sigh of relief.

  “How is everything down there?” Reinders asked. “Any problems?”

  “The girl coughed a couple of times, Captain. Once real hard, poor kid, but I don’t think anyone heard. The sooner we get her out of there, the better.”

  Reinders couldn’t agree more. “I’ll do it. You go over to the market and look for Lily. If she’s not there”—he handed over a piece of paper with an inked symbol—“post this on the sailor’s board.”

  “Yes, sir. Then what?”

  “Frankly, I have no idea. I didn’t anticipate arriving unannounced on Christmas Day.”

  When Mackley had gone ashore, Reinders pulled up the gangplank, mentally reviewing his actions of the last few weeks. He’d been meticulous about his log, knowing he might have to give an accounting of his whereabouts on any given day, maybe any hour. He had alibis, he had witnesses, and the only real pieces of evidence against him were about to be delivered to their mother. The plan had always been to let her know the minute he arrived, wait for nightfall, then load them into Hesselbaum’s wagon, cover them with straw, and smuggle them past the slave catchers who haunted this area, looking for stowaways. Lily was always on the docks—every day she was on the docks. Just not Christmas Day. She hadn’t even been expecting them. He hadn’t told her how close he was, just in case; there h
ad been so many disappointments, and it was Christmastime. He was an idiot.

  Grimly, he secured the ropes and went below. Even before he got to the hold, he heard the soft, distressed cough of someone trying to be quiet. He was worried about Mary; she hadn’t looked well in the warehouse, and then she’d been stowed in a trunk and carted to the ship. Days of cold and damp with little food and terrible stress certainly hadn’t helped. Solomon wasn’t any better off; he could barely walk on legs whose tendons had been severed, whose feet had no toes, but Reinders had seen the fury in the boy’s eyes and knew his will to live was fueled by pure rage. He hadn’t said a word to the captain before climbing into his own trunk, hadn’t spoken at all during the trip, Mackley said.

  “He’d just as soon cut my throat as look at me,” the first mate had reported. “Hates white men, that’s for sure.”

  “Can you blame him?” Reinders had asked.

  “No, sir.” Mackley still couldn’t get over the boy’s feet. “I don’t.”

  Reinders unlocked the first trunk and lifted the heavy lid. Her eyes were wide in the gloom, her face ragged with fatigue and strain. He opened the other, this time meeting the bristling defiance of the boy. The two stepped out, legs stiff from little use, shoulders and necks aching from long hours in one position. The girl began to cough again, bending over with the force of it. Reinders put an arm around her, supporting her until the spasm ended.

  “I know it’s been rough,” he apologized. “We’re here now. Crew’s dismissed. Stretch your legs a bit. Then we’ll go up to my cabin.”

  Brother and sister walked the length of the hold, stopping at the far end for a hurried, whispered exchange, which Reinders could not hear.

  “Watch your step,” he admonished when they returned. “I didn’t bring a lantern.”

  He led the way out of the hold, then down the corridor and up another short ladder to the narrow hall leading to his cabin. Once they were all inside, he closed and bolted the door, then lit the lantern and hung it on its hook. In better light, they looked even worse. The girl was exhausted, her teeth chattering.

  “Put this on.” Reinders handed her a thick fisherman’s sweater, then tossed the boy a woolen shirt. “You, too. Sit down.”

  They pulled on their garments, then sat gingerly by his desk.

  “I’ve sent Mack to find your mother—she works on the dock. It’s Christmas, though. I don’t know if she’ll be there.”

  “What then?” Solomon’s voice was a low rumble. “We go out looking?”

  Reinders shook his head emphatically. “Not you two. You might as well have a sign on your back that says, ‘Runaways.’”

  “New York ain’t free?” Fresh anxiety came into Mary’s eyes.

  “It’s free,” Reinders assured. “But we’ve got more than our fair share of bounty hunters waiting to knock you over the head and drag you back. The abolitionists keep an eye on things, but there’s not much anyone can do if they decide to snatch you. It is a free state,” he repeated. “But you’re definitely on your own.”

  “How we going to find her then?” The young man frowned.

  “There’s a sailor’s board on the wharf. Your mother checks there for messages from me.”

  “She can’t read.” Mary looked at Solomon.

  “I know. It’s a symbol. She’ll recognize it.”

  “She all right?” The girl’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and Reinders realized he hadn’t told them a thing.

  “She’s fine. Really, she is.” He racked his brain for details. “She works in the fish market for Jakob Hesselbaum. He’s a good man. He cares for your mother. Your brother and sister are fine. Samuel,” he remembered. “Samuel and Ruth. Both fine.”

  The girl leaned forward, hungry for every word, disregarding the tears spilling over her cheeks. The young man listened, too, but his emotions were more carefully guarded.

  “They live up in Five Points. It’s not that far from here. Pretty rough, though,” Reinders added.

  “But they free, right?” Solomon checked again.

  The captain nodded. “They’re free. She carries papers. You’ll have them, too.”

  Mackley whistled from the dock.

  “There he is,” Reinders announced, and they all rose at the same time. “Stay here. If he’s got her, I’ll bring her in.”

  He went up on deck, then strode quickly to the other side, but the first mate was alone. He pushed out the gangplank.

  “Here, Captain.” Mackley handed over a small envelope. “I went to post the message and found this instead.”

  Reinders tore it open.

  Dear Captain,

  Please come to Christmas dinner if you can. Lily’s coming and them. Please come.

  Your friend,

  Liam Kelley

  “Hah!” He crumpled the page. “She’s at the Harp!”

  “What do you think, sir? Should we chance it?”

  Reinders took a good look around. The wharf was nearly deserted, just the odd sailor moving about, and across the square, a ragged bunch sharing a bottle and smokes at the edge of one of the warehouses; they didn’t look like slavers, their ferretlike attention focused on a loaded cart left unguarded in front of an open door.

  “Go out to the avenue and hire a closed carriage. Wait for us at the end of the alley. We won’t be more than five minutes behind you.”

  “Right!” Mackley sprang toward the gangplank, then turned back. “How about them coming home to their mother on Christmas Day?” he wondered. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

  “That’s coincidence,” Reinders stated. “Now get going.”

  Mary and Solomon had no belongings to gather and, he realized, no shoes to speak of. The girl was wearing thin cotton slippers and the boy was barefoot. As he explained the situation, Reinders quickly dug out an old pair of mud boots, thrusting them into the young man’s hands before picking up the lantern and going out into the dark passage, then into the dank space where the crew slept. He went directly to the cook’s locker—Cook was a small fella—and rummaged around until he found a pair of boots for the girl. Back in the cabin, he wrapped his own cape around Solomon’s shoulders and pulled a hat down firmly over the young man’s head, low over his eyes; Mackley’s cape went around Mary, a watch cap over her cropped hair.

  “Keep your heads down,” he ordered. “Don’t look up no matter what. Solomon, you’ll take my arm so we can move quickly.” He glanced at the boots. “How do those feel?”

  “Hurt.” Solomon gave up a ghost of a smile.

  “No doubt.” Reinders winced at the thought of those toeless feet banging against that stiff leather—socks, he should’ve gotten socks. “They’ll get you to the carriage, though.”

  Solomon nodded, tugging the hat down even lower, hunching into the cape so that his neck was covered.

  “Mary.” Reinders turned to the girl. “You’ll walk directly behind. Long strides now, head down. If I run, you run, and don’t stop until we get to the carriage.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her eyes widened in alarm as she watched him take a pistol out of the drawer, load it, and slip it into his jacket pocket.

  “Ready?”

  They nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  On deck, the two took their first quick look at freedom. The snow surprised them, and the biting cold, but they said nothing, intently focused now on following Reinders carefully across the gangplank. At the bottom, Solomon linked his arm with the captain’s and moved as quickly as he could across the slippery wharf. Mary was right behind, eyes on the heels of Reinders’ boots. Heads down, they strode purposefully through the last bit of afternoon light, ignored by others in a rush to get home. The unattended cart had been rescued by its driver, who was now warily eyeing the rough group of sailors; his voice, urging the horse to giddap now, echoed in the stillness with a bravado Reinders was sure he did not feel. The captain glanced up, then lowered his head again, aware that the sailors’ attention had shifted to h
im.

  With a curt nod to his fellows, Boardham stepped away from the group, pulled his jacket more tightly around him, and trailed Reinders into the alley. How nice of the captain to present himself like this on Christmas, Boardham chuckled. He’d seen that dog Mackley spring across the wharf and back again, then down the alley toward the avenue. And who should come right behind but the noble captain, a couple of odd ones by his side. He followed them, hanging back, watching as they slipped directly from the dark alley into a waiting carriage.

  Mackley rapped on the roof of the cab and the carriage jolted forward, Solomon and Mary nearly sliding off their seat. They braced themselves, glancing at one another, but no one said a word and the cab filled with anxious silence. They leaned to one side and then the other as the carriage turned corners, and finally Mackley lifted the edge of the flap and looked out. He recognized the area; they were well away from the waterfront now, and he turned back to them, smiling and rubbing his hands together briskly.

  “Hah!” he barked delightedly. “We did it!”

  Solomon squeezed Mary’s leg. Reinders took off his cap and ran a hand over his tangled mat of hair.

  “Well done, Mack. Good work.” Reinders clapped him on the knee, relief evident in his voice.

  “Good work yourself, sir.” Mackley grinned, then glanced again out the little window. “I’m getting out here, Captain, if you don’t mind.” He knocked and the carriage pulled over. “Got friends in this part of town be glad to trade a plate of Christmas dinner and half a bottle for a good sea story.”

  “Not this one, though,” Reinders cautioned.

  “Oh, no, sir. I earn my pay, remember? Besides”—he winked—“I always got a few yarns saved up for when I need them.”

  Reinders laughed and put out his hand. “You’re a good man, Mack. I mean it. Thanks for everything, and Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too, sir.” He shook the hand warmly, then got out of the carriage, pausing before he closed the door. “Good luck,” he said to Solomon; then to Mary, he added, “All the best to you and say hello to your mother.” Then he was gone.