Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  “Liam’s hurt. We don’t dare come up.”

  Dugan hooked a lantern off the table, then lit it and followed her down; he lifted it high until he spotted the boy sitting on a barrel, blood smeared across his right cheek.

  “Who did this?” Reinders came immediately to his side, examining the cut carefully.

  “’Twas that nasty Mister Boardham from the ship,” Liam declared angrily. “He told Grace to take off her dress and he cut me when she wouldn’t.” He stopped, the realization of what had happened sinking in. “I think he killed me da.”

  Reinders looked at Grace.

  “He came into Seamus’ rooms while we were there …” She turned away. “The boy’s right.”

  “How the hell did you get away?” Dugan asked, astounded.

  “Seamus fought him.” She put her arm around Liam’s shoulders. “He saved our lives, your da, didn’t he?”

  “Aye,” Liam said with wonder, frowning against his tears. “He did.”

  “I’m sorry to bring more trouble on you, Dugan.” Grace twisted her hands in her skirt. “I know the police’ll come. Boardham’s got them in his pocket. That Doctor Draper was there, as well,” she told the captain. “He’s the building inspector.”

  “Unbelievable.” Reinders shook his head. “You’re right about Boardham. He’s Callahan’s man.”

  “We’re in for it then.” Dugan set down the lantern. “Nobody gets around that bastard.”

  “He won’t come round once we’re gone,” she reasoned. “We’ll hide in the tunnel until we know where Sean is, and then we’ll go there.”

  “Or you could come with me,” Reinders offered, trying to sound off hand. “I hear San Francisco is a very exciting place. Not like here where nothing ever happens.”

  “I’m grateful to you, Peter, but if I left now—like this—I might not ever see my brother again.”

  “Will you take Liam?” Reinders put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Of course! I’d not leave him behind.”

  “What I mean is …” He glanced at Liam, who looked up at him, suddenly understanding.

  “Would you take me, then?” the boy asked.

  “I would.” Reinders nodded soberly. “But it’s not my decision.”

  Liam turned pleading eyes to Grace. “Could I go with him? Please, Mam?”

  Grace looked down into that little face—not so little anymore, she thought, twelve in another month—and pressed her hand against the ache in her chest.

  “Are you telling me you don’t want to commit your life to working in the desert with the holy Saints?” She pretended disbelief. “You’d rather go to sea with Captain Reinders there?”

  “Oh, aye,” Liam breathed.

  “You don’t want to be president anymore?”

  “No,” he answered firmly. “I’m going to be a sea captain. Besides”—he smiled that endearing lopsided boy smile—“Sean says you have to be born in America, so it’ll be my son who’s president, then.”

  She considered the wisdom in that, and understood that he was right; for the children of immigrants come to America, anything was possible.

  “All right,” she granted and Reinders took her hand. “But it’s not forever, mind you. You’ll have to come home to me in a year or so.”

  Liam threw his arms around her and held on tight. “I love you,” he said simply.

  “And I, you.” The words caught in her throat.

  “Grace …” Reinders hesitated. “I’m leaving right away. Today. My buggy is outside. I only stopped in to—”

  “Sooner the better,” Grace resolved. “Dugan, will you bring down his clothes. And will you get Mary Kate?”

  They were all silent for a moment at the thought of the little girl.

  It happened so quickly—Liam’s tearful, excited good-byes to Mary Kate and Tara and Caolon—that when he was gone, Grace could hardly take it in. Peter had promised her over and over that he would take good care of the boy, guard him with his life, help him grow into a man Grace could be proud of. And Grace had known that this was true. Liam wasn’t her child, after all, but God’s—and God was putting him once again in the hands of Captain Reinders.

  The murder of Seamus Kelley meant nothing to Marcus Boardham, but the thought of revenge slipping yet again through his fingers drove him mad.

  Draper—the rat—had complained to Callahan, had insisted he could not be party to such obvious wrongdoing—a murder, for God’s sake. Boardham could just hear the pompous whine in the doctor’s voice. As if he wasn’t party to murder every stinking day he allowed those sweltering, louse-ridden buildings to take in more tenants instead of boarding them up and burning them down. At least Boardham was honest about his work—he walked in, did a thorough job, walked right out again, no complaints. Like a man.

  Killing Kelley had troubled him no more than killing the mad dogs that roamed the summertime streets, bashing in their brains for fifty cents each. The old drunk had surprised him, though, caught him off guard with that last ounce of courage. Very touching, what a man’d do for his boy if given the chance; Boardham hadn’t minded in the least providing such an opportunity for glory, however badly misplaced.

  What he had minded—and minded very much—was being unable to pin the murder on Missus Donnelly and the boy. Already wanted for murder in Ireland, she would’ve been found guilty hands down. It was so easy. And Reinders would’ve come riding back into town—hero that he thought he was—to stand for her, or if not for her then at least the boy. It was perfect. But Callahan hadn’t wanted to hear it. No, not one word. He’d sent a couple of men to bring Boardham back to Stookey’s private upstairs room; there, Callahan had unleashed his anger—Boardham had gone too far this time, was drawing too much unwanted attention to himself and everyone else. Callahan had not risen to this position only to be undone by a lowly snitch. There would be no police sent to Ogue’s saloon, he insisted, no arrests made—Boardham had been seen by too many witnesses running from the building with the bloody knife in his hand. In broad daylight! Callahan had worked to calm himself, then had said between clenched teeth that Boardham should go home and wait for further instructions. No more trouble, he warned, or there’d be hell to pay.

  Humiliated, Boardham slunk back to his hot little room at the top of the house and sweated there, growing angrier by the minute as he thought of the woman and the boy cowering somewhere in that old saloon: a closet maybe, a storage room—quivering like frightened mice, afraid to come out, easy pickings for someone wanting to finish the job. And oh, he wanted to finish it. Once and for all. He paced the rotten floorboards, stopping only to pound his fist into the crumbling plaster of his wall, his clothes steeping in the sour sweat of fury. He looked out the window as darkness fell, watched families climb out onto half roofs and overhangs in order to escape the heat, while revelers claimed the streets, their raucous laughter and abrupt fistfights punctuated by the sound of the fire bell in the distance. Boardham cocked his head, listening as the wagon drew near, horse hooves pounding, men shouting to one another, racing down the hill toward the fire. Smiling then, he stuffed a cap in his pocket and went out.

  Grace awoke to the crack and crash of something heavy overhead, and then the muffled sound of breaking glass. She sat up and sniffed the air. Smoke. Hands shaking, she lit the lantern and lifted it, playing the light around the black cellar. Mary Kate still slept in the next cot, her doll clutched tightly to her chest. Grace shone the light toward the staircase and there it was—billowing down, beginning to fill the room now, and from above another explosion of glass. Someone was yelling up there, shouting to get out. She picked up her daughter and ran up the stairs, but the door opened only a sliver, then no more. Smoke poured in through the crack, and Grace realized a beam was blocking her escape. Mary Kate was awake now, her arms around her mother’s neck.

  “Blossom,” she cried, and Grace scooped up the doll as they ran past the cot, heading toward the tunnel.

  She spl
ashed barefoot through the murky puddles, startling the rats, who disappeared into wall crevices, their long naked tails whipping behind them. It felt endless, but then they were out and Grace nearly slipped and fell as she rushed for Eberhardt’s stairs. They pushed their way into the shop and Grace called out for the butcher.

  “Fire!” she cried when he appeared on the stairs. “Fire at the Harp!”

  In the distance, the brash sound of the bell rousted the volunteers from their beds yet again, sending them out into the street, where they jumped onto the passing wagons heading for the blaze.

  “Karl!” Missus Eberhardt stood in the door, clutching a blanket over her nightgown, eyes frantic with fear.

  Mister Eberhardt called to her in German and she nodded, then came down immediately.

  “Stay here,” he ordered, running out the door, calling for Mister Marconi as he raced down the street.

  Grace stood there, staring after him. The police would be there. But Dugan … Tara … She handed Mary Kate to Missus Eberhardt and pointed to the boots in the corner.

  “I’ve got to go.” She slipped her feet into them, then kissed her daughter. “Be right back.”

  She tore down the block, turned the first corner, passed the alley full of smoke, and rounded the last corner to their side of the long block, then stopped, stunned. Snapping tongues of fire belched out of the lower windows, licking up toward the second floor and the rooms that had belonged to Grace and the children; black smoke poured out of those windows, the glass now shattered on the ground below.

  A crowd had gathered across the street, some joining the team of firemen pumping water and passing buckets down the line.

  “Dugan!” she shouted over the roar of the fire. “Dugan Ogue!”

  He turned and broke away, running with giant strides, scooping her into his arms and off her feet, squeezing the very life out of her.

  “Ah, thank God, thank God,” he sobbed, his body shaking. “I thought you were done for. I couldn’t get near that door.”

  “Tara?” she asked immediately.

  “We’re all out.” He pointed to where his wife stood staring up at the fire, Caolon in her arms, the arms of other women around them both. She turned and saw Grace, relief flooding her face.

  “Saints be praised.” Tara embraced her. “How did you ever get out of there, and where’s Mary Kate?”

  “She’s at the Eberhardts’ shop. We came through the tunnel.”

  “Oh, Lord, of course you did! Thank God for that bloody thing. Karl!” Dugan shouted to the butcher. “Marconi!”

  The grocer saw them, too, and pushed his way through the crowd. “It’s a really terrible thing you got, Ogue.” He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘But nobody hurt, no?”

  “Una,” Dugan told him. “Our serving girl.” He turned to Grace. “She was sleeping in your room, since your things were all out and she thought you were gone. I told her she could.” His voice broke.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, Ogue,” Karl consoled him. “We never know. Is summertime, and so hot. Every night, something goes up. How did it start, then, this fire?”

  “In the alley, I think.” Dugan and Grace exchanged glances. “It’s worse back there.”

  There was a flurry of activity as another wagon pulled up and men jumped out.

  “Police.” Dugan nudged Grace, then turned to Karl. “Would you take Grace back to your place, Karl? Tara and Caolon, as well?”

  “I’m staying,” Tara said firmly.

  “No, Mother.” He put an arm around her. “’Tis no place for the boy, all the glass and bad air. Go now, back to Karl’s. I’m going to help on the line. There’s Marconi, going up.”

  “Be careful,” she warned her husband. “You’re too big to climb those spindly ladders.”

  He didn’t laugh, seeing her worry. “I won’t do any climbing, Tara my love—promise.”

  Karl took the weary band back to his rooms above the shop, and then returned to fight the fire with all the other men in the neighborhood. A fire like that could spread from rooftop to rooftop, no telling where it might end, and every man was needed.

  Missus Eberhardt put blankets on the floor and the children slept while the women talked. Fire was a terrible thing, they agreed in whispers, and what would be left in the morning? Finally, they drifted off—Missus Eberhardt with her head back on her chair, snoring lightly; Tara stretched out on the floor, the baby cradled in her arms. Only Grace remained awake, knowing the fault of this was all hers, yet unable to say how she might have done things differently. She watched out the window as the sooty orange sky lightened to dull gray, and she asked herself why she’d ever thought that her brother’s life was more important than her own, why she hadn’t understood that he could go his way and she could go hers, and they would always be brother and sister, no matter where in the world they ended up. She had told him she was letting go of the past, and yet she’d not been able to let go of him, had clung to him even as he went in a direction she did not want to go. It had taken an enormous blaze to help her see thus, to make her realize that life was fleeting and the future now. When Karl and Dugan and Mister Marconi came tramping up the stairs hours later, she had made her decision.

  “Well, it’s bad,” Dugan allowed. “But not as bad as it could’ve been. Wasn’t old Dooley there at the crack of dawn, righting the chairs and pointing out that with the weather so nice no one would mind the breeze blowing through?”

  “He just doesn’t want to lose his place at the bar.” Tara laughed, Caolon at her breast.

  “And I don’t want him to lose it, either. We’re going to rebuild,” Dugan announced. “I think we can, Mother. If you’re up to it, that is.”

  “Dugan Ogue, when have I ever been afraid of starting over?” she chided, and he strode across the room to kiss her full on the mouth in front of God and everyone.

  “I can help.” Karl wiped the soot from his face with a towel. “I know some boys and they will help, too.”

  “Don’t forget Mister Marconi,” the grocer declared. “And my papa’s hammer. All the way from Italia!”

  “You can all stay here until is ready,” Missus Eberhardt offered in her careful English. “We make room.”

  “Where’s the boy?” Marconi looked worried. “Where’s that Liam?”

  “With Captain Reinders.” Grace stood and took her daughter’s hand. “I’ll hope you’ll forgive me, Dugan. You know we can’t stay to help you.” She paused. “Mary Kate and I are leaving today for Boston.”

  Tara’s face broke into a grin. “That’s my girl.”

  “Well, I’ll be …” Dugan laughed. “All right, then. We’ll have to get a move on if you’re to catch them before they sail.” His face clouded. “But, Grace, I’ve no way to do it. The cart burned, and the mule …” He glanced at Mary Kate.

  “You can have my cart and my mule,” Karl offered. “But the old thing will never make it to Boston.”

  “If you’ll only take us to the Livingstons’, Florence will know what to do next,” Grace said thankfully.

  “Marconi and I will pull your trunks through the tunnel,” Ogue directed. “And Karl will bring the cart around front.”

  The men dispersed and Mary Kate tugged on her mother’s hand.

  “Are we going to sea with Liam and the captain, then?”

  “I think so.” Grace bit her lip. “Will you want to get back on that boat, then?”

  “Aye.” Mary Kate grinned. “And, Mam—’tis a ship.”

  Boardham sat in a chair by the window, waiting. He was anxious, but he controlled it with measured shots of whiskey. Callahan had sent a message—he had a job for the steward, which meant he hadn’t connected Boardham to last night’s fire. He allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction. Burning the saloon had been nothing short of brilliant—Callahan would never be able to point the finger, Boardham had worked so quickly, had been so light on his feet, so very discreet. And even if Callahan did eventually figure it out—Boardham
tossed back his drink—it had been worth it for the joy he’d felt watching that Irish bastard’s watering hole go up in flames, seeing Missus Donnelly’s body carried out and put in the death wagon, listening to that ugly giant blubbering out front as his life burned up in front of his eyes. Yes, it had been worth the risk of his own livelihood.

  He had not waited around much longer than that, had hurried home before dawn and gathered his things, ready to fly if necessary. But moments after he’d arrived, the messenger had knocked. It was an important job, the messenger had emphasized, and if it went well, then all was forgiven. If not—Boardham had already decided—he would never return to this room but would head south to new friends and a new life.

  It was quiet tonight, no fire calls yet, no brawls in the street. He poured himself another whiskey from the near-empty bottle. A sharp rap on the door jangled the silence, startling him, and he sloshed part of his drink out onto the table.

  “Yeah,” he growled, setting the glass down.

  The door popped open and there stood his favorite Bowery B’hoy—Small John English, toughest man in the neighborhood. Callahan must have more faith than Boardham realized and his spirits rose. English was very select; he only worked with men who could get the job done.

  “Whiskey?” Boardham offered congenially, the knot in his stomach easing now.

  “No, thanks.” The thug had a disarming smile. “Maybe later.”

  “I’ll just finish this.” Boardham drank it down. “Throat’s a bit sore tonight.”

  “Better lay off the smoking then.” English closed his jacket around the knife at his side. “Those things only get worse.”

  Forty-four

  JAY sent a message, summoning his sister home from her meeting at once. “She’s got all the contacts,” he apologized. “I just throw the parties and pour the drinks. Speaking of which …?”

  “Thanks very much, but no.” Grace stood by the window, looking out. “Best if I stay clearheaded.”

  He helped himself. “And were you clearheaded when you made this very rash decision to run off with the stodgy, passionless Captain Reinders?”