Flight of the Earls

by Michael K. Reynolds

  Saturday pulled one of his hands from his jacket and took the coins, examining them in the remaining light.

  “Oh. And these have been heavy in my pocket.” Andrew pulled a biscuit from his pocket. “Would you be able to eat this for me, Saturday?”

  The boy nodded and put it to his mouth.

  Andrew nodded to Clare and they mounted the short steps leading up to the door. He pulled out a small tool and began to jimmy the lock. Shortly, a click sounded and the latch was freed.

  “What are you doing?” Clare whispered, relieved to see that the boy had left.

  Andrew didn’t answer but instead opened the heavy door and he disappeared inside, leaving her alone.

  “Andrew?”

  “Come inside and close the door behind you.”

  Upon entering the building, the smell of mildew and decay overwhelmed her, and Clare was tempted to exit. It was complete darkness inside and she heard some scratching noises, followed by the flash of sulfur, and she could see Andrew holding a match to a lantern.

  “I had this stashed away in a safe place.”

  “Why are we here?” Clare asked. “What would the landlord say?”

  “Oh, he’s thrilled with us being here. He’s hoping I’ll buy it from him.”

  “Why didn’t he just give you a key?”

  “I’m in negotiations,” Andrew said. “I can’t let on my enthusiasm, now can I? The windows are boarded up from the main street, so they can’t see our light.”

  Clare heard a scuttling about on the floor and she backed up.

  “Those are just the rats,” Andrew said nonchalantly. “I’ve already informed them their lodging arrangements are temporary.”

  She saw the lantern moving toward the front of the building and Clare lurched forward and grabbed onto his arm. “I’d like to go now.”

  “But I haven’t shown you anything yet,” he said with disappointment.

  “All right then. Start showing.”

  “How can I give you the tour if you’re so dour?”

  “No. Please go ahead,” Clare said. “I’m anxiously awaiting the tour.”

  He turned up the flame of the lantern and the light filled the room fairly well. The building was completely empty of furnishings, although it was clear it had been inhabited for a long time in its past.

  Andrew cleared his throat. “This is the first floor,” he said, now speaking as if he were addressing a small audience. “In the far corner, will be the kitchen, where soup will be prepared and bread will be baked.”

  Andrew held the light closer to her face as if he was reading her reaction. She gathered an expression of pleasant surprise and hoped it look genuine. It must have worked, as his voice grew in ardor. Clare worried she might have inadvertently delayed the moment when she might have been able to escape this mausoleum.

  “On the first floor, we would put in benches and tables, where every night, anyone with hunger could find respite from the cold. A sanctuary from the cruelties of this life. No one would be turned away, and each would know their comfort would be provided by the grace of God and by no man or woman.

  “And up here. Come up the steps.”

  Clare lifted the hems of her dress with one hand and held onto his hand with the other. She could barely see the wooden steps below her feet, but she could clearly sense their instability. With each step, she worried the stairway would give and they would plunge to the ground. But Andrew pressed forward.

  “And here on the second floor, this is the floor of second chances. We’ll teach them how to darn, how to seam, how to tailor, how to write. You see. The women. They can earn twenty dollars a week in the parlor houses. We have to provide them with a way to support their children. It’s why they do what they do.

  “We can’t give them hope without a way out. What do you think? Won’t it be marvelous?”

  “How will this all be paid for?” Clare asked.

  “We’re still working through those details. Our Tract Fellowship ladies believe they can raise it. I’m afraid we won’t get a penny from my father as he prefers to write about depravity as opposed to actually solving it. And my mother? You know how she feels about my work.

  “Onto the third floor. But mind your step. The stairs are unstable.”

  Clare yearned to leave but didn’t want to muzzle his zeal. Step-by-step she climbed and was greatly relieved when her feet touched the surface of the third floor.

  “Here we’ll have lodging. They always need a place to go when they make the change. Only for a short time, as we’ll fill up quickly. But long enough for them to have a respite.”

  Andrew traveled across the room until he came to some shutters on the wall. He unlatched the handle and opened the windows and fresh air came in, which Clare saw as life itself.

  She leaned out and could discern through the darkness of a moonless night the shapes and figures of the main street below.

  “The light,” she said. “They’ll see the light.”

  “Yes.” Andrew held the lantern out to the Five Points. “That’s exactly what I want them to see.”

  There, in the midst of the mildew and the rat dung, Clare felt a sense of empowerment and contentment as she had never experienced before. As the evening activity sprung to life in the city, she looked down below at the sprawling populous neither with fear nor awe. Instead, her heart ached for a generation of the lost and restless.

  In Andrew, she could see such peace and honesty in his countenance she found herself inexorably drawn to his being. He turned to see her gazing upon him, and even in the dim light she could see him blush.

  “Andrew?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you believe, as your mother does, that I was a prostitute before you met me?”

  Andrew let out a deep breath slowly and seemed to struggle with his answer. “Would it bother you tremendously if I told you it didn’t matter?”

  “It would,” she responded immediately.

  “Then I don’t.”

  Clare saw in the sincerity of his answer that not only did he believe her, but that it really didn’t matter to him either way. What a curious fellow!

  His eyes softened with tears, and she reached out and touched his face.

  He put his arm around Clare and drew her in, and she gazed out, far beyond the city horizon, to a place she never dreamed possible.

  Chapter 35

  The Shores of Veracruz

  Veracruz, Mexico

  March 1847

  Above the chilled air of the evening arose the clandestine sounds of oars digging into the water, the grunts of men straining against the tides, and the lapping of waves against the sides of the longboats.

  It seemed surreal to Seamus that having never fired a weapon in his life, he sat in his United States military blues, thick cotton trousers, a greatcoat, and cloth forage cap gripping a rifle he was issued yet barely knew how to clean. What little training he and Pierce earned occurred aboard the majestic brig that sailed them through the Atlantic, around Straits of Florida, and over the Gulf of Mexico. They hadn’t even touched soil when they were told they would be transported from their ship to one of these long, narrow surfboats that would be used in an assault of their enemy.

  As to their enemy? The Mexicans? Seamus could not garnish a full explanation as to why the Americans were at war at all. All he knew was that this recruitment wafted him out of the danger in Manhattan and would provide him with wages, whether he discharged his weapon or not. And for his part, he would be perfectly content never to hear the sound of gunpowder.

  Pierce, on the other hand, seemed intoxicated by the aroma of battle. He wasn’t in need of a cause. Sometime shortly after putting on his cotton trousers, waistcoat, and sash, he had subscribed to the feverish hunger of many of the men
on the ship.

  His friend sat across from Seamus in the bench of the boat, gripping his rifle and nodding his head in a rhythmic manner.

  “Do you know what you’re to do?” said the slender sergeant to his right.

  “No, sir, I don’t,” Seamus said.

  “Well enough, lad,” the sergeant said in a voice lower than the rowing. “We’ll be landing shortly. You’re to disembark, keeping your rifle above your head, high like this as you go to beach. Keep it out of the water or you’ll spoil the powder, and you’ll have them laughing at you as they run a bayonet through your heart. Keep your head down as the bullets will ride in like wind and bring tears to your mama.”

  “Yes sir, Sergeant O’Malley.”

  As they approached the harbor of Veracruz just before sunset, the target of their desire was beauteous to behold. Mastheads dotted the coastline before a shorefront that lead up in a sharp ascent to a castle-like fortress. It seemed both frightening in its impenetrability and too opulent to destroy.

  Seamus’s heart pounded as they came closer to shore in the shield of darkness. They were among forty or so other surfboats, with an arsenal of great wooden ships creeping in behind them. They were approaching with power and stealth.

  The sergeant pulled out a telescope, extracted it to full length, and panned their approach.

  “What do you see?” Pierce asked.

  “It’s hard to tell much without light.” The sergeant folded the telescope back with a snap. “Steady. Steady. Another thirty yards and we’ll be in it, boys. Steady.”

  “Why aren’t we being hit?” Pierce said.

  “Can’t say.” The sergeant sat up, fastened his haversack tightly, and lifted his rifle. His movement was mimicked by those in the boat who weren’t rowing, and several clicks sounded as the men tested the bolts of their chambers.

  “’Tis strange we haven’t been shelled,” he continued, “but it’s coming. We’ll be in the hailstorm soon.”

  With a thud, the longboat came to a halt in the sandbar and they jolted forward. A flurry of curses came from the sergeant’s mouth as he climbed out of the surfboat and the other soldiers spilled over with such recklessness the vessel took on water.

  Like a swarm of locusts emerging from the dark shadows, men spilled out from the dozens of ships, and in the full weight of fear they churned through the waves with their rifles held above their heads, some falling and tumbling into the waters.

  “Stay close,” Pierce shouted to Seamus as they ran blindly into what they expected to be a torrent of fury.

  Seamus could feel the gasping of his breath as he had exhausted nearly all of his air in the frenzy of the landing.

  To the dunes. To the dunes.

  He knew a relatively safe position could be assumed if they could make it to the sand hills that lay ahead. They seemed miles away as Seamus ran toward them when he heard the first crack of lightning in the sky and the evening skies lit up with brilliant flashes.

  Seamus felt naked in the light and tumbled into the sand, then began to crawl on all fours.

  “Get up!” Pierce pulled him from the shoulder of his coat. Seamus lumbered to his feet, and as he did felt something ripping into his back and he fell again. He promptly realized it was one of his compatriots who had rammed him from behind.

  Up again he sprinted ahead, trying to make Pierce’s profile out from among the rushing infantrymen.

  Another burst in the air above and Seamus screamed, his head vibrating with terror. Just ahead were the dunes and already they were getting claimed by those ahead of him. They had all scattered from their ranks, and for the moment it was everyone for themselves to find an oasis of safety.

  Again, a splash of light and this time it helped him identify Pierce shouting and waving toward him.

  Another thirty steps and he would be there. Now Seamus could hear the whistling of crossfire like the flapping of angry wings.

  Please, God. Have mercy.

  Back to his hands and knees, he pounded away at the sand, churning it behind him.

  Ten yards more.

  An explosion. Bright colors.

  He was grabbed by Pierce and pulled into a small mound of sand, and Seamus dug himself deeply into it as if content to bury himself entirely in its firm arms. His mouth filled with sand.

  Pierce pulled him out by the lapels of his coat and shook him violently. “Have you ever had such a thrill?” His eyes lit with madness.

  “I can think of a few better.” Seamus spit the sand out of his mouth.

  There were still many figures approaching from the shadows, and it gave Seamus comfort to see the forces at hand. He also discovered that most of the firing he had heard was coming from cannons of the American ships at sea.

  A soldier crouching in his run came toward them and landed at their dune. When he got closer, Seamus was pleased to see it was the sergeant.

  “This is strange they are laying down,” he said to the men. “I don’t know if they are cowards, plain stupid, or if they are outflanking us. Be on guard. Our orders now are to settle in and let the cannons wear them down a bit.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Seamus said, still wiping the grit from his teeth.

  “Shouldn’t we make a run?” Pierce asked. “While we have them in our sights?”

  The sergeant took off his cap and wiped off the sweat from his forehead. “It’s not my job to keep you alive, Private Brady.” He placed his hat back on and adjusted it. “Just to make sure you don’t die an idiot.”

  The sergeant addressed the rest of the men. “Keep your sights sharp for a while, but if we don’t get countered, we’ll tent up here.” With that he left and disappeared into the darkness.

  “What was that about?” Seamus punched Pierce in his arm.

  “What? I thought we were here to fight?”

  “You’ll do well to listen to the sergeant, every word,” said Private Sean Wheelan, a squat man with a pug nose and an eye that drifted.

  “Is that so?” Pierce said.

  “He’s pulled many a lad from the fire, that one.” Wheelan was wiping sand from his rifle with a rag. “It’s a keen blessing he didn’t sign up with the other side.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Seamus asked.

  “San Patricio’s Army. He was one of the first recruits.”

  Seamus and Pierce shook their heads.

  “Really? You Micks haven’t heard of Saint Patrick’s Battalion? San Patricios as the natives call them. Our own people. The Irish. Fighting for the Mexicans. The sergeant was there at the Rio Grande before the first shot was fired in this war. The Yanks on one side of the river and the Mexicans on the other, just staring each other down. Taunting and parading, but none with the gumption to shoot. Well, the Mexicans learned how many Irish boys were wearing the American uniforms and sent pamphlets across the river, pushing the Catholic cause and promising to pay double wages.”

  “The sergeant crossed the river?” Pierce sipped from his canteen.

  The whistle of approaching artillery came in, and they covered up as it exploded close enough to hear but too far to cause them damage.

  “They are honing in,” Seamus said nervously.

  “Ah, we’re safe here in the dunes,” Pierce said. “The only way we’ll be hit is by our own ships. So you’re telling me the sergeant is a traitor?”

  “A traitor to what?” Wheelan said. “He’s here for the same reason as all of us poor saps. It’s not about what we do here; it’s about what we send home. Don’t matter if it’s dollars or pesos.”

  “But the sergeant is here with us,” Seamus said.

  “’Tis. Is true. He went out with a few dozen others and swam the river. Persuaded by Major John Reilly, the San Patricios leader himself. But as the sergeant tells it, he was stricken with re
morse before he reached the other shoreline. He turned and came back.”

  “That’s a fine thing he did,” Seamus said. “I kind of fancy the fellow.”

  “Ah, we all do.” Wheelan nodded. “Yet it didn’t stop him from getting saddled. Never mind he came clean. They nearly shot him for it, and it’s why after all his heroics, he’s still a sergeant and probably always will be. They can’t clear the rank for him, but they give him the tasks of a captain. Maybe he should have kept swimming.”

  Pierce patted his rifle. “Are we going to get to shoot this thing?”

  “Suffering!” Seamus started scratching his hands. He felt stinging in his legs, then his back, and it spread to several parts of his body.

  Wheelan laughed. “It’s just the sand fleas, boy. You’ll worry more about the fleas, the scorpions, Yellow Fever, the blasted heat, and Mexican bandits than you’ll do about any army.”

  “I feel them too.” Pierce stood, scratching at his legs. Shots fired and they whipped past his head.

  “Down, you fool.” Wheelan pulled Pierce to the ground.

  Pierce fought back. “I’m going to let them have it.”

  But before he could stand, a mighty racket was sounded, and from the water the cannons of several dozen ships unleashed their arsenal into the belly of the Mexican fortress.

  With each blast, Seamus cringed and dug himself deeper into the back of the dune. He wanted it to stop, as his head rung and his flesh tightened.

  Yet, it didn’t cease. And in a few hours, they took shifts trying unsuccessfully to sleep.

  The war raged on for several days, but this time it was the late winter storms creating the fury. The northers had swept down into Veracruz, and relentless winds whipped up the sands to the point where the entrenched soldiers could hardly see their own feet. Swarms of heavy rains would come and go, drenching the encampment and making impossible the plans to bring the heavy artillery ashore.

  The return fire from the fortress had caused the ships to retreat out of cannon reach, which meant they would wait until the weather cleared before carrying on the assault. For Seamus it all added up to the most miserable cold he had ever experienced.