Flight of the Earls

by Michael K. Reynolds

  As he glanced up at the mountain peaks again, he noticed the sun was sliding down behind them. He figured he had only thirty minutes of daylight remaining. He’d have to press on.

  Seamus stood and swung his pack around his shoulder. When he bent down to reach for his rifle, he heard a clicking noise and turned slowly to see three Mexicans pointing pistols at him.

  For soldiers, they wore peculiar uniforms. They were like robes, all white, with a leather sash, and they had straw-woven, broad-rimmed hats on their heads. Their faces were dark skinned, with bushy mustaches and browned teeth.

  “Buenos dias, amigo,” said the gray-haired one with a clouded eye. He nodded to another who responded by retrieving Seamus’s rifle and patting him down for weapons.

  “¿Habla Español, no?”

  Seamus shook his head.

  “¿Perdido, sí?” He spoke slowly. “Choo lost?”

  “Are you Mexican army?” Seamus asked.

  “¿Soldados?” The Mexican laughed. “Sí. You could say so, my friend.”

  At the same time a dull thud was heard, pain streaked through Seamus’s head and then everything went black.

  When his eyes opened again, the world was upside down and moving violently.

  Strapped across a burro, with his head on one side, his feet on the other, and his hands tied behind his back, Seamus awoke to throbbing pain in his head.

  He craned his neck up as far as he could and saw he was being led into a place that seemed pulled from an artist’s painting. It was a mountain village, framed by spectacular snow-topped granite peaks, towering green forests, and dabbed throughout was a brilliant bloom of spring wildflowers.

  As they traveled farther, with the strangers obviously unconcerned for Seamus’s indignity and discomfort, the road became cobbled and earthen-shaded mercantile buildings sprung up on either side.

  From his limited vantage point and lack of mobility, Seamus could only see one of his ambushers who was leading the burro with a rope. But he heard the voices of other men as they exchanged pleasantries and greetings with the residents they were passing.

  After being taunted by boys playing in the street who rapped at Seamus’s ankles with slender rods, they finally arrived at their destination and the animal was tied to a post. Seamus was loosened and lifted to his feet. The blood rushed to his head so quickly he stumbled.

  “Esta aqui, amigo,” said the tallest, with a broad smile.

  Two of them gripped his arms from either side, and they walked past a couple of armed soldiers who nodded at them as they entered through the shuttered doors of an adobe brick building.

  Seamus recognized the smell of liquor and beer as soon as he entered the room, which had all the appearances and sounds of a tavern. There were a couple dozen men scattered throughout the place—relaxing at tables, sipping glasses, with some engaging in what appeared to be a serious game of cards. Some Mexican señoritas were serving drinks and consorting with the guests, who, for the most part, were dressed in the uniforms of United States soldiers.

  Seamus could tell by their faces and voices that many, if not all, were of Irish heritage. In the corner sitting on a crate, a Mexican man with an eye patch strummed a guitar as he warbled a sad, Spanish melody.

  One of the captors cut the rope from his hands, while the other two seemed to be in stern negotiations with a Mexican officer, presumably haggling over the ransom.

  As Seamus rubbed his sore wrists, a woman with dark skin, brown eyes, and a large mole on her cheek approached with a seductive sway. “They bring handsome boy. You seat. I see you thirsty.”

  She took his hand and sat him in a chair at a table where a grizzled American soldier appeared to be waiting for him. The man uncorked a bottle and filled up two shot glasses, sliding one over to Seamus.

  “Welcome to Paradise.” The soldier held up his glass in a toast.

  “What is this?” Seamus picked up his glass and gave it a wary sniff.

  “Tequila. Made from the cactus you see all around. It’s got a pleasant kick to it I think you’ll find to your liking.”

  “Why am I here?” Seamus asked.

  “First. My apologies for the bandidos. They haven’t quite got the hospitality part down. It’s not what Major Reilly had in mind at all. But for a few pesos, they’re rather capable at rounding up rabbit soldiers.”

  “I didn’t defect,” Seamus said defiantly.

  “Of course you didn’t, lad. None of us in this room have. We just had bigger plans than dying for the Yanks.” He pursed his lips, gave a whistle, and held up his hand. “Gabriela. Could you bring our soldier here something to eat?”

  Seamus emptied the shot glass in one snap and winced. It tasted different but went down just like whiskey.

  The man lifted the clear bottle and refilled it without asking. “What’s your name, son?”

  He thought for a moment about refusing to answer. “Seamus.”

  Gabriela put a plate on the table. There was some meat, which appeared to be pork, and some round flat pieces of bread.

  “Tortillas,” the soldier said.

  “No for you, Señor Doyle.” She slapped playfully at the man’s hand as he reached to the plate to grab one.

  “I think Gabriella likes you,” Doyle said. “Go ahead. Eat your food.”

  “¿Como se llama?” Gabriella asked Doyle.

  “His name is Seamus,” Doyle said. “Yes. She likes you.”

  Gabriela circled behind Seamus and her fingers dragged through his hair. When she hit the lump on his head, he flinched.

  “Oh, you head hurt bad? I make better for you. I come back.” She left and Seamus couldn’t help but watch her as she shifted away.

  “Yes.” Doyle nodded. “Gabriella always makes it better.”

  Seamus leaned forward across the table. “How do I get out of here?”

  Doyle chuckled. He pushed the plate of food in front of Seamus. “Eat, boy. You’re going to need this.”

  Wanting at first to throw the plate on the ground, Seamus looked down and the smells got to him. He put a piece of the meat in his mouth and chewed, and then grabbed one of the tortillas and shoveled it in as well. He figured it must have been because he was so hungry, but it tasted as good as anything he had eaten, and it fixed the aching in his stomach.

  A roll of laughter came from a table at the far end of the room, where several American soldiers looked on as one of the señoritas danced voluptuously on a chair.

  Gabriela returned and set a bowl of water on the table and dipped a hand cloth into it. Seamus observed as she wrung it out, allowing the excess water to drip before placing the warm cloth on the bump at the back of his head.

  “The San Patricios,” Doyle said. “You’ve heard of them, eh?”

  “I have.” Seamus dragged the last tortilla across the plate to sop up what juices remained.

  “It’s the Irish army of the Mexican Republic. They’re Catholic people, you know? The Mexicans.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Seamus leaned back in his chair as Gabriella rubbed his shoulders.

  “They pay better,” Doyle said, “a better cause. Here we’re Irish kings rather than maggots in America. Mark my words, son. You’ll be thanking those bandidos the rest of your life.”

  The doors burst open and in came a brawny boy with long, flowing red hair, a sunburned face, and wearing a Mexican uniform. In his hand, hanging from an iron pole was a green flag with a gold harp. “Erin go bragh, laddies,” he shouted. “The battle’s coming to us.”

  There was a mix of cheers and groans in response, and the Irish soldier vanished from the room as quickly as he arrived.

  Seamus sipped from his glass and accepted a cigar from Doyle, who had lit it for him.

  “My boy no fight.” Gabriela wrapped her arms a
round Seamus and kissed him on the cheek.

  The Mexican guitarist began to play loudly and sang to some woman of his distant memory. Seamus couldn’t understand a single word, but it spoke to him nonetheless.

  Some of those in the tavern broke out in a jig, spun, whistled, and swung each other from arm to arm.

  Seamus realized Ireland was in every town.

  Chapter 37

  The Drawings

  Clare examined herself in the looking glass as her hair was being brushed by her roommate, Daphne. She was a middle-aged, single woman who was raised in the Carolinas before spiriting to Manhattan to become an actress. But as fate would have it, she discovered her true calling to be penning theater reviews and became famous for it in her position with the New York Daily.

  It was Andrew’s idea for Clare to move out of his home as soon as she was well, since his intentions for her had been declared. Her departure was met with cheers by Mrs. Royce, who made no secret of her disappointment in her son’s affections toward Clare.

  On the other hand, Clare’s surprising talents in journalism brought the gushing favor of Mr. Royce, which only exacerbated his wife’s disquietude. In some ways, Clare’s passion and ability in contributing to the newspaper freed Andrew of the burden of performing well for his father. Clare, in many ways, became the surrogate of Mr. Royce’s succession plans.

  And as things turned out, Daphne—of good cheer, strength of character, full of verve, and with unswerving loyalty—became both a dear friend and mentor to Clare. They walked the short two blocks to work together every day even in this sweltering month of July. They shared deep secrets and served as unfailing advocates and shields for one another in a patriarchal and often hostile work environment.

  “You look charming, my dear.” Daphne hugged Clare around her shoulders. She stroked Clare’s hair, which was now shoulder length. “Me with my tired, gray-speckled, drooping locks. I would sacrifice everything for just one day with this beautiful hair.”

  Clare laughed. “There wasn’t a hair to be counted on this head just ten months ago. Seems like years ago.”

  “I’ll say it has returned in full glory. And this dress is simply divine.”

  “Do you really think so?” Clare adjusted the shoulders and admired the embroidered neckline garnitures of the fuchsia evening gown. She barely agreed to Andrew’s spoiling her with this gift. And only because he insisted it would honor him at his milestone event. Clare turned her head side to side and pursed her lips. “You wouldn’t tell me otherwise anyway? What a sweet liar you are.”

  Daphne gave Clare a nudge. “Believe me, I’m working hard to find a flaw. Something, anything, to quench my jealousy.”

  “I just want everything to be perfect for Andrew tonight,” Clare said.

  “Of course, my love. But I’d say there’s something to celebrate in this as well.” Daphne picked up the newspaper sitting on the cabinet. She read from it in dramatic fashion, “The Terrifying and Fragile Victory of the Slave Underground. By our own Clare Hanley. On the front page, no less.”

  “Oh, please do stop it!” Clare waved her hand in the mirror.

  “‘Accompanying the relentless pursuit of that elusive prize of freedom is the ever-present hounds of oppression bearing down upon them: the unquenchable bloodthirst of the vengeful slave owner. Sensing the moist muzzles and warm breath of their pursuers at every bend, every turn, there is no lasting reprieve. So while free of their shackles, they remain imprisoned by the cruelty of their trepidation.’” Daphne fanned herself as if she was to faint.

  “Enough, dear sister.” Clare watched her cheeks color of rose. “You’re intolerable.”

  “You deserve it and more. You’re changing lives, Clare. You know that, don’t you?” Daphne’s expression changed. “So, have you any news from back home yet?”

  Clare grimaced. “Unchanged, I’m afraid. Every week I go to the Irish Society to send my letters, and every week they shake their heads. I don’t know why they haven’t written back. It does concern me greatly.”

  “Any news about your sister . . . what was her name, dear?”

  “Margaret.” The very mention of the name made Clare sad. “Andrew has been researching records for me, but we’ve come up empty. There’s no sign she ever made it here, after all.”

  Clare stood up from her chair. She felt stiff and uncomfortable with all of the layers of clothing. “Do women really wear this?”

  “They do. The ladies, that is.”

  “I’ll be glad when the evening is over and I can climb out of all of this. How does one even fit out the door?” Clare gave a half spin in front of the mirror.

  Daphne handed Clare her gloves.

  Three short knocks came from the door, and Clare nearly jumped. “Be honest. Do I look foolish? Please tell me the truth or I’ll never forgive you for the remainder of my life.”

  “Well in that case. Hmmm. There’s much at stake here, give me time.” Daphne smiled and kissed Clare on the cheek. “Now let’s not keep him waiting.” She walked over to the brass handle and opened the door to Andrew, dressed in full tails and top hat. When he saw Clare, he removed his hat and pressed it to his chest.

  “Who is this princess that stands before me? And what have you done with my handmaid Clare?”

  “Your princess will be selling this dress tomorrow,” said Clare. “How many meals—?”

  Before she could finish her sentence he leaned over and kissed her to silence.

  “Willful waste makes woeful want,” she whispered with a smile.

  “I know,” he said. “Your grandmother is absolutely correct. But she is not coming tonight.”

  Andrew insisted Clare keep away from the building during its renovation in order to allow the transformation to be a surprise. Even with her travels through the Five Points in her role as a journalist, she had been purposeful about honoring his request. So as their carriage slowed to a full stop and with the full advantage of the summer light, she was awestruck by what towered before her.

  There, in the place of that abandoned breeding ground of vermin, was a sublimely handsome building, with fresh paint, ornate shutters, and new glass windows. Proudly displayed was a large sign with a blue background, which read in raised gold lettering: The House of Refuge.

  “Why Andrew . . . my goodness, Andrew.”

  He glowed as he helped Clare out of the carriage, and then they joined a long line of dignitaries waiting to gain entrance. Through the windows she could see many had already been welcomed inside. As Clare gaped at the conversion before her, a stately woman in a flamboyant pink hat waved them to the front of the line by the doorway.

  “Make way for the architect of this grand vision,” she said with authority. “This is our dear Mr. Andrew Royce.” She led the polite applause. “To save the decrepit souls of the Five Points.”

  Andrew tried to show his appreciation of the comments, but Clare could tell he was miserable with the attention. He mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

  Clare giggled. She enjoyed seeing him shrink under the platitudes, which in her mind were well earned. He had labored for months, raising the funds, formulating the plans, and directing the work crew.

  They entered the building, which was eloquently decorated with azure ribbons swooping from the rafters, dozens of intricately designed wreaths hanging on the walls, and the entire area lit with hundreds of candles. The chamber music of Bach performed by a string quartet of somber musicians rose above the clatter of high-society pretense and gossip of guests who sipped from crystal champagne flutes.

  As Andrew and Clare entered, handsomely attired attendees turned and expressed delight in seeing them, opening a pathway as if they were royalty.

  Though the night belonged to Andrew, he never swayed in his attention to Clare, proudly presenting her with a “This i
s my inspiration,” or “She endured each challenge at my side,” or “Who faithfully supported such foolish notions.”

  Clare on her part would counter with genuine humility. “I can claim no part in any of this.”

  Although the intention of the event was to provide a tour of the new building to their guests followed by a brief speech, the attendance had overwhelmed these plans. Instead, with barely room to move, Andrew did his best to try to personally thank each and every person who had come.

  And it was these crowded conditions that made it possible for Clare to be caught completely by surprise when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Will you look what my little Clare has done,” she heard in a voice both familiar and frightening.

  Patrick Feagles.

  Both he and Tressa were dressed in a way that showed their strains to fit in this evening but which betrayed they were well above their class.

  Clare stood stunned.

  Andrew turned and put his arm around her protectively.

  “Andrew, this is . . .” Clare began.

  “Yes, I know. Patrick Feagles.”

  Patrick held out a hand, but Andrew didn’t reciprocate.

  “Well . . . I see.” Patrick withdrew his hand. He tried to wear a smile. “This is good. Good thing you’re doing here. Just wanted you to know we were proud of you, Clare. And you, sir, as well.”

  Clare bit her lip but didn’t speak. Not in protest, but because she could hardly breathe. It wasn’t easy for her to avoid such a prominent figure in the Five Points, but she had managed to evade him for months.

  “Did you hear of John Barden?”

  “No,” Clare said, lying.

  “He made it through. You know. From his . . . run-in with a knife.”

  “The fighter?” Andrew asked.

  “The one indeed. Well. Anyways. He left town a few weeks back. But not before wanting me to thank you for providing for his daughter. You know. The money and all.”