American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  She stared at him as if to take his measure, and Conn braced himself in case she swooped in on him. But after a few more seconds and a muffled curse, the woman dug into the bag, withdrew a few coins, and tossed them at the girl’s feet.

  “You didn’t earn a bit of it, and well you know it, you little thief!”

  Conn took a step toward the woman, and she quickly added in a grudging tone, “But I’ll not have it said that Nan Sweeney don’t pay for a job done.”

  The girl grinned at her, revealing a slight gap between her two front teeth, then bent to scoop up the coins at her feet.

  “Get out,” Conn snarled at the old woman. “Now.”

  She went stumbling out of the alley, muttering to herself about “thieving blackguards.”

  After a moment, Conn turned to the busker, who stood watching him, poised as if to run. “Now then, satisfy my curiosity,” he said. “What, exactly, was this job the old harridan paid you to do?”

  She stood, jingling the coins in her right hand as she watched him with a speculative expression. “I was to collect overdue rents from two of her tenants. And so I did. But then she refused to give me my take.”

  Conn stared at her, then burst out laughing. “What, you’re such a fierce creature the landlords send you around to inspire fear in their debtors?”

  She curled her lip. “Don’t matter if they fear me or not. ’Tis old Nan they don’t want set against them.” She paused, and then, with the same streak of impudence she displayed when performing, added, “And what is it to you anyhow?”

  Conn sobered. “Why would you lower yourself to work for the likes of Nan Sweeney?”

  “I do as I please,” she said with a shrug. Then she pulled her face into a look of distaste. “Though I’ll not be turning a hand for old Nan Sweeney again, I can tell you. Refusing to pay me what we agreed, and her as rich as the queen herself! That’s why I made off with the moneybag. I was only going to take what was mine and leave her the rest. But then she started in on me like the demented old witch she is. Would have murdered me entirely, I’ll warrant.”

  Conn studied her, but she wouldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Is that the truth, then?”

  When she looked at him, the pale blue eyes had turned to ice chips. “Didn’t I say it was so?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady,” Conn said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Far be it from me to question the word of such an upstanding citizen.”

  Her face flamed, but she made no reply.

  “Where do you live?” Conn said.

  “Wherever I choose,” she shot back, turning on her heel as if to go.

  “Thank you very much, sir, for saving my neck and sparing me a thorough pounding,” Conn taunted. “ ’Tis ever so grateful I am, sir.”

  Slowly, she turned back to him. “Thank you very much, sir,” she mimicked, yanking the tired-looking cap off her head and giving him a sweeping bow.

  Conn shook his head, but to save him he could feel no real pique toward her, only a bit of amusement—and perhaps even a faint respect—for the little hoyden’s insolence.

  “How badly are you hurt?” he said, for he figured she’d taken a fair bruising.

  She waved off the question. “How much could she hurt me, a crazy old woman like that?”

  The girl had pride. Perhaps too much of it, Conn speculated. “Crazy old woman or not, you’d do well to stay out of her sight for a time. She’ll be after evening the score with you, I’ll wager.”

  She sniffed and gave a toss of her head, then scrunched her cap back into place.

  Still amused by the girl’s bravado, Conn speculated as to her age. When seen up close for the first time, he realized she might not be as young as he had thought when watching her perform at a distance. Given her diminutive size, she might pass for ten or eleven years, but he thought it more likely that she was close on twelve or even thirteen. “What’s your name, lass?”

  Again she tossed her head. “I’m called Patches,” she replied archly.

  “I know what you’re called. But don’t you have a proper name?”

  She frowned at him as if he’d insulted her. “ ’Tis Renny,” she finally said. “I chose it myself. Renny Magee.”

  “What do you mean, you chose it yourself?”

  She shrugged. “I got no folks. Never knew ’em. So I gave myself the name I fancied, and why shouldn’t I?”

  In spite of the roughness of her voice, she spoke with a certain flair Conn wouldn’t have associated with one of the street orphans. In fact, he suspected the girl might have managed at least a token education for herself.

  But here, what was he thinking? Standing about blathering with a busker girl when Vangie and the children were most likely wild for the sight of him by now.

  “Well, Renny Magee,” he said brusquely, “although it’s been a grand experience, making your acquaintance, I must be away now. I’ve a boat to catch. But I don’t mind telling you that I will miss your performances in America.”

  She gave him a questioning look and Conn nodded. “We are leaving today, my family and myself.”

  The thin, elfin face seemed suddenly transformed. “You’re going to America?” she said, eyes shining with the kind of wonder ordinarily reserved for paying homage to royalty.

  Again Conn gave a nod. “Aye, that I am. If the ship doesn’t set sail and leave me behind, that is. My family is waiting for me at the docks, and late as I am, my wife will box my ears for certain.”

  The girl continued to look at Conn as if he were about to be knighted. “It must be a fine feeling entirely, leaving for America.”

  There was no mistaking the envy in her tone. Conn understood, though some of his own excitement had ebbed, now that the big day had arrived at last. Even Vangie, never one to back away from an adventure, had been showing her nerves this morning.

  The thought of his wife roused him to action. She would be in a terrible state, Vangie would, thinking him murdered by robbers or run over in the street by a team of horses.

  He stooped to retrieve his neckerchief and some papers the busker had apparently dropped during the altercation with Nan Sweeney. When he straightened, the girl had moved even closer and stood watching him with that same expression of envy and fascination.

  Conn handed her her things, saying, “Well, then, look after yourself, young Renny Magee. I must be on my way.”

  The wide, glistening eyes seemed locked on his face as Conn gave her a farewell wave and started off, but her voice stopped him.

  “Mister?”

  Conn turned, waiting.

  “I—did I hear you tell Nan Sweeney your name is MacGovern?”

  “You did, and it is.”

  “Well—” She broke off, looking away from Conn as she shifted her weight from one foot to another and screwed up a corner of her mouth. “Well, then, Mr. MacGovern, I expect I ought to thank you for your help. Not many would have stopped as you did, I’m thinking.”

  The words tumbled out quickly, like pellets shot from a gun. Her face was flushed with crimson, her gaze locked on her own feet. Clearly, this Renny Magee was not overly familiar with even a simple thank-you. But then, perhaps she’d had few occasions in her young life to express her appreciation to another.

  “You are very welcome, I’m sure,” Conn said, unable to suppress a smile.

  “And safe home,” he added, wondering even as he said it if indeed Renny Magee, the girl called Patches, had a place to call home.

  12

  VANGIE

  Had I the wealth that props the Saxon’s reign,

  Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,

  I’d yield them all if she kindly smiled on me…

  ANONYMOUS, EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY

  A punishing rain had set in by the time Conn reached the dock.

  He was relieved to see that Vangie and the children had found shelter under a tarpaulin. Vangie held Baby Emma in her arms, while Nell Grace—who at seventeen looked more like her mothe
r every day—had the twins well in tow, one on each side.

  Aidan, the oldest, stood looking out over the docks with the same dark scowl he’d been wearing since the day Conn broke the news that they were leaving Ireland.

  Aidan was a good lad, Vangie’s joy and pride, her firstborn. But he was also a hothead. At nineteen, he was a man grown and seemed to believe himself called to challenge any and every decision his father made. He had kicked up a terrible fuss over the idea of going to America, so much so that he and Conn had scarcely spoken for weeks now.

  Conn told himself that once the crossing was underway and Ireland behind them, the boy would surely come round and see the sense of things again.

  For Vangie’s sake, he hoped he was right.

  The rain, uncommonly cold for this time of year, was falling harder now. Even so, Conn stood for a moment, drinking in the sight of his wife. The same rush of love that had made him a bumbling fool over her as a lad came rolling in on him again. It was always this way, even after more than twenty years of marriage and five children—seven, if he were to count the two gone to the angels in years past.

  As he stood there, watching Vangie, her dark red hair blowing in the wind, her deep-set eyes searching the throng that lined the fence along the length of the dock—searching for him, Conn knew—he marveled, not for the first time, that the good Lord had blessed such a man as himself: a great, thick-necked oaf who had never been able to give the woman he loved anything more than hard times and shattered dreams.

  With her vibrant beauty, still unfaded at thirty-seven years, her strength of spirit, and her good, true heart, his Vangie could have had any man she wanted—sure, a far better man than himself. But she had chosen him, Conn MacGovern, and, though he would always puzzle over his good fortune, he would never take it lightly.

  Life had been hard for them right from the beginning. In the early years, they had merely scraped a living off the land, barely getting by, handing over almost all Conn’s meager wages to the landlord. Yet they had somehow managed to be content with what they had, finding their fulfillment in each other, the children, their faith, and in the land itself.

  But then had come the winter of the sickness. With never enough to pay for the medicines Vangie and the twins needed—not even enough to pay the rent—they had finally lost it all: the cabin, the land, the cow, and Vangie’s hens. Indeed, they had lost everything but the clothes on their backs and their few poor pieces of furniture and pottery. And so they had moved to the city, to Dublin, where ever since they had lived like rabbits in a warren, boxed into two cramped rooms of a dreary hovel on the edge of the slums known as the Liberties.

  Conn’s reluctant decision that they must leave Ireland had nearly broken Vangie’s heart and had all but destroyed his relationship with his son. More than once, Aidan had bitterly accused his father of betraying them all, of having no love for the land, no loyalty to their native country—and, worse still, no concern for his family’s well-being.

  In truth, it was Conn’s concern for the family that had finally pushed him into the decision to emigrate, though of course the boy couldn’t begin to imagine what that decision had cost his father. There were nights when, long after Vangie had fallen asleep, Conn lay wide awake, nearly frozen in his own anguish at the thought of leaving all he had ever known and taking his family across the formidable Atlantic.

  The idea of starting over again, in a new country, among strangers—and he a man of forty years—filled him with almost as much dread as the possibility of watching his family starve to death on familiar soil. How many times had he been on the brink of throwing his resolve to the winds and announcing that they would not go to America, but would stay in Ireland after all?

  Stay in Ireland and starve.

  That was the reality that kept Conn from backing down and giving in to his son’s continual haranguing. That, and Vangie’s strength.

  A weaker woman would have given up on him long before now, would have lost all hope and heart and left him to his own folly. But not his Vangie. When things had been at their worst and the future appeared most bleak, she had kept the family going—had kept Conn going, encouraging him to keep his faith in his dreams and in his Maker.

  His wife’s strength and unflagging faith had been the wind that buoyed Conn’s own spirit, kept him from crumbling into the half-man, half-beast to which the English, if they had their way, would reduce every male in Ireland. Somehow Vangie had convinced him that the Almighty had not abandoned them—or the rest of the Irish. How often had she committed to him that she loved him more than everything in spite of the latest “setback,” and would continue to love him, no matter what the future held?

  But when Conn first voiced his intention to leave Ireland, even Vangie’s confidence had plainly faltered. It had taken him days to persuade her that it was their best hope—most likely their only hope—of survival.

  At first, she tried everything to talk him out of the idea, had pleaded with him, shrieked at him, threatened to leave him—indeed, she had aimed every weapon in her feminine arsenal at him—in a desperate attempt to convince him that his idea was madness itself. And then, without warning—and at the very moment Conn thought he might just as well give up the idea altogether—hadn’t she announced that, despite her prayers that the Almighty would “let this cup pass from them,” the good Lord had instead confirmed Conn’s decision to her. Indeed, it seemed they were to go to America after all.

  And that had been the end of her resistance—though not her fears, Conn knew. The apprehension still pinched her features as they made their plans, and the tears still welled up at almost any mention of leaving. But her God had spoken, and she would obey.

  For Vangie, it was that simple, and always had been. So over the past several months, allowing themselves only the bare essentials needed to survive, they had managed to squeeze out enough from Conn’s wages, Vangie’s sewing money—and the sale of every item they could spare—to secure their passage. And now here they were, about to board the ship that would take them to their new life.

  At that moment, he saw Vangie turn and catch sight of him. Her entire countenance brightened, and with a wave, Conn called out and started toward her.

  Vangie saw him coming, and the worry that had been gnawing at her for the past hour immediately gave way to a flood of relief so powerful her legs very nearly buckled under her. She knew the Lord would have her entrust everything to Him. And most of the time, she managed to do just that. But, God forgive her, the hardest thing she faced at the beginning of each new day was to surrender her family, even to the One she knew to be merciful, the One she trusted with all her being. And now that Conn had made this life-changing decision—a decision that struck terror into her heart every time she thought of it—she found it nearly impossible not to worry, not to allow the weight of fear to crush the pinions of her faith.

  She stepped away from the children a little, watching him hurry toward her, her big, good-looking husband—a “fine doorful of a man,” as old Widow Dolan was wont to say—with that smuggler’s smile and those sea-green eyes that could make her forgive him almost anything.

  Not that there was much to forgive Conn MacGovern, she thought, warming with love at the sight of him. A woman would be a fool to wish for more in a husband than what she had found with Conn. He was no saint, and that was the truth, but he was a good man with a back carved from granite and a heart so soft the sight of an injured lark could bring him to tears. He was a strong, brawny man who could work from dawn till dark and bear the weight of two other men if need be, yet so light on his feet he could dance a jig on a spider’s web and never tear it.

  He was her husband, her best friend, her lover. After all these years, Vangie had only to look upon him and suddenly it was as if time itself had melted away and she was a young, lovesick girl again, and not the mother of five—including a son who was a man grown and a daughter about to pass into womanhood.

  That’s how it was most of the t
ime.

  For now, however, she firmly set aside her girlish foolishness and reminded herself that until this very moment she had been near sick to death with worry over the great amadan. And would you look at him now, hoofing his way toward her, late as a tinker’s rent, yet smiling like the deadly charmer he fancied himself to be, and all the while expecting her to never mind his lingering.

  Well, they would see about that. She gave Baby Emma a hoist and met her husband’s foolish smile with a well-deserved glare.

  “Ah, and so you have decided to favor us with your presence at last, Conn MacGovern!” she snapped at him. “I expect we should be counting ourselves blessed entirely that you showed up at all.”

  He had the good sense to look sheepish. “I’m sorry, my beauty, but it couldn’t be helped. There was this girl, you see—well, you’ll recall the one I mean, the little busker girl called Patches—she got herself into a stew of trouble, and so the only thing I could do was stop to help.”

  Vangie merely lifted an eyebrow.

  “ ’Tis true,” he said, reaching to give the baby’s chin a tweak. “That miserable old witch Nan Sweeney was beating on the girl when I came along. Well, I couldn’t simply pass on by and ignore the situation, now could I?”

  Vangie pretended to scrutinize his broad, rakish features, but of course there was no question of his telling the truth. Conn couldn’t lie to save his own hide, and wasn’t she the better off for it?

  She moved to shift the baby’s weight to her other side, but Conn reached to take her to himself. Pleased, Emma chortled and grabbed at her daddy’s nose. He pulled a face at her, which only made the tyke laugh that much more.

  Vangie rubbed her back, which ached from standing in the damp so long with the weight of the baby upon her. She watched as Conn made a great show of producing the rag doll from his pocket, tickling Emma’s nose with it. The baby squealed and buried her face in the doll’s limp yarn hair.