Heart of the Lonely Exile (19 page)

Da had fancied this poet more than any other writer, had even taught Annie some of her lessons from Fitzgerald's writings. Little by little she had come to know his verses by heart, and she could recite whole chunks of his essays. Da always said there was no denying the fact that Morgan Fitzgerald had a great, noble heart—and a voice for Ireland—if only Ireland would listen!

So tonight, when a small group at the back of the Music Hall had begun to call for Morgan Fitzgerald to speak, Annie had taken notice. And sure, hadn't she identified him easily enough? There was no mistaking him, his being the giant he was!

There he stood, scarcely any distance at all from her, trying to make his way out of the hall with one of the Young Irelanders who had spoken earlier—the dandified-looking fellow who talked like a Britisher, the one called
Smith O'Brien.

Annie had caught the startled look on the big Fitzgerald's face when he heard his name, saw him shake his great head with its copper mane once or twice, then lift a hand in protest to those who were calling him. On his way out of the hall, he passed by her so close that she could have reached out and touched him, had she dared.

My, and wasn't he huge and fierce-looking at that moment, with that thick, bronze beard and those green eyes flashing fire? As resplendent as one of the old High Kings, and that was the truth!

But just see what he'd come to, lying in the street in a sticky pool of blood because of those apes with their fake Irish brogues! Why, they were no more Irish than the Queen herself, and that was the truth!

Annie knew who they were well enough—old pig-faced Johnnie Dorton and his cronies. A bunch of toughs from the mills who went around beating up Irishers for money. They'd done in two Catholic lads from West Belfast last month. While the motives back of their nasty business were always a mystery, it was no secret at all that most of their wages came from the soldiers.

And now just see what they'd done! With all the excitement and clamor in the street, nobody—including his political cronies—seemed to be paying any attention to the fallen Fitzgerald.

Furious, Annie pried her small frame in between two of the women at the front of the crowd circling Fitzgerald, then bolted toward him.

The three Young Irelanders were down on their knees trying to bring him to, while the mob in the street kept pressing closer and closer to the place where Fitzgerald lay.

Squeezing in among them, Annie dropped to her knees and listened to his chest. He was still breathing! The breath was coming in great, ragged gasps—but he was
alive!

On her knees in the street, enraged with the mob milling about and doing nothing, she raised a grimy fist to the air and screamed:
“Don't ye know who this is, ye great fools? This is Morgan Fitzgerald himself, the nation's poet! Won't somebody be goin' for the doctor? Or will ye just go on flappin' your gums and lettin' the man die here, like a dog in the street?”

One of the women in the crowd jumped, then took off running. Annie pressed closer to the slain Fitzgerald.

“Don't ye go dyin', Fitzgerald!” she demanded, her voice hoarse and desperate. “D'ye hear me, now? Wherever ye be, ye must not be dyin'!”

William Smith O'Brien knelt on the cobbled street beside the great form of the unconscious Morgan Fitzgerald.

With only half a mind he took note of the small, sooty-faced youth with the straggling black hair and the tattered clothing. He paid little heed
to the cries of the child, aware only in the vaguest sense of the other Young Irelanders hovering over Fitzgerald.

Beyond grief, O'Brien knew only guilt: guilt that he had bidden Fitzgerald accompany him to Belfast, guilt that his friend had taken a shot almost certainly meant for
him.

He would have wept had his soul not been seized with a terrible, paralyzing chill.

It was the dream…

Horribly, eerily fulfilled, the spectral-like dream of the weeping women, with their dread announcement about Morgan Fitzgerald, now came gruesomely to life in front of his eyes.

“He is fallen…Fitzgerald is fallen.”

PART TWO

So I say, “My splendor is gone and all that I had hoped from the Lord.”
I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the
gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me.

LAMENTATIONS 3:18–20

19

Happier days may yet await us,
Scenes more pleasant glad the eye,
But even these shall not elate us
While o'er Ireland's fate we sigh.

F
ROM
L
AYS FOR
P
ATRIOTS,
PUB. BY
SAMUEL B. OLDHAM, D
UBLIN
(1848)

New York City
December

S
itting in his study late Saturday morning, Patrick Walsh turned to look out the window. The Burke boy was shoveling the snow that had fallen overnight, clearing the walk on this side of the house. With the ease of a much larger man, the youth scooped, lifted, then tossed the snow to the side, his movements smooth, almost rhythmic.

Walsh took one last sip of coffee, draining the cup. With a faint smile, he continued to watch Tierney Burke.

Tall and lean as a whip, the boy fairly hummed with good health and restless energy. He was a bright rascal, too. In some ways, he reminded Patrick of himself when he was younger. Clever and sharp as they came, as agile in wit as on foot—with an ambition designed more for excitement and adventure than for steady, hard work.

Tierney Burke already displayed the telltale signs of a certain ruthlessness that Patrick admired—the kind of relentless determination it took for an Irishman to succeed in America. His character was not without its weaknesses, of course—the most potentially damaging being the boy's near-irrational zeal for Ireland and all things Irish.

Walsh had despised it all his life, this misguided passion of the Irish patriots. He thought of it as the national madness, a madness that turned humdrum lives into romantic adventures, meaningless jobs into holy callings. It was the very spark that fueled their endless secret societies wherein plowboys became heroes—
martyred
heroes,
more often than not.

The madness had crossed the Atlantic with thousands of immigrants, riding the waves to America only to run rampant among the tenements and push its way into Tammany Hall. Never quite able to escape the lure of mythical Old Ireland and its warriors, hotheaded youths bent on dying for Eire continued to espouse the
Cause.
Even the few who managed to succeed in the States regularly sent enormous chunks of their money back to Ireland—a foolish, sentimental gesture, as far as Patrick Walsh was concerned.

He had sensed, almost from the beginning, that Tierney Burke bore all the markings of one of those wild-eyed rebel zealots in the making. Yet the boy would bear watching, for with the right sort of guidance he might in time turn out to be useful in a number of ways. It was even possible that the young scamp's raging Irish fever could be turned to benefit.

Not for the first time, Patrick found a delicious irony in the fact that an Irish policeman's son had become, albeit unknowingly, a part of the Walsh “business enterprises.” He had never met the boy's father, but the bullish Mike Burke had himself quite a reputation among the pub owners and gamblers of Five Points, that of a hardheaded, uncompromising copper who wouldn't bend. Honest cops held him in high regard, while those on the take thought him a fool.

In other words, he couldn't be bought.

Walsh picked up a long, narrow envelope containing a generous Christmas bonus for Tierney Burke. His smile turned faintly contemptuous as he thought of the boy's straitlaced father. It might shake a bit of the starch out of Officer Burke if his son were to end up on the wrong side of the law.

As things stood now, the boy had no knowledge of certain transactions being passed across the desk in the hotel lobby. His part was entirely innocent: He accepted envelopes and mailbags, routed them to the proper boxes, and made an occasional delivery for Hubert Rossiter or Charlie Egan.

Rossiter, the bookkeeper for numerous Walsh businesses, served as a middleman between Patrick and the brokers who sold steerage lists from the immigrant ships. Charlie Egan, a food inspector who had been on the
Walsh payroll for nearly four years, acted as manager for the Irish runners, who herded the immigrants off the ships, then delivered them to selected tenement houses in Five Points. Houses owned, as it happened, by Patrick Walsh.

The hotel, middle-class and respectable, proved an ideal place for Rossiter and Egan to funnel the steerage lists back and forth from the brokers. In addition, the safe in the hotel office served as a temporary “bank” for the operation's continuous flow of cash.

In one of Patrick Walsh's most lucrative ventures, thousands of dollars passed over the hotel desk every month, under the unsuspecting eyes of Tierney Burke. Walsh was beginning to wonder if it might not prove interesting to test the boy, find out exactly what he was made of and if he were worth grooming for bigger things.

Patrick considered the envelope in his hand. After a moment, he looked up, then tapped on the window and motioned the boy inside.

In the bright winter sunlight flooding his employer's study, Tierney Burke stood, cap in hand, waiting.

Walsh was taking his time coming to the point. Seated behind a gleaming, massive desk, he appeared relaxed and confident, as always. As he studied Tierney, his long, narrow fingers danced idly on an envelope in front of him.

“I've already told you I'm pleased with your work,” he said matter-of-factly “Both at the hotel, and here, at the house.”

Unsure as to what was expected of him, Tierney merely inclined his head, saying, “Thank you, sir.”

“Your father must be very proud of you,” Walsh went on. He flashed a tight, fleeting smile that was gone before it ever reached his eyes. “We Irish set great store by good sons.”

His remark caught Tierney by surprise. Walsh seldom referred to his own Irish roots. Indeed, the one thing that made the man suspect in Tierney's eyes was his blatant disavowal of his Irishness. Still uncertain how he should respond, he gave another small nod and a guarded smile.

“I believe in rewarding an employee for work well done,” Walsh said, handing the envelope to Tierney. “You can think of this as a bonus—a
Christmas gift. This time of year, a young fellow like yourself can use a bit of extra cash, I should think.”

Surprised, Tierney stared at the envelope for only an instant before accepting it. “Thank you, sir! That's very generous of you, I'm sure.”

Walsh waved away his thanks. “You've earned it.” With the impassive, measuring gaze that Tierney had by now grown used to, his employer continued his scrutiny.

Walsh's eyes were a pale, peculiar shade of hazel that in the natural light of day looked almost opaque. He had the long upper lip of the Irish, but otherwise his features bore no hint of his Celtic origins. His nose was straight and narrow, his mouth thin and somewhat cynical—giving him the impression of a continual sneer.

The light in the room faded to a less startling brightness as clouds moved across the winter sun. Shadows played over Walsh's face, changing his features to a cold, unpleasant mask. Tierney felt a momentary chill at the transformation. Walsh was a cold, hard man, he had no doubt. He had seen through his employer's agreeable, good-natured facade early in their relationship. The man was a fraud. Yet he did not actually dislike Patrick Walsh. While he might be a disappointment as a person, as an employer he could be tolerant and even generous.

Sensing that Walsh had more on his mind than presenting him with a Christmas bonus, Tierney planted his legs a bit more firmly, waiting.

“What are you planning to do with your life, boy?” Walsh asked unexpectedly. “You're reaching the age to make some plans, I should think. How old are you now—sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

Walsh's eyebrows lifted. “I'd have taken you to be older. Well, then, perhaps you're too young to have ambitions after all.”

“No, sir.” Tierney dropped the envelope into his pocket and linked both hands behind his back. “I have plans.”

“Career plans?”

“Eventually. First off, I intend to go to Ireland. When I can raise the money.”

Walsh sat forward, his fingertips touching to form an arch on the desk in front of him as he regarded Tierney with a thin-lipped smile. “To live? Or just to search out your roots?”

“Both, sir.”

Walsh shifted his gaze to his fingers. “I assume you've a reason. Most folks are bent on
leaving
Ireland these days, not going for a stay.”

“Aye, and things will not improve as long as that's the case.” Tierney's eyes flashed.

Walsh lifted his face, and Tierney caught a glimpse of amusement. Angered, the boy looked away.

“Don't be too quick to condemn all Irishmen for leaving, Tierney. There's more than one way to help the country, you know.”

Tierney looked back to his employer. Walsh was smiling, but it was not the disdainful smile of a moment before.

“Leaving Ireland doesn't always mean abandoning her entirely,” Walsh said. He spoke slowly, as if measuring his words with care. “Some of us choose to make a difference from over here. We can make a great deal more money in America than we ever could in Ireland. That being the case, there's nothing to say we can't use a bit of that money to help the country. Some of us, like your father and I, chose a different way. That doesn't necessarily make it the
wrong
way
.”

Tierney attempted to hide his impatience. “My father is a policeman, sir. There's little left over to send to Ireland, if we're to live. Da is one Irishman who won't be getting rich in America.”

Walsh lifted one brow, still smiling. “But some of us will,” he said quietly.

Tierney looked at him.

“I'm keeping you from your work,” Walsh said briskly, pushing himself back from the desk and getting to his feet. “Perhaps after the holidays we can talk more about your plans. I can't help but admire your ambition, and if you're really set on getting to Ireland, you're going to need some money. Who knows, we may come up with a job with more—responsibility—for you in a few weeks. Something that will pay better than clerking at the hotel.”

Walsh walked around the desk and started toward the door, making it clear that his young employee was dismissed.

On the way out, he threw an arm around Tierney's shoulders. “Now, I want you to treat that father of yours to a nice gift for Christmas. He may not make a lot of money as a policeman, but it's not because he doesn't deserve more! I, for one, have the greatest admiration for our police force.”

For the first time since going to work for Patrick Walsh, Tierney squirmed beneath the man's touch.

Going back around the house, Tierney hoisted the shovel and resumed clearing the walk. He was keenly aware of the envelope in his pocket and chafed to know the amount within. But Walsh might be watching, and he was unwilling for the man to see his eagerness. The envelope would keep.

This was the first time Walsh had behaved in such an odd fashion, asking Tierney personal questions and speaking openly of his own Irishness—even hinting that he believed in helping the old country with gifts of American-made money!