Galway Bay (43 page)

Sister Henriette had heard about Chicago from French missionary priests. “The frontier,” she said. “On the prairie.” I’d wanted to hear more, but Máire stood up and said she needed to sleep.

We thanked Sister Henriette. I told her no words could express what her unquestioning kindness meant to us.

“It’s our vocation,” she said.

The next morning, Lorenzo led us to St. Patrick’s.

“See who’s in the side pew?” Máire said as we walked into the fine stone church with its tall tower.

Maggie and Charlie Doherty sat with a couple—probably Charlie’s brother and his wife—and a row of combed and curried children.

Our ones looked every bit as presentable. They’d each had a bath. “Never so clean in my
life
,” Jamesy said. Sister Henriette dressed them from the clothes donated to the nuns by the rich families of New Orleans. She’d even found shoes that fit for each one and skirts and blouses for Máire and me. It was M’am Jacques pulled out the red silk shawl with fringes and wrapped it around Máire’s shoulders.

“Doing all right for ourselves in Amerikay,” Máire whispered to me as we shepherded the children into a pew.

We held Gracie and Stephen in our laps. The children had so much to see and hear that they kept very quiet during the long Mass. Father wore shiny green vestments, a choir sang, and all around us were life-size statues and colored glass windows. Three huge paintings rose above a high altar, carved from marble, which was covered with flowers and gold candlesticks.

“Better than any church in Ireland,” Charlie’s brother Peter Doherty said as we stood visiting after Mass, part of the crowd of people who all seemed to know one another. The parish. Peter told us the best architect in New Orleans had been responsible for the magnificence. “James Gallier,” he’d said. “Though he was a Gallagher when he left Donegal. He gets more work for himself as a Frenchman.” Peter told me the paintings alone cost one thousand dollars—a hundred just for the paint, five years’ wages for a working man.

“Beautiful,” I’d said, then asked him the names of the saints portrayed. The picture showed two women dressed in elegant gowns and fur-collared cloaks, kneeling before a richly dressed bishop in front of a pillared church. Was this the pope in Rome? Peter Doherty laughed at me. Didn’t I recognize St. Patrick himself baptizing Eithne and Fidelma, the daughters of Art O’Leary, the high king? I’d sense enough not to tell him Fidelma and Eithne should be wearing homespun and that any chapel in St. Patrick’s time would have been small and wattle-made. Being Irish was a different proposition in Amerikay.

Charlie had told Peter we were headed for Chicago, and Peter agreed to help us change our money into dollars. He said our thirty-two pounds would be worth one hundred dollars, enough for tickets all the way to Chicago. Peter Doherty worked on the docks and was very knowledgeable about shipping. He told us the
River Queen
left tomorrow, Monday, and said we’d better be aboard if we wanted to reach the Illinois and Michigan Canal before the ice closed it.

“Tomorrow?” Máire asked. “So soon?” She’d been talking to Maggie and Peter’s wife, Annie.

Annie Doherty invited us to their house for a meal. They lived a fair distance from St. Patrick’s, which surprised me.

“The Irish started coming to New Orleans quite a while ago,” Peter Doherty told me. “Our pastor, Father Mullin, fought in the War of 1812.”

The new arrivals lived in a neighborhood called the Channel. The Dohertys brought us to a cheerful muddle of wooden cottages painted blue or pink or yellow or green. All had porches, with children playing on them.

The Dohertys served us tea and a feed of pratties. I noticed that their children, born in New Orleans, drew out their words as M’am Jacques did, a lovely soft tone in their voices, which delighted Jamesy.

Our ones went off with the young Dohertys while we chatted in their neat cottage. Peter had already found a place for Charlie on the docks. Maggie had hoped to earn money doing laundry or cooking and cleaning in one of the Big Houses. But Annie said slaves did all that kind of work. Rent was cheap enough, though, and the mild winters helped. “Don’t have to spend a lot to keep warm,” she said.

Peter Doherty collected all the children and led the group of us to the bottom of their street. “The Mississippi,” he said proudly. “The fourth-longest river in the world—not a Sassenach river can touch it.” He pointed up the river and told us the
River Queen
would take five days to steam up first the Mississippi and then the Illinois River to a place called LaSalle, where we’d change to a canal boat for a day and a night. “You’ll be in Chicago a week from today.”

“Do you know anyone in Chicago?” Máire asked Annie.

Annie said she didn’t. “It’s a rough place, so they say.”

“New Orleans is lovely,” Máire said.

“You won’t find me disagreeing with that,” Annie said.

Peter Doherty walked us back to Sister Henriette’s house. He’d looked surprised at where we were staying but lifted his hat to Sister Henriette and said he’d see us tomorrow to sort out the money and tickets.

“We’ll give Sister some of our dollars,” I said to Máire as we climbed the porch steps.

She nodded and started to say something, but then M’am Jacques was there, saying, “
Venez, venez
.”

And we were off—following M’am Jacques to a large open space where slaves came to pray, sing, and dance. It was called Congo Square. “Here we continue the traditions of our ancestors,” she said.

Drums and drums and more drums—men, women, and children danced together as if they were moving to the pounding beat of one great heart.

Lorenzo and Christophe folded our boys into one of the lines of dancers. When the children had all tired themselves out, M’am Jacques brought us delicious bits of meat roasted over one of the many open fires. “This tastes better even than bananas and biscuits,” Jamesy said.

As we were leaving, M’am Jacques pointed out a very tall, beautiful woman dressed in white. “That is Sister Henriette’s cousin Marie Laveau,” she said. “She knows the rituals of our African religion. I will ask her to bless you.”

M’am Jacques lined us up in front of Marie Laveau, who then laid her hand on each of the children’s heads. They stood very still as she bent down and spoke a few soft words to each one. Máire and I held Gracie and Stephen out to her for the blessing.

Then Marie Laveau grasped my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “
Soyez forte
,” she said to me. Then in English, “Be strong.” She moved to Máire and held her in the same way. “
Soyez sage
,” she said to Máire. “Be wise. Be careful.”

Exhausted, all of us. We came back to Sister Henriette’s and put the children to bed.

“We should sleep, too. We have a lot to do tomorrow. The
River Queen
leaves at sundown,” I said to Máire.

“I need to talk to you,” Máire said. “Come to the porch. Sit down,” she said, motioning to the swing.

We sat together for a moment, moving back and forth, surrounded by the warm, sweet-smelling night.

Then she said, “Honora, we should stay in New Orleans. We’d be fools to leave.”

“Máire, we have to go to Chicago. I promised Michael. Patrick Kelly’s waiting for us.”

“Michael’s dead, Honora, and for all you know, Patrick Kelly is, too.”

“Mam,” I heard.

I turned to see Paddy. “What are you doing out here? You need your sleep.” I stood up from the swing and went over to him. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“No, Mam,” Paddy said. “We like this place. We want to stay. Aunt Máire said we could.”

“What?” I looked at Máire.

She came over to me. “The boys talked to me, Honora. Surely we all have a say in where we settle.”

“We’re going to Chicago,” I said.

“What? You think you can issue an order and I’ll obey, no question? I won’t,” Máire said. “And you should listen to your sons.”

“Paddy?” I said to him.

Now Johnny Og, Thomas, Daniel, and Jamesy stood with him.

“We’ll earn money by dancing with Lorenzo and Christophe, while Thomas collects from the crowd,” Paddy said.

I tried to make all the practical arguments: We were two women with eight children and another soon to be born, and we had little money. We’d found great kindness here, but Sister Henriette and the Dohertys were struggling themselves. They might help travelers for a few days, but we couldn’t expect them to take us on indefinitely. But neither Máire nor the boys would listen.

“We’ve been practicing, Mam,” Jamesy said.

“You too, Jamesy?” I said.

“We could get Jamesy a whistle, Aunt Honey,” Daniel said.

“New Orleans is quite a good city,” Thomas said.

“You’ve an uprising on your hands, Honora,” Máire said.

“And you’re the leader?”

“You’ve got us this far. We have a hundred dollars—enough for a good start.”

“And then what, Máire? You heard Annie Doherty. Slave women do the housework here.”

“There are other ways to earn wages. New Orleans seems a place appreciates beautiful women,” Máire said, pulling her red shawl around her.

“Dear God, Máire. Surely you don’t want to play the Pearl in Amerikay. You have a chance to begin again.”

Máire started shouting at me. Who was I to judge her after all she’d done for me?

“Please, Máire. The boys . . . ,” I said.

But the five of them stood there with their arms folded—little men. And Johnny Og’s, what? almost nine, Paddy’s eight, Thomas is seven, Jamesy’s six, and Daniel’s five years old.

The Warriors of the Red Branch—arrayed against me.

Sister Henriette and M’am Jacques heard the ruckus and came out to the porch.

“Boys!” Sister Henriette said. “This is not good. You must show respect.”

Sister Henriette spoke to us in the most general terms of the side of New Orleans we hadn’t seen. She made vague references to
demimonde
, all the time looking at Máire. Then M’am Jacques said that white boys and colored boys did not perform together on the streets of New Orleans.

But Máire kept shaking her head. Finally she said, “All right. Divide the money. I’ll stay with my children. You leave with yours.”

Bedlam. “No, no, no!” from the boys. They wouldn’t be divided.

And Paddy said, “The fingers and the fist, Mam!” and they all clenched their small fists and lifted them into the air.

Then Sister Henriette said to me, “Chicago
is
a long journey. Are you certain?”

“I am, Sister. Surely you understand. I made a solemn vow to my husband that I’d take our children to his brother, Patrick, in Chicago. I believe that Michael won’t rest in peace until we’re safe with his brother.”

I turned to the boys. “Don’t ask me to go against your da. Paddy, there’s not a single person in New Orleans ever knew him. Uncle Patrick does. Don’t you remember when he came and helped put in the pratties, stood up against the Sassenach? He’s your father’s brother, boys.”

“Like us, Paddy,” Jamesy said to him.

“I guess we can’t stay here if our da’s brother is waiting for us in Chicago,” Paddy said. He looked at Johnny Og. “I have to go.”

Johnny Og nodded. “You do.” He turned to Máire. “Is there anyone in Amerikay remembers my da?”

Máire shook her head.

“I remember him, Johnny Og—the best fisherman in Bearna,” I said. “Your uncle Michael played his pipes at your mam and da’s wedding.” I turned to Máire. “Please. If we separate, we lose so much.”

“We can’t let them go on their own, Mam,” Johnny Og said. “Aunt Honey’s not a good talker like you. Somebody’ll cheat them.”

“Johnny Og’s right, Máire,” I said.

Máire turned to Johnny Og. “So, you want to go?”

“I do,” Johnny Og said.

“Me too, Mam,” Daniel said.

Máire turned to Thomas and asked, “What about you?”

“I like New Orleans,” he said, “but—I’d miss Paddy and Jamesy.”

“Dear God in heaven,” Máire said. “Some uprising.” Then she laughed. “All right. I’ll go with you to Chicago. We’ll find Patrick Kelly. But don’t be surprised if I come back here someday.”

Máire and I went with Peter Doherty the next morning. We spent sixty dollars for third-class fares on the
River Queen
—ten each for Máire and me, five dollars for every child. Four dollars apiece for passage on the canal boat, no charge for the children. So, sixty-eight dollars. Food for the trip cost five dollars. With the ten given to Sister Henriette, we had seventeen dollars left from all our money. Peter wouldn’t take anything for his trouble.

“You’ll need every penny,” he said, and waved good-bye to us as the
River Queen
’s paddle began turning and the steamboat started up the Mississippi. It would travel day and night.

No waiting around in Amerikay.

Máire and the children dozed, leaning against sacks of sugar and coffee, as we moved north through the darkness. Other passengers crowded the bottom deck of the
River Queen
—mostly families, but some single men and women, too, all asleep. Not me. A young fellow from Sligo seemed to need a listening ear. He was heading out to the west of Amerikay to find work on the cattle and sheep ranches. He would travel by steamboat to St. Louis, then by wagon train for another thousand miles to a place they called Bent’s Fort on the Santa Fe Trail, he told me.

“Think of it—me, who never went more than a day’s walk from my own townland when I was home in Ireland, going two thousand miles across Amerikay to become a cowboy!” he said.

“You’re very brave,” I said, “going off on your own into nothing.”

“Me, brave, missus? I’m a man on my own. You and your sister, women alone with eight children—that’s what I would call brave.” He dropped his voice. “See those others?” He nodded toward five families sitting together with trunks piled around them. “Swedes and Norwegians,” he said. “Farmers going beyond Saint Louis to the empty country. Good luck to them.” Better supplied than the Irish families, he said, who were more like us, taking on Amerikay with a bundle of clothes.

And a few hidden dollars, some tokens. I felt for Granny’s cross, the stone Michael’d given me, and the Mary Bean. Finally, the young fellow closed his eyes. I slept.