Galway Bay (57 page)
“But, Patrick . . .”
“Finally, finally we have our chance,” he said. “We’ve fine officers. Mike Corcoran in New York is a Fenian.”
Patrick had told me about the new group of Irish revolutionaries that had begun in New York and took their name from the warriors who followed the legendary Irish chieftain Finn, the Fianna. Many members of the Brotherhood had been born in America, and now they’d all gather together in the Union army, some with the highest ranks, Patrick said.
“James Mulligan will establish a brigade in Chicago,” Patrick said. “We have Tom Sweeny in Saint Louis. Young Ireland’s with us. Thomas Meagher’s raising a regiment with D’Arcy McGee’s brother, James, who was an officer in the Papal Guard. There’s men joining who’ve served in the French army, the Spanish army, the Austrian army. It’s as if the Wild Geese from all over the world are coming to America, forming a giant ‘V’ in the sky. Irishmen are banding together to win victory here, in Canada, and then in Ireland herself—A Nation Once Again. If only Michael were here to see it.”
“Michael wouldn’t want our sons to go to war.”
“He’d know there’s no choice. If the secessionists destroy the Union, there will be endless wars. Other countries will attack. Britain’s already taken the side of the South. The British burnt Washington in 1812, their warships are on Lake Champlain. Why not invade, reclaim North America? British generals are planning it right now, Honora, believe me. And then all hope will be gone. America’s our last chance.”
“Patrick, if my boys die, politics won’t console me.”
“It’s not politics, Honora. It’s survival. And the war won’t last long. The North has the men, the factories, the money.”
I turned away from him. The sun was going down, moving toward the prairie and night. No way to stop it—like war.
Then Patrick was next to me at the water’s edge. I started talking. Not planning the words, I told him about Granny’s dying, little Mary Ryan frozen in the ditch, the bodies in the road torn apart by dogs. The horrors I’d kept buried within me spilled out. Patrick had to understand.
“So many mornings at Knocnacuradh I’d wonder, how will I feed them? Now Paddy and Jamesy have grown to be fine, strong young men. They should be finding girls to love, not risking death.”
“But think, Honora, they’ll be part of the first army of Irishmen to fight for ourselves in three hundred years. We’re not serving a foreign cause. We’re defending our new land, freeing our homeland.”
“But, Patrick, the Irish in the southern states will be fighting, too. My sons could be killed by another boy who survived the Great Starvation, the son of a mother who fed him on nettle tea and somehow brought him alive to Amerikay. It doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m for the Union. I want the slaves freed, Ireland saved. But my boys drank horse’s blood to survive. To shoot bullets into healthy bodies? Death is my enemy. I can’t make death an ally. I’ve fought against it too long.”
He turned me to him and put his arms around me. I let my cheek rest on the smooth leather of his shirt. I started to cry. He held me tighter.
“You’ve had a terrible hard time,” he said. “You’ve been so strong. Be strong now. You have no choice, a stór. Your sons will go whether you approve or not. Even I couldn’t stop them.” He patted my back. “You’re a warrior, too, Honora. Like Maeve herself. Remember the demonstration in Galway City? How brave you were?” Patrick took me by the shoulders and held me away from him. “Your sons need your strength. Give them your blessing. Michael would want you to.”
“Would he?” I took a step back.
Patrick kept a grip on my shoulders. “He would, Honora. He’d march with us, holding Grellan’s crozier high, shouting, ‘Kelly Abu!—Clear the Way! Hoo-rah!’ Michael was a soldier for Ireland. He fell in a brutal war. The Sassenach murdered him and a million more using starvation as their weapon. Here’s our chance to begin to avenge those deaths.”
“By having more die?”
“Michael Kelly’s sons survived because of America. Would you have them stand by and watch this country destroyed?”
“I’m a mother, Patrick. I want my sons safe. Slán.”
“Then support them with your love, your faith. A great comfort for them, for me, to know we’re protected by your prayers.” Patrick put his hand on my cheek.
“My prayers?” I said. I pulled away from him and ran out from behind the rocks toward the road. Patrick called out to me, but I didn’t turn. My prayers. Will God even listen to my prayers?
I was on 12th Street now, passing Holy Family, the Jesuit church. I stopped. A huge hulk of a building, stone walls and tall towers—Saturday afternoon. Confession, and the priests here don’t know me. I climbed the wide steps into the church—dark.
The enclosed flame in the tabernacle lamp hanging over the main altar drew me forward. Jesus was here. His priest would absolve me, put me in a state of grace, purify my prayers.
Three or four women waited in the pew near the confessional box—strangers to me. Good. My turn came. I knelt in the enclosed space. The shutter over the grill slid back.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I whispered. What to say? “Father, I have feelings for a man and, I think about him and . . .”
“Are you married?” Impatient.
“Yes. Well, no.”
“Which is it, woman?”
“I’m a widow, Father.”
“Children?”
“I have five.”
“And the man. Is he married?”
“He isn’t, Father.”
“Not a priest, I hope.”
“Oh, dear God, no, Father.”
“That’s something. Still, a widow with five children has no business having impure thoughts. Marry the fellow. That’ll end the nonsense.”
“That’s not . . . You see, Father, I . . . Please, Father, couldn’t I just say my act of contrition now?”
“Not that simple, missus. A good confession requires honesty, not lies and evasions. Making a bad confession is a mortal sin. You’re endangering your immortal soul, right now, right here!”
Why hadn’t I gone to Holy Name? One priest there’s so deaf, Máire says, he gives out the penance—three Hail Marys—before you even finish telling your sins. I want forgiveness, so I can pray for my sons without guilt, and here’s this fellow piling new sins on me.
“Answer me, please,” the priest said.
“There’s no question of marriage, Father. The man doesn’t know how I feel.”
What are you doing, kneeling in this dark box trying to answer a fool’s questions?
asked a voice in my head. Granny.
Catch yourself on, Honora. What real wrong have you done?
I need absolution, Granny. I can’t risk being on God’s bad side. Not now, when my boys need my prayers.
You’re not a child, Honora, you
—
“It’s no good going silent, missus. Answer me,” the priest said.
“Father, as to marriage, there’s an impediment.”
“Impediment? And where’d you get a word like that? A canon lawyer, are you?”
“No, Father. You see . . .” Just say it. “This man’s my brother-in-law. My, uhm, deceased husband’s brother.”
“A de jure impediment then. A relationship forbidden because of affinity. Some might say such a marriage would violate natural law, as well as the canons. Do you understand?”
“I—”
“He is part of your family circle, regarded as such by your children, your neighbors.”
“We don’t see him all that much. . . .” But I couldn’t deny that Patrick Kelly was woven into our lives beyond the actual amount of time he spent with us. Still, I’d never seen him as my brother, and if this impediment was so serious, how could Father Tom arrange a dispensation? I had to ask. “Isn’t there a dispensation, Father?”
“Dispensation? Who are you to be throwing around such words? Obey the Church’s law. Stop being a scandal to your children and your neighbors.”
“But I haven’t done . . . No one knows.”
“They always know. Now, have you come for absolution or to argue yourself into hell?”
“Absolution, Father, please.”
“Remember, a firm purpose of amendment is a necessary condition for forgiveness. Avoid the man. Put him out of your mind. Thinking of him is a near occasion of sin. Dwelling on those thoughts is a sin in and of itself. Embrace your widowed state. The purpose of marriage is the procreation of children, not sexual congress—real or imagined. For a woman of your age . . .”
I bowed my head as his words lashed me, silencing even Granny. So angry. Surely he’d heard worse.
“Now, say a good act of contrition.” As I prayed, he finally let go the Latin words: “
Absolvo te
.”
What I wanted—
those
words, not his. The sacrament. Forgiven. Cleansed. He gave me a whole rosary for a penance, the most I’d ever received. Better say it in this church now.
A rack of vigil lights stood before Our Lady’s altar. I found a penny in my purse and put it in the slot.
Hail Mary, full of grace, I prayed, looking up at the serene white statue. Grace. Please, Blessed Mother, keep me in the state of grace. Take our boys under your protection. Please. Let me name them for you: Paddy Kelly, Jamesy Kelly, Johnny Og Leahy, Daniel Leahy, Thomas Leahy Pyke. Remember, too, Most Gracious Virgin, all the Bridgeport fellows enlisting right now, and the Irish boys in Chicago and New York and Boston, the Dohertys in New Orleans, the Mulloys wherever they are. All these young men, so eager for war—wrap your mantle around them. Peace. Ask your Son for peace, Blessed Mother. Our Lady of Sorrows, my patron, you stood at the cross so bravely. Help me. Help all mothers to be strong for our sons. Amen.
I didn’t mention Patrick Kelly. I could pray for him later at St. Bridget’s.
The boys didn’t come home for supper. We waited. Bridget, Gracie, Stephen, and Michael finally went to bed. Midnight by Máire’s clock.
“And Patrick went to the meeting?” she asked me again and again. “And he knows we don’t want the boys to enlist?”
“I told him,” I said.
Daniel and James and Thomas came clattering up the stairs first. They stopped when they saw us in the parlor.
Máire hurried over to Daniel. “You didn’t enlist, did you?” she asked him.
“I didn’t, Mam.”
“And you, Thomas?”
“Me either, Mam.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, and hugged each of them.
I looked at Jamesy.
“Uncle Patrick wouldn’t let us, Mam,” Jamesy said. “Not until Paddy and Johnny Og finish their three months.”
“What?” said Máire. “What do you mean?”
But none of the three boys answered her. The door opened. Paddy and Johnny Og came in.
“I’m not a coward, Mam,” Johnny Og said to Máire.
Paddy came over to me. “I had to join, Mam. Couldn’t stay back, let other fellows fight. Have to stand up against bullies. It’s the right thing. I know it. When I held the crozier and I pledged myself for the glory of the old land, for the defense of the new, I felt so strong, Mam. So did all the other fellows.” A head taller than me, this oldest child, my firstborn. I had to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. He does need his mother’s blessing, my prayers.
“I understand, Paddy. Your da would be very proud of you.”
“I know that, Mam. That’s why . . .” He stopped. Then he leaned down and put his arms around me. “I love you, Mam. Give me your blessing.”
“You have it, Paddy,” I said. “My sturdy lad.” I kissed his cheek. “My prayers go with you.”
Máire said nothing.
“Where is your uncle Patrick?” I asked.
“Gone,” said Paddy. “Gone to rally the Irish units in Detroit, Buffalo, New York City, Boston. But he will be with us when we go into battle.”
Máire walked into her room and slammed the door behind her.
M
áIRE HAD MOVED
her children out the week after the boys joined the Irish Brigade. We told the children we’d been hoping another set of rooms would become available in the building. They had. About time for more space, we’d said. Máire had gotten a raise and I would have letters galore to write, so we could afford to live separately. Besides, eleven people in four rooms—ridiculous. Not a word about the ten dollars Máire’d given the McGintys downstairs to encourage them to leave sooner than they’d planned. I’d smiled and carried clothes and boxes to the flat below, and Bridget and Gracie and I had scrubbed the floors and washed the walls while Máire was at the Shop.
The lives of our children, Máire’s and mine, had remained intertwined. I doubt they even noticed that Máire’s not spoken to me once in the month since that night the boys enlisted. She’d come into the bedroom after the others were asleep.
“Get up.”
I’d followed her up to the attic of 2703 Hickory. This crawl space, which provided storage for the four families, was where Máire and I went for private talks.
“How could you betray me?” she started.
I tried to explain Patrick Kelly’s argument. The boys would go anyway. Better to accept their decision. Our support, our prayers, would encourage and even protect them. And it was a just cause and—
She’d cut me off. She told me the men downtown said the war was a business opportunity. There’d be army contracts for meat and uniforms and blankets, not to mention arms and ammunition.
“It’s about money!” she’d screamed at me. “The rich will get richer and the sons of the poor will die.”
She’d started in again about the Pykes and the British army.
“This army will be different,” I said. I told her how Patrick Kelly said the Brigade would get good training and equipment, fine leaders. She’d gone wild. How dare I mention Patrick Kelly’s name? I’d taken his side against her because I had a grá for him—mooning over my own brother-in-law. Disgusting.
I stood up and started down the ladder. But she grabbed me, shouting about all we’d been through together, after all she’d sacrificed.
Then the top-floor tenants—the Sullivans—pounded on the ceiling, shaking the attic floor.
“Keep your voice down, Máire. The neighbors,” I said.
“The neighbors? The neighbors?” Máire still shouting. “Can’t disturb the neighbors? Afraid they’ll learn the truth about Saint Honora? Honora the Righteous? That she’s sold out her sister and her own sons to please a man?”
