Heart of the Lonely Exile (6 page)

Smith O'Brien watched Fitzgerald's face. He was suddenly tempted to confide his dream. Just as quickly, he dismissed the idea. He and his old friend had been apart for months, had not enjoyed a leisurely, companionable time like this for what seemed an age. He would do nothing to mar the pleasure of the evening; only God knew when such a time would come again.

Besides, it was only a dream. He had never been given to foolish notions and flutters about such things, and he recoiled at the very idea that the big, granite-visaged Fitzgerald might think him womanish if he were to reveal his apprehension. No, he would keep his silence.

It was just that it always seemed so real—so dreadfully, chillingly real. And it came more and more often lately. It must have invaded his sleep a dozen times over the past few months.

First there would come the mist, dense and cold and dark. Then, as if rising up out of the ground itself, a ring of black-shawled women and youths would appear, their wraps draped over their heads as they bemoaned something in their midst, something just beyond the dreamer's range of vision. Their whispers would rise until they began to keen and shriek, as if teetering on the very edge of madness.

He would approach them. Slowly, ever so slowly, he would creep up to the outer fringe of their circle, unwilling to see what distressed them so, yet unable
not
to look. As he neared the ring of shadowed, faceless women, the woman nearest him would turn, step out, and face him.

Always, it was the same woman. Standing so close he could feel her breath on his face—a cold, vile breath, as if corrupted—she would freeze him in the path of her crazed eyes and begin to chant in a hoarse, thick whisper, “Have you heard about Fitzgerald? He is fallen…Fitzgerald is fallen…”

Almost immediately, the other black-garbed women would stop their moaning and turn to face O'Brien, staring at him with eyes filled with horror. One after another they would take up the chant, whispering, then wailing, splitting the night mist with a near-deafening madness, filling O'Brien's head with a dangerous pounding.

“Have you heard about Fitzgerald? He is fallen…Fitzgerald is fallen….”

With a shudder, O'Brien lurched toward the library table, his hand trembling as he attempted to refill his cup. He could feel Fitzgerald's eyes on his back. Swallowing hard, he hesitated until his composure returned enough that he could face his friend.

Killala

In his room, Joseph Mahon penned the last few words of the day's journal entry.

His hand was stiff, his knuckles gnarled from long years of enduring the cold, wet Atlantic winds. Like many of his fellow priests, he had kept
a journal for years. Before the Hunger, he had been lax in keeping it upto-date; now he attempted to make an entry every night.

He felt he had little time remaining to chronicle the events of the famine; he was besieged these days with a near disabling weakness. But as one of the few in the village who could read and write, he sensed a keen responsibility to record the horrors in his parish as long as he had the strength to hold a pen.

Earlier in the year he had exacted a promise by way of correspondence with Morgan Fitzgerald that the younger man would claim the journal once Joseph was gone, Morgan had agreed to see to it that Killala's tragedy, at least as Joseph had been able to record it, would be preserved. And Fitzgerald had promised to add his own recollections from his time spent in Mayo, as well.

The dread famine, with its accompanying plague of disease that had felled most of Ireland, had been particularly vicious in this remote western corner of the island. What had happened here must not be forgotten. Like numerous priests who sacrificed precious moments of sleep in order to detail the suffering of their parishes, Joseph Mahon would write the truth as he saw it—so long as his God gave him the strength to write at all.

Joseph paused, the pen trembling as he was gripped by a terrible, sinful wave of hopelessness. His entire body shook as he penned his last words for the day:

6

It is an easy thing to pray,
No want or sorrow knowing—
It is an easy thing to say,
“
I praise God for bestowing.
”
But try to pray and try to love,
Pain wrung and soul'degraded
—
The Lord God judges “crime” above,
But not as man has weighed it.

MARY KELLY (1825–1910)

T
hese days, Sara Farmington spent two Sabbath evenings a month worshiping in a tent. No doubt it would astonish most members of her uptown congregation to learn that these informal church services in the Five Points slum ranked high among her favorite—and most meaningful—worship experiences.

Jess Dalton had wasted no time in taking the Word to the slums of New York City, targeting Five Points as his “Number One Mission.” A large, sturdy tent had been hurriedly erected in the center of Paradise Square—the ludicrous name of the triangular space into which the five major streets of Five Points converged. In addition to Pastor Dalton, two Roman Catholic priests and a Baptist minister took turns offering outdoor services on Sunday evenings.

Already dubbed the “Big Tent” by local residents, it was only a temporary
arrangement until an adequate, affordable building could be located. In the meantime, the crowds increased with each service.

This Sunday evening was no exception; the “Big Tent” was filled to overflowing. Because of the growing number of supplicants after services—underprivileged residents of the slum who stayed to beg for food or clothing or, in some cases, nothing more than some human warmth and kindness—Sara had fallen into the routine of accompanying the Daltons on their Sunday evenings. Most times Nora and Evan Whittaker came, too, but today Sara's father was treating them and the Fitzgerald children to a ferryboat ride and a tour of Staten Island.

This evening, as was always the case, not everyone in the service had come to worship. There were the usual number who wandered in and out of the tent merely to satisfy their curiosity or ease their boredom. Others arrived intoxicated. Whatever their circumstances or motivation, however, none would be turned away.

By now Sara knew what to expect. Should anyone prove disruptive, Pastor Dalton would simply halt his sermon and wait for a nearby policeman to remove the troublemaker from the tent. After the service, however, he would have a private conversation with the offending party. Although nobody seemed to know the gist of these discussions, it was observed that, more times than not, the mischief-maker would show up the following Sunday, seemingly penitent and respectful.

Jess Dalton was making a difference in Five Points. By touching a heart here, and another there, he was beginning to change lives for the better. Sara had never heard preaching quite like that of the big curly haired pastor with the compassionate eyes. The man seemed thoroughly comfortable with all kinds of people. Whether standing in the pulpit of his prosperous church on Fifth Avenue or in a tent surrounded by the destitute and downtrodden, he had a way of communicating the loving heart of God in a simple but compelling way. No “hellfire and brimstone” preacher, Pastor Dalton nevertheless managed to instruct and convict in a quiet, steady voice that never failed to convey the gentle warmth of Christ's forgiving love.

Sara could not imagine anyone coming away from his sermons unchanged. Certainly he had caused her to do some thinking about her own life.

This morning's sermon at the church on Fifth Avenue, for example, had stirred a discomfiting look at a flaw in her nature she would have
preferred to ignore. Perhaps because it bordered on hypocrisy—a sin from which Sara would have believed herself exempt—she had, up until now, avoided confronting it.

It wasn't merely that she occasionally caught herself feeling smug, much like the sanctimonious Pharisee who considered himself better than other sinners. No, this was something more treacherous, more complicated than simple self-righteousness.

Listening to Pastor Dalton, Sara had been seized by an uncompromising conviction of her own sin. Shaken, she at first tried to retreat into denial. After hours of contemplative prayer, followed by an intense bout of soul-searching she had come to admit that her critical, judgmental attitude toward members of her own social circle—including members of her own congregation—was every bit as sinful as the attitudes she was forever condemning in
others.

Sara knew that among her friends she was considered to be a “good Christian”: fair-minded, generous-natured, and unswervingly dedicated to benevolence and good works. She had been raised in a household which upheld the principle that a “good Christian” was to give and to serve in proportion to the level of one's own prosperity. The more one prospered, the more one strived to mitigate the suffering of those less fortunate.

Her father, while unconventional to the point of raising eyebrows among the more tradition-bound of his class, was unflagging in his devotion to Christian service. Her lovely, genteel mother had died when Sara was only five, but Clarissa Farmington's kindness and generosity were legendary, not only among her household servants, but among tenement dwellers and Christian workers throughout the city.

Although Sara only vaguely remembered her mother's soft voice and sweet smile, she was ever mindful of her legacy. Inscribed upon Clarissa Farmington's gravestone and upon her daughter's heart were the words:
Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.

Sara made every effort to follow in her mother's footsteps as she ministered in her own way to the lost and impoverished souls in the city's slum areas. Active in the Ladies' Home Missionary Society of her local congregation, she also spent hours every month as a volunteer for the Infants Hospital.

She had no reservations whatever about going among the most degraded poor wretches in the Five Points slum, knew no fear of the drunks who lined
up in the alleys to beg in broad daylight. She was not repulsed by the poor hygiene or appalling physical handicaps she encountered in the tenements. To her, poverty, illness, and even degradation were not nearly so offensive as was the apathy and scorn she observed in many of her contemporaries.

Like her mother, she looked after their household help with diligence and real affection. Ginger, their West Indies housekeeper, received a handsome salary and more time off than any servant on Fifth Avenue. Like their other household servants, she was treated to generous gifts and favors throughout the year.

For years, Sara had lived what she thought to be a selfless, humanitarian existence. She would have no part in the discrimination and cruelty exhibited by many of her contemporaries toward the immigrants pouring into the city. Where others shrank from any form of involvement with these “undesirables,” Sara opened her arms to embrace them. She truly did not understand society's aversion toward the impoverished and the oppressed, could not seem to help involving herself in the lives of others. It went against her very nature to turn her back on someone in need.

But Pastor Dalton's sermon that morning had jolted her to a shattering realization:
She was not what she thought herself to be, nor were her motives quite so pure as she was sure the Lord would like.

The message had struck her with such force that she had written down the closing words:

“Charity is not merely an act of giving. It is an attitude. It does not demand or set conditions. It does not harbor expectations. True Christian charity is borne of a spirit large enough and great enough to look past the prejudices and weaknesses, the pettiness and the sin of the human heart and see the love of our Lord and Savior reaching out to all mankind, whatever their condition.”

Now, as the pastor reached the closing of his evening message, Sara was once more jarred by the conviction that today the Lord had spoken to her in unmistakable terms, exposing an ugly sin in her life—a sin she had deliberately ignored for years. Jess Dalton's final words were for her:

“Christian charity is defined at the cross, the great equalizer of all time. When Christ looked down from the cross, He didn't see rich or poor, fools or saints, slaves or enslavers, bankers or beggars. He saw sinners—sinners in need of a Savior. He didn't qualify His love or His forgiveness—and we have no right to put conditions on ours, either. He loves that difficult neighbor you can't abide, that wretched opium eater, that pompous, hypocritical alderman with
the fat cigar—He loves them all—just as much as He loves you and me. And He calls us to love with the same unconditional love!”

The blood hammering wildly in her ears, Sara swallowed against the lump in her throat. How many times had she silently condemned a member of her own congregation for exhibiting what
she
interpreted as Pharisaism, prejudice, or indifference?

How many among the circle of her acquaintances and friends had she judged as heartless, denying them her respect, goodwill, and affection? Why, she had actually severed relationships—old family ties—because she deemed the other party to be selfish or without social conscience!

“He loves them just as they are, and we should thank Him with our every breath that He does! Where would any one of us be if our Lord could love only spotless, sin-free souls who lived up to His expectations?”

Her condemning spirit had secretly demanded that her friends and acquaintances live up to Sara Farmington's
expectations
before they could be counted worthy of her affection.

God forgive me, I've tried and judged others as if I somehow had the right to condemn their hearts. Yet, by withholding understanding and love from those I found lacking, I am as guilty as those I've condemned!

Sara sat in stunned silence, oblivious to the movement around her. The service was over, but still she sat, intent and isolated within the shell of her own contemplation. Suddenly she jumped and gasped when a broad shoulder squeezed in next to her.

Michael Burke smiled down at her with a quizzical expression. “Miss Farmington—I'm sorry, did I startle you?”

Sara blinked, taking a moment to recover. “Sergeant Burke—I—no! No, that's quite all right. I must have been…lost in the sermon.”

“Aye, he gives a powerful message, doesn't he?” the sergeant replied. “Unfortunately, I had to miss most of this evening's—we had an entire gang of disruptives to handle before the service ever started. I'm just now getting back to the tent.” Burke stood and extended an arm to her. “These Sunday evening congregations are growing fast,” he observed, waiting for her to rise, then escorting her to the tent's exit. “We have to put on an extra man or two most every week.”

“You said there was trouble earlier—what happened?”

His lip curled with distaste. “Just a gang of drunken Irishers in a mood to rile the crowd. A normal occurrence down here.”

“But surely all the troublemakers aren't Irish?”

He looked at her, his eyes still hard. “As it happens, they usually are,” he said bitterly. “Our lads and lassies from the Emerald Isle account for the largest population of the Tombs—the city jail. We haven't the cells to hold them all, and the problem is only growing worse.”

His biting candor about his own people made Sara feel awkward and embarrassed for him. “Many of them are desperate, I'm sure—”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Farmington,” he interrupted, “but I hear that excuse far too often. Oh, the Irish in the city are in dire straits, there's no denying it. But a vast number of them bring on their own grief—or at least add to it—simply because they can't keep their faces out of the bottle!”

Sara could almost feel the man's anger as the harsh words poured from him. “They drink because they can't find work,” he went on. “They drink because they miss the ‘ould country.' They drink because they believe themselves to be disadvantaged and persecuted. They drink for any number of reasons, but many, I'm afraid, drink just because they love to drink!”

His bitterness pierced Sara's heart. She sensed that Michael Burke's anger was motivated by shame and grief for his people. “It seems we're always harder on our own, Sergeant,” she said softly. “I've had to deal with that particular…problem…myself recently.”

His left eye narrowed slightly, a mannerism Sara had come to recognize as a sign of skepticism or puzzlement.

She managed a rueful smile. “It's the very thing I was chastising myself about only moments ago. I've always been too quick to criticize my peers, I'm afraid. I suppose we simply expect—or
demand
—more of those we consider ‘our own kind.' And when they don't live up to our expectations, we tend to strike out at them. I'm only now beginning to realize that I have a great deal more forgiveness and understanding for total strangers than I do for the very ones I call my friends.”