Galway Bay (58 page)

“I didn’t.”

“I’m moving out,” Máire said to me, her voice low and hard.

And I’d said, “Go on.”

We still had meals together. Máire helped Johnny Og assemble his uniform as I helped Paddy. We made their trousers and bought blue jackets for them. Máire was cheerful enough in front of the children but never even looked at me.

All June, and through July, Paddy and Johnny Og trained at the new Camp Douglas on the south shore of the Lake near 33rd Street, waiting for orders that would make the twelve hundred men of the Irish Brigade an official part of the federal army. They ate dinner at home and slept in their own beds, thank God.

Maybe if the Brigade didn’t go into battle, Máire would forgive me. A chance. Each state was required to supply a certain quota of men, Paddy told me. Governor Yates of Illinois had not called on the Brigade because enough other fellows had volunteered. Don’t need the Irish. Keep them out. Paddy was afraid the Irish Brigade would miss the war entirely.

But then Colonel Mulligan went to Washington, to President Lincoln himself, according to Paddy, and convinced the War Department to accept the Irish Brigade as the 23rd Illinois Volunteers. Great joy in Bridgeport.

“We’ll show them,” said Barney McGurk, James McKenna, and the other men. “Irishmen are the greatest fighters in the world. Revenge for Skibbereen!”

Now they were leaving. Máire put a good face on it, standing with us and all of Bridgeport, to cheer the Brigade. A warm, sunny July 14. The boys would march down Archer Road and then to a downtown railroad station. They’d go by train to Quincy, Illinois, then on to St. Louis. “We’ll be fighting in Missouri,” Paddy had told me.

“Here they come!” some shouted. Off to war, twelve hundred strong, singing an Irish song:

And now I’m bound for the Army camp

Come Heaven then pray guide me

And send me back home again

To the girl I left behind me.

Jamesy and Daniel stood on one side of me, arms folded, wishing they, too, were bound for the Army camp. Thomas, next to them, joked with Máire, glad enough to be on the sidelines. Stephen and Michael and the latest version of the Hickory Gang ran alongside the Brigade.

“Here’s Colonel Mulligan, Mam,” Jamesy shouted to me over the noise as the Brigade approached our position on the street.

Colonel Mulligan passed close to us, striding along with his men, not mounted on some great horse. Didn’t need to lord it over them—a real leader. He marched with his head high, shoulders back, elegant in his green jacket, the brass buttons gleaming in the sun. A fine- featured man, no question, serious with straight-ahead-looking eyes. Colonel Mulligan, sure to be General Mulligan, and then after the war Senator Mulligan—even President Mulligan. Could there be an Irish Catholic president? “Not impossible,” James McKenna said, “after we help save the Union.”

Now came the flags, the Stars and Stripes and the Brigade’s own large banner. Beautiful. Clusters of green shamrocks were embroidered around the gold Harp of Tara. Grand big letters spelled out the mottoes: Faugh-a-Ballagh, Clear the Way; Erin Go Bragh, Ireland forever. Stirring.

I glanced at Máire. She had her head turned, talking to Thomas. But Bridget and Gracie were jumping up to see over the crowd.

“Jamesy, who’s that carrying the Brigade’s flag?” Bridget asked.

The tall young standard-bearer held the banner high and straight, letting it snap in the breeze.

“The colonel’s brother-in-law, James Nugent,” Jamesy said.

As if hearing his name, the young man turned his head. Bridget and Gracie clapped their hands, waved at the fellow, bouncing up and down. The fellow smiled at them. Now there’s a handsome lad—blue eyes, white teeth, blond hair showing under his cap.

Máire was watching the girls. I caught her eye, ready to share a silent comment on their excitement. She only stared at me, her face still, then turned back to Thomas.

“Johnny Og and Paddy are coming!” Stephen and Michael said, rushing up to us.

There they were—our sons. I wanted to reach over, take Máire’s hand. Hold on to her. My big sister. I didn’t dare.

“Paddy! Johnny Og!” our young ones shouted.

Johnny Og and Paddy saw us. They didn’t wave, couldn’t probably. Not military. But they did nod and smile.

A young woman stepped into the street and touched Paddy’s sleeve. He squeezed her hand. Bridey Kelly, from Roscommon, the girl Jamesy said Paddy was courting. Lovely-looking tall girl, matching Paddy’s step for a brief distance, then dropping back into the crowd.

Paddy’s sweetheart. All were together—mothers, wives, sweethearts. Waving. Cheering. Terrified. Slán abhaile. Safe home.

Our Holy Hour began by accident. I’d gone into St. Bridget’s for a visit one afternoon and found Bridey Kelly lighting a candle.

“Let’s pray for Paddy together,” I said, and we whispered the rosary. Comforting. We added trimmings—a Hail Mary, Our Father, Glory Be, for all of the Irish Brigade, and then all the Union soldiers and the secessionist army, too. Some mother’s son, each one.

The next day, Bridey brought her mother. I met Molly on the street and invited her in. By mid-August, a crowd of us gathered every day. The Holy Hour, we called it. When Father Tom offered to preside over our prayers, I thanked him very much but said we wouldn’t dream of taking his time.

The truth is, we prefer to be on our own. We take the decades in turn; one woman begins, “Hail Mary,” the rest of us answer, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.” Informal, one nods to the next. After the rosary, each of us adds something we choose ourselves.

I might say St. Bridget’s prayer in Irish. One day, Molly Flanigan taught us a Mayo hymn. Each woman had a favorite saint, a special prayer. I was reminded of the passengers on the
Superior
. So many Irish saints. Good to get them all working for us. Then we’d call the roll of the men off fighting, drawing divine protection around each name, trying to ease one another’s fears. At the end, we’d share whatever news we had.

Letters from the soldiers began to arrive at the post office downtown. At first we all went down every day. Then we set up a rotation—two women collected all the letters. Most came with postage due. One day I gave money to a mother crying at the postal counter because she didn’t have money to redeem her son’s letters. After that, we asked James McKenna and the other tavern owners to set up a fund so no wife or mother would be denied her letter. Often the letters would be read aloud at the Holy Hour.

But neither Paddy nor Johnny Og had written.

One afternoon in late August as we walked home from the Holy Hour along Hickory Street, Molly said why didn’t I ask Máire to collect the letters at the post office when she finished at the Shop. It was understood that Máire’s work kept her from the Holy Hour, and we made sure to mention Johnny Og in every prayer.

I told Molly that Máire often worked late, and the post office would be closed, and . . .

Molly knew I was only making excuses. “Are you two feuding?” she asked. “Is that why she moved?”

“Not at all,” I said. “We were all crowded together. . . .”

“Honora,” Molly said as we stopped in front of our door. “Grudges can destroy families. Resentment passes from generation to generation, and nobody knowing what started it all.”

“I know what started it. Máire didn’t want our sons to enlist. And neither did I at first, but then Patrick Kelly explained—save the Union, free the slaves, capture Canada, liberate Ireland—the Cause. Máire thinks none of it’s worth dying for.”

“Young men don’t expect to die,” Molly said.

But they had. Hundreds killed in the surprise defeat at Bull Run, the battle fought the week after the Brigade marched away. The New York Irish Regiment led by Patrick’s friend Meagher, part of the 69th, suffered many casualties.

“Máire will never let Thomas and Daniel join. Never.”

Molly’s son, who had worked on the Lake boats, was in a Michigan regiment. No word from the one out west. About half her boarders had enlisted. Barney McGurk had tried. “And him sixty,” Molly said. Barney thought there’d be many more men called. Conscription would come. Lizzie McKenna’s sons were already serving.

“I’ll have to be going, Honora,” Molly said. “Find a way to make it up with Máire.” But then she turned back to me. “Tell me, Honora,” she said. “Not meaning to be rude nor inquiring, but your husband passed away how many years ago?”

“Thirteen years in August.”

“A long time,” she said.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“And if you don’t mind me asking, was your husband a jealous-type fellow?”

“He was not,” I said. What put that in her mind? Had Máire said something to her about Patrick Kelly and me? Máire wouldn’t, would she? I started talking fast, telling Molly how Granny’d asked Michael could he pay the bride price: no meanness, no fear, no jealousy. “He agreed,” I said. “So, not jealous.”

“Great wisdom in those old stories,” Molly said. “Good night now, Honora. See you tomorrow at the Holy Hour.”

Does Molly know about the letter from Patrick Kelly that had come by messenger? The boy told me that my husband had paid extra for delivery. “A lucky woman, missus,” he’d said.

“Not my husband,” I’d started, then stopped. Had that boy set people speculating?

In the letter, Patrick wrote that he had been in St. Louis with his friend Captain Tom Sweeny. They were guarding an arsenal full of weapons and ammunition to keep it safe for the Union. Lots of secessionists there, even among the Irish, he said. Patrick had been inducted into the unit by Sweeny as a kind of scout. “So I’m an unofficial official member of the U.S. Army. The Brigade is coming to Missouri. When they arrive, I’ll join them.” He’d signed, “Yours respectfully, Patrick Kelly.”

I hadn’t read out the letter at the Holy Hour.

Then, glorious news came. Barney McGurk pounded on our door on a Tuesday morning with the early edition of the
Chicago Times
. The headline read:
IRISH BRIGADE CAPTURES LEXINGTON. MISSOURI RIVER TOWN TAKEN
. September 9, 1861, the date on the story read. The Brigade’s first battle was a total victory.

“They did it!” Barney kept repeating. “They did it! They won control of the Missouri River and the upper Mississippi for the Union, and not a shot fired. The defenders ran away!”

I ran down to tell Máire. “Gone to work,” Gracie told me.

Stephen and Michael and the Hickory Gang built a huge bonfire that night, and Bridgeport celebrated the victory. I found Máire in the circle of people and stood next to her. Molly and Lizzie were watching us. Máire smiled and clapped, and we walked into 2703 together.

“They won, Máire,” I said. “Please, let’s talk.”

Silence. We climbed the stairs. She shut her door.

Then the next day’s newspapers reported that an army of Missouri secessionists under a General Price was marching toward Lexington. Two days later, twenty thousand Missouri enemy troops commanded by Price surrounded the Brigade, cutting them off.

The first siege of the war. No food, low on water, the Brigade waited for reinforcements. A week, ten days went by. Our Holy Hours lasted into the night. “Storm heaven,” Lizzie McKenna said. “All we can do.” The newspapers warned the Brigade would be overrun and massacred by the enemy.

I made dinner for both families, and we ate together during that week of waiting. Máire and I were polite to each other—pretending, even, during this crisis. The boys were so full of speculation, I don’t think they really noticed.

On Wednesday, September 18, the
Chicago Times
said:
THE LATEST BY TELEGRAPH: PRICE SURROUNDS LEXINGTON AND SUMMONS MULLIGAN TO SURRENDER, WHICH HE REFUSES TO DO.

That night, Máire came into St. Bridget’s as I was leaving.

“Máire.” I held out my hand to her, but she walked past me down the aisle and knelt next to Molly.

On Friday, September 20, the Confederates broke through the Brigade’s defenses. They soaked round bales of hemp in water and pushed them up the hill, shooting at our boys from behind rolling shields that damped out any return fire.

September 21, 1861. Colonel Mulligan surrendered. No massacre. Some casualties, but no definite numbers. “Light,” the newspapers Barney carried said. Our boys weren’t even taken prisoner—where would the Confederates put them? Paroled, Barney said. “They promise not to fight anymore.” Thank God. Thank God.

Dawn when Barney brought the news. I ran down and knocked on Máire’s door, while he woke Bridget and the boys.

“Máire, please.” I pounded harder. “They’re safe! Slán, Máire, please! A surrender yesterday. It’s in the papers.”

But she wouldn’t open the door.

I pulled on the knob, shaking the frame. “I’ll shout and scream until the neighbors call the police!”

Nothing.

“Máire, please! Answer me.”

The door opened. Máire stood there in her business shirtwaist and skirt. “It’s how I handled the Pykes,” she said. “Silence.”

“Oh, Máire, such great news! The boys are coming home.”

“Never would have gone in the first place,” she said, “if you’d stood firm with me.”

“I’m sorry. I am. The war is over for Johnny Og and Paddy. They’re not allowed to fight anymore. Couldn’t we start talking again?”

“I’ve things stored up in my head to tell you, Honora, that you won’t like hearing. What do you have to say to that?”

“I say a fight is better than loneliness, Máire.”

And she laughed. Parole.

Barney sat with us in the kitchen that evening. The whole crowd of us—Jamesy, Daniel, Thomas, Bridget and Gracie, Stephen and Michael—stayed up all night.

“I’m glad, Mam,” Bridget said when she saw Máire and me talking together.

We hadn’t fooled them.

Barney explained to the others that “paroled” meant the soldiers could be let go if they promised not to fight anymore. The Brigade agreed. The secessionists sent them home.

“Home?” Bridget asked Barney. “Just like that? When the day before they were going to kill them, every one?”

“I don’t understand,” Gracie said. “If the enemy would let them go free, why didn’t Colonel Mulligan surrender sooner?”