The Element of Fire. Brendan Graham
clothes on American backs. She had seen it so many times on the Long Wharf when the ships came in.
And she had seen the jaded ‘Bridgets’ traipse down to Boston Common with their silver-spoon charges, glad of an outing and a few mouthfuls of fresh air. And the threadbare needlewomen, bodies like ‘S’ hooks from fifteen hours a day, every day, shaped over their machines.
America indeed promised much. But it took much in return.
Each evening those below were allowed on deck for an hour to cook what little they had on the open stove before being driven below again. Once uncaged, they tore at their carpetbags like ravenous dogs, until the meagre contents contained within, spilled over the timbers. A few praties, a bag of the hard yellow meal – ‘Peel’s Brimstone’, after the British Prime Minister who sought to feed the starving Irish with it, until it sat like marbles, pyramided in their bellies. Sometimes she saw a side of pig or the hindquarter of an ass, smoked or salted for preservation. Finally, the carpetbags carried a drop of castor oil for the bowels – to clear out Peel’s yellow marbles.
Once, horrified, she watched as a young lad, no older than Patrick, was flung from the carpetbag mêlée by a much older man, his father. The boy careered against the tripod supporting the cooking cauldron. But his screams, as his arms and upper body were scalded, served to distract none but his mother from the frenzy taking place. Ellen ran to summon the ship’s doctor but the boy’s frailty was unable to sustain his sufferings and he expired before relief could be administered.
She noticed, the following evening, that the tragedy stayed no hand from the continuing brawls for carpetbag rations.
Again, Ellen kept the children close to her, having found the silent girl one evening to have disappeared and crept amongst the carpetbaggers, peering into their faces, searching out a spark of recognition between any and herself. Ellen could still get nothing from her, nor did the girl speak to either Mary or Patrick.
At first the strangeness of being on the ship had seemed to frighten the girl – as it did Ellen’s own two children. Then, she became fascinated by it. Looking out on every side, running quickly from windward to leeward, watching the land slide away behind them. Or, facing mizzenward, almost, it seemed to Ellen, listening to the flap of the wind in the masts. Other times she would find the girl staring for hours into the deep, ever-changing waters, finding some kinship there, amidst the white spume, the dark silent depths. What was ever to become of her, Ellen wondered. She would have to give her a name. She couldn’t be just the ‘silent girl’, for ever.
The thirty days at sea, whilst giving Ellen time to regain herself, had done nothing to restore her with regard to Patrick.
He still resented her for deserting them and didn’t seek much to conceal it either. Ellen had decided to let things take their own course between them, not to rush him. But Boston wasn’t far away – and Lavelle. If Patrick didn’t show some sign in the next week or so of coming around, then she would have to sit him down anyway and tell him about Lavelle. Already, when she had returned to Ireland to retrieve the children, her changed appearance and failure to return sooner had caused Patrick to accuse her of having a ‘fancy man’ in America.
Three days out of Boston, she spoke to them of Lavelle. ‘I want to tell you about Boston …’ she began. ‘There are a lot of houses. Big, big houses and a lot of streets. Not like our little street in the village, but long, long streets and every one of them crowded with people,’ she explained.
‘Like Westport?’ Mary ventured.
‘Like twenty Westports all pulled together,’ she answered, ‘and the sea on one side of Boston and the rest of America on its other side.’
Mary’s eyes opened wide at the idea. Patrick stayed silent.
‘And Boston Common, itself as big as all Maamtrasna. Where people walk and children play in the Frog Pond and skate in the snow. And,’ she drew in close to them, ‘a giant tree where they used to hang witches! And,’ she moved on, seeing the frightened look on Mary’s face, ‘horses that pull tram carts – you’ll love going in them.’
‘When we get there you’ll be going to school to learn all about Boston and America, and lots of other things besides,’ she went on, wondering what she would do for the silent girl in this regard.
‘Will you not be doing the Lessons with us any more, a –’ Mary started to ask and corrected herself, ‘Mother?’
‘Well, Mary, I think you and Patrick are too grown up for me to be still teaching you at home. The best schools in the whole, wide world are in Boston. It will be very exciting for you both with American children … English and German children … children from everywhere,’ she told them.
‘Will they be like us?’ Patrick spoke for the first time.
Ellen, not sure of what he meant, replied, ‘Yes, of course they will. They’ll all be of an age with yourselves, bright and eager to get on,’ she said, thinking she had answered him.
‘No, but like us – Irish?’ he countered.
She had to think for a minute. ‘Yes, yes, of course there will be children like you, who have come from Ireland. Did I not say that?’
Patrick pressed his point. ‘And what about those?’ he pointed to the deckfloor, ‘those below there?’
‘Well I’m sure they’ll all be wanting education,’ she half-answered. The way Patrick looked at her told her he knew she had tried to skirt his question. She decided to plunge straight on, into the deeper end of things. ‘Now, as well as the schools, you’ll meet some people in Boston … who – who have helped me …’ She slowed, picking out the words. ‘A Mr Peabody, a merchant who owns shops …’
Patrick watched her intently, searching out any flicker or falter that would betray her.
‘Mr Peabody helped me to get started in business and a Mr Lavelle, a friend …’ she could feel Patrick’s eyes burning into her, ‘… who saved my life and helped me escape Australia to get back to you. Mr Lavelle works with me in the business.’
There, she had gotten it all out and in one blurt. It was so silly of her to be nervous of telling them, her own children.
Neither of them had any questions, Mary’s face lighting up at the news that Mr Lavelle had saved her mother’s life.
‘Oh, he must be a good man, this Mr Lavelle, to do that … a good man like Daddy was!’ she added.
‘He is,’ Ellen said, more shaken by the innocence of Mary’s statement than by any hard question Patrick might have asked. It was what she had wanted to avoid at all costs – any notion that Lavelle was stepping into their father’s shoes. He wasn’t. God knows, he wasn’t.
Soon they were within sight of America, evidenced by increased activity in every quarter of the Jeanie Goodnight. Ellen still had not resolved the problem of naming the silent girl. Calling her by no name seemed to be so soulless. How well she had come on since Ellen had first found her. Or rather since the girl had first found them, on the road towards Louisburgh. Now, if only she’d speak – tell them what her name was. Ellen determined to try again with her.
To her horror she found the girl part way up the rigging, seeking a better view of America. Petrified that she’d fall, Ellen anxiously beckoned for her to come down.
The girl jumped on to the deck, smiling at Ellen. Tall and dark-haired, her frame now filled out the skimpy dress that, a month past, had hung so shapelessly on her. Still looked scrawny but at least she was on the way.
‘What’s your name, child, and where did you come from?’ Ellen asked. The girl, eyes still alight with the rigging fun, just looked back at her – happy, forlorn, smiling, such a mixture, Ellen thought. She must