Authors: Kevin Baker
I am a rambling Irishman
Â Â Â Ruth leaned out the door as far as she dared.Â .Â .
Â Â Â The boy grins up at me from the gutter.Â .Â .
Â Â Â I am a connoisseur of hangovers.
Â Â Â The block was nearly silent.
Â Â Â The soft, pink nose nuzzled his cheek.Â .Â .
Â Â Â In New York the machines don't work and.Â .Â .
Â Â Â
and I reach the
building.Â .Â .
Â Â Â When her turn finally came, Ruth drew.Â .Â .
Â Â Â
I was born in the burren, where it's said there's.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She walked out of the
expecting to fall.Â .Â .
Â Â Â He walked up past the jewelers' and.Â .Â .
Â Â Â I abandon our abandoned City Hall, cutting around.Â .Â .
Â Â Â
Oh, my girlâ
Â Â Â She watched him go, through the shutters, running.Â .Â .
Â Â Â “Is he gone, then?”
Â Â Â That first night they had sat behind the wall.Â .Â .
Â Â Â “What good are ye? What good are ye to me, then?”
Â Â Â The pretty little brass clock on Deirdre's mantel.Â .Â .
Â Â Â Ruth was gone.
Â Â Â He couldn't get his mind past how.Â .Â .
Â Â Â Dolan could hear the screams of the animals.Â .Â .
Â Â Â They are not a mobânot yet.
Â Â Â And so I am, back here on the front.Â .Â .
Â Â Â Something had to be done, that much was.Â .Â .
Â Â Â “They are coming!”
Â Â Â When she got back Milton had the other children.Â .Â .
Â Â Â He liked to leave for work early in the morning.
Â Â Â By the time he made it to the Colored Orphans'.Â .Â .
Â Â Â He paced up and down the hall of the orphanage.
Â Â Â King Mob.
Â Â Â “
” he told the Misses.
Â Â Â
She was sure now, he wasn't coming.
Â Â Â
I went with him.
Â Â Â In the hold everything was black.
Â Â Â She lay in the hospital bed, falling in and out of fever.
Â Â Â He did not know why he had hit the man, except.Â .Â .
Â Â Â The City lies split open on its back, like.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She could hear the vesper bell ringing at.Â .Â .
Â Â Â After that she had considered whether to kill Johnny.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She started awake, still not fully aware that she had dozed.
Â Â Â
and through the ruptured City all sorts of.Â .Â .
Â Â Â By the time I make my way back to the.Â .Â .
Â Â Â The rain fell like a barrage, rattling like grapeshot.Â .Â .
Â Â Â They finished cleaning their rifles in the.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She had seen from the start that she could.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She went on back at last with the wet cloth.Â .Â .
Our holy and beautiful house.Â .Â .
Â Â Â It is hot again.
Â Â Â There is a shout from outside, then the sound.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She watched him go, out into the street.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She awoke slowly, unsure of where she was at first.
Â Â Â That was the best time between them, those next.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She rattled the key noisily in the back door.Â .Â .
Â Â Â “The whole City's on fire, that's what I hear.”
Â Â Â A funeral train reels its way down the Bowery.
Â Â Â We should have seen the ambush coming.
Â Â Â Maddy tried to sit as still as she could against.Â .Â .
Â Â Â All that day they heard the wild, animal.Â .Â .
Â Â Â They sat in the cellar of the precinct house, trying.Â .Â .
Â Â Â In the summers he had made money killing dogs.
Â Â Â He would have liked to sit down, and rest.Â .Â .
Â Â Â He had lain out on the frozen mud for a day.Â .Â .
Â Â Â For the rest of the afternoon and evening.Â .Â .
Â Â Â Up on the roof, she stroked Maddy's hair.Â .Â .
Â Â Â
It was cooler on the roof.
Â Â Â He stood out in the street, helpless.
Â Â Â Crouching behind the street-cleaning machine, I loosen.Â .Â .
Â Â Â
It must have been Ruth who had sold him. His wife.
It is a kingly thing .Â .Â .
Â Â Â
The third day. Eight in the morning.
Â Â Â They arrived just before dawn and mustered.Â .Â .
Â Â Â
He had to get back.
Â Â Â “They're coming! They're coming!”
Â Â Â He could see the water opening out ahead of him.
Â Â Â He saw them the moment he came on the block.
Â Â Â He looked worse than ever, she.Â .Â .
Â Â Â Her brother's fists threw her back across.Â .Â .
Â Â Â He stared down at the wreckage of the box, where.Â .Â .
Â Â Â She lies out on the street, barely alive.
Â Â Â He limped on up the block to his house.
Â Â Â He was walking down a dark street, looking for.Â .Â .
Â Â Â Ruth had lain in the bed in Deirdre's back room.Â .Â .
Â Â Â
He is coming.
Â Â Â
Everything in black.
Â Â Â He trudged downtown in the slow parade, hoping.Â .Â .
a ragpicker, from Paradise Alley, in the Fourth Ward of New York City
her husband, a shipbuilder and escaped slave
Dangerous Johnny Dolan,
Ruth's former lover, and a criminal
Deirdre Dolan O'Kane,
Johnny's older sister, and a former domestic
Deirdre's husband, and a private in the Fighting 69th
a hot-corn girl and prostitute
Herbert Willis Robinson,
her lover, and a writer for the New York
a Tammany ward heeler, and assistant foreman of the Black Joke Volunteer Fire Company
Black Dan Conaway
John J. Sullivan
|}||soldiers of the Fighting 69th|
editor and publisher of the New York
editor and publisher of the
New York Times
July 13, 1863
I am a rambling Irishman
Ulster I was born in
And many's the pleasant
day I spent
'Round the banks
of sweet Lough Erne
But to be poor I could
Like others of my station
I sailed away
And left this Irish nation .Â .Â .Â .
“THE RAMBLING IRISHMAN”
He is coming.
Ruth leaned out the door as far as she dared, peering down Paradise Alley to the west and the south. Past the other narrow brick and wood houses along Cherry Street, slouching against each other for support. The grey mounds of ashes and bones, oyster shells and cabbage leaves and dead cats growing higher every day since the street cleaners had gone out.
Fire bells were already ringing off in the Sixth Ward, somewhere near the Five Points. The air thick with dust and ash and dried horse droppings, the sulfurous emissions of the gasworks along the river, and the rendering plants and the hide-curing plants. It was not yet six in the morning but she could feel the thin linen of her dress sticking to the soft of her back.
“The good Lord, in all His mercy, must be readyin' us for Hellâ”
She searched the horizon for any sign of relief. Their weather came from the west, the slate-grey, fecund clouds riding in over the Hudson. That was how she expected him to come, too, fierce and implacable as a summer storm. His rage breaking over them all.
He is comingâ
But there was no storm just yet. The sky was still a dull, jaundiced color, the blue tattered and wearing away at the edges. She ventured a step out into the street, looking hard, all the way downtown, past the
church steeples and the block-shaped warehouses, the dense thicket of masts around lower Manhattan.
There was nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual shapeless forms lying motionless in the doorways. A ragged child with a stick, a few dogs. A fruit peddler with his bright yellow barrow. His wares, scavenged from the barges over on the West Side, already pungent and overripe.
Nothing coming. But then, it wasn't likely
would come from the west anywayâ
With a muted cry she swung around, then ducked back into her house, bolting the door behind her while she fought for breath.
The idea that he could have been coming up behind her the whole time.
She remembered how quickly he could move. She could feel his hands on her, could see the yellow dog's bile rising in his eyes. That merciless anger, concentrated solely upon herâ
She had not truly believed it before nowânot even after Deirdre had come over to tell her yesterday afternoon. Standing there on her doorstone, one foot still in the street as if she were hanging on to the shore. Wearing her modest black church dress, her beautiful face even sterner than usual. She was a regular communicant, Sundays and Fridaysâno doubt especially agitated to have to see Ruth on the Lord's day. She told her the news in a low voice, all but whispering to her. Deirdre herself,
as if somehow
He is coming.
He had comeâall the way back from California. It was a fearsome, unimaginable distance.
But then, what was that to a man who had gone as far as he had already?
A friend of Tom's, a stevedore, had seen him on the docksâas stunned as if he had seen Mose himself stepping off a clipper ship, back from his bar in the Sandwich Islands. Coming down the gangplank with that peculiar, scuttling, crablike walk of his, fierce and single-minded as ever. Moving fast, much faster than you thought at first, so that Tom's friend had quickly lost him in the crowd waiting by the foot of the gangplank. Already disappeared off into the vastness of the Cityâ
Which meantâwhat? The mercy of a few days? While he found himself a room in the sailors' houses along Water Street, began to work his way relentlessly through the bars and blind pigs, sniffing out any news. Sniffing out
Or maybe not even that. Maybe he had hit it right off, had found, in the first public house he tried, a garrulous drunk who would tell him for the price of a camphor-soaked whiskey where he might find a certain mixed-race couple, living down in one of the nigger nests along Paradise Alleyâ
Ruth calmed herself by sheer force of will. Picking up a broom, she made her hands distract her. Sweeping her way scrupulously around the hearth, under the wobbly-legged table even though she knew there was no need, they would never live here again after this morning.
When she made herself think about it logically, it wasn't likely he could be that lucky. He had never had much luck, after allânot even with herselfâand his own face would work against him. He couldn't go out too bold. They would remember him still, after what had happened with Old Man Noe. Men would remember him, would remember
and keep their distance. Maybe even turn him in, for the rewardâ
They still had time. A little, anyway. She and Billy had talked it out, deep into the night. Time enough for Billy to go up to his job at the Colored Orphans' Asylum in the Fifth Avenue today, and collect his back wages. Then they would have something to start on, at least, to see them through up to Boston, or Canada.
Why aren't we in Canada already? We should be thereâ
She swept faster, in her anger and her frustration, kicking up the fine, black grit that crept inexorably through the windows and over the transom, covering the whole City over, every day. They had talked about leaving, all these years, but somehow they had never actually gone. She had put it down to Billy's moodiness and his obstinacy, the lethargy that seemed to hold him sometimes, particularly when he'd been drinking.
Yet it was more than that, and she knew it. They both felt safer hereâon their block, miserable as it was, in the bosom of their friends and neighbors. They told themselves there would be risks if they ran, perhaps even worse risks. A white woman and a black man, with their five mixed-race children, moving through one small town after another, with no real money to sustain them. They would be leaving tracks for him like they were written in the skyâ
So where were they to run now?
Ruth forced the question from her mind.
It didn't matter now, now they had no choice.
She had everything packed and ready to go. In a little while she would get the children up and give them their breakfast. They would leave as soon as Billy got back from the Colored Orphans', with the two weeks' wages he was owed.
She would stay home from her job with the German bonepickers, it would be safe enough here for the time being, on their street. At least that was what they had told themselves. It was too bad Tom was off with the army, but there was Deirdre. They could count on her to keep an eye out, at least. Ruth had seen her when she'd first looked out this morningâalready sitting by a window, standing the watch.
Deirdre knew well enough what to expect from her own brother.
All it required was a few more hours of grace, then they would be gone. Over to Hoboken on the Desbrosses Street ferry, then a schooner up to Halifax, or Montreal. Or if they didn't have enough money for that, they could just set out at random, across the countryside, head west or northâ
There was a low, rumbling sound. She risked poking her head out a window, wanting to see if it was storming after all. But noâthe tattered yellow sky still hung balefully over the harbor, and the North River.
The sound went on and onâone continuous, unending roll of noiseâand she realized it must be something man-made. Something both more and less than the daily going to work, the bawdy, boisterous awakening of the City that she liked to listen to every morning from her doorstep before joining it herself. This had more of a purpose, a direction. The sound of hundreds, even thousands of feet, and voices, moving relentlessly, indivisibly north, toward uptown.
Something had been brewing in the City all weekend, she knew, though she had barely set foot outside her home. There were little things she had picked up, when she poked her head out to throw the washing water in the gutter. Something in the snatches of talk from the men in their taverns, and the brayings of drunks on street corners. Something in the agitation of horses, the thinning of traffic, the urgency of a policeman's voice. In the unhappy silence of the other women on the block like herâlistening and waiting.
The men were unhappy, and when men were unhappy, no one
could rest easy. Something about the draft, but whatever it was, she knew it would be bad for people like them. Maybe, at least, it would delay himâ
A couple hours' grace, that's all we need. Surely that is possible.
She tried to think, to make sure there was nothing she had forgotten. Her memory had never been very good since her time with Johnny Dolan. She would leave the beans or the corn bread over the fire until they burned. She would forget to run an errand, to get something important, unless she carefully thought out everything on her way to work in the morning, or while trying to fall asleep in her bed at night. Sometimes she thought he had knocked it out of her, beaten it right out of her brainsâ
What needed to be done, then?
She forced herself to concentrate. The children were still asleep in the back room but she had their things bundled up beside their beds. They could carry that much on their own. Everything else was already tied up and waiting by the back doorâtheir bolt holeâwhere it could be easily tossed into the barrow just outside.
There was little enough. Her kitchen wares, two tin pots and an iron frying pan. Six long spoons, a few bent knives and forks. The two other dresses she owned, plus another small bag for her underclothes, and the ribbons she wore in her hair on special days. Billy's one suit, and his shirts and his overalls. His seaman's kit, and his tools, still as meticulously wrapped and oiledâand as untouchedâas when he had first purchased them, over a dozen years before.
There was almost nothing of a more personal nature. Only their Bible, and a few books that belonged to Milton, their oldest boy. The framed daguerreotype she had finally persuaded Billy to have made of the whole family. All of them in their best clothes, standing solemnly around Billy where he sat in a broad, cushioned chair. The paterfamilias, a little stand in the picture parlor tucked carefully behind his close-cropped hair to make sure he held his head steady, the rest of them clustered all around him in various shimmering shades of light. Hers the only fully white face, looking bleak and blanched, nearly invisible next to the rest of them.
She had wanted to have one made of the little girl who had died, of Lillian, who had passed from the croup before she was two. A proper funeral picture, made up with the girl in her best dress, lying
in the coffin, but Billy had stopped her. It was too dear, they needed to spend the money on the living, and she was glad he had persuaded her now. There was no need to haul the picture of that poor dead girl up and down the roads, as Ruth had once hauled herself. She would be left behind where she lay, out in the pleasant, shady cemetery in Brooklynâ
That was all. Everything they had to show for thirteen years in this cramped little house. They could be gone in a moment, out through the back privvy lots and down to the ferries. Gone before even he could catch themâ
All that remained was that
His magic box. She paused over it with her broom in hand, as if considering whether to just sweep the whole thing out the door, out of their lives. The strange pile of gewgaws and odds and ends which Johnny Dolan had put their immortal souls in danger in order to have. Somehow, she had never been able to get rid of it.
Because of what it had cost?
It lay in a far corner of the front room now, like some malevolent old dog. The black, funereal cloth that still covered it now coated with dust. The same cloth they had found it in, had brought it all the way here from that ruined abbey outside Cork. She folded the cloth back, staring at the cracked glass. Behind it lay the whole collection of shiny odds and ends that had fascinated him so, and that she had not been able to so much as look at since he had gone. The broken sword and the blackamoor's ear, the miniature engine and the giant's eye and the pictures of lovers, and a thousand other wonders. All of them once glued and arranged so perfectly within the box, now mostly jumbled together in a heap at the bottom.