Kilpara Page 11

  Touched by this gesture, words failed me. I nodded my agreement. The carriages started to move and I walked in place behind them, along with the small procession that advanced slowly down the avenue. The carriages stopped at the cemetery where I paused with my brothers and their families beside Francis’ grave. Afterwards, I hugged Dan and Mark, emotion filling our mumbled farewells. Then I kissed the teary cheeks of their wives and children. The carriages were ready to move again so I quickly ascended while still shouting goodbye. Within moments, their responses faded out of earshot, and I watched their saddened faces recede into the landscape. We left Stonebridge behind and proceeded onto the road to Hagerstown.

  CHAPTER 8

  The first carriage pushed forward with Seamus leading the team of horses, followed by Rengen taking charge of the second carriage. The pace was slow. Seamus anticipated trouble spots, directing the horses slowly over rough areas. He was careful not to jar Mother even though every precaution had been taken to cushion her from such eventualities. At times, I unhooked Brazonhead and we rode between the two vehicles. We stopped at rest stations along the way to water the horses and allow Dr. Thompson and Trista Joyce to attend to Mother.

  The day had turned to late afternoon when our weary party rode into Hagerstown. Women were scurrying home from markets and shops loaded with baskets of vegetables, flour, and other foodstuff as we engineered the busy streets to the hospital. Orderlies came out to greet us and offer aid when the carriages halted in front of the large red brick building. After Mother was suitably settled, they showed Dr. Thompson and Trista to their quarters in an adjoining building. Rooms were also readied for Seamus and Rengen in the attached coachman’s quarters. I stayed long enough to make sure Mother was comfortable before walking to the Commonwealth Club to spend the night.

  The concierge showed me to my room and offered to bring me a light dinner. When he left I set about washing off the dust from the journey, and then relaxed in a high-backed chair with the Tribune until my meal arrived. I could barely concentrate on the print, my mind returning to Stonebridge and the sad faces of my brothers and their families as we left them behind. Staring at the worn flowered wallpaper, I reflected if there had been more time to consider Mother’s conversation with Dr. Thompson, would I have confessed to Dan and Mark the real reason behind her leaving? Almost certainly I would, since I was ready to blurt out everything to Dan the same moment Maureen interrupted us. And then what? Dan had a different way of looking at things than anyone else I knew. He would have felt dutiful toward Mother, done everything in his power to take care of her. But that was the last thing she wanted. Mark would argue that she belonged at Stonebridge under the care of the best doctors and nurses.

  Could Mother’s determination have withstood the emotional battle with my brothers? Such a confrontation would surely worsen her fragile condition. Any deterioration in her health would force my brothers to go along with her plan in the end. After all that, it was questionable if her health could endure the voyage. Denying her choice of how and where she wanted to die could hasten her death and leave us all feeling guilt-ridden. I sighed. Right or wrong, the journey was underway.

  I turned my attention to the food set before me, beef, potatoes, and savory vegetables. I couldn’t taste anything, eating only to fill the emptiness in my stomach. Afterwards, I was surprised to find I could hardly hold my eyes open and prepared for bed. As I drifted off to sleep, the town fell silent outside the partially opened window.

  Next morning I arrived at the hospital to hear that Mother had slept well through the night with the help of medication. Dr. Thompson had ordered her meals specially cooked, keeping in mind her delicate digestive tract. She was in the middle of a light breakfast when I greeted her. A smile lit up her strained eyes when I poked my head around the door.

  “Come in,” she said with forced cheerfulness, an attempt I knew to cover up the struggle of leaving Stonebridge behind.

  “Hmmm,” Dr. Thompson said arriving behind me. Moving next to Mother, he performed a quick examination. “Good thing I insisted we wait a day before taking the train to Baltimore. You should rest.”

  She nodded, leaning further into the pillows and closing her eyes.

  I squeezed her hand, grateful that Dr. Thompson had insisted on accompanying us first to Baltimore and then onto New York. He arranged for Rengen and Seamus to come along too, to help with the luggage.

  Outside the hospital, morning mist had given way to clear blue skies. Hailing a hansom cab, I rode the short distance outside town to the large granite Mausoleum sitting a few hundred yards back off the road. The odd-shaped structure always surprised me because at first sight it could be mistaken for a church-like temple in a park setting. But on closer inspection, the wide steps leading up to the vault-like door and the brass dome hovering above gave the building the appearance of some architect’s attempt at distinction.

  Surveying this odd structure in rugged surroundings, I climbed the steps to the heavily inscribed door. After pulling the thick red rope, a dark-suited caretaker with a paltry consoling smile greeted me. He led me inside where it was cool. Our footsteps echoed on the white marble floor as we solemnly passed the circular foyer lined with crypts along the walls and a fountain sprinkling water serenely into a stone basin. In the center of the fountain stood an angel statue whose sympathetic eyes followed us as we passed various tropical plants and iron wrought benches. We paused at the crypt containing my father’s coffin. His name, Angus O’ Donovan, was inscribed in brass letters on the outside. After a moment of silence, I nodded, and the caretaker led me through an adjoining door. We entered a room containing an assortment of tools, pickaxes, shovels, and rakes propped against sacks of mortar. Nearby, coffins in various stages of construction lay unfinished. The caretaker pointed to a stand where a large wooden crate stood. Standing beside it, he moved his hand along its smooth edge.

  “This has been especially made to journey your father’s coffin to Ireland,” he said reverently. “We used the sturdiest oak we could find.” He patted the inside confirming its toughness to withstand the voyage. I nodded my agreement and he took me to an office to inspect the docket and accompanying legal documents. Satisfied that everything was in order, I gave my written consent.

  I rode the cab back to the train station that echoed the noise from steam engines, conductor whistles, train doors slamming, and voices shouting above the din. I found the station master who efficiently made immediate arrangements for Brazonhead to travel with us in cattle-cars on the same trains. He offered to make arrangements for him to be stabled at the livery in New York Harbor until we sailed. I shook his hand gratefully and walked to the telegraph office to cable the ship lines that Brazonhead would join our party on the voyage.

  Fortunately for us, there was a large cargo area in the ship’s hold to accommodate animals. As I waited for confirmation, I again puzzled over Dan's decision to send Brazonhead to Ireland. Shrugging, I concluded his action wasn't any more peculiar than my keeping the truth from him and Mark about Mother. Still, qualms persisted about his offer to give Aunt Sadie such a well-bred animal. We'd been told she was a practical woman with practical needs. But she was also a perceptive woman with insight into human nature. Perhaps she would share Dan’s vision that Father's most prized horse belonged together with him and Mother in Ireland.

  Thinking of Brazonhead, I went to check on him when I returned to the hospital. I went inside the stable and found Rengen talking softly to him.

  “The noise and traffic be bothering him Mast’r Ellis,” Rengen greeted me. “It be making him skittish. We’s got to get him out of here so he can run it off.”

  We had passed an abandoned patch of land on our way into town. I suggested that we take Brazonhead there and Rengen nodded his agreement. He rigged a blindfold made of kerchiefs to cover the horse’s eyes and ears, then trotted him to the outskirts of town behind the carriage. When we arrived at the open ground, Rengen removed the blindfold. I rode Brazon
head around in small gallops until I felt the tension go out of him. At one end of an open field, we found a well-worn track. We rode along this through peaceful countryside until our energy was spent.

  Our strange little party progressed to the hotel-car of the Baltimore Express amid early morning hustle and bustle at the railway station. This new train model was said to be considerably faster than the usual Baltimore locomotive, by more than ten miles an hour. The hotel-car was divided into various compartments, one with sleeping bunks, one with seats and divans, and one with a table and soft-covered benches behind which stood a sink and some cabinets. Together, Seamus, Rengen, and I settled Mother on one of the divans. We found places to sit throughout the car as the train pulled out of Hagerstown. Mother’s rest in the hospital and nutritious food seemed to restore her. I sat beside her and held her hand. Several times, I wanted to tell her I knew what she was trying to do; that I wasn’t frightened by her illness anymore. But the words always died on my lips.

  “Thank you, Ellis,” she said, at one point in the journey. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  “How could I deny you?” I said.

  She looked at me curiously, surprised by my change of heart. “You don’t mind. Truly?”

  “No, Mother, I don’t.”

  She patted my hand and lay back against the pillows.

  We drew into Camden Station later in the day. A porter quietly guided our group to a restaurant lounge where we ate our evening meal and rested in comfort.

  The hotel car on the New York Express was every bit as comfortable as that of the Baltimore Express. Night unfolded as we fell asleep to flashing countryside and the train swaying on the tracks. We were awakened shortly before daylight by short knocks on the door. Outside, a uniformed employee stood ready to take our breakfast order.

  “What time will we arrive in New York?” I asked.

  “Around eight o’clock,” he said. “Everything’s on schedule.” He returned with trays of steaming eggs, bread, fruit, and a pot of coffee. By the time we finished eating, we were already seeing neat farmhouses close together as we approached the outskirts of New York City.

  Dr. Thompson had telegraphed ahead to a colleague at the New York Hospital to meet us at the station when we arrived. When we dismounted the train, a tall well-dressed man in a dark overcoat rushed forward to greet us. He grasped Dr. Thompson’s hand and shook it enthusiastically.

  “Good to see you, Adam,” he said.

  “Thanks for coming, John,” Doctor Thompson replied.

  “My pleasure. This must be the patient.” The man bent toward Mother who was being guarded against disembarking passengers by Seamus and Rengen on each side of her wheelchair.

  “Yes,” Dr. Thompson said. He introduced the man as John Endicott first to Mother, then to the rest of us. Dr. Endicott’s intelligent brown eyes lingered appreciatively on Trista Joyce.

  Pulling his gaze away reluctantly, he spoke kindly to Mother. “Let’s get you out of here, Mrs. O'Donovan. I have an ambulance waiting outside. We’ll be at the hospital in no time.”

  We moved cautiously toward the station entrance, avoiding people scurrying about us. As we settled into the ambulance Dr. Endicott said, “I’ve arranged accommodations for you in the visiting doctors’ quarters. It’s almost empty right now, so it’ll be pleasant enough.”

  “Thanks, John,” Dr. Thompson said.

  “It’s the least I can do.” Dr. Endicott’s tone implied an enduring friendship between the two men.

  It began to rain lightly as the ambulance driver cracked the whip and the horses pulled away from the station. Very quickly the streets became wet and muddy and this slowed traffic down, causing a jam. Confusion ensued as vehicles pushed behind and around each other. Horses reared in confusion and drivers cursed and swore and cracked whips. Dr. Endicott smiled helplessly at us.

  In moments, however, a squad of policemen appeared out of nowhere yelling orders and blowing whistles. They began moving vehicles out of the way, and upon seeing the ambulance, made a path for us. Very quickly, we resumed our journey to the hospital.

  After driving through many city streets, we turned into the circular driveway that was fronted by large spruce trees. Sitting back about a hundred yards from the street stood the three-story gray hospital building sided by two smaller buildings. We pulled up in front of the main building and a nurse came out to meet us with a wheelchair. After getting Mother safely secured in her hospital room, Dr. Endicott escorted us to the visiting doctors’ headquarters to freshen up. We rejoined him an hour later for lunch in the large dining room. As we ate, I looked out the window. All that was visible was the front lawn and the other hospital buildings.

  “The river runs behind the main building,” Dr. Endicott explained, noticing my curiosity. “And the park, not far from here, has a view of the harbor.”

  “How far is the harbor?” I asked.

  “Not far, fifteen minutes by hansom—when there are no traffic jams.” He grinned at this assumption.

  “We’ve been traveling in vehicles a lot these past few days, a walk to the harbor sounds invigorating,” I said. “Can you point me in the general direction?”

  Dr. Endicott obliged. I thanked him, and as both doctors rose to leave, Trista Joyce spoke up abruptly. “If you have no objection, Dr. Thompson, I’m also feeling the effects of travel and would like some walking exercise. If you can spare me for a few hours, I’d like to join Mr. O’Donovan on his walk, if he'll permit me.” She looked at me hopefully. I bowed my acceptance.

  “Of course, Nurse Joyce,” Dr. Thompson said. “You’ve been working very hard. The fresh air will do you good.”

  John Endicott looked disappointed.

  Together, we left the hospital and walked along crowded streets until we came to the park. The rain had stopped and a warm mist hung in the air. We entered the park passing young boys engaged in baseball practice. Others unsteadily rode cycling machines along wet paths. Already the end of the rainstorm had urged other walkers outside. They greeted us casually as they strolled past. Before long, we came to the harbor road and stopped momentarily to watch fishing boats come in from the bay. A mixture of large and small boats stood moored along the pier.

  “It’s so different seeing the harbor from here,” Trista said. “Last time, I saw it was from the waterway. Autumn had already begun. Leaves were turning glorious colors, the way they do before trees shed them for winter.” She stopped to smell blooming delphiniums. “Soon, it’ll be summer. Where has the time gone?”

  I had not been alone with Trista since our first meeting the night I came home. She had been so timid then, and fearful. Mother was her primary concern and there had been little opportunity for private conversation. I had forgotten how soft her voice was and how she moved sensuously when she walked. As she looked at me now, her frank gaze let me know she was capable of dealing with me firmly should I behave unseemly toward her. She took her assignment very seriously. I noticed how tired she looked.

  A flower girl stood close to a park entrance and, on impulse, I motioned her over and bought a hand bouquet. Trista smiled when I gave her the small token of apology. No words were necessary; she knew the gift was a gesture of an unspoken truce between us. She held the flower close to her nose and inhaled its scent.

  Street vendors were staked out hawking their wares on the pier when we arrived there. People bustled about in all directions. Sailors in uniform hurried toward gangplanks of large ships, some pausing briefly at shoe stands to get their boots shined before reporting for duty. From behind a barrier, custom officers checked foreigners as they disembarked from incoming ships. The released immigrants were greeted by shabbily dressed young men who rushed forward, offering their strong backs for a price.

  Finding the shipping office, I asked the man in uniform where I might find Brazonhead. He looked in a book, and then pointed to the livery where Brazonhead was stabled.

  “You’ll be sailin’ on The White Lady,” the
man said. “She’s anchored out yonder, close to the bay. If you’d like to see her, I’ll take yer for a look.”

  “Yes, please,” Trista said, undisguised longing in her voice.

  We walked along the pier and the man pointed to a big white ship anchored in the Hudson River.

  “There she be,” he said. “She’s a beaut. One of the finest. Built in Liverpool she was, out of iron. Should make the voyage in under four weeks if the weather’s good. You’ll be sailin’ in three days’ time, soon as they load her cargo. She’s got nice cabins for gentlefolk like yerselves.” He smiled benevolently and then turned to stare at the ship again. “Yep, she sure is one fine lady.” His eyes had a dreamy look and he smacked his lips in satisfaction.

  Brazonhead turned at the sound of my voice. He was restless in his stall. I picked up a brush and began combing his coat, talking to him the whole time.

  “You care a lot about your horse, don’t you?” Trista said.

  “He’s a fine animal, a thoroughbred,” I said. “Father worked long and hard to breed an animal like him.”

  “What’ll you do with him in Ireland?”

  “Give him to Aunt Sadie. He's quite a runner.”

  Trista laughed. “Your aunt’s no horsewoman. She's a nun and a nurse.”

  “Nuns don't ride?” I asked, wondering again if Dan had been hasty in his generosity.

  “Sure they do, but only horses that are tied to carriages.”

  “Brazonhead’s a thoroughbred, meant to show his strength and grace. He’ll never be hitched to a carriage.”

  “I can see he's no common animal,” she said. “St. Bridget's has adequate stables and Gully Joyce is an expert groom and an ex-jockey. He'll see to it that your horse receives the attention he deserves.”

  I was relieved to hear this. It quelled the rising apprehension that Dan’s rash decision to send Brazonhead to Ireland had been a bad one. When he tied Brazonhead to the carriage, I was so filled with misgivings about Mother’s departure that I lacked the presence of mind to persuade him from making such a gesture. If Aunt Sadie accepted my brother’s generosity, only to have Brazonhead hitched to a carriage like some common steed, this would be a cruel fate indeed. I made a mental note that I should impress upon her what a fine animal he was and point out he was bred for racing purposes; not for common use. I must make her understand Dan’s sentiment that Brazonhead belonged with Father and Mother in Ireland because he represented their life’s struggle.