Woman with a Past

Excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE



New York

September 1828



Rude laughter followed Molly Ryan out the front door of Tatum’s Bar, just off the long wharf in Schenectady, and she stood on the rough-sawn planks of the porch for a long minute, seething with shame and anger.

It shouldn’t have been that way. It shouldn’t have been that way at all.

She’d done no more than ask if anyone knew of a man named Danny Brennan on the canal and the canalmen had no call to suggest the things they had. If she’d been a man there’d have been a fistfight in there that would make Donnybrook Fair look like a church social and, by God, she’d have taught those Dubliners some manners.

But she wasn’t a man, more’s the pity. She was a mere slip of an Irish woman. Proud and headstrong, true enough, but she’d never been afraid of a little common decency. She didn’t have that coming.

She glanced around at the early autumn sky, just showing pale salmon over the treetops to the east, let her fists relax, and shook her head in disgust. She’d been told about these canalmen. A rough lot. Carousing and fighting all the way to Buffalo and back, but she hadn’t expected them to be so crude to a God-fearing girl who was simply trying to find someone.

Still irritated, she turned at the soft shuffle of footsteps behind her and frowned at the tattered old man pushing his way through the batwing doors of the bar.

“Beggin’ your pardon for what took place inside, miss,” he slurred. “I wasn’t a part of it, you know.”

She arched an appraising eyebrow at the man, him with his Dublin accent and smelling of stale beer. There was no hiding the angry edge to her voice.

“What do you want?”

“Well, now, if you’re after findin’ Danny Brennan, mayhap I can help. He’s a friend of mine.” He nodded his tousled, gray head in the general direction of the canal. “Over there on the ditch, he is, and leavin’ in about an hour.”

The words stunned her.

This time yesterday she’d walked through the sally port gate of Bellevue Penitentiary, on the muddy bank of the East River, after serving six years for a crime she didn’t commit. When the outer gate clanged shut behind her, there had been only one thought on her mind. Finding little Michael.

Six years to the day it had been since she’d left her son with Mary Lonigan, a woman she knew slightly from work. She hadn’t been comfortable with Mary’s promise the boy would be taken care of while she served her time but, truth be known, there hadn’t been much choice. No one else had offered help and the Tammany-appointed peelers had been in no mood to wait.

She’d had news of Michael a few times—whenever a new girl from the Lower East Side was brought into Bellevue—but the news was never good.

It was common knowledge around the old neighborhood that the Lonigans had their own children to care for, their own mouths to feed, and they’d put the boy out on the street after only a week.

Three years old with no one to care for him, no way to fend for himself, and they’d put him on the street.

The very thought of it boggled her mind.

And the Lonigans had moved away to the coalfields of Pennsylvania, so she wouldn’t even be able to face them about it.

It was also common knowledge that a man named Danny Brennan felt sorry for the boy and had taken him out of harm’s way. Feeding him, clothing him, raising him as his own, and God knew that took some doing down there.

She was grateful someone cared enough to do that, of course—what woman wouldn’t be?—but Michael was her son and she wanted him back.

The last anyone knew of this Danny Brennan, he’d gone north to the Erie Canal and had taken little Michael with him.

She’d spent the very last of her money on the overnight ferry up the Hudson, anticipating a long, exhausting search up and down the length of the canal trying to locate the man who had her son. Learning he was here, send a shockwave of dizziness surging through her.

“He’s here?” she gasped. “In Schenectady?”

“He is, that.” The old man nodded his head toward the canal again. “Right over there in front of Feldman’s warehouse. Askin’ about the cook’s job, are you? I hear tell he’s needin’ a cook.”

For the second time in less than a minute his words staggered her and she had to do a bit of play-acting to hide it. The cook’s job?

A sudden jolt of reality swept over her then as she realized she did indeed need a job—and a place to stay—if she was to have any hope at all of regaining her son and supporting him. This sudden revelation could be a chance for her to secure both. It was the first ray of hope she’d had since she walked away from Bellevue.

Still, she rankled at the insults she’d received inside the bar and couldn’t contain her anger.

“A cook, is it?” she muttered. “Sure he’s not looking for a doxy?”

The corners of the old man’s eyes crinkled with his smile and he chuckled half under his breath. “Nah, not Danny Brennan. He’s got no shortage of girls. And can you cook, now?”

“Have you ever known an Irish girl who couldn’t?” she asked, lifting her chin defiantly.

Somehow, his craggy smile relaxed her. “Arrah, perhaps you’ve found your spot then. It’s a line boat, now, not a packet.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Greener than new grass, aren’t you?” he said with a blatant stare. He fingered the frayed collar of his coat, which puckered under the arms as if it were a few sizes too small. “A line boat carries passengers and cargo both, miss. It means you’d be cookin’ for fewer people.”

“And what kind of man is this Danny Brennan?”

He rubbed the stubble of his beard and squinted into the distance as if searching for a plausible answer. “Good lad, he is. Not much older than you, I’d say, but runs his own boat and treats his crew kindly.”

Unexpected hope bolstered her courage then and she stood a little straighter. “Leaving in an hour?”

“Aye, so you’d best shake a leg. First boat in the queue, it is. The Rose of Kinsale. Tell him Digger sent you and he owes me a meal.”

With as much aplomb as she could muster, Molly picked her light carpetbag up from the porch and gave the old man a soft smile. “I’ve naught to repay your kindness with, sir, but I do thank you.”

“Don’t worry your head about it, miss,” he said with a wave of his gnarled hand. “Old Digger’s got lots of friends.”

“And you can count me as one more.”

Digger nodded his understanding and shoveled his fingers at her. “Go now. The Rose of Kinsale, it is.”

She watched his thin back as he padded down the steps to the wharf, turned toward the sunrise in that halting step of the aged, and felt her heart go out to him. Poor man. He looked as if he’d done his share of hard work in life, and this was his reward? Reminded her of her da, he did, in their little cottage outside Cloghane, but at least he’d had family around when he got old and feeble.

She turned toward the canal again, threw back her shoulders, and started walking.

Huge freight wagons loaded with crates of merchandise and household goods, drawn by the largest horses she’d ever seen clopping along on hooves the size of her head, rumbled past as she strolled across the wharf. Seagulls wheeling overhead cried raucously into the pale morning sky and, from the canal, came the long, drawn-out sound of horns and the braying of mules.

“The Rose of Kinsale, is it?” she asked of no one. “And Danny Brennan with no shortage of girls and leaving in an hour.”

A steady parade of carriages from the village trundled onto the dockside by the time she got there. The drivers unloaded trunks and carpetbags, families gathered near their belongings, and runners from the various boats flitted among them, hawking the advantages of sailing with them.

“Best accommodations on the canal,” one called. “Four days to Buffalo and only four cents a mile.”

“And we charge only three cents a mile,” another interrupted. “Think of the money you’ll save by sailing on the Cayuga Queen.”

“Aye, and think of the dysentery you’ll get at their table. The Flyer, folks, that’s the only way to travel.”

She ignored the runners, shouldered her way through the crowd to the top of the gray, stone steps leading down to the water, and felt her eyes go wide in sudden surprise.

She’d heard of the canal, of course. Everyone had. Clinton’s Big Ditch, they were calling it, and it was said thousands of people traveled it. New Englanders and Germans heading west and those who had given up coming back. Still, nothing she’d been told had prepared her for the spectacle spread out before her.

Boats of all colors floating on their reflections, a line of warehouses with windowless fronts, rising smokes shot with gold, the voices of men calling each other in languages she couldn’t understand, and the heavy, homey smell of potatoes.

A boat passed beneath her and she found herself staring at the tall, light-haired people on the cabin top.

“Hunkers,” a man said behind her. “Damn fool Swedes.”

But they had the light of hope in their pale blue eyes and Molly respected that.

After a long moment of taking it all in, she let her gaze settle on the first boat in the queue. That was where Digger had said it would be.

Dingy white, it was, with rub rails painted fire engine red. She could read the name clearly from where she stood. Rose of Kinsale, with the heavy rudderpost jutting up squarely in the middle of the name.

A small cabin stood at either end of the craft, with a third, longer one, in the middle. The two deck spaces between the cabins were stacked to rooftop level with crates and barrels, shiny plowshares and coils of wire, all apparently bound for the west.

She stared at it for several minutes with a sense of wonder and enlightenment. So that was where her son lived. That was where he’d grown up.

She’d tried to visualize it a hundred times lying on the hard floor in Bellevue, trying to imagine what her son’s life would be, living on a boat and going up and down the canal several times a year. But there was so much about it she didn’t know that she’d never been able to conjure up anything realistic.

The entire scene—the boats, the dark water gurgling by, the roustabouts loading cargo—was alien to her, and, strangely, she felt the coppery taste of anxiety rise in her throat.

This was the moment she’d anticipated through six long years of incarceration yet she knew she wasn’t ready for it. Nothing she’d heard from the other women in Bellevue had served to calm the quaking in her stomach. Nothing took away the uncertain trembling in her hands. She wasn’t at all sure she could do this.

How could she tell the boy she was his mother? How could she take him away from the only life he had ever known?

And what his reaction to her would be weighed heavily on her mind. She couldn’t make herself believe it would be some giddy kind of happiness at seeing her. So what, then? Disbelief? Mistrust? Maybe even a little anger?

Still, it had to be done.

She took a deep breath, exhaled heavily, and started forward again.

Picking her way through the melee of roustabouts, she fell in line behind a man in a dusty black frock coat and followed him up the ramp to a table on the narrow side deck of the boat.

A heavy shouldered man seated behind the table held the stub of a pencil over a ledger and never met her eyes. “Name?”

“Molly Ryan,” she replied. “I’m looking for Danny Brennan.”

His dark chocolate eyes jarred her senses when he finally looked up and she was suddenly, painfully, aware of her appearance. Her hair hadn’t seen a brush in days and she still wore the frumpy brown housedress they’d given her in Bellevue.

“That’d be Captain Danny Brennan to you, miss. And that’d be me.”

She attempted a smile in response, absolutely sure it didn’t look genuine. “Oh. Well. Begging your pardon, Captain, sir,” she stammered. “A man calling himself Digger sent me over here. Said you’d be needing a cook.”

“And you can cook?” His eyes held a sudden interest.

“I can, that.”

“Are you any good?”

She glanced around at the line of passengers behind her, then turned back to the Captain. “No one’s died of it ... yet.”

His quick smile warmed her and she suddenly understood why he had no shortage of girls. He was a man to make any girl proud. Broad shouldered, fair to look at, and apparently had a good sense of humor.

“And what can you cook?” he asked, shielding his eyes against the rising sun. “Stew and praities? Or can you fry eggs and meat as well?”

Molly planted her fists on her hips and leaned toward him, ready for a fight if that’s what he wanted. “Well, now, I’m no fancy French chef, mind you, but I can cook anything you’ve got.”

The captain threw his head back and laughed out loud at her retort. A deep, rich laugh that made her want to join in. “I’m not quite sure how to take that, miss. With a temper like that, you should be a redhead.”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m not. Just a simple brunette from County Kerry.”

“Kerry!” he barked. “Well, that explains it then. Always hated fighting Kerry men. Feisty lot, they are. Never know when to quit.”

“Could we hurry along, please?” the man in line behind her interrupted. “I’d like to get settled on board.”

The captain cut his eyes sharply up at the man and there was no trace of humor in his voice. “If you’re in that much of a hurry, sir, there are other boats in the queue. If you’re not, then stow your gob.”

Molly worried her lower lip with her teeth waiting for an answer. She needed this job but didn’t want the captain to know how badly. Her whole future could depend on it.

“Well?” she prodded. “Are you needing a cook or not?”

“One question only, Miss Molly. Are you looking for work or a free ride to Buffalo?”

“Steady work,” she said, “and you won’t be sorry you hired me.”

“Good enough. I pay thirteen dollars a month and found.”

The offer stunned her. Thirteen dollars a month with room and board thrown in? That was half again what women were earning down in the city. And she’d be close to Michael. Every single day. She’d be an absolute fool not to accept.

“I’ll take it,” she answered quickly.

The captain nodded his acceptance and turned to the crewman behind him. “Clancy, would you be showing Miss Ryan to the cook’s quarters? Introduce her to the galley on the way. This lot will be wanting to eat in about four hours.”

The slope-shouldered crewman swept his hand toward the rear deck with an exaggerated flourish and started away. “Right this way, miss. We’ll have you squared away in two shakes.”