know him, though?”
Face as cold as the day, he shook his head. “They call him ‘Black Jack,’ for what that may be worth to you.” He looked atme with a strange light in his eyes. “As for knowing him . . . I’m not certain the fellow knows himself. Something of a rabble-rouser, I don’t doubt.”
“And where might I find Mr. Kehoe from County Wicklow? If I wished to set a question or two before him?”
This time, a pair of raindrops struck my face.
“He’s not of St. Kiaran’s,” the priest said. “I believe he makes his home somewhere east of Pottsville. To the extent Kehoe has a home. He’s something of a rover. Always calling around on Irish business. That’s all I can tell you.”
He turned toward his parish house again.
I rushed up behind him, unwilling to let him go, now that he had told me at least one thing. The slope and the change in the weather gave my leg a nasty time. Strange it was, for my leg had grown much stronger. Twas as if my body sought to warn me, to tell me I should leave well enough alone.
The priest strode up the hill, determined to leave me behind him, and good riddance.
I stopped at a stab of pain and shouted after him. “And Mrs. Boland? What about her, Father Wilde?”
When he turned that final time, he had mastered his features, becoming again a priest and not a man.
“I pray for her each day,” he said. The wind was such I had to strain to hear him. “As I will pray for you, my son.”
And he showed me his back with a firmness beyond dispute. Stalking up the hill he went, toward his church and the ramshackle house full of books that sat beside it.
He left me alone on the hillside. The rain come up, and I turned me down toward the fidgeting deputies. On my way, I nearly stepped on the dead cat. Twas orange, as I recall.
FIVE
“NEVER SEEN NOTHING LIKE IT. NOPE, I AIN’T. WAY they cut that feller’s heart clean out.”
The speaker was one Mr. Lennie Downs, a teamster who drew on the county payroll and whose fingers had an affinity for his nose. The rain fell in veils and curtains as the afternoon yearned toward evening. I shared the driver’s bench at the front of the wagon, while the navvies huddled, wet to the bone, in the open bed behind us. Protected by India-rubber capes, the deputies slumped on their horses. Mr. Downs had been speaking without pause, even as his fingers conducted their meaty investigations of his nasal passages. It is a nasty habit. He was undeterred by the downpour that come over us and delighted by the doings back in Heckschersville. For Mr. Downs was a man who liked to talk, and now he had a fine, new tale to tell.
I feared I would be mocked back home in Pottsville.
Tucked into my cape, but sodden little the less, I had lent the teamster only half an ear. Most of what Mr. Downs recited was gossip or common complaints about the Irish miners. But when he spoke of a heart cut out, I leaned over toward him, struggling to hear clearly through the rain.
“What did you say, Mr. Downs? About a cutting up?”
He used his free hand to jick the reins and urge the mules along, for they were not enamored of our climb. We had taken the high road known as the Thomaston Turnpike, a muddy, rutted track no longer used for haulage. The coming of the railwayspur had robbed the pike of its purpose, and now it was only a short way down to Minersville for those who could afford to risk an axle. We passed between the remaining trees and gashes where the coal had been stripped from out-croppings in the hillside. Our climb was slow and miserable, and the closer we got to the summit, the less inclined the mules were to cooperate. They shied, as animals do when they grow wary.
“Just saying as how I ain’t seen nothing like it. No, sir. They didn’t just kill that there general feller. Chopped him up between the teats like he was beef for a stew. Yes, sir. Just like beef for a stew. Wasn’t that feller just a sight to see! They cut him up like he
Face as cold as the day, he shook his head. “They call him ‘Black Jack,’ for what that may be worth to you.” He looked atme with a strange light in his eyes. “As for knowing him . . . I’m not certain the fellow knows himself. Something of a rabble-rouser, I don’t doubt.”
“And where might I find Mr. Kehoe from County Wicklow? If I wished to set a question or two before him?”
This time, a pair of raindrops struck my face.
“He’s not of St. Kiaran’s,” the priest said. “I believe he makes his home somewhere east of Pottsville. To the extent Kehoe has a home. He’s something of a rover. Always calling around on Irish business. That’s all I can tell you.”
He turned toward his parish house again.
I rushed up behind him, unwilling to let him go, now that he had told me at least one thing. The slope and the change in the weather gave my leg a nasty time. Strange it was, for my leg had grown much stronger. Twas as if my body sought to warn me, to tell me I should leave well enough alone.
The priest strode up the hill, determined to leave me behind him, and good riddance.
I stopped at a stab of pain and shouted after him. “And Mrs. Boland? What about her, Father Wilde?”
When he turned that final time, he had mastered his features, becoming again a priest and not a man.
“I pray for her each day,” he said. The wind was such I had to strain to hear him. “As I will pray for you, my son.”
And he showed me his back with a firmness beyond dispute. Stalking up the hill he went, toward his church and the ramshackle house full of books that sat beside it.
He left me alone on the hillside. The rain come up, and I turned me down toward the fidgeting deputies. On my way, I nearly stepped on the dead cat. Twas orange, as I recall.
FIVE
“NEVER SEEN NOTHING LIKE IT. NOPE, I AIN’T. WAY they cut that feller’s heart clean out.”
The speaker was one Mr. Lennie Downs, a teamster who drew on the county payroll and whose fingers had an affinity for his nose. The rain fell in veils and curtains as the afternoon yearned toward evening. I shared the driver’s bench at the front of the wagon, while the navvies huddled, wet to the bone, in the open bed behind us. Protected by India-rubber capes, the deputies slumped on their horses. Mr. Downs had been speaking without pause, even as his fingers conducted their meaty investigations of his nasal passages. It is a nasty habit. He was undeterred by the downpour that come over us and delighted by the doings back in Heckschersville. For Mr. Downs was a man who liked to talk, and now he had a fine, new tale to tell.
I feared I would be mocked back home in Pottsville.
Tucked into my cape, but sodden little the less, I had lent the teamster only half an ear. Most of what Mr. Downs recited was gossip or common complaints about the Irish miners. But when he spoke of a heart cut out, I leaned over toward him, struggling to hear clearly through the rain.
“What did you say, Mr. Downs? About a cutting up?”
He used his free hand to jick the reins and urge the mules along, for they were not enamored of our climb. We had taken the high road known as the Thomaston Turnpike, a muddy, rutted track no longer used for haulage. The coming of the railwayspur had robbed the pike of its purpose, and now it was only a short way down to Minersville for those who could afford to risk an axle. We passed between the remaining trees and gashes where the coal had been stripped from out-croppings in the hillside. Our climb was slow and miserable, and the closer we got to the summit, the less inclined the mules were to cooperate. They shied, as animals do when they grow wary.
“Just saying as how I ain’t seen nothing like it. No, sir. They didn’t just kill that there general feller. Chopped him up between the teats like he was beef for a stew. Yes, sir. Just like beef for a stew. Wasn’t that feller just a sight to see! They cut him up like he
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