The Element of Fire. Brendan Graham

Ellen was sure the girl heard her, understood her even, but, for whatever reason, could not, or would not, reply.

      ‘We have to get you a name, child,’ she said, touching the girl’s face. ‘A name to go with those hazel-brown eyes and that pert little nose of yours. A name for America.’

      The deck was now getting crowded with sea-weary travellers, jubilant at the sight of land before them. Before she could progress things further with the girl, Mary ran at her all of a tizzy.

      ‘Is that it, is that Boston?’ she burst out, more like Katie than anything, unable to hold back the excitement the sight before them evoked. Patrick too arrived, his forehead dark and intense with interest, but not wanting them to see it.

      Ellen felt her own spirits quicken. Momentarily forgetting her quest for a name, she began pointing out places to them. ‘Look at all the ships! Remember, I told you. And all the islands, let’s see if I still have names for them?’

      Mary laughed at the strange-sounding names as Ellen tried to get them right.

      ‘Noodles Island, Spectacles Island, Apple Island and Pudding Point!’ she rattled off, pleased with herself.

      ‘No shortage of food here in America then,’ Patrick cut in, trying to deny them the moment.

      Ellen ignored him. ‘And that’s Deer Island! We’ll have to stop there for … for the people below, for quarantine … that they have no diseases,’ she hurried to explain.

      And their eyes were agape at the size and splendour of America, with its tall spires distantly spiking the heavens.

      ‘There’s the harbour way ahead,’ she pointed out, trying to distinguish the Long Wharf, ‘where we’ll dock. Beyond that is the State House and Quincy Market.’ They heard the quiver of recognition in her voice as she tumbled out the names, all foreign, all strange to them. ‘Further up is Boston Common – I’ll take you there.’ She hugged the three of them, this time leaving out the witches. ‘On the higher ground at the back – you can’t see it clearly from this far – is Beacon Hill, where once were lit the warning lights for the city if it was going to be attacked.’ She gabbled on, childlike, dispensing all she knew to them. ‘And there’s a place up there called Louisburgh Square – like Louisburgh back home – where we found –’ She stopped, looking at the silent girl in front of her. ‘Louisburgh – that’s it! That’s it!’ She laughed excitedly. ‘We’ll call her after the place where she was found, and the place she is coming to! Louisburgh – we’ll call her “Louisa”.’

      Ellen looked from one to the other of them. Mary smiled, nodding her head up and down. Patrick signalled neither assent nor dissent. ‘“Louisa” – it’s a good name, a grand name,’ Ellen went on. How easy it had been in the end – naming the girl. ‘It’ll suit her well! Oh, everything is working out fine! I knew it would once we came to America!’

      The silent girl, who had drifted a few paces off from them, sensing the commotion turned from looking at her new home, the place she was now being named for.

      ‘Louisa!’ Ellen took the girl by the arms, dancing them up and down with delight – like a girl herself. ‘Louisa – welcome to America!’

      The girl just looked at her, before turning her attention back to the sight of her adopted home, indifferent in the extreme to her new appellation.

      ‘It’s not even an Irish name,’ Patrick mumbled, more to himself than anybody.

      Ellen, nevertheless, heard him. ‘You’re right, Patrick … it’s not,’ she said sharply, fed up with his surliness.

      ‘It’s American!’

       7

      Lavelle was waiting on the Long Wharf for them. As they disembarked he waved, a big smile creasing his weathered face. It was easy to pick him out on the thronged jetty, his well-built frame setting him apart as much as the casual colours he favoured – a russet-coloured jacket; a wheaten homespun shirt – colours of the season. But he wouldn’t have thought of that, she knew, watching the bob of his head – like summer corn in the autumn sun. He never looked Irish, the way Michael did – ‘Black Irish’ with the Spanish blood. Lavelle always looked Australian, reminding her of the bushland, the baked earth, the wide-open spaces. She was pleased to see him, but nervous, none the less, about how the children might regard him. Of her own reaction to him she was clear. He was her business partner, her good companion. She would reinstate that particular relationship from today and that relationship only.

      He was restrained when he moved to greet them through the milling crowds, but shook her hand warmly.

      ‘Ellen, it’s good to see you again! You’re welcome back! And who are these fine young ladies and gentleman?’ he went on, unsure of how to deal with her return.

      She saw him stop for a moment as he took in Mary, looked for the missing Katie, then at Louisa, it not making sense to him.

      ‘This is Patrick,’ she intervened. ‘Patrick, this is Mr Lavelle of whom I spoke … and this is Mary,’ Ellen introduced the nine-year-old image of herself. ‘And this is …’ she paused as Lavelle’s gaze transferred to the silent girl, ‘… this is Louisa, who has come with us to Boston.’ She saw the question still remain in his eyes. ‘We had to leave Katie behind … with Michael.’

      He caught her arm, understanding at once. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ellen. So sorry – you’ve had so much of trouble … after everything else to …’ he faltered, unable to find the words.

      ‘Well, we’re here,’ she said simply. ‘At last, we’re here.’

      ‘And how is it in Ireland?’ Lavelle moved on the conversation.

      They would talk later of Katie and this girl Louisa who, when he made to greet her, seemed not to notice. him. She was deficient of hearing, or speech, or both, he thought.

      ‘Ireland is poorly,’ Ellen answered him, ‘Ireland is lost entirely.’

      ‘And what of the Insurrection – the Young Irelanders – we read something of it in the Pilot?’ he said, referring to the Archdiocese of Boston’s weekly newspaper.

      ‘The Insurrection failed – I brought you some newspapers, The Nation,’ she answered. ‘There was much talk of it in Ireland and aboard ship. I have little interest in it. Now we are here and Ireland is …’ she turned her head seawards, ‘… there.’

      He heard the weariness in her voice. God only knows what she had gone through to redeem her two remaining children.

      ‘Mr Peabody enquires after you frequently,’ he said, in an effort to brighten her up, knowing how much she enjoyed her dealings with the Jewish merchant.

      ‘Oh! And is he well himself, and the business – how is it?’ she asked.

      ‘Both Mr Peabody and the business continue to thrive,’ he told her with a certain amount of satisfaction, she noticed. Things must have gone better between him and Peabody, in her absence, than she had hoped for.

      The children were agog at Boston’s Long Wharf, stretching, as Mary put it, ‘from the middle of the sea, to the middle of the town’.

      ‘City,’ corrected Patrick, showing he was a man of the world, not like his sister who knew nothing. ‘It’s a city!’

      If Westport Quay swirled with all the varied elements of quayside life, then here, in Boston, it was as if the mixed ingredients of the whole world had collided together. Tea-ships, ice-ships, spice-ships. Syphilitic sailors, back from the South Seas, poxed and partially blind, bringing home with them ‘the ladies’ fever’ and the stale stench of flensed whales. In their midst stood sinless and sober-suited Bostonians cut from the finest old Puritan stock; anxious for merchandise, disgusted by this