Chapter Thirty-One
“The rope is too short, Joseph,” Ian called out across the water. “If I tie the ends here, it’ll still not reach the fence.”
Joseph rubbed his gloved hands, trying to get the painful cold out of them. “Is there anything over there you can tie it to, just for now?”
Ian could always splice more rope to its length, if only they could keep the blasted thing attached to both banks. For nearly a week, he and Ian had been attempting to devise some means of getting supplies across to the stranded Irish. And for nearly a week, everything they’d tried had failed. They’d tried floating baskets across on those days when the ice didn’t extend from bank to bank, but they couldn’t control how the baskets traveled and most simply rushed off downstream to be lost. Even guided by the waterlogged ropes, most baskets had taken on water or been tipped over by the strong currents. And for the past two days, ice had been covering the entire width of the river, but it broke at the slightest weight.
“There aren’t even any bushes around here.” Ian stood looking about. “If we can’t get the rope to Keefe’s fence, we might as well be spitting against the wind.”
“Is there enough there to tie to another length of rope?”
Ian cupped one hand around his mouth while clutching the rope with the other. “Seamus! We need more rope. I’m close, but I have to have more length.”
Seamus set down the latching hook he was whittling and rushed up the road. All the Irish men who knew how were whittling devices to hook baskets to the rope. The women were weaving the baskets. If they could only manage to get the system of ropes and pulleys working, the baskets could be pulled across without needing to even touch the fragile ice.
“Papa?”
Joseph turned at the sound of Emma’s voice. “You’re supposed to be eating your dinner, sweetie.”
She came up next to him, snuggling into his side. It was far too cold for such a little thing to be out. “Is Katie here yet?”
Of course Emma was watching for Katie. He should have known she would be. He’d been covertly looking for her himself.
“Not yet.”
As if his words summoned her, Katie reached the riverbank directly across from where they stood. Tavish moved from his extended family group to stand next to her. Joseph envied him. He was there with Katie, while Joseph could only look on from across the water.
I could use your calming presence, Katie.
“Katie looks cold, Papa.”
“She does, indeed.” The coat she wore—the one he’d given her weeks earlier—was better than what she’d had but still insufficient for the brutal winters in Wyoming. He wished he’d left her his warmer coat. He’d been trying to think of a way to get her one of her own without offending her pride. He’d never have guessed something as drastic as this would get in the way.
“Katie doesn’t like being cold,” Emma said.
Joseph hoped she was wearing her thick woolen stockings. At least her feet would be warm. Though she’d sworn they didn’t hurt, he’d seen their gnarled, scarred state and couldn’t be certain she wasn’t hiding her pain.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Archer.” Finbarr rushed over to him, blankets draped over his arm. “Emma slipped out before I could stop her.” He jerked his head toward the river. “She wants to hear Miss Katie play her fiddle.”
Joseph could understand that. Katie had come to the river every evening since the bridge had burned and played for her neighbors as they worked. Though they claimed to simply wish to be on hand to help should something be rigged up, Joseph guessed Katie’s music had as much to do with their nightly return as anything else. They worked faster after her arrival, even in the bitter cold.
Finbarr spread out a blanket for Emma and himself to sit on. Joseph, as always, would continue working and moving about. He would listen, but he wouldn’t rest. He checked Emma’s coat and scarf and tight-knit cap before wrapping her as tightly as he could in one of the blankets Finbarr had brought out.
“If she starts to shiver,” he told the boy, “even just a little, you take her inside no matter her protests.”
“Yes, Mr. Archer.”
Across the river, Katie sat on a blanket of her own. Tavish draped another blanket over her shoulders.
That won’t do a fat lot of good. It’ll fall off as soon as she raises her arms to play.
If she’d been on his side of the river, he’d have found her a coat, no matter how big or mismatched. He would have found something that would stay on despite her movements. Katie shouldn’t be cold. Not ever again.
She looked out across the river. Not at Finbarr. Not at Emma. Directly at him. He hoped she was smiling underneath the thick scarf that she had wrapped around the lower half of her face. He waved at her, not caring that his very real attachment to her was obvious in the gesture. He missed her so deeply after a week of nothing more than brief conversations shouted across the river. He missed her with every beat of his heart, with every breath he took.
Katie waved back, then pulled the mitten from her left hand.
His stomach had tied into knots every evening watching her play. Her bare hands must have hurt terribly by the time she finished each night.
The strains of her violin filled the air around them. Conversations hushed. Eyes turned in her direction. Relief filled the weary faces. Katie offered them all a gift with her music. She gave them peace and a balm to their troubled hearts.
He checked the ropes and the branches they were looped over. A couple circuits of the small stand of trees satisfied him. Things were secure. There was little else he could do on his side of the river.
He leaned against the tree nearest the banks and just listened to Katie’s music. She had a gift. And the joy she took in the music filled her to the point that no one looking at her could possibly miss it. He could easily picture her sitting in any of the grand concert halls in New England, listening to a symphony. She could likely outplay any of the musicians that graced those stages. She had every bit as much talent as any of them; she simply played a different kind of music.
I would take you to those concert halls, Katie. I would take you there every night if I could.
He would give her the world if she wanted.
“Joseph!”
When had Katie stopped playing? And why was she shouting to him?
She pointed toward Emma. “Tell Emma to keep her hands under her blanket. She’ll freeze her fingers clear off.”
Emma complied even as Katie called out the instructions. Finbarr shot him an apologetic look.
Joseph called back across the river. “You should keep your hands covered as well.”
Katie shook her head. “I can’t play if my hands are tucked away.”
“You can’t play if your fingers ‘freeze clear off,’ either, Katie Macauley.” The entire Irish gathering cringed in unison at his mispronunciation of her last name. He didn’t butcher it as badly as he once had, though. “I’m doing better,” he told them all.
The laughter and good-natured ribbing he received from the other side of the river went on and on. It was good to see them smiling. Seamus Kelly, who in previous disasters would have spent every moment calling for revenge and focusing his neighbors’ minds on their anger, was joking along with them. No one could miss the anger that yet simmered in his expression; neither did Joseph doubt Seamus still intended to retaliate in time. But seeing the man set his anger aside, at least a little, was encouraging.
“There is nothing quite like Irish laughter, is there, Mr. Archer?” Finbarr grinned, looking across at his countrymen.
“You are a happy group; that is indisputable.”
He watched them interacting and enjoying each other. Biddy brought Ian a cup of coffee. Tavish laughed with his younger sister. Neighbors helped one another, working together. They were freezing and facing hunger, and still they smiled and joked and laughed.
“Joseph.”
He didn’t recognize the voice until he looked over. “Good evening, Reverend Ford. What brings you around?”
The preacher looked across the half-frozen river. “The feud that has torn apart this town has gone on too long,” he said. “It is time, I think, that I made a stand for peace rather than fanning the flames as I too often have.”
It said something about the state of Hope Springs that hearing a man of the cloth speak of choosing to side with peace and goodwill was so shocking.
“I’m pleased to hear that,” Joseph managed.
“Jeremiah is sending supplies in the morning so the Irish can get what they need once you’ve worked out a system.”
“Jeremiah Johnson?” Joseph stared. He’d seen a softening in Mr. Johnson’s behavior toward Katie, but he hadn’t expected such an overt show of support for all the Irish.
Across the river, the crowd stood perfectly still, watching Joseph and the preacher. They couldn’t hear what was said, and they looked worried.
He turned back toward them, calling out, “The mercantile is sending supplies tomorrow. If we can get this working, you’ll have what you need.”
Cautious cheers accompanied their looks of hope.
“There has been too much hurt and harm here,” Reverend Ford said. “I wouldn’t listen when Miss Macauley scolded me for my part in it. She was the first to point out that I had an obligation to do more. She was right.”
“I’ve discovered she usually is,” Joseph whispered.
Across the river, a wave of activity rippled through the Irish camp. The promise of supplies gave them the extra push they needed to forge ahead with their efforts even as the temperature continued to fall.
Katie took up her instrument again, choosing a livelier tune than before. Her fingers had to be absolutely frozen. That sent his thoughts momentarily to Emma. He glanced over. Finbarr had pulled her up close to him, rubbing her arms. He was a good young man, the perfect protective older brother to Emma and Ivy. The adoration in Emma’s eyes every time she looked at the boy spoke volumes. Her tender heart had latched on to him from the very beginning.
“The Johnson boy brought this back from the depot.” Reverend Ford handed Joseph a sealed envelope—a telegram.
“Thank you.” Joseph tucked it into the pocket of his coat. He would open it later.
“I have never heard Miss Macauley play the violin,” Reverend Ford said. “She is very talented.”
“That she is. I have heard her music many times, but it still amazes me.”
“Does she often play for them?”
Joseph nodded. “Every week at their parties. She played while she lived here. She played nearly every night that my girls were going to her home during the day.”
Reverend Ford stood watching and listening, his brow pulled tighter and more deeply furrowed than Joseph had ever seen it. The man was seeing Katie clearly for the first time. Had he chosen to disregard her because of her public scolding of him? Toward how many other Irishmen in town had he been just as blind?
“Ian O’Connor has spent hours every day trying to get this rope system worked out, despite still being plagued by pain from the beating he took. Seamus Kelly lost most of his blacksmithing equipment when his shop burned down—likely by the same people who burned the bridge—yet he’s working himself to exhaustion whittling what he would otherwise have forged to help in this effort.”
He watched the effect his words had on the preacher. Amazement, wonder, and something very much like discomfort.
“They take turns tending each other’s children while groups of Irish come work. They endure the cold so there’ll be enough people here in the very instant we find a way to get supplies to them. I’m glad to hear that the supplies will be coming soon, but the weather is turning—we can all feel it. Perhaps as early as tomorrow it will be too frigid to spend so much time exposed to the elements, but the river won’t have frozen solid enough to safely walk on. They will be trapped.”
Reverend Ford’s gaze turned to him, clearly troubled. “The Irish haven’t been entirely innocent in this feud, you know.”
“I know. Both sides have done their share of provoking the other.” He held the preacher’s gaze, hoping Katie’s example of selflessness and his own pointed words would finally get through. “It’s gone too far this time. Families have lost their homes. People are stranded without supplies. Matthew Scott was beaten into unconsciousness and tossed into a barn, all for trying to stop this”—he motioned to the skeletal remains of the bridge—“from happening. Lives are in danger now, Reverend.”
They stood for a drawn-out moment in silence. The sounds of work and low conversations floated over the water, Katie’s continued playing adding depth to the scene.
“Do you think, Joseph, it would help if I spoke to the Red Road? Reminded them of their Christian duty? Of their
human
duty?”
Joseph nodded firmly. “I am certain it would.”
“And surely they don’t wish to see more families evicted.”
How Joseph prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
Though Matthew’s injuries had left his memory too vague to know who had attacked him and set the bridge afire, Joseph was nearly certain it was Bob Archibald. The man had been served an eviction notice after the brawl in the streets and given ten days to be out just as all the others had. If Joseph could have proven Archibald was responsible for this act of arson, he would have revoked the grace period and seized the property immediately.
With Johnson no longer stirring up the Reds, and Seamus, at least for the moment, not on the warpath, Archibald was the biggest threat to the possibility of peace. If he could be taken out of the equation, they might have a chance.
The reverend stood with a look of deep uneasiness on his face. “I should have taken a stand against this sooner. I should have.”
“But perhaps it isn’t too late.”
Reverend Ford seemed to square his shoulders. “Would you be willing to host a meeting, of sorts, if I called one? Your home has been a place of neutrality, more even than the church, I’m sorry to say.” He did, in fact, look ashamed of that. “If even some of those on the Red Road were willing to come and listen, perhaps we could change things before the situation grows even more dire.”