With Great Sorrow: Paddy Series, #3

By Lisa Boyle

Massachusetts, 1861. The American Civil War has been raging for almost a year when Emmett joins the 28th Massachusetts Infantry with the promise of serving his country under the green flag of the Irish Brigade. But soon he finds himself struggling to reconcile the piles of dead Irishmen with his own motivations for fighting.
 
In Lowell, Rosaleen seizes the opportunity to write for a newspaper funded by Boston's business elite. She needs to convince the Irish of Massachusetts that emancipating the slaves is inevitable and just. When letters from Emmett stop coming, Rosaleen cuts a deal with a powerful businessman that will take her deep into the underbelly of wartime economics in New Orleans.
 
Told from dual perspectives, the third book in The Paddy Series is the story of a family forced to choose between what they thought was right and what they know is irreplaceable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Boyle
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781736607749

Lisa Boyle

Lisa Boyle has been writing stories for as long as she can remember. Born and raised in Finksburg, Maryland, Lisa received a bachelor's degree in journalism and a bachelor's degree in international affairs from Northeastern University in Boston, Massachusetts. As part of her college program, Lisa traveled the Middle East and spent two months reporting on political and human-interest stories. She has been published in various online publications and magazines, and has held many different jobs over the years from cheesemonger, to educator at the U.S.S. Constitution Museum. Lisa and her husband Tim live in North Carolina with their daughter and a goofy-looking mutt named Lloyd. Signed, A Paddy is Lisa's first novel.

Book preview

Rosaleen

Chapter One

DECEMBER 1861

My husband smelled of cut logs the day he left for war.

I can handle that, son, Mr. Joyce had said, but Emmett kept on doing the things he felt needed to get done. The logs were last on a long list of tasks. Hats and coats and gloves were purchased for Steven and I and Mr. Joyce—even though only Steven needed new ones, having outgrown last year’s. School fees were paid. Wills were drawn. The cellar was stocked.

As he paraded down Merrimack Street with the rest of his regiment, he glanced over his shoulder every few paces, his forehead creased with concern. He had forgotten nothing, and still, the piece of himself he was leaving behind—the piece that belonged to Steven and to me—it pestered him. I could see it in his raised shoulders, his clenched jaw.

He put on a smile for us at the train station, trying to joke with Steven—to make him smile just a little bit—until the last minutes. Though our son was only six years old, he was usually a serious boy. But more so today. Sometimes, I wondered if he got it from Mr. Joyce.

Take care of Cocoa while I’m gone, Emmett said.

Yes, Da, Steven said.

Make sure you give her the best scraps of ham while your ma isn’t looking.

He winked at me, and I gave him a faint smile. It did nothing to hide the tears streaming down my face. I hugged him tight and inhaled him deeply. That was when I smelled the pine.

Come back to us, I said, quietly.

Before you even get a chance to miss me, he replied.

I already miss you, I said.

I pulled away and watched his smile waver. He coughed away the tears and sobs that threatened to come and squatted down to talk to Steven.

You’ll be brave, won’t you? he asked our boy.

Steven nodded forcefully.

And you’ll be good for your ma? Help her around the house?

Steven nodded again. Emmett brought his hand to Steven’s face.

All will be well, Emmett assured him. Steven grabbed Emmett’s hand and kissed it.

I know, Steven said. You’ll beat them.

Now, Emmett’s eyes finally filled with tears, and he gave a true smile this time.

That we will, he said. That we will.

He stood again, took my face in his hands, and kissed me one last time.

Off I go, then, he said, quietly. I held his hands for just a moment, keeping him rooted. I studied his face. It grew more handsome with each passing year. At twenty-seven, I felt I could already see myself aging. Wrinkles around my eyes. Softness around my waist. Yet, Emmett’s features only seemed to become more refined. Stronger. Or perhaps it was simply my love for him that had solidified.

The sky was particularly blue that morning. The striking blue of early winter. It matched his eyes perfectly. I sniffled and buried my selfish want to hold him there forever deep into my chest. There was nothing more to say. We had already shared our deepest fears and greatest confessions, lying in bed together over the past couple of nights. I nodded and let him go.

He boarded the train without us, not looking back at all. I felt like a young girl again, watching him walk away from me when we’d first arrived in America. I wanted to run after him. To bang on the train’s doors. To scream. But instead, I stood on the platform with Steven. Quiet. Watching. The other wives and children and parents and brothers and sisters did the same. We all wore the same look of poorly hidden and all-encompassing fear. I recognized most of those faces. This was an Irish regiment, after all.

This was not Lowell’s first send-off parade. The Yankee troops had left back in April, along with a few Irish militiamen, and we’d foolishly thought that might be all. Emmett was slightly disappointed to be missing out on the fun.

You’re far too old, I told him, half in jest. Those early regiments were full of much younger men. Hardly men at all.

Lowell had been among the first Massachusetts towns to sacrifice men to the cause—before any battles were even fought. These men had been killed in the riots in Baltimore, and their widows lived among us. After the battle at Bull Run, we were all shocked at the carnage. And the casualties continued to climb. Now, men of all ages enlisted. More and more regiments formed each month.

Still, these send-offs were meant to be joyous occasions. Bands played marching tunes. Children cheered from the sidewalks and waved American flags. Dignitaries spoke of the soldiers’ bravery, the strength of the Union, the noble cause. Emmett and I didn’t need reminding, but it surely boosted the spirits of those many others who’d required a great deal of convincing in the first place.

For a long time, Steven and I stood on the platform, gazing at where the train had been.

Finally, Steven said, Ma, you’re squeezing my hand awfully hard.

I let go right away and scooped him into my arms instead. He was too old to be held, but I felt an irresistible need to protect his small body with my own. He let me for only a moment before pushing me away. I put him down.

Don’t you worry, Ma, he said, once back on two feet. He straightened his jacket. Da is smart and brave. And he promised us he would come home.

I looked at his earnest expression. He believed it with every ounce of his being—like only a child could. He gave me a smile just big enough to show the dimples his da had given him. His eyes were Emmett’s, too, sincere and deep blue. But his hair. His unruly black hair was all mine, and I loved it. Unlike the rest of Steven, his hair rebelled no matter what I did.

I looked around for Mr. Joyce. He had come, too, although he had hung back when it was time to say our goodbyes. Like a da for so long to Emmett and me, Mr. Joyce was now like a grandda to our son. I found him sitting on a bench with Nessa’s da. She’d been here, too, to see Quinn off, but now she was nowhere in sight.

Afternoon, Mr. McHugh, I said, greeting them both. Steven rushed to Mr. Joyce.

Did you see how gallant Da looked? he asked, eagerly.

Mr. Joyce nodded. I’ve never seen a soldier so handsome as your da. The sight of him will probably send those rebels running.

Steven beamed. I think so, too.

Where did Nessa go? I asked Mr. McHugh.

Oh, you know that new baby of hers, he said. Always fussin’.

I shook my head in sympathy.

Do you think she could use some help this afternoon?

Mr. McHugh grinned.

If I were you, I’d stay as far away from that place as you can, he said. Besides, her ma is helping her today.

I laughed, but I felt bad for Nessa. So many of us women had lost a baby or two, so she received little support and was often simply told to be grateful. Loud cries meant healthy lungs.

The problem is, that baby’s got opinions like Nessa, her brother Brian had said once. Only she can’t talk yet.

Though I chastised him, he was probably right.

The four of us walked back to the Acre, then—Steven and Mr. Joyce ahead, Mr. McHugh and I trailing behind.

It’s good we’ve got more strong Irish lads fightin’ now, Mr. McHugh said. He coughed, and his chest rattled a bit. All those years working on the railway were catching up to him. That’s what this war needs. We’re braver than those Yankees. And tougher, too. Even the president says so. The Irish will fight, he says. We proved it at Bull Run. If we can rally in the spring, we’ll push those rebel boys back for good.

Do you think so? I asked.

Oh yes, said the man who’d praised those rebel boys only a year ago.

Like most of my neighbors, Mr. McHugh was very much against secession but unsure about abolishing slavery. It was protected by the Constitution, after all. They wanted the South to understand that it had been wrong to secede. To come back into the Union, tail between their legs, so we could all go about our business once again. But it couldn’t be that way. The South’s insistence on owning slaves and forcing the rest of the states into not merely tolerating but supporting the despicable practice, meant that things could never go back to what they had been. Slavery needed to end with this war. The abolitionists knew it. I knew it. But most of the rest of the country—including the Irish—weren’t ready to hear it.

Chapter Two

Emmett had enlisted months ago, but the regiment didn’t have enough men to fill it until December. They wanted Irishmen. In addition to the regiment that had left in June, there were to be two more Irish regiments from Massachusetts. But even after Thomas Francis Meagher himself came to recruit, there weren’t enough men. So, the Irishmen who enlisted in Framingham for the 29th Regiment were instead included in the 28th to create a single, complete Irish regiment. They were to be part of Meagher’s Irish Brigade, and nothing could stop my husband from joining. Not even my worry. Not even his own ambitions to become a city councilor.

I understood his enthusiasm more than I cared to admit. We had attended Meagher’s speech in September. Steven sat on Emmett’s shoulders at the rear of a packed event hall. I watched beads of sweat creep down both of their necks as we listened to Meagher convince the Irish to fight. To fight for and beside the men who had treated us—and treated him—so poorly for so long. Still, we had risen. Slowly but surely. And we would continue to rise. Only here, in America, was that possible. If democracy failed here, where would it survive? If there was any hope for self-rule in Ireland, we must first prove that it could exist here. We could not let the Southern aristocracy break from the Union simply because they weren’t getting what they wanted. They mustn’t be allowed to tear at the fabric of democracy.

Besides, England favored the South, which meant there was a possibility that we could fight them, too. If not in this war, then afterward. We would train now. We would start with the traitors in the South and then move on to the occupiers of our homeland.

The Irish were roused. Their patriotic fervor was deafening. Many of the things Meagher said that day, I had said before. Paddy had said them before. But coming from a real, in-the-flesh Irish hero, those words meant so much more. I felt my heart swell with pride. Tears came to my eyes. Emmett danced around the hall while he waited to sign his name to become a soldier, and Steven, still on his shoulders, clapped and laughed. I would have signed up that day, too, if they had let me. We all felt proud. Proud to be Irish. Proud to prove our worth.

And so, I ignored the sinking feeling in my stomach. Was I to let the man who had brought me back to life sacrifice his own? I couldn’t even think of it. Like the other women left behind, I put one foot in front of the other and ignored reason and likelihood.

I had made plans to be in Boston for Christmas. To take Steven and Mr. Joyce and celebrate there. Mairead would feed Cocoa. Mr. Joyce would complete all Christmas orders before we left.

Emmett and I had bought a house on the outskirts of the Acre not long after starting our work with the city. Our wages were much higher than they had been at the mill and machine shop. At first, I was appalled by how high they were. A few years later, we convinced Mr. Joyce to leave his work at the canals and do what he truly loved. We bought him tools and cleared out the small shed that sat opposite the privy behind the house, and Mr. Joyce began taking orders to fix broken chairs, tables, dressers, desks. Soon he was honing his carving skills, engraving beautiful designs into chests and cradles. Now, he was the most sought-after carpenter in all the Acre. Though he was no longer doing the backbreaking work of a laborer, he kept his strong, broad physique, and the contentment he found from his new profession made him appear more at ease than he’d been in his younger years.

It was only a week till Christmas when Phillips asked to meet. His note was brief, as always. At first, Phillips and I had only met in empty parks, the backs of churches, at the train station. But eventually, he grew to trust me and I him, and now we met at his home study.

When Phillips had presented himself as the fixer for the mills all those years ago, I could never have imagined just what that meant. But once I was folded into his operation, I got a glimpse at how important his work was to the Boston Associates—the mill owners. He shielded them from scrutiny, solved problems before they even arose, obliterated obstacles from their business paths. He shielded me and my secret, as well, quelling any whispers of my true identity. Though this meant there were some topics that were now completely off-limits to Paddy, I was surprised by just how much criticism of the mills he did allow. Paddy’s voice needs to stay authentic, he always said.

I walked briskly down Middlesex Street toward Phillips’s neighborhood, wrapping my arms tight around myself to brace against the biting wind. A wind tunnel always formed at the crossing of the three streets ahead of me. My nose tingled, and my cheeks stung. I knew Emmett was still in Boston, still at Camp Cameron, and I wondered if he was warm enough.

Phillips’s enormous house sat at the very end of the street, overlooking the Merrimack River. It was overly ornate in every way imaginable—just like Phillips. I knocked on the door using the iron knocker shaped like a buffalo. I smiled to hear light-footed steps. The door opened.

Maggie! I cried, stepping into the foyer. We embraced before she took my coat.

Rosaleen, she said. Come in from the cold, although I already had. Maggie was nearly old enough to be my ma and sometimes fussed over me as if she was. Her dark-brown hair was streaked with gray and always pinned back to perfection. She was a bit plump in a way that someone who was paid well could be and muscular enough to move large furniture all on her own. She squeezed my arm.

How are you doing? she asked. I shrugged.

As good as is to be expected, I suppose, I said. And how are you? I don’t believe I saw you at the train station.

She sighed.

I was there, she said. We were all a bit distracted, weren’t we?

I nodded.

Emmett will look out for John, I said.

Maggie gave me a grateful smile. I know he will.

John was Maggie’s son and barely eighteen years old. He had been eager to join up. The boy was full of energy and optimism, and Maggie was powerless to deter him.

We shan’t keep him waiting, though, Maggie said, gesturing toward Phillips’s study.

He’s eager to see me, then? I asked.

Oh yes, she replied.

I walked to the study and tapped lightly on the closed door.

Please, Phillips called from inside. Come in.

Chapter Three

I sat in the emerald-colored chair across from Phillips’s desk. At first, he did not look up. His dark hair shone with pomade, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose. His mustache was perfectly groomed. He was hunched over a newspaper: The Boston Pilot. Even upside down I would have recognized the paper anywhere. I loathed its editor, and yet, it was him I had to thank for recruiting more Irishmen to fill my husband’s regiment.

Donahoe, I said. Phillips nodded, still reading.

What vile things is he printing now? I asked.

One side of Phillips’s mouth curled. Oh, you know, he replied. The usual. You’re aware of how upset he was when Butler declared escaped slaves contraband of war.

General Benjamin Butler had recently told Confederate officials directly, under a flag of truce, that he considered slaves who made their way to Union lines to be contraband of war. Therefore, he would not turn the enslaved back over to the Confederates when they sought refuge with Union troops. If they were indeed property, as the Confederates insisted, then they were our property now. To do with as we pleased. So, we freed them. It had caused quite a stir.

Phillips sat back in his chair, pulled up his newspaper, and read: ‘The white men of the free states do not wish to labor side by side with the Negro.’

He scanned down the page a bit and then read again: ‘Not one volunteer in a hundred has gone forth to liberate the slaves.’

I . . . I started, but Phillips held up a finger.

One more, he said. You’ll like this one best. ‘Nineteen of twenty Negroes will not accept emancipation, because they love their masters as dogs do, and plantation life is the life nature intended for them.’

He set the paper down, eyes sparkling in anticipation.

That man’s head is stuck so far up his own arse, I am shocked he can do so much as dress himself in the morning, let alone run a newspaper. He is a detriment to all of society. I sighed. But you know my opinion of him already.

And how would you like a chance to respond? Phillips asked. Perhaps it is time we shift our efforts toward the Irish community in Boston.

I raised my eyebrows. And how would we do that? I asked.

"The Boston Associates’ new newspaper, The Commonwealth, he said. I’ve convinced them to publish Paddy. We need a voice from the Irish community."

That’s the newspaper furthering the goal of emancipation, isn’t it? I asked. He nodded.

Correct. We need to convince—and prepare—the people of Massachusetts to accept the inevitability of emancipation.

And why do the Boston Associates care so much for the slaves’ freedom? I asked. Weren’t they still partnered with slaveholders only a year ago?

Phillips smiled again. He always seemed to know what I would ask and still reveled in me asking.

Indeed, they were, he said. But you must not forget Bleeding Kansas. Where did all of John Brown’s weaponry come from? The man, God rest his soul, did not have the means to procure it himself.

My mouth hung open. Are you saying the Boston Associates funded the abolitionists in Kansas?

Phillips said nothing, but his smile grew.

But why? I asked.

Truthfully, because free labor is more profitable than slave labor, and it is better for the spirit of a free society as well. Slaves can’t purchase goods.

I shook my head. If free labor is more profitable than slave labor, why are there still slaves?

He had clearly anticipated this one, too, because he immediately tore into his explanation.

Because slave labor is still wildly profitable, he answered. It’s the only way Southerners have ever done it, and they must cling to the ways that have brought them such enormous power and wealth. They are afraid of losing that. But surely it is better to pay a man wages for his work and allow him his freedom to do with those wages as he pleases. Those wages will come back again and again when he buys clothes for his family, new furniture for their home, a railway ticket. Those wages will come back to society. Back to all of us. This is the spirit of a free people. We can settle for nothing less. We must not allow these Southern men to stifle the growth of this country.

He certainly knew more about the economics of it all than I did, and it clearly wasn’t a moral matter for him.

Why now? I asked. Why didn’t they put a stop to it before?

Because, had we tried, we would have been in danger of being cut off entirely from our cotton supply. Which would have shut down this whole city and harmed all the workers along with it, he replied. "But the Boston Associates have always been against the spread of slavery. Now, we can crush it for good."

I grinned. If only I had known this whole time that you were an abolitionist.

Phillips laughed heartily.

I have no opinions other than the ones I’m told to have, he said.

I looked around his study. At the books. At the large paintings of Montana.

And your idealization of the West? I asked. Were you told to have that?

He smirked and, ignoring me, slid a blank paper across his desk. I have thought of some arguments in favor of emancipation that might grab the attention of the Irish.

I picked up his pen and dipped it in his ink. I listened to what he had to say as though I did not listen to the Irish every day in our pubs and parlors. Still, Phillips always had valuable insight.

Taxes, he began. A nation-wide wage labor system would reduce taxes. The working Irish subsidize slavery when they pay taxes on anything. Alcohol, pigs, tobacco. Clearly slaves don’t pay taxes, but their owners aren’t paying taxes for them, either. At least not what they should be. Remind them of that.

I wrote it down.

Donahoe loves to talk about the Constitution, Phillips went on. The Constitution allows slavery. He falls back on that every time he runs out of ideas.

I nodded. I had yet to find an argument around that one.

Tell the Irish of constitutional amendments and how they have benefited from them. Most of the Irish were not here—were not even born—when the last amendment was passed.

Do you think there could be an amendment outlawing slavery? I asked.

He nodded but said, "It’s doubtful. But they don’t need to know that. What they need to know is that these things can be changed. It’s the beauty of a democracy. If the people are in favor of change, then change can occur."

But the Irish appreciate the assurance that the Constitution brings, I said. That some king or queen can’t make their life hell simply because they want to. They like that the Constitution provides the correct way of doing things.

Of course, Phillips said. The Constitution exists to protect the people from an oppressive government. And that is the reason for amendments. Those can only come from the people. In this case, it would protect the people from the South holding the economy hostage.

I nodded slowly.

And . . . anything else you can think of, he said. Become Paddy.

I chuckled. Paddy is a clever man. He’ll think of something.

I’ll need that by the fifteenth of January, he went on.

I stood up. I’ll see you then, I said. Happy Christmas.

Phillips had already moved onto something else, writing intently.

Happy Christmas, he murmured, absently.

Chapter Four

We awoke early on Christmas Eve to catch the train. The world was still dark and sleeping as our shoes clopped against the cobblestones, and occasionally a bird tweeted a greeting. None of us spoke.

Mr. Joyce’s mind was probably still poring over the rocking chair he had completed yesterday. Thinking of the way the chair curved, the special design of the armrests, and knowing that it would fit little Lizzie Ryan perfectly and bring her joy on Christmas. He might have been thinking of church, too. Feeling some sadness that he would miss Christmas Mass at St. Patrick’s.

Steven was excited. He couldn’t wait to see his Boston family. Miss Susan, who always bestowed gifts upon him and made silly faces when she thought no one else was looking. Marie, Gil, baby Jane, and Levi. Levi was considerably younger than Steven, but Steven still loved to play with him, being kind and gentle, teaching and leading. Lydia, Zeke, Angel, and Eliza. Who all always taught him something he hadn’t known before. But most of all, his Uncle Ronan. Not truly his uncle, but still, his very best friend and closest confidant.

As for me, I was busy trying to think of anything but Emmett. If I did, I might cry, and it had only been two weeks without him. It was far too soon to be crying.

Steven lagged behind to walk next to Mr. Joyce, and I heard their quiet voices behind me just as we reached the railway station.

The train came exactly on time, and we chose seats near the front. Steven took the window. He hadn’t stopped talking to Mr. Joyce. He rarely talked so much.

As we pulled into Boston, the day began to brighten. Although the sun wasn’t visible yet, it was stirring. Before we disembarked, Steven put on his kepi cap that looked just like the one his da had worn the day he left.

The walk to Ronan’s was noisy. There was chatter on the streets, and men strode by with morning newspapers tucked under their arms, in a hurry to get to wherever they were going. For most Yankees, Christmas Eve was still just another day.

I watched Steven knock on Ronan’s door and remembered another little boy who’d stood at that same door, but much less eagerly. It startled me to think they were the same age—this little boy and that one. But then, the door opened, and the young man who appeared reminded me of just how much that first little boy had grown. Ronan’s face was sharp now, his hair parted on the side, grazing the tips of his ears. He grinned at Steven, grabbed his coat, and hurried out the door.

On the sidewalk, he squatted to get level with Steven.

Happy Christmas, lad, he said.

Happy Christmas, Uncle Ronan. Steven hugged him. Da left for the war.

Your da’s a brave man, Ronan said. It was a kind thing to say, considering how I knew Ronan felt about the war.

Will you go, too? Steven asked.

The corner of Ronan’s mouth curled into a smile.

There won’t be any fighting left to do once your da’s through with ’em. He looked at me and stood. I grinned and hugged him tight.

Happy Christmas, Ronan, I said. How are you doing? You look wonderful.

He hugged me back. Happy Christmas, Rosaleen. When he pulled away, I studied his face. He