A Roma Americae
Chapter 1 - March 5th, 1854
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"There 'tis, boys. Take a good look. A piece of the Faith right here in our own Washington," the gray-haired worker announced proudly, gesturing with the end of his pipe to the massive, pinkish marble stone housed in a dilapidated stonemason's shack on the project site. Behind the shack rose the beginnings of the Washington Monument, a 152-foot, tapered, vertical shunt with steam-powered cranes poking out the top like the collapsed rigging of a wrecked ship. Below were scattered many rough, randomly spaced sheds, housing everything from equipment to the workers commissioned to build the monument. A crowd of workers bunched around the gray-haired man in the doorway of one such shed, straining to catch a glimpse of the Pope's Stone. "Pope Pius IX himself sent it here. 'Tis a genuine block from the Temple of Concord, or so the papers say," the older man rattled on. The other workers jostled each othe roughly to get a look at the pink stone. "The inscription on the stone is in Latin. 'From Rome to America.' Kind of pretty, don't ye think?" The men nodded their heads and exchanged approving glances. Concluding his impromptu speech, the old man sucked in his stomach, pushed out his chest, and rocked back on his heels. He obviously enjoyed the attention and respect his knowledge afforded him. Unlike the other workers, seventeen-year-old Sean Ryan hung back. He shook his head and sighed. The old man liked receiving praise from the tourists and sightseers who occasionally prowled the grounds, gawking at the slowly rising monument to America's greatest hero. A cool breeze ruffled the unkempt, jet-black hair on the back of his neck, and the curly ends tickled his skin. He ran a hand through it, pushing it out of his green eyes, and then carried the motion through to rub the back of his neck. Sean wished that they could just get back to work. Looking past restless heads and shoulders, he stole a glance at the pink stone. The Pope had sent it, but Sean didn't see how that made it any more important than the other commemorative stones sent to the site. But the others did not seem to be in a hurry to leave, and Sean began gnawing impatiently on his lower lip. He had not felt comfortable around anything remotely religious in a long time. He and God had not seen eye to eye since his cousin, Michael - his only family in the world - had died. His disillusionment with the Church had grown so great that he had stopped attending Sunday mass, a grievous sin in the Catholic faith. This stone brought back memories he had tried hard to forget. Sean felt like someone was rubbing salt into his soul's unhealed wounds. But no matter how the stone repulsed him, Sean could not avoid it. He had attached himself to a predominantly Irish work crew to avoid becoming a victim of the rampant anti-Irish prejudice that had swept Washington and the rest of the country. However, the other Irish-Americans on the site did not share his bitterness toward religion. They eagerly pressed close to see the stone that the Pope had touched with his very own hand. Sean sighed inwardly, knowing that the excited workers would not easily be torn from the doorway. A sudden disturbance at the back of the group caught Sean's attention, as a dark-haired, clean-cut, middle-aged man wearing a vest and frock coat stormed through the gathered workers, shoving at work-hardened shoulders and stepping on booted toes, parting the men as roughly as a pickaxe. He recognized the man immediately: Thomas Maxwell, one of the leaders of the Monument Society and a very nasty man. The well-dressed man strode up to the door of the shack and slammed it shut, rounding on the workers before they could mouth a protest. His blue eyes bored into each of them in turn, and Sean saw an intense loathing in their depths. He straightened his well-made frock coat importantly, his deep brown top hat making him look taller than he was as he loomed over the throng. "What do we pay you for?!" he barked, raising Sean's hackles with his scathing glare. "Get back to work!" Burly men from other crews trickled over, their sweaty faces twisted with scorn at Sean and the other Irish workmen. Sean shoved his hands into his pockets and slouched away from the scene, toward the monument. The blue-eyed man stopped him. "You, boy," he said, grabbing Sean's shoulder with strong fingers, "give this to Gerald Holm." He thrust a wrinkled, travel-stained letter into Sean's hands. Sean frowned. "Gerald. . .?" "Holm! Are all Irish born stupid? Holm. That man over there." The man pointed to a well-dressed, stout man across the work site. Sean swallowed an angry retort and nodded obediently. He did not want to make a scene, knowing that the Irish workers would be blamed. He picked his way through the dispersing crowd. His cheeks burned as whispered mumblings of "filthy Irish" reached his ears from members of other crews. "We should really do something 'bout that stone. . ." Sean heard one worker grumble as he passed. "It's got all that Catholic blood stirring, as if just having the Irish around weren't bad enough." "Should just dump it in the Potomac, along with the rest of the Catholic trash," the man's companion agreed. "Lousy Irish. Taking jobs away from good, God-fearing men like us. Them and their popish idols should've all been drowned at Ellis Island." The two snickered and Sean's hands balled into fists. They acted as though he couldn't hear their words, but Sean knew that the real intent behind the exchange was to egg him - or one of the other Irishmen - into a brawl. Sean refused to strike back. Fighting would cost him his job. So he ignored them and all those like them scattered among the crews. Well, almost ignored. . . As Sean shouldered past, he purposely brushed into them, but not so roughly as to be an obvious provocation. Before anyone could react, he broke from the group and continued toward the monument, smiling to himself, feeling satisfaction in his small victory. Holm was engaged in a heated conversation with a tall, fair-haired man in a black suit when Sean reached him. Sean waved the letter, trying to get Holm's attention, but Holm only shot Sean a sharp look. Holding up his hand and scowling, he indicated that Sean should wait. Sean shuffled his feet impatiently and stared down at the mossy ground. He idly flipped the letter over, surprised to see that it was postmarked from Philadelphia. Philadelphia! The city where his cousin Michael had been shot and killed in an ugly confrontation between Catholics and Protestants. The fair-haired man's voice rose with excitement as he spoke, seizing Sean's attention. The sharp pain of thinking about Michael shifted to curiosity as Sean began listening to the exchange. "After that, we'll load 'em in the boat and then dump 'em!" the fair-haired man said, bending his knees, then rising as though straining to lift some heavy, invisible weight over a low barrier. The man's eyes gleamed smugly, like someone who had just won a fistfight. "Let's finish this later, Stephen," Holm interrupted, clearing his throat and tilting his head in Sean's direction. "Oh, yes, sorry," Stephen answered, coughing into a fist. Holm turned and snatched the letter from Sean. "I'm assuming this is for me from the way you were flapping it around," Holm said irately. "Now off with you! You just interrupted a very important conversation." "You're welcome," Sean muttered sarcastically under his breath, turning on his heel and stalking away. Lowering his head, he wondered what in the world could be so private about loading a boat. A pair of dusty but well-made boots suddenly appeared in front of Sean, and he stopped short. He slowly lifted his eyes to the angry face of Gregory Richards, the master stonemason he was apprenticed to. "Wipe that smirk off your face right now, young man! I saw what you did to those workers a while ago," Richards thundered. Sean swallowed hard. Gregory frowned down at him, his burly arms crossed over his bulky chest, muscle upon honestly built muscle bulging even when not slaving over the heavy stones he worked with every day. Sean's mouth went dry, and he gnawed the inside of his cheek, sweating under the silent disapproval in his Protestant father-figure's flinty eyes. Sean had never figured out why the man liked him. "I expect better of you, Sean," his mentor said quietly, the thick disappointment in his voice worse than any reprimand or physical punishment that Sean could think of. "Mr. Richards. . ." Sean explained defensively, "they do it to us all the time - and worse!" "But that's them, isn't it, Sean? You think that doing the same to them will solve things? That it'll make you better than them? Once you give in to that kind of hate, Sean, it consumes you. Hate builds itself like a wall around your soul. It stacks up, block by block, turning you away from the faith and the brotherhood our Savior taught." Sean's gaze faltered guiltily. "You didn't go to St. Patrick's for Mass Sunday last, did you?" Genuine sadness tinged Gregory's voice as his strong hands gripped Sean's shoulders. But the boy did not look up. "Sean, I fear for you. You've let this madness that's gripped the world build a wall between you and God. Every day I pray that you will discover a deep faith in our Lord and Savior." Gregory's voice softened suddenly. "You're like a son to me, Sean, but if you don't let God in, you'll end up walking through this life alone." Sean's eyes stung, but he stoically held back unmanly tears. He didn't want to talk about faith. Not after it failed to save Michael. "Why are you back so early?" Sean asked instead, evading the subject and hoping the issue would drop. Gregory closed his eyes briefly before answering. "Mrs. Sheppard from the boardinghouse asked me to meet someone at the train station, an Irish woman, fresh off the boat and come down from New York. Her name is Miss McDougal. That potato famine in Ireland's driving a lot folks to America. She came here to live with her family. Brought a young girl with her, too." He hesitated, gazing down at Sean as though searching for something. "No easy way to tell you this, Sean. She came to find Michael - family business she needed to take care of before going out west to Minnesota." "Michael?" Sean gaped, his green eyes wide with confusion, "but he's. . ." Wincing, Sean couldn't finish. Why was he being faced with reminders of the deadly riot everywhere he turned? Gregory chewed his lip, looking unsure. He continued slowly, as though debating something within himself. "Since she can't meet with Michael, I told her that I'd arrange a meeting with you - at Sheppard's Boardinghouse." Sean stared up blankly. "Now?" he croaked. Gregory nodded. "Now." From the grim look on his mentor's face, Sean got a chilling feeling that he would be better off locked in the shack behind them with the Pope's Stone than facing whatever awaited him at the Sheppard's. |