A Special Providence

By Mitchell Ryan

The year 1865 finds Edward behind the lines during the Civil War, where he finds his fatally wounded brother and watches him die, then buries him in the new land.

Edward is the owner of a bar and gambling hall in Ohio 1882. An ambitious man, he takes the opportunity to enter politics in Cincinnati. He must give up the woman he has been keeping, for she will taint his new life.

Now in 1899, in a loveless marriage to the daughter of a political boss, he banks everything on a mayoral campaign and loses. The birth of his second son, Charles, only serves to further trap him in despair.

Charles’s story begins in 1917. He is eighteen years old and studying his heart’s desire at the Art Institute of Chicago. He is called home by his father, Edward, to serve with his brother and enlist in the Army in World War I. He cannot be protected by his deeply upset mother. He goes to war, giving up his dream of being a painter.

In 1925, Charles is a reporter working for a daily newspaper in Chicago doing a story about bootleggers. On an impulse, he goes to visit the art school that he left years ago. He receives a phone call that his father has died and goes home to Louisville. While there, he reads that his reporter partner has been murdered by the gangsters they were investigating. Charles breaks down and is comforted by his brother’s wife, Molly, with whom he has always been in love.

Eight years later, in the middle of the Depression, Charles is penniless and out of work and is seeking the haven and warmth of the local library. He falls in love with Genevieve, a retiring young woman who is flattered by his attention. He sees her off to her family for Christmas. Then after visiting the whore whom he sees occasionally, he decides that he must change his luck, change his life, and marry.

In 1939, Charles is a salesman in Louisville. He is married now with two children who are strangers to him. The city is under a plague of starlings. He feeds birds from his office window then goes to a museum, where he often escapes, to see a Vermeer.

He talks with Natalie, the curator who has befriended him, and is unsettled by how much of himself he reveals. Unused to the intimacy, he gets drunk and finds that the police are shooting the starlings.

Sickened by the slaughter, he goes home and begs forgiveness of Genevieve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662447976

Book preview

Chapter 1

Edward Ryan

Ireland, 1864

The fog enclosed him like a prison cell. He heard voices all around and was aware of shadows moving then disappearing. Through the gray watery fog, he was not able to see his brothers somewhere farther back on the bluff. Down below at the debarkation center, he listened to the shouts of the crew loading and readying the ship to leave.

His brothers had tried in vain for months to tell him he must go to America: two brothers there and all the opportunity in the world. He at first kidded them about their insistence, but they kept on. Then that morning, when he told them in anger that he was not going, his mother said in a quiet voice, I’ve stayed out of this, but I must speak. It’s better for you to go.

He backed up a step, staring into the fire in the huge hearth, seeing the things that he loved about the house he had helped build. A log broke and rolled out on the hearth. Nobody moved. Nothing. Nothing. Then a sickening cold wind covered his heart, and his anger melted into stunned silence.

His mother came to him in the low stone room that served as living, dining, and sitting room and took him by the arms. It’s the only thing to do.

He wouldn’t look at her and tried to move away, but she held him tight.

It’s the only thing to do, you must, to save yourself and make a life. Going to America is for the best.

He stood rooted, looked at his father. The old man had been struck by some strange brain fever that had left him almost catatonic. He pulled away and went in front of his father.

America? the old man muttered.

Looking at the ashen face and cloudy eyes under drooping lids that stared blankly at him, the son searched his father for help, for some human feeling, for some sign. There they stood, the old man and the boy.

America! The old man pulled himself up, went to the closet, returned, threw the boy his old leather bag, and hit the boy a blow in the chest, then pushed him away. All lost, lost, dead! Dead!

Be quiet, old man! his mother yelled.

The father fell into his chair. Lost, dead, dead, I say!

Edward dropped the bag and fled out the front door.

Edward’s mother ran at her husband. He’s your son, old man! Your son!

Then she stumbled to the door and pulled it open. Edward! My boy! Edward!

The lad ran down the lane as the rain beat on his face, leaped over the stone fence, sped away to the field, and sat in the rain.

Back in the house, she turned, looked down at her husband, her face like stone. You beast!

He started to shake. Woman… he gagged. Remember who I am… Dead, I say!

The shaking becoming violent. His wife went to him and knelt down by the chair and put his head on her shoulder. He seemed to fade, and his head fell on her breast.

*****

Back at the Cobh debarkation docks, Edward found himself sitting in the mud high on the bluff, holding his knees, not understanding why he was here at the end of the world. Anger and resentment had again taken hold of him so that he had to swear and spit and wipe the dribble from his mouth. His life was being taken away, and the surge of murderous thoughts of revenge for the moment shook and terrified him.

When his mother touched his cheek, he had looked away, afraid to show the betrayal he felt, afraid to stand against them, his brothers and his mother, so he hadn’t seen the terror in her eyes, the sadness and heartbreaking despair that bled through her eyes, for he never looked into her eyes. Mother and son had missed seeing each other, and they would never have that chance again.

The fog had begun to clear like a curtain being raised, and he could see the pale red sun as the warm rays began to dry the mist. He thrashed forward and made his way toward the strangely silent sea at the edge of the bluff.

Looking down at the ghostly ship that had arrived in the dense fog, like a silent demon from the deep, he thought, I’ll go, but to hell with them all.

Standing in a sea of mud, aware of the families breaking up their camps—gathering their belongings, full of bustle and life, laughing with their children—his rage descended into self-pity. He watched as a crowd of ragged men and boys worked their way up and down the treacherous road to the quay. Beyond them, he could see his oldest brother, Liam, wrapped in a wool coat, standing in the mist like a king of ancient Ireland as he looked out to sea. His other brother, Thomas, seemed distracted, fussing with Edward’s seabag.

A light rain began and filtered below the gray clouds hanging low over the bluff that swept back from the quay. The driving Atlantic storm that had battered the coast for a week had finally stopped.

Reluctantly, he let the mystery of the ship slowly draw him as he moved to the edge of the promontory. Through the masts and rigging, he watched as the clouds beyond began to open to a thousand shades of blue and green that streaked the horizon.

The ship was held fast by heavy cables as she moved gently with the tide. He had never seen a ship this big. He watched the men scurrying back and forth from the dockside up into the ship, with dark heavy crates for the long trip across the sea to America.

A sea voyage, he murmured, as he peered down the sheer cliff.

The salt spray rippled across his face. Looking back at his brothers, he knew they would be leaving soon to go back to the farm. He thought of James, his dearest brother and friend who had gone off to America the year before. A satisfying melancholy flooded his being at the thought of his brother. The bond with James was the strongest of all the brothers. An involuntary grin filled his face.

Liam waved for Edward to come. Edward turned from the bluff toward the lean-to and saw a different kind of sea: thick pasty mud that made walking an ordeal. The makeshift walks of loose planks had long ago disappeared into the mud.

He came back to the flimsy shelter. Christ, I don’t want to leave. He picked up the brown leather bag to get his new boots. It takes three days of mumbo jumbo to get all these people on the ship, a deckhand told me.

Thomas threw down a coil of rope that was used to tie the seabag. Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop bellyaching, you can’t go back now. You’re going. You’ve got to, by Jesus, you’ve got a ticket.

Liam put his hand on Thomas’s arm and picked up the rope. Just tell him he must go.

Liam took the boy by the hand, and Edward shook it off. We’ve been over this a thousand times, Edward. I know it’s hard, but it can’t be helped.

Edward took his new boots and headed for the road down to the ship.

I don’t want to go. Edward rushed past the ragged line of men and boys that had formed all the way to the top of the bluff.

Thomas and Liam gathered up Edward’s seabag and the leather suitcase their father had given him. Thomas started to break down the lean-to.

Liam stopped him. He’ll be needing this if it does take several days to get on board.

I’ll go get him.

I’ll do it. Liam went after his brother.

Edward walked down the mud road past the immigrants, all the way to the beach north of the quay. The weathered ship was off to his left growing three tall masts, with thousands of ropes hanging from the cross spars with the large hull of the boat looking low in the water.

A young woman at the shore was using a large flat rock to wash her scant belongings. Edward paused, then sat on one of the many large boulders that had a good view of the young woman. Her red hair kept falling in her face. She would stop her washing, look at him, smile, then push the locks back behind her ear.

He tried not to watch the rhythm of her body, but that was almost impossible. She looked over at him, and he ducked his head. Once when she caught him watching, he held her eye for an eternal moment and broke out in a cold sweat. He jumped off the rock and walked down to the shore.

Suddenly he realized he was alone in the world, and he began to pace back and forth, looking toward the ship, rubbing his face. He picked up one of the millions of rocks from the rocky beach and threw it into the ocean. Picked another one and flung as far as he could, then another.

You don’t want to go, do you?

Startled, Edward looked back at the woman, who stood with her hands on her hips, red hair spilling over her face and shoulders. To him, she looked as soft and fierce as an Irish goddess.

Sure, I want to go. He threw a rock that fell short of the ship.

She picked up her basket. It looks like we’re going to get started soon if your rock throwing don’t sink the boat. She was both laughing and turning. It will be much better on the ship. At least we’ll be dry. I’m at the top of the hill to the left, me and my brothers. Come and see me. We won’t leave until tomorrow.

Yes, I will. He watched her long back and the swell of her hips swinging up to the road.

She turned, smiled back at him, tossed her hair, and moved into the crowd.

He looked down at his hands that were black with grime, with red welts on his skin from the constant dampness. His clothes were soaked, and his shoes leaked and were near falling to pieces when he took them off. Then he washed his hands and feet in the cold ocean. The fine mist continued until his brother found him.

His brother Liam hunkered down beside him. Neither said anything for a while. Two men crouched on the edge of the world looking at a ghost ship.

Looks like it wouldn’t make it up the Liffey from Dublin. I don’t wonder at you’re not wanting to go.

Edward slowly pulled on his boots. New boots!

Look at it practically, Ned, you must go. You’ll have James and Ebon. There’s nothing in Ireland for any of us. It just gets worse. You want a trade, don’t you, or a farm of your own. You’ll never get that here, and if the United States government will give you a hundred and sixty acres, my god, think of that. Liam stood up. Come on, Ned, you’ve got new boots, give it some heart, it’s time to be a man.

Walking down to the water, Edward threw his old shoes as far as he could into the sea. I’m going. But I don’t like it one bit. Did we drink all the whiskey last night?

There’s a drop left.

They faced each other for a long moment.

I’ll surely miss you, Ned.

I’ll write.

Liam put his arm around Edward’s shoulder as they climbed back past the long line of tired bodies, with the spark of America and the promised land glinting through their desperate faces.

Edward tried to say goodbye to Thomas, who was already turning away, saying, Ned, don’t forget us when you’re in the wilds of America.

Edward looked at Liam, his face tight. Liam gave him a hug. The boy held him for a moment, his face against the rough wool of his brother’s coat. Liam gently let him go and walked away.

Edward watched his brothers out across the field past the ruins to the road north, getting smaller in the distance. At the road, they turned and waved.

Edward raised his arm and held it up until they disappeared. He swallowed hard and sat down on his suitcase. They were gone. He was alone.

The rain stopped. The sun came out low in the west: red, pink, orange, and green, arms of color shooting across the sky.

Are you all right, son? A sweet motherly face with steel-gray eyes looked down at him.

Yes, I’m all right.

Would you like some tea?

No, thank you. Can you watch my things?

Surely, my dear. Your brothers are gone.

They’re gone.

You miss your family, poor boy.

Suddenly embarrassed, Edward stood and walked toward the road down to the quay. It was wet and slippery. The great seawall built of stones a thousand shades of gray and blue jutted out at a right angle to the ship. He watched the sailors working on the deck and rigging.

Calmer now, he climbed up the narrow steps at the side of the wall and sat. The ship moved slightly up and down, back and forth, like a large animal waiting to be let loose. It brought a sudden excitement that gripped his body and dissipated his hurt.

As he rubbed the smooth stones of the seawall, he watched the sailors shouting and laughing as they went up and down the plank. The wind picked up, and he could smell the salt air.

He jumped down and walked toward the Molly May pub on the dock. He heard the loud talk through the window and saw the rough men drinking and laughing. Someone started to sing up the road in a sweet, young voice that carried out over the now-lovely evening. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he pushed them down with a grunt that brought bile to his mouth. He spat it out and smashed his fist into the side of the wooden shack.

Here’s your things, said the woman. They told us we won’t board till tomorrow.

He picked up his belongings, looked in her open ruined face, then, uncomfortable, moved away from her without a word.

He stopped and turned back. I’m sorry, I…thank you.

That’s all right, son. Don’t worry. We’ll all do well in America.

The lean-to was still up. He crawled into it and lay on his back with his head at the edge so he could see the sky. The storm was over. He watched the stars come out as the night came floating down.

Chapter 2

War

1865

He lifted the dead weight under the arms, the other soldier gripped the knees, and they carried the body out of the hospital tent and dropped the dead boy on the canvas.

Private Edward Ryan retched from the rotting gangrene seeping out of the damp blood-soaked wound in the chest and moved away as fast as he could toward a forgotten wheat field beyond the tent. The wind was harsh yet scented with the promise of early spring, and he could see the trees in the wood beyond beginning to bud. New life, but if the forest froze tonight, the trees would die with all the rest.

This war would kill all.

He turned, knelt down, and looked for a long time at the face of the dead boy, who was not older than himself. When the smell of gangrene slapped him again, he wanted to run away—fed up, sick of the Army, of death and broken bodies. This place was hell. No doctors, only volunteers and untrained nurses doing their best, tending to these men. The untreatable and dying from the battles around Petersburg were sent here.

He started to help his partner, who was already sewing the boy into the canvas. Then they threw the boy into the wagon and watched death roll away.

The Sixty-Third New York regiment was camped in a low valley thirty miles west of Petersburg, Virginia, supposedly to serve as a rearguard in case General Lee tried to break out to the west. But they had heard the war was over, so all they did was bury the dead. The platoons took turns.

That’s it, we’re done here. The other boy started toward the tents. Let’s eat.

Edward stood looking at the trees across the field, then started back to his tent. Splashed water on his face from a pot hanging over the fire, then went through the flap of the tent and curled up on his cot. The freezing wind ripped through the trees, rattling the tent, sounding like a large bird taking off.

His hands were numb, and the small fire at the front of the tent was more smoke than flame. There was the sound of heavy guns in the distance. If the war was over, what was all the shooting about? He reckoned that he could get shot dead easier now than during a battle.

The Wilderness Battle, as they called that slaughter, was a distant memory, yet he dreamed almost every night of the maimed bodies burned to death by blazing trees and underbrush, and that day in the Wilderness, he had found his two brothers after months of searching, only to lose track of them when the divisions were called forward into battle.

Now he lay on his cot and watched the rats scurry out of the hole in the tent he had never fixed. He tried to let go and give in to the sickening tiredness in all his bones, but he was too exhausted to even close his eyes.

You fucking nigger, a rough voice outside the tent. Because of you, I get my ass shot at. You better be grateful.

Edward waited a moment then sat up when he heard a loud wail that moved him off the cot. Outside the tent, he saw a bluecoat pushing a small black boy while another soldier stood by laughing.

I hope you’re grateful. Tell me how grateful you are, you black baboon. He shook the terrified boy.

Another boy sat on the ground, terror on his blue-black face.

Edward charged down the slight rise. Stop!

The two soldiers turned.

The tall one continued to manhandle the lad. The shorter one spit, Stay out of this, mick.

Stop! Goddamn you!

The short one, with filthy greasy hair and few teeth, turned to him. I said stay out of this, you nigger-loving Irish scum.

I won’t stay out of it. You’re cowards, picking on a dumb kid.

Well, Bill. The first soldier spat into his hand and looked up the rise to where Edward stood outside his tent. What do you say we pickle the Irish nigger, see how he likes it?

They dropped the black boy and turned toward Edward.

Why had he come out of his tent? More than once he had gotten into trouble for fighting. Three or four soldiers had moved to the mouth of their tents to watch.

As the two heroes of the great Union Army moved up toward Edward, he smashed into the tall soldier and knocked him backward to the ground, Edward on top. He hit the stunned man in the face. Blood spurted onto his hands, and he hit him again.

Meanwhile, the short soldier was kicking at him, but Edward grabbed his leg and threw him to the ground.

Stop!

It was the major.

Edward and his opponents jumped to their feet as the bystanders disappeared. They looked up to see the major looking ten feet tall at the hospital tent, the silver buttons on his spotless blue uniform shining in the sun.

You men got nothing better to do? I’ll ream your ass if you don’t stop. Ryan, get over here.

The tall toothless bully flashed his hopeless mouth. We’ll fix you later, you mick son of a bitch.

Edward looked around the compound for a weapon. The two soldiers backed away.

Goddamn it, stop now and get over here, Private! The major’s bellowing caused the nearest wounded man at the front of the tent to groan and cry out.

Edward waited until the two thugs, with an air of cocky prizefighters who had just walloped their prey, sauntered slowly through the wet mud toward their tent. Then, flushed and out of breath, he looked to the major and walked over to the hospital tent into the smell of putrid rotting wounds and dying men.

The major watched him come and waited for a few moments before saying, Jesus, soldier, look at you. Nothing but blood and mud. I’m going to goddamn tell you the way of it. You’re going to do mighty hard time if you don’t straighten up. I’d bust you right now, but I have someone here who says he’s your brother, name of James Ryan. They just brought him in.

Edward’s face flushed, and he jumped to the opening of the tent, then froze just out of the light, remembering that only the most hopeless cases were brought here. All the strength drained out of him, his voice a croak. Where did they put him?

The major moved closer to him and put his hand on his shoulder. He’s near the back entrance. He’s pretty bad.

Edward jerked away.

Steady, young man. And wash that blood off yourself, soldier.

Yes, sir.

Inside the tent, Edward moved toward the pale light at the far opening, past the hundreds of men lying on the ground, some with blankets, most with nothing. The stench made him gag, again. The tent was maybe a hundred yards long, with bodies lying in rows jammed together. The illusion of constant movement and moaning was a panorama of young broken men.

Water, a boy whispered.

It’s coming, Edward told him.

As he slowly walked through the bodies, he brought his hand up to his face and nose. The low moaning was broken now and then by a piercing scream. As two orderlies moved slowly through the wrecked flesh with buckets of water, Edward waited.

Can I have a splash of water? he said to the younger of the orderlies.

He wiped away most of the blood from his hands and blouse.

Nearing the light, at the end of the tent, he looked at each man and tried to recognize his brother. Then he saw him: a ghastly white face with the familiar jaw. He stopped and stared at the body lying on his knapsack, head sagging to the floor.

Then he saw that James had no legs.

Jesus. Edward sank to the ground. He crawled around until he came opposite James’s face. His brother twitched constantly and moaned from time to time, then opened his eyes and looked at his brother with a blank stare.

James was gagging, panting, Ebon dead…blown to pieces. His cracked, bleeding lips were moving, but no sound came. Then he closed his eyes.

Edward fell on his elbows, threw his head back, saw only the dirty top of the tent with the pole holding it all up—an unreal circus where all the dead boys were dancing. He let himself down lying on his back. Then he brought his arms across his face and saw his mother reading with James by candlelight. Shakespeare. Bloodthirsty Richard III, their favorite.

He stayed there on his back for a long time. Then he heard a faint Hello, Ned.

James was looking at him, his mouth forming a ragged, torn, bleeding smile.

They took my legs… ‘Now is the winter’… Ebon dead…canon…begged them, don’t take my legs. He shut his eyes.

Edward sat and waited. No tears. He watched his brother’s white face glowing. A flash of James back home working on the stone house. Oh god! Ebon.

Edward hugged his legs and keened back and forth. James had given him his first drink of whiskey: the burning in his throat and James’s face full of laughter. Now his frail white hand, like a claw, jutting out of his tunic. Edward wanted to hold the hand but couldn’t reach out.

Is this what they wanted—war, horror, death? Is this what my mother wanted for her sons?

An orderly came down the row with water. Knelt down, touched James’s neck, and said to no one in particular, This man is dead. Then he looked at Edward. Friend?

Edward nodded.

Sorry.

Edward stared at the blood-soaked front of James’s uniform. In the familiar face, he saw his mother’s forehead and jaw. Clear as water in a well, he saw her looking at him the day he left Ireland, the strange stubborn glint in her eye when she said, It will be for the best, son.

This is for the best, this blood and death and filth and horror.

From the end of the row, Edward heard the orderly say to the nurse, The new one. Dead. I’ll get the burial boys.

Edward told the burial crew he would take care of his brother. He fetched his gun and spade then carried James out across the large field toward the dense wood. He had to stop several times and kneel down, holding the legless body on his lap, with the rifle slung over his shoulder.

At last his own weary body made it to the tall trees that stood so close together that he would have to find a clearing farther ahead to have room to dig.

When he found a place, he knelt down and rested the body on the ground. He spent two hours cracking the frozen earth then carefully laid the body in the grave and, finally, placed stones around his brother. Laid each one with gentle care until the body was secure and then shoveled on the dirt. He rolled a large stone over to the top of the grave and scratched an X and 1865. Then he sat in the clearing on the frozen ground, shaking, and so exhausted that his arm wouldn’t work to push his body up and forward.

Slowly he recovered a little and saw the large tree in front of him. He had the impression he had never seen a tree before, the rough bark on the pine tree looking like the skin on an old man. Then everything was alive and full of color, when before was gray and dark.

The thought that his brother was gone and not caught in the misery of the life of war pulled him down into a quiet and peaceful state that held him for some time. Then he decided that he had to find Ebon wherever he was and bury him