Read Online TransAtlantic by Colum McCann - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Colum McCann
Tags: General Fiction
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years old. Her sandy-colored hair. Her eyes ledged with freckles.
He closed his door, sat to write. He could still see her shape. On the stairs he allowed her to pass. A whiff of tobacco came from her. The world was made ordinary again. He walked quickly down to the drawing room where he sat to read the literary journals to which Webb subscribed, the reams of books, the journals. He could lose himself in them.
Lily’s footsteps sounded above him. He was glad when they ceased. He went back upstairs to write. His room had been made spotless and the barbells remained undisturbed.
IN THE BANK on College Green they sent instructions back to Boston to lodge 225 pounds sterling in the accounts of the American Anti-Slavery Society. It amounted to 1,850 dollars. Douglass and Webb emerged in their crisp woolen coats and white linen shirts. There were gulls out over Dublin: as numerous as beggars. In the back of the chanting crowd he saw the young boy with the raw red welts along his neck and face. Hey, Mr. Douglass! the boy screamed, Mr. Douglass, sir!
He was sure, as the carriage turned the corner by the university, that the boy volleyed out his first name.
HE HEARD IN the newspapers that O’Connell was due to speak to a giant crowd along the Dublin docks. The tribune of the people. Ireland’s truest son. He had spent his life agitating for Catholic emancipation and parliamentary rule, and had written on abolition, too. Brilliant essays, fervent, impassioned. O’Connell had adventured his life for proper freedom, was known for his speeches, his letters, his rule of law.
Douglass canceled a tea in Sandymount to get there on time. He arrived along the teeming docks. He could not believe the size of the crowd: as if the whole sponge of Dublin had been squeezed down into a sink. Such a riot of human cutlery. The police herded the crowds along. He lost Webb and pushed his way through, made his way to the stage as O’Connell emerged. The Great Liberator looked portly, tired, out of sorts: he had apparently been so since his release from jail. Still, a giant roar went up.
Men and women of Ireland!
The din was extraordinary. O’Connell held a speaking trumpet, and when he spoke into it the words shot up out of him, huge, fearsome, brimming. It astounded Douglass, the logic, the rhetoric, the humor.
O’Connell held the crowd in the well of his outstretched arms. He swayed forth. Slowed down. Pivoted on his heels. Paced the stage. Adjusted his wig. Allowed silences. The speech was relayed by others who stood on tall ladders and passed the word along the dockside.
—Repeal is Erin’s right and God’s decree!
—Withersoever we turn, England has reduced our nation to bondage!
—The employment of force is not our object!
—Associate, agitate, stand by me!
The hats went up in the reeking air. The cheers stepping in rhythm along the crowd. Douglass stood, transfixed.
Afterwards, a huge mob surrounded the Irishman. Douglass forced his way through, excused himself past dozens of pairs of shoulders. O’Connell looked up, knew immediately who he was. They shook hands.
—An honor, said O’Connell.
Douglass was taken aback.
—Mine alone, he said.
O’Connell’s hand was pulled away. There was so much Douglass wanted to speak of: repeal, pacifism, the position of the Irish clergy in America, the philosophy of agitation. He reached forward to grasp the Irishman’s hand again, but there were already too many bodies between them. He felt himself pushed back, jostled. A man shouted in his ear about temperance. Another wanted his signature for a petition. A woman curtsied in front of him: a smell of filth rolled off her. He turned away. His name rang out at all angles. He felt as if he were spinning in eddies. O’Connell was being guided down off the stage.
When Douglass turned again, Webb had his arm, said they had an appointment in Abbey Street.
—Just a moment.
—I’m afraid we must go, Frederick.
—But I must talk
He closed his door, sat to write. He could still see her shape. On the stairs he allowed her to pass. A whiff of tobacco came from her. The world was made ordinary again. He walked quickly down to the drawing room where he sat to read the literary journals to which Webb subscribed, the reams of books, the journals. He could lose himself in them.
Lily’s footsteps sounded above him. He was glad when they ceased. He went back upstairs to write. His room had been made spotless and the barbells remained undisturbed.
IN THE BANK on College Green they sent instructions back to Boston to lodge 225 pounds sterling in the accounts of the American Anti-Slavery Society. It amounted to 1,850 dollars. Douglass and Webb emerged in their crisp woolen coats and white linen shirts. There were gulls out over Dublin: as numerous as beggars. In the back of the chanting crowd he saw the young boy with the raw red welts along his neck and face. Hey, Mr. Douglass! the boy screamed, Mr. Douglass, sir!
He was sure, as the carriage turned the corner by the university, that the boy volleyed out his first name.
HE HEARD IN the newspapers that O’Connell was due to speak to a giant crowd along the Dublin docks. The tribune of the people. Ireland’s truest son. He had spent his life agitating for Catholic emancipation and parliamentary rule, and had written on abolition, too. Brilliant essays, fervent, impassioned. O’Connell had adventured his life for proper freedom, was known for his speeches, his letters, his rule of law.
Douglass canceled a tea in Sandymount to get there on time. He arrived along the teeming docks. He could not believe the size of the crowd: as if the whole sponge of Dublin had been squeezed down into a sink. Such a riot of human cutlery. The police herded the crowds along. He lost Webb and pushed his way through, made his way to the stage as O’Connell emerged. The Great Liberator looked portly, tired, out of sorts: he had apparently been so since his release from jail. Still, a giant roar went up.
Men and women of Ireland!
The din was extraordinary. O’Connell held a speaking trumpet, and when he spoke into it the words shot up out of him, huge, fearsome, brimming. It astounded Douglass, the logic, the rhetoric, the humor.
O’Connell held the crowd in the well of his outstretched arms. He swayed forth. Slowed down. Pivoted on his heels. Paced the stage. Adjusted his wig. Allowed silences. The speech was relayed by others who stood on tall ladders and passed the word along the dockside.
—Repeal is Erin’s right and God’s decree!
—Withersoever we turn, England has reduced our nation to bondage!
—The employment of force is not our object!
—Associate, agitate, stand by me!
The hats went up in the reeking air. The cheers stepping in rhythm along the crowd. Douglass stood, transfixed.
Afterwards, a huge mob surrounded the Irishman. Douglass forced his way through, excused himself past dozens of pairs of shoulders. O’Connell looked up, knew immediately who he was. They shook hands.
—An honor, said O’Connell.
Douglass was taken aback.
—Mine alone, he said.
O’Connell’s hand was pulled away. There was so much Douglass wanted to speak of: repeal, pacifism, the position of the Irish clergy in America, the philosophy of agitation. He reached forward to grasp the Irishman’s hand again, but there were already too many bodies between them. He felt himself pushed back, jostled. A man shouted in his ear about temperance. Another wanted his signature for a petition. A woman curtsied in front of him: a smell of filth rolled off her. He turned away. His name rang out at all angles. He felt as if he were spinning in eddies. O’Connell was being guided down off the stage.
When Douglass turned again, Webb had his arm, said they had an appointment in Abbey Street.
—Just a moment.
—I’m afraid we must go, Frederick.
—But I must talk
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