Pilar then said with a determination Jack had not heard before, “Our son has learned his Spanish well. We will be accepted in Cuba. I want to see the finca again.”
It was always a mystery to Jack why his mother had been taken away from her homeland. She never talked about what happened between her parents, saying only that “God forgives all.” But she had adored her father, who never wanted her to go to England with her mother. Pilar’s eyes would shine at his memory, and she would often say, “Jackson, in your grandfather, kindness met strength.” Though Jack never met him, he had become proud of this man of strength and kindness whom his mother cherished, and who had ensured that the finca would become her inheritance, even though he himself had failed as a farmer, landowner, and husband. The land was officially hers upon his death five years earlier, but it was still in no condition to provide a living for his daughter and her family. Pilar allowed her father’s friend and neighbor, Count de Silva, to recultivate the barren fields for a share of the profits, but Jack knew his mother never gave up hope that one day they would manage the land themselves.
Jack thought more about the land called Cuba. His mother had told him stories of her happy childhood there, sometimes in English, more often in her native tongue—of hot days filled with endless play in the fields, running from morning until dusk with friends from the other farms.
Jack watched his father pace the floor in the small sitting room, half-listening to his mother, obviously buried deep in thought. “I know nothing of farming, and I’m of an age where I’m too old to learn,” he finally said, although he spoke without conviction. The prospect of owning land, being for once part of the “privileged” rather than the “struggling” class, must have a powerful appeal for him, Jack thought. A proud man, Ethan had once been a young firebrand in Ireland and, with great hopes for the new American republic, had fought as a soldier in the Continental Army. But he was tired now; his disappointments and setbacks in the new land had confused him. He wanted it so badly to be what Paine and Jefferson promised, but he seemed to realize, when he was calm, that he wished for too much.
Jack watched his father intently; his faraway look of resignation eventually seemed to be replaced with what might be hope. Land. Land could mean everything to a man who had none. Ethan was a fine gunsmith, but Jack questioned for the first time that perhaps his father’s spirit was too strong for his flesh. A radical change to a new land would be difficult for him, but maybe not as hard as continuing life in America.
After a long hard look around the meager room at their few possessions, a look that seemed to last an eternity, Ethan said in a voice so faint even Jack could barely hear, “All right. We’ll gather our wares and travel to this so-called paradise so sweetly rich in sugar.”
Jack felt as if he had been dipped in tar. He was lethargic, unable to help his parents in any meaningful way. The farewell words to his schoolmates had seemed false. He found himself staring at the ground, pawing at the dirt; part of him resented his father for deciding to go and part of him was strangely attracted to it.
Yet here they were, three humble souls with their earthly belongings piled high on a creaking wagon, slipping thieflike into the night.
“Jackson, did you say good-bye to your friends?”
Jack, sitting on the tailgate, was silent as he watched the disappearing lamps from the town while his father drove the team along a rutted track.
“Jackson? I know you hear me.”
His mother sat resolute on the hard wagon seat.
“Your son has suddenly developed ear problems,” Ethan said.
“Please, Ethan. Leave him be,” she answered quickly. “He’s feeling bad. And please don’t speak of him as my son. He is our son, mi hito.”
Jack eased himself quietly off the wagon and stood staring at the few lights still visible in the distance. His father’s voice ruffled the evening air. He knew he could slip into the night and return to the familiarity of Hamden, or stay and become part of something new, foreboding, and in some odd way, exciting. He stood alone on the road. A nighthawk swooped past, heading east toward the rising moon.
“Jackson, please come now.”
Without taking his eyes from the bird of prey, Jack smiled to himself and said quietly, “Yes, mother. I’m ready. I’m coming.”
The road from Hamden to Providence was ruined from the recent fall rains. It was lined with leaves, gold turning brown, stacked against the rock fences bordering the highway. On either side, fields crackled with the rustling of dry corn, the air thick with the scent of ripe fruit and Indian summer.
They were chasing down a ship bound for Cuba. It was nearly ten days since they had left home, and the mysterious Providence was still nowhere in sight. The sound of wheels grinding against the road became sickening to Jack; the flat clop of the mares’ hooves, the working of the timber that held the wagon together—after the first day it was a constant irritation. Jack leaned over the wagon bed and tried to count the revolutions, the sun burning the back of his neck.
They arrived in East Haven, then took the coast road toward New London, where “there be ships a-plenty heading for southern climes out of Providence town,” according to one passerby.
Jack’s hip was raw from the constant movement of the wagon, and he shifted back and forth, alternately sitting on clothes, bedding, and boxes. Nothing helped. He stared at the backs of his parents’ heads, his father’s hat and mother’s bonnet keeping time with the swaying wagon. They were talking, really more of a mumble, and Jack made no effort to overhear.
He told his father he would walk for a while.
Hours later, Jack moved between the tired horses, coaxing them gently with the reins in each of his hands. Ahead, there was the beginning of a hill that seemed to rise gradually for several miles.
“Providence is probably just beyond the crest,” his father said. “Let’s push on before nightfall.”
In Providence they missed the boat to Cuba not by hours but by days. They were told by the harbor master that because it was so late in the fall, there might not be another ship going south until spring. Then he told them of a boat sailing for Habana and points beyond in just five days, out of Salem harbor: the Perdido Star.
The strain of being on the road left the O’Reillys exhausted and concerned for their diminishing resources; but they pressed on. Ethan decided to skirt the city of Boston, as they could no longer afford the proper inns and now took to camping out on the way to Salem. He and Pilar slept in the open wagon bed, Jack bundling in a thin blanket, always by a dwindling fire. He awoke each morning bone-chilled, made worse when a wet snow caught them unprepared.
It was three weeks since their start in Hamden when one morning they saw a group of towering masts jutting above a smoky city: Salem.
When they arrived in the city, Jack was fascinated by the energy. Children ran and shouted on the dirt street; drivers in wagons transported lumber, hides, and barrels of whale oil, shouting pleasantries at one another.
“Maybe we should ask directions to the wharf, Pa.” Jack said.
“All in good time, Jackson. All in good time.” Ethan seemed oblivious to the exotic sights and sounds. He pushed the wagon forward, a man obsessed.