Chapter Text
James’s life had been marked by hunger.
Now, that wasn’t all that unusual for his countrymen in his time. When he was growing up everyone was either hungry or lived with the shadow of hunger dogging their steps.
His immediate family had survived the worst of the Famine by the skin of their teeth. They had been dairy farmers so they’d managed to keep their jobs and a roof over their heads, unlike pretty much all of James’s aunts, uncles, and cousins, all of whom had been evicted from their homes long before James was born. It was common in those years, the exodus of people from barren fields.
Their landlords had (so graciously) funded trips to America for them, but those boats were called coffin ships for a reason. Every single member of James’s extended family had died on the trip or shortly after arrival. Sickness and hunger went hand in hand after all. And when you had so many people crammed into tiny spaces for long periods of time…well. “Coffin ships” said it all, didn’t it?
James’s parents were dairy farmers, though, which meant that demand continued throughout the hunger even though his family could not enjoy the fruits of their labor. James grew up hearing about the butter his family made being taken by his majesty’s finest to ensure British exports continued. Nevermind the fact that they were all starving. Nevermind that the maize they were given as ‘aid’ made them sick to their stomachs. Nevermind that people were dying almost as fast as the damned potatoes had.
But his family had, against all odds, lived. Ironic then that they’d been evicted only a few years after James was born. He was two years old when they moved to the port and his father and brother took whatever work they could find at the docks, hauling and working and pushing their bodies past their limits.
It had only held off their deaths a few more years. When his brother had gotten sick it hadn’t taken long before his mother fell ill too. James hadn’t gone through years on the verge of starvation. Not then at least. He was the strongest of them all, even though he was young.
Still, his father tried to keep him away from them as much as possible, to keep him from getting sick as well. When his brother died, his mother’s fever deepened. He could hear her through the walls. She said his birth name sometimes. Said that it was his fault, that he was a changeling, a curse. His father caught him listening once, and when James looked up at him his eyes were so sad. But he didn't say anything. He never said anything.
His mother died in the autumn. His father spent the winter in his cups. He was gone before spring fully came. His heart couldn’t take it. And, after so many lean years, neither could his body.
And then James was alone.
He grieved them all and felt the loss keenly. But he was pained to discover that part of him hadn’t minded. Part of him was glad to be free.
The rest of him was terrified. He was seven years old and completely alone in the world. Of course he was scared. But sitting and crying about it didn’t serve him. So he lopped off his hair, took what little he could, stole what he couldn’t, and left home. He wasn’t about to get stuck in what passed for an orphanage around these parts. Luckily, his mother had rarely let him out and about around people – afraid they’d catch on to how…different…he was, he later thought – and he looked very different with short hair and in his stolen clothes. No one recognized him. The little daughter of the family was easily forgotten.
He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. About anything really.
He lucked out when he checked the old abandoned school house. Most of the school houses in Sligo were empty after the last decade of general devastation so James happily squirreled himself away and proceeded to read everything he could get his grubby little hands on.
It had been his brother who taught him to read, both in his native Irish and then in English. He was the one that James missed most, the one that was least bothered by James’s oddness, by the sharpness of his mind.
He remembered going walking with his brother when he was very young. They’d look at the things they passed, and make suppositions about them. Michael was never annoyed when James wanted to stop and study something. And he was a thoughtful sort, despite his upbringing. He’d ask James questions as they walked, and talk about the birds they saw in the trees.
He’d say things like “that there is a brown-speckled skylark” as they watched from under a tree. James would later learn that he’d made all the names up, that he hadn’t known what the birds were really called. But that didn’t matter. What did matter were the things that followed.
“You see his beak? Kinda long and wide? What can you guess about the bird because of that?” And James would look at the bird and think hmm, well curved beaks are good for tearing at meat and things, really long beaks like a hummingbird’s are good for nectar, maybe that wider one will be good for nuts and berries? And that was how James learned to think about things and what they meant instead of just the trivialities like what they were called. He kept that part of himself alive long after Michael was gone, and treasured the memory of his brother encouraging his inquisitiveness.
He brought a similar inquisitiveness to his studies of the schoolhouse books. His favorite was maths, which seemed to click into his mind like little else. He got very far into those books, and discovered it was all like a language of its own. He didn’t always like the way it was designed, though. The symbols were kind of silly sometimes so he came up with his own system that he liked better. He learned later, though, that if he wanted to talk to other people about maths (and he really did want that) then he’d have to use those standard symbols and things. Which was stupid but he got on.
When he wasn’t busy being his own school, he was skulking around finding ways to keep his belly full. At first he took little jobs given to him mostly out of pity. He ran messages and did odd fetch-and-carry jobs and sometimes used what he’d learned about fishing from his brother to feed himself or sell his catch. But James knew he was meant for more than this.
He actually got the idea from one of the old fishermen who let him help out on occasion. Old Danny Quirk had noticed how quick he was on his arithmetic and told him he was too good for the docks. He should be one o’ them accountant types or something. James had been so grateful someone else thought he was meant for more than this too that he ignored the part of him that was bitter that no one would make a suggestion like that if he still had his hair like his mam wanted it or if he wore the dresses she made him. No one would have even thought to teach him mathematics and in fact no one did. He’d taken the gift of words his brother gave him and the old books still left in the schoolhouse and he’d built up that skill himself. Now, to have someone else acknowledge it – well, if Old Danny found a few extra coins in his purse after that, it had nothing to do with James.
Point was, Danny had mentioned some fancy schools in Dublin and James had been so enthralled by the idea that he immediately started planning.
Danny was a clever sort with the real gift of the gob. He told stories and carved them into little wooden trinkets in his spare time and he taught James how to play cards whenever they had a moment. James took to it like a duck to water. He had good sense when it came to people and he knew this could be a good way to make money if he was clever about it. And James was clever about everything.
He quickly found out that he had to be careful with who he chose to play against. There was a fine line between coming off as a precocious little tyke and being seen as a brat who needed to be put in his place. There wasn’t much he hated more than getting “put in his place”.
But James was clever, had always been clever, and he got very good at people. He learned how to read them and he learned how to charm them, enrage them, soften them, and trick them. He absorbed every bit of information and skill he could and kept his belly full with charm and tricks and hard work in turns. And sometimes, when he was feeling either very desperate or very sentimental, he’d sing for his supper. He had a good voice and he made use of it. And if he sometimes found comfort in it too, that was his business and no one else’s.
In 1862, when James was 10 years old, the Sligo Railway Station saw its first ever passenger train going all the way to Dublin. James was going to be on that train.
The people crowded the platform and excitement was thick in the air. The Sligo Rifles were playing, James could hear the music from his position cramped into a suitcase he’d convinced Old Danny to help him switch. The plan was simple: find a gullible passenger with enough large baggage that he could switch himself into one, get someone to help him make the switch, and stay still and quiet for the ride.
For weeks before the train arrived James had been watching and listening for the perfect target. Arthur Mulhern was a rather silly old man, hard of hearing, slow of wit, but generally kindly. James couldn’t travel on his own and he knew he wasn’t likely to convince any of the passengers to accompany him even if he could afford the ticket. But Mr. Mulhern had a lot of luggage, wasn’t particularly perceptive, and wouldn’t carry his own bags, not at his age. The staff would help him with the bag which meant it was unlikely he’d notice the weight wasn’t right. Mr. Mulhern’s natural obliviousness would likely keep him from noticing anything off about it and even if he did, he was a gentle enough man that if James was found he would be unlikely to react violently.
With everything planned out and Danny secured as an accomplice, they made their way to the station (and it really was handy to have someone around who understood James was meant for more than dock work or marriage — though it helped that Danny could keep whatever he found in the original bag).
The first part of the plan went off without a hitch and James settled in on the luggage rack above the seats. It was an uncomfortable position to be stuck in for hours but James would be damned if a little discomfort would stop him.
When the train finally pulled into the station in Dublin, James almost gave himself away just with the nigh-irresistible impulse to vocalize his relief. But he kept his silence and waited for the old man to call for help with his luggage and depart.
Getting out of the damn bag without being seen was tricky, but with a little patience, a lot of bloody-minded, stubborn confidence, and a nothing-to-see-here attitude, he pulled it off.
He looked out on the city, his new home, and knew it was his for the taking.