Matters of the Heart

The River Tawe wasn’t always haunted. For centuries, it streamed from the Black Mountains down to Swansea Bay like a good river should, disturbed only by traders’ ships, migrants’ oars, and the splashing of spawning salmon.

            The trouble started two hundred years ago. When new machines transformed ancient trades, innovation made copper out of ore and foremen out of farmers’ sons. At that horizon, where men could forge their futures, a boy blinded by the dawn committed a fateful mistake.

            In those days, Glenys Brown’s boarding house was always full. The copper industry had swelled Swansea from a sleepy coastal village to a proper city, stuffed with immigrants from not just the Welsh countryside but from all over Europe.

            One drizzly spring morning, Mrs. Brown grumbled as she carried bread and bacon from the oven. She set the platters on the table before her hungry boarders, wiped her hands on her apron, and rubbed her temples.

            Henry Cadogan’s bright eyes observed his landlady. “All right, Mrs. Brown?”

            “It’s my head, lad,” she replied with a sigh. “Pounding like a devil wants out. And me just run out of that headache tonic, too.”

            “Shall I fetch you some more?” said Henry. “I’ll pass by Mendoza’s on my way to the copper works.”

            “I’d be grateful to you, lad,” she said, pressing a coin into Henry’s palm and retreating to the kitchen.

            James Howell stuffed toast into his mouth and punched Henry on the shoulder. “Any excuse to go to Nash Street, eh?” he said with a crumby grin. “Hoping to have a look at Teresa?”

            “Shut your hole, Howell,” said Henry.

            Vicente Morales looked up from his bacon. “Teresa? Do you mean Teresa de Muñoz?”

            “Can you blame our Henry?” laughed James. “If he marries into that family, he’ll become a merchant. He’ll never touch another smelting furnace.”

            “Teresa is a Catholic,” said Vicente. “She will not marry you.”

            “We’ll see about that.” Henry wiped his mouth on a stained sleeve, winked at James, and trotted out the door.

            In Mendoza’s apothecary shop, Henry watched a tall man, dressed in the bright garb of the Spanish immigrants, examining bottles on the counter. Mendoza poured a few drops from a bottle into a small vial.

            “This one, Doctor, five drops, para el corazón,” Mendoza told his customer. “Cuidado que es poderoso.”

            Henry’s ears perked up. Even a working man knew corazón meant heart. So the good doctor was lovesick, eh? Henry could sympathize with that. He studied the pink glass bottle, its beveled sides, its triangular shape.

            As Henry walked out with Mrs. Brown’s tonic, he suddenly stood straighter, adjusted his hat, and smoothed his coat. Raven-haired Teresa de Muñoz approached, walking along the cobblestone street with her mother and sisters, each holding a rosary for the morning services.

            Henry tipped his hat to her. Teresa’s dark eyes met Henry’s through the black lace of her veil, her slight smile inscrutable. Henry nodded to Teresa’s mother, who scowled back. He watched Teresa’s long skirts swish as the group disappeared behind the church’s gilded doors. His heart pounded, as it did every time Teresa returned his gaze.

            That evening, as the boarders devoured their stew, Henry turned to Vicente. “What does poderoso mean?”

            Vicente glanced at Henry in surprise. “Powerful. Like God. Dios todopoderoso.” He narrowed his eyes. “You are going to church?”

            “Anything to win Teresa’s heart.” Henry wiggled his eyebrows at James. So, the stuff in Mendoza’s pink bottle was a powerful love potion. Perfect.

            At midnight, Henry crept through the back door of Mendoza’s shop and lit his kerosene lamp. The triangular bottle rested on the top shelf.

            Henry’s heart pounded. A smelter’s salary could not pay for such things. Surely Mendoza would never miss a few drops. But if Teresa found out, she might hate him. Or would she? Henry recalled what he’d heard about Catholics. As long as you confessed your sins, you’d be forgiven.

            His hand shot out and grabbed the smooth pink glass.

            At dawn, Henry peered through a rear window of the De Muñoz house. In the kitchen, two servants bustled about. “This tray’s for Miss Teresa. She’ll have breakfast in her room today!” one of them shouted, and the other set down a cup of water. Then they left the room, carrying platters out.

            Henry zipped in through the door. What had Mendoza said yesterday? Five drops? Six ought to do the trick. He tipped the bottle, counting the drops as they splashed into the water.

            Hearing noises from the next room, Henry sped outside, turned down the alley, and made haste for Mendoza’s shop. He rounded the corner onto Nash Street and collided with a man who had just exited the church.

            “Henry!” Vicente said. “What are you doing here?” He looked at the bottle in Henry’s hand. Before Henry could react, Vicente had grabbed the bottle and was reading the Spanish writing on its side.

            “Sedative,” he read. “Use extreme care as more than five drops stops the heart.” He looked hard at Henry. “Where did you get this?”

            Screams pierced the morning quiet. “Está muerta! Ay, Dios! La joven ha muerto!”

            Henry’s wide eyes met Vicente’s.

            “They say ‘She is dead,’” Vicente said. “My friend, what have you done?”

            They hanged Henry three days later. James vouched for his friend, but the testimony of a powerful merchant family outweighed the ravings of a couple of country boys. Glenys Brown wiped a tear. “He seemed a good lad.”

            And that is how Henry Cadogan’s ghost came to haunt the banks of the River Tawe. The town changed; the factories fled. But if you find yourself near the ruins of the copper works, and you step off the path and walk past the willows, you’ll come to the river, across from the graveyard whose stones bear Spanish names. And if you listen as the dark water rushes over rocks toward the sea, you may hear Henry’s moans, for he mourns her still. Teresa, Teresa, he whispers, forgive me.

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