by BJ Hoff
Michael’s head jerked up. Bhima nodded, and again came the bitter smile. “Not quite the kind of slave market we associate with the South, however. This one is more…specialized.”
Michael tried not to let his impatience show. “In what way?”
“There’s no auction involved. No bidding. They simply herd Negro children—boys and girls, most of them guttersnipes picked up off the streets—into the warehouse, where they’re released into the hands of certain buyers. Apparently, the purchases are prearranged. All that’s left is for the owners to pick up their property.”
The dryness of Michael’s mouth turned sour with the bile of revulsion. He had known this sort of thing went on, of course; black children in the slums disappeared by the dozens every week, with no explanation.
But this was the first time he might have the opportunity to identify a place where the ugly business was being transacted. And at least one of the individuals behind it all.
It was also his first hint that the filthy “enterprises” of Patrick Walsh might actually extend to this—what he personally considered to be one of the most inhuman, conscienceless acts one human being could wreak upon another.
“Captain? What happens to the children, do you know?” the question was guarded, almost as if the boy dreaded the answer.
“A number are sent South, more than likely,” Michael answered. “I’ll warrant that just as many end up in the brothels, right here in the city. The committee I’m working with has come up with information that indicates a good deal of trafficking among wealthy buyers who pay exorbitant sums for the youngest…” He scowled and looked away for a moment. “They buy them for their own personal—perversions.”
A look of pain crossed the other’s features. The dark eyes closed for an instant, as if to shut out the cruelty of Michael’s words. When the boy opened his eyes, they were shadowed with a great sadness.
“These children…they have no choice in what becomes of them? No chance to escape, isn’t that right?” he questioned softly, all hint of lightness now gone from his voice.
The thought struck Michael that Bhima might well have been describing himself. “That would seem to be the case,” he said tightly. “How sure are you of this?”
The boy met his gaze. “I am absolutely certain, Captain.” He glanced behind him, up toward the window. “I can’t see out, of course—but I have friends who can. Besides, I’ve heard the goings on over there for myself. I’m easily overlooked, as you can imagine. I can squeeze into the smallest of hiding places. I promise you, I know what I’m talking about.”
“You did a good thing in getting word to me,” Michael said finally. “But why did you bother?”
“Because you’re a man who can be trusted, I’m told. A decent man. A Christian.” He paused. “And so am I. Does that surprise you?”
For some reason, it did.
“How can I love a God who made me this way—is that what you’re wondering?” The boy smiled at Michael, a faint, sad smile. “Some would consider that a fair question. I don’t mean you, Captain, but…some.” He paused. “I think the real question is, ‘How can I not love a God who gave up His only Son for me?’ ”
Something stirred deep inside Michael.
“These children, Captain,” Bhima was saying, “these children who are being sold like cattle—they have no hope. It ought not to be that way. Some of us may seem to be…locked into our destiny, without hope of escape. But it shouldn’t be that way for children, should it? Black or white, shouldn’t children have at least some measure of hope?”
By now Michael was scarcely aware of Bhima’s deformity, only of the compassion in his eyes. In this lad—this boy whose poor, distorted body would seem to mark him as hopeless—he saw what was perhaps the most vivid testament he had ever encountered of the wondrous difference God could make in a life.
“Why do you stay here?” he asked, his voice gruff with emotion.
Bhima gave a small shrug. “Even a freak needs a roof over his head, Captain. And food.”
Michael found himself angry at the sound of the ugly word. It simply didn’t fit—indeed, stood in stark opposition to the gentle eyes, the sensitive nature so evident in the boy.
“You don’t have to stay here,” he said abruptly. “I can try to get you a better place.”
Bhima regarded him with a studying look. “Thank you, Captain. I believe you would. But for now, this is where I need to be. This is where I am meant to be, I think. There are people here who…depend on me, as difficult as that might be for you to understand. Although there is little I can give, I can at least share a touch of God’s comfort, at times even His Word. For all I know, that might be more than they would have without me.”
With full certainty Michael realized in that moment that there was no ugliness in this young man, no real deformity other than what happened to exist in the eyes of the beholder. There was only nobility and the grace of God made evident.
“There is something you could do, though,” Bhima went on. “As you might imagine, love—even God’s love—is not easily experienced here…or anywhere else in the Bowery, for that matter. Perhaps, if you happen to know some good people brave enough to venture among us, you might make them aware of the darkness in this place. The need for God’s caring heart and a touch of human kindness exists, even here.”
Michael nodded. Immediately, he thought of Jess Dalton. And Evan Whittaker.
And Sara. His wife, who, if she knew of the need, would no doubt come charging into the midst of this abyss, armed only with her faith and the determination to make a difference.
But, of course, he would not tell Sara.
24
Quest
Men are measured by what they seek—
A dream, a truth, a star.
ANONYMOUS
Ireland
In Belfast, attorney John Guinness was making his third visit to speak with Annie Delaney’s mother and stepfather.
The stench of the city’s poverty districts hung heavily on the damp afternoon as he got out of the hired carriage. Telling the driver to wait, he turned, standing for a moment in the street.
A combination of smells assailed him in the time it took to dart inside the hovel where Annie Delaney’s family lived. The entire neighborhood seemed to reek of dunghills and breweries, outdoor privies and sewers, and something else—some indefinable, vile odor that hinted of disease.
All around him, Guinness could feel the miasma of hopelessness. In this city where the looms were seldom silent, where the linen mills continued to spew out even greater wealth for the already wealthy owners, the plight of the poor seemed never to change. The stinking atmosphere of poverty and degradation hung over Belfast like a fixed cloud.
In the midst of it all one could sense the wall of hostility that had changed the complexion of the old city forever. In the confines of the “settlements” built up around their church, the unwanted Catholics remained the aliens, while the Protestant poor watched them with suspicion fueled by their own misery. The divisions had developed to the point over the years that, now, there was nothing between the two but rancor and mistrust and a fierce resolve to hold on to the little they had.
If there ever was a more hopeless city than Belfast, Guinness thought as he made his way up the sagging stairs, he hoped he never had to see it firsthand.
The woman let him in. To Guinness’s relief, her husband was nowhere in sight. The attorney had deliberately waited until late afternoon, on the chance that Tully would be at one of the local pubs. His last time at the flat, he had sensed a faint change in the woman, a suggestion of willingness to accept Fitzgerald’s offer after all, if Guinness were to press. Today, he intended to do just that.
Mrs. Tully appeared disheveled and downcast. Her gray hair was unkempt, her apron soiled, but she stopped just short of being slovenly. Her eyes were hard: suspicious and unforgiving. The woman wore the look of one who had resigned herself to the poorest of life’s leaving
s long ago.
To Guinness’s surprise, she let him in without protest; the last time he’d come, she’d gotten angry and warned him off. Of course, the last time, her husband had been there—drunk and agitated and abusive.
Anxious to be done with the affair entirely, Guinness got right to the point as soon as he entered the room. “Well, then—I said I’d be back, Mrs. Tully. I’ve brought the necessary papers for your signature.”
“You heard my husband,” she muttered sourly. “He said we’ll not be signing your papers.”
“Yes, he did say that, didn’t he? Still, as I pointed out to you both, it’s for you to decide the future of your child. As I understand things, your husband has never adopted Annie, never claimed legal custody of her.”
Even as he spoke, Guinness noted a large, angry bruise on the woman’s cheek—a bruise that had not, he was certain, been there at his last visit. Lest pity interfere with what he had to do, he reminded himself that this woman had rejected her own child.
She stood now, arms crossed over her thin bosom, glaring at him. “And what sort of mother would I be, then, signing me rights to me own child over to a stranger?”
Guinness fought for patience. He would do Fitzgerald’s cause no good by losing control. “A mother who wants something better for her daughter, it seems to me,” he said carefully. “One who recognizes a golden opportunity when it’s placed in front of her.”
The woman’s eyes went to the sheaf of papers in Guinness’s hand. “Frank is against it.”
Again, Guinness controlled his temper with a good deal of effort. “I understand. But I must remind you again that the decision is not his to make. Besides, it may be that your husband doesn’t fully appreciate his choices.” He went on quickly before she could interrupt. “I’ve already explained that Mr. Fitzgerald intends to legally adopt your daughter, make her heir to his considerable fortune. She’ll be educated, cared for—she will have every opportunity for a wonderful, prosperous life, I can promise you.”
“But not a mother’s love,” the woman whined.
Guinness studied her, a hot surge of anger rising in his throat. “That’s true,” he bit out, unable to stop himself. “But then, I doubt that she was accustomed to all that much of it before.”
“Now, see here—”
“No, you see here!” Guinness had had enough. He stepped closer to the woman, close enough to smell the faint bitterness of cheap gin on her. “You’d best mind my words, woman,” he said, his voice low with a deliberate threat. “As Morgan Fitzgerald’s attorney, I can tell you that the man is out of patience and about to reconsider his generosity. He has offered your daughter an unheard-of opportunity! But unless you act and act now, that offer will be withdrawn.”
He paused. “You should know, too, that Fitzgerald can be a hard man entirely, if provoked. A very hard man, if you take my meaning.”
Guinness stopped, just long enough to let his words sink in before going on. “After today, Mrs. Tully, I will not return. I have one final offer to make you, so you’d do well to listen closely.”
Ignoring the woman’s sullen stare, Guinness quoted her the figure Fitzgerald had authorized—a figure of such enormity it had even made Guinness catch his breath. Before she could speak, he added, “Perhaps I should define your choices in this matter in detail, so that you’ll have a clearer understanding of what to expect.
“You sign these papers, and you accomplish two things,” Guinness said, managing to restore a note of calm to his tone. “You will ensure a fine home and a promising future for your daughter. At the same time, you”—he paused for effect—“will become a woman of means. A woman who will no longer have to work in the mills to eke out a living. You will not need to depend on anyone—anyone—for your livelihood.”
Guinness watched her closely. The woman’s tongue darted across her lower lip, and her eyes took on a glint. He had her! He was sure of it.
“You will, of course, be relinquishing all rights to the child,” he said quickly. “You will not, under any circumstances, have communication with her again or make any attempt to contact her or her new family. You also need to understand,” he added with cutting emphasis, “that, should you refuse Mr. Fitzgerald’s offer, he intends to have you and your husband prosecuted for criminal offenses.”
Her eyes bugged and she stiffened. “What’s this? What do ye mean, criminal offenses? We’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Oh, I think you know what I mean, Mrs. Tully,” said Guinness quietly. “And I think you know that your husband deserves whatever mean hand he is dealt. You will simply be caught up in the wake of things, don’t you see? Now, then, while we’re still alone, I suggest that you—”
At that moment the door crashed open, and Tully came charging in, drunk completely and wild with rage.
“What are you doing here again?” he exploded, grabbing Guinness by the lapels of his coat and yanking him around. “I told you to stay away!”
The drunken man’s face was mottled with an ugly crimson. His eyes, not quite focused, blazed with fury.
The woman screamed, but her husband ignored her.
Tully was a big-bellied, heavy-shouldered man, and drunk beyond all reason. Guinness felt an instant of sheer panic as he stared into the man’s glazed eyes.
“Frank! No! Don’t hurt him! He means to make us rich! He’s talking a fortune!”
Still held captive in Tully’s grip, Guinness began to talk, fast. “She’s right—you’d do well to listen! You’re set for life, if you use your head! Besides, what’s the girl to you, anyway? Not your own blood, after all!”
Tully didn’t drop Guinness all at once, but eased off slightly, looking bewildered. He shot a glance at his wife, who now stepped toward him.
“It’s the truth!” she told him. “Wait till you hear!”
“The lass is not for sale!” Tully slurred righteously, with a misdirected wave of his hand. “Not for any price, d’you hear?”
Guinness managed to quote the price again in a more or less steady voice. To his vast relief, Tully dropped his hands away altogether.
“You don’t mean it?” the man said thickly.
“I mean it,” Guinness said quickly, sensing victory within reach. “Won’t you let me explain what I’ve just told your wife?”
Tully looked at his wife, who nodded urgently. At last he gave a grunt of assent. Looking round the room, he spied a near-empty gin bottle on a table against the wall, and went for it.
“Perhaps we’ll hear what you have to say, lawyer,” he muttered, swaying as he lifted the gin bottle to his mouth. “Speak your piece, then, and be quick about it.”
Frank Cassidy had thought the most logical place to carry out his assignment would be the streets of Dublin City.
Although Fitzgerald had stressed that the girl, Finola, was clearly not of the streets, but more than likely had gentry—or at least decent folk—behind her, she had nevertheless emerged from the Liberties, that infamous womb of Dublin’s slums.
After five days searching, he had turned up not even a whisper of information. Those that recognized the lass’s name appeared to be genuinely ignorant of any knowledge, not only of her past, but of her present whereabouts as well.
Finally, just this morning, a brief chat with a bird-market man on Bride Street had yielded the suggestion that he seek out a gleeman—a street minstrel—called “Christy Whistle.”
“If anyone can put you on to something, it’ll be Christy,” his informant had promised. “He knows what’s worth knowing, and a good deal that’s not.”
So this afternoon Cassidy had again tromped the cobbles to the Liberties, where Christy Whistle was supposed to have digs. He was on Thomas Street when he heard a tin whistle and spied a crowd. Stopping at the fringes of the bystanders, he took a long look at the musician in their midst.
The gleeman was unkempt, dressed in a worn frieze coat and cape, outrageously baggy trousers, and oversized brogues. Despite his looking the ra
gamuffin, however, he was a fine one with the tin whistle.
Cassidy saw that he also had himself a mouth harp hanging from one pocket and a squeeze box at his feet. Within a matter of minutes, the entertainer managed to play all three instruments and dance a bit of a jig. People threw money to him—a considerable collection, it appeared.
Obviously, the raggedy minstrel was another of the countless imitators of the legendary blind “Zozimus”—one Michael Moran, who, now passed on, had been acknowledged throughout the countryside as the grand patriarch of the ballad mongers. Such had been Moran’s reputation that he’d spawned any number of mimics, who not only aped his bizarre apparel and eccentric lifestyle, but went to great lengths to match his musical ability.
This one was good. Cassidy turned to an old-timer standing next to him and asked, “Is he a Dublin lad, then, d’you know?”
The old man didn’t bother to glance at Cassidy, but simply jabbed a finger in the minstrel’s direction as he replied. “Indeed, Christy is one of our own, don’t ye know? Raised in Faddle Alley, just like Zozimus. And as near like him in skill as any I’ve seen.”
Pleased to have found his man so easily, Cassidy stood watching, enjoying the show. The itinerant gleemen had always fascinated him, what with their traveling lifestyle, their scorn for ownership and ties, their fierce independence. Except for the winters, which they usually waited out in the city, they spent most of their days on the road, making their way up and down the countryside, taking in the fairs and all the towns along the way.
Closely related to the Traveling People—the Tinkers—and the Seanchais from olden times, the gleemen were known not only to be the preservers of the old music and traditions, but bearers of news and gossip as well, relaying what they knew in each town they traveled.
Like the revered and esteemed storyteller—the Seanchai—who was welcomed with honor in any village he chose to visit, the itinerant musician could also count on a generous measure of hospitality during his wanderings. The people seemed drawn to these blithe spirits, with their outrageous and often capricious manners, honoring their talents and respecting their ways.