by BJ Hoff
When Jess Dalton strode briskly into the room, he brought a draft of cold air with him. A number of hard looks and, in some cases, openly hostile stares were directed toward the big pastor, who appeared oblivious to it all.
Chester Pauling and the insufferable Charles Street, along with a few others, huddled closely together like a gaggle of cold geese, eyeing Dalton with undisguised animosity.
Sara watched them, feeling a sudden surge of anger at the chain of events this group of prosperous, influential…bigots…had set in motion.
They weren’t alone, of course. Successful businessmen all over the city opposed abolition, as did most journalists. Even the majority of the clergy sided with pro-slavery—after all, their salaries were paid, their churches built, their pews rented by the city’s wealthy.
Because of this, the members of the abolitionist movement were often seen as crackpots or foolish visionaries. There was some truth in that charge, Sara knew; with so many of the ministers, merchants, and members of the press opposed to the entire movement, fanatics and undesirables soon filled the ranks.
Ever since 1831, when the radical William Lloyd Garrison first published his Boston periodical, the Liberator, the antislavery movement had been fraught with upheaval and dissension. The militant blocs antagonized the more moderate element, and those who clamored for a variety of humanitarian causes, such as equal rights for women and prison reform, managed to alienate those who would restrict their efforts to freeing the slaves.
There was an indisputable lunatic fringe that advocated outright disregard of the nation’s laws and even violence to achieve their ends. But Northerners, for the most part, revered the Constitution, and when extremists—like Garrison himself—resorted to burning copies of it, or urging slaves to murder their masters in their beds, they tended to view the abolition movement as no better than an organization of madmen.
Now, years later, the hysterical antics of Garrison and his extremist following still overshadowed the efforts of the more moderate abolitionists. Nevertheless, men and women who believed in the essential cause—freedom of the slaves—continued to work for a peaceable, reasonable solution by educating the public and influencing the government.
Jess Dalton was one such man, and it was the very worst sort of unfairness to relegate him to the category of a fanatic. As a minister and a champion of the rights of the oppressed, he labored as a rational, compassionate man of God. What a small group of petty Pharisees were attempting to do to him was nothing short of sinful.
He was aware, of course, of the scheming against him. Already there had been an informal reprimand regarding his activity with the abolitionist movement, and his taking the black boy, Arthur Jackson, into his home.
Watching him now, Sara thought that, at first glance, the big pastor seemed himself: relaxed, cheerful, and confident. A closer look, however, revealed a deepening of the lines webbing out from his eyes, and an uncharacteristic air of distraction.
“I wonder why he’s so late,” Michael said, beside her. “And where’s his wife?”
“She’s not feeling well,” Sara said. “I talked with him this morning, when we were setting up the exhibits, and he told me that Kerry had taken cold and wouldn’t be able to come.” She caught her lip between her teeth for a moment. “He seemed worried about her.”
“I’d like to throttle that bunch in the corner,” Michael said harshly.
“Oh, Michael—it’s so unfair!” Sara said. “Jess Dalton is such a good man—he works so hard for the church and for the missions—for the entire city! There must be a way to stop what they’re trying to do!”
“There is no stopping that kind, Sara, short of a total change of heart.” He turned to look at her, his eyes hard. “And no one but the good Lord can bring about such a—”
He broke off, turning toward the doors as the crowd stirred and murmured. The instant Sara saw what was coming, she caught her breath.
Nervously, she scanned the incredulous faces among the crowd as Evan Whittaker and his Five Points Celebration Singers trooped solemnly into the ballroom.
31
Songs of the City
How sad!—to hear a song of mirth
Sung in the homeless street,
By one in melancholy dearth
Of clothes, and food to eat.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1824–1899)
The two journalists in attendance began to scribble furiously when the choir of black and Irish boys from Five Points marched into the ballroom.
The older of the two reporters, Jerry Tanner, could scarcely believe what he was seeing, even as he wrote. He couldn’t wait to get back downtown and file his story.
They were sharp-looking lads, for the most part: scrubbed and neat, though in some cases their clothing was tattered. Tanner noted that despite the cold March day, some were barefooted.
From the appearance of things, the one-armed director had the lot of them well under control. Whittaker was the Englishman’s name, Tanner recalled from the information given to him by Mr. Farmington: Evan Whittaker. No doubt about it, the discipline of the youngsters seemed impressive. They filed in like a group of little soldiers, turning toward the crowd as one, then standing ramrod straight with all eyes on their slender, bespectacled director.
Griggs, a rookie from the Journal, shot Tanner a bug-eyed look. “You believe this? How do you suppose they wangled their way in here?”
Tanner shrugged, his eyes scanning the crowd to gauge their reaction. “Dunno. But I doubt anybody’s going to question Lewis Farmington on his choice of house guests.”
Tanner could have almost predicted the response of some among the crowd. Old Chester Pauling, for example, looked about to strangle on his own Adam’s apple, and his sidekick, Charles Street—the senior partner of Street, Storey, and Black—was wagging his jowls like a flustered turkey. Some of the women thinned their noses as if they smelled something bad, and two or three actually turned and led their husbands out of the room.
“They’re black!” he heard one observant matron choke out to her stricken companion. “Black and Irish.” The friend, whose jaw seemed locked half open, could do nothing but gape and nod.
For the most part, however, people simply stood quietly, staring back at the frightened black and freckled faces. Some folks even smiled—but not many. Lewis Farmington’s daughter and her Irish policeman husband were beaming, as was the thin-faced little red-headed girl standing close to the two of them.
When the boys began to sing, Tanner just about forgot the crowd; he even had to remind himself to take notes! Oh, this was something, all right! First, a couple of traditional hymns, then some patriotic melodies before launching into what sounded like something entirely new. A mixture, Tanner thought, an appealing kind of blend of black music—spirituals—and songs from other countries, all wrapped around each other and packaged into something that sounded like—well, like America.
The music had a rhythm that made it hard to stand still. Even the less lively numbers had a certain effervescence, a catchy rhythm, that made you want to at least clap your hands or tap your foot.
Glancing around the room, Tanner grinned at the sight of bluebloods like Lewis Farmington and Jason Milhorne nodding their heads and tapping their toes with the best of them. He dashed off a few more descriptions in his notes, then turned his attention back to the boys.
This was something, by gosh—something to write about! That Englishman stood up there, a baton in his one hand, his back as straight as a flagpole, doing little more than nodding his head every now and then or giving a short snap of his wrist. And those boys sang their hearts out for him!
And they sang well! No doubt about it, this was a story! Tanner grinned until he thought his face would crack, only vaguely aware as he scrawled his remarks that his own foot was tapping along with everybody else’s.
From his place in the back row of the choir, Daniel looked out and winked at Johanna, who was standing with Miss Sara and Uncle Mike.
She smiled back at him, and he winked again.
Immediately Evan caught his eye, and Daniel sobered as he went on singing.
Evan, Daniel decided, looked about to burst out of his stiff white collar. His eyes behind the spectacles were bright and glistening with approval.
The thought made Daniel smile and sing a bit louder. He was more than a little surprised when an elderly couple at the front of the crowd smiled back at him.
Sara stood watching Evan’s choir with one hand on Johanna’s shoulder, her free hand squeezing Michael’s fingers.
Had she not been a lady—a lady in the midst of a public gathering—she thought she might have cheered.
It was sheer delight to see what Evan had accomplished with these boys! Nora had told her how some of them couldn’t even read! Yet here they stood, their voices blending almost as one—like one triumphant instrument of an orchestra, for heaven’s sake!—singing a mix of music the likes of which Sara had never heard before.
And Evan—why, you’d have thought the man had been doing this all his life!
For a moment, the image of Evan Whittaker as he’d looked when he first stepped off the ship, along with Nora and the others, slipped into Sara’s thoughts. Not quite two years ago, the slight-framed Englishman had stood on the dock, gray and emaciated from a botched shipboard amputation. Yet in spite of his weakness and obvious ill health, he had clearly appointed himself Nora’s protector.
And now—now they were married, with a child of their own on the way. To think of all that had happened in so brief a time.
“Can you believe this?” Michael said, grinning at her. “I can scarce take it in that that’s Whittaker up there!”
“It’s so exciting! And the music—Michael, Nora says Evan arranges most of it himself! He spends hours every week at the church piano, working on it. Who would have ever imagined it?”
Michael grinned even wider. “Aye, for an Englishman, he’s a bit of a wonder, I must admit.”
“He’s remarkable! But I do think we should find a way to provide shoes for those barefoot boys of his—and I must see about arranging a piano for him at home as soon as possible. Nora says he argues against leaving her now, except to go to the yards. He worries about—”
She stopped, watching as two youths stepped out from among the other singers and walked to the front. In a decidedly nervous tone of voice, the taller of the two boys began a recitation on how “The Star-Spangled Banner” came to be written by Francis Scott Key as he watched the British fleet’s bombardment of Fort McHenry in Baltimore Harbor. The tune itself, the youth went on to explain, raising a few eyebrows, was actually that of a popular English drinking song, which the composer borrowed for his lyrics. Immediately after he finished his reading, the entire boys’ choir burst into what had to be, Sara was convinced, the most enthusiastic rendering she had ever heard of that somewhat somber piece.
Halfway through, when the group gave way to a solo by the little freckle-faced boy at the front, an awed hush fell over the ballroom. Sara held her breath, and a chill skated all the way down her spine, as the youth’s clear, glorious voice seemed to lift and soar above the group.
So true, so pure, were those high, echoing tones that the entire ballroom all at once seemed filled with the sound of bells.
The song ended. There was a moment of absolute silence. Then the room exploded with vigorous applause.
Sara looked around, thrilled to see that a number of familiar faces in the crowd—faces which ordinarily reflected little, if any emotion—were now creased with smiles—enthusiastic smiles. There were some frowns of disapproval, of course; she would have been astonished had that not been the case. But they were few, and, as best she could tell, seemed to be going entirely unnoticed.
Clearly, Evan Whittaker and his Five Points Celebration Singers were a success on Fifth Avenue. Just as clear was the evidence of what one caring heart and the power of God could accomplish in the face of almost impossible circumstances.
Within an hour after the performance of the boys’ choir, Sara had managed to find Evan not one piano, but two.
Michael could only shake his head in wonder at his wife. It seemed that both Lydia Huntington and Margaret Smythe had pianos in their parlor “collecting dust.” Evan Whittaker could have either one for the price of hauling it away,
Hauling it away would be free—and quite easy, Sara quickly explained to the astonished Whittaker. Since Margaret Smythe lived in Brooklyn, they would simply have one of the men at the shipyards load the piano onto a wagon and deliver it to Evan’s house.
She was in the process of offering the mission committee’s help with one of his other projects—the reading lessons he’d initiated for some of the boys in the choir—when Jess Dalton joined their little group.
“Careful, Pastor,” Michael cracked as he walked up. “Sara’s on the hunt. She’s likely to talk you out of your office furniture if she catches you unawares. So far, she’s collected only pianos and books, but there’s no telling what she may set her sights on next.”
“Pastor Dalton already gives more than enough,” Sara said, her expression all seriousness, “with his time and efforts. He’s one of the few who is quite safe from my meddling.”
“Never meddling, Sara,” said Jess Dalton. His voice was quiet, his smile tired and, Michael thought, a little forced. “Not you. If only we had more who cared as you do. Actually, though, I did come over to offer my help in another area.” He paused, then looked at Michael. “The boy you told me about in the Bowery—Bhima—and his friends at the dime museum? If you have time to show me where to go one day next week, I’ll make the visit you requested.”
Michael moaned silently as Sara turned an inquisitive look on him. “What boy is that?”
When he didn’t answer, but simply looked from her to Jess Dalton, she said again, “Michael? Who on earth do you know in a dime museum?”
“Ah…just a lad,” he muttered, shifting from one foot to another. “A lad who could use a bit of help.”
Before he could say more or Sara could press, Jess Dalton innocently offered further information. “More than a bit, from what you’ve told me,” he said, shaking his head. “What a bleak existence those people must live down there.”
“What people?”
One thing about Sara, Michael realized anew, she was nothing if not tenacious.
“The people at the dime museum,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You’ve probably heard them referred to as ‘Freak Shows,’” Jess Dalton added with a touch of bitterness in his tone. “Michael’s met an unusual boy from one of them. Most unusual, right, Michael?”
Sara’s smile was sweet, her gaze blade-sharp. “Is that so? Well, you’ll have to tell me all about this…unusual boy, Michael.”
Knowing he would undoubtedly have to do just that before the day came to an end, Michael gave a small sigh and a reluctant nod.
He was relieved when Evan Whittaker brought about a change of subject. “M-Miss Sara—”
Sara turned to him, smiling.
“I—I want to thank you again for the piano. There’s no expressing how grateful I am—”
Sara made a dismissing gesture with her hand. Michael understood her discomfort; the last thing Sara would want from this rather remarkable Englishman was gratitude.
“After everything you’ve already d-done,” he went on, “I’m…reluctant to ask, but there is one thing m-more that would be of im-immeasurable help to the boys and me.”
At Sara’s encouraging nod, he went on to explain. “There’s an old piano in the public house downstairs of the rehearsal room—it’s not in b-bad shape, as a m-matter of fact—and the proprietor said we could use it for our practices if we like. I’ve been thinking that if we had someone who was willing to play for rehearsals, it m-might be m-much easier for the boys to learn the music.”
Michael watched, puzzled by the smile that broke slowly over Sara’s face. “Evan,” she said, claspin
g both hands beneath her chin for an instant like an excited girl, “come with me, do! There’s someone I’d like very much for you to meet!”
32
Light of Grace, Wings of Hope
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother’s soul?
OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900)
Evan had first noticed the ugly bruises on the Hogan lad the week after the city mission bazaar.
It had been a warm, sun-sweet day, more like May than March, and their first rehearsal since the performance at the Farmington mansion. The boys had come out in short sleeves, some in undershirts, all free of sweaters and jackets.
As was his practice, Evan had been moving among them, one at a time, listening to each individual pitch and tone. When he reached Billy Hogan, he slowed considerably; that glorious voice coming from such a little fellow never ceased to amaze and move him.
He noticed the bruises on the boy’s arms, the small cuts near the mouth, right away. At the time, he wasn’t overly disturbed. Boys, after all, would be boys: climbing about, playing roughhouse with one another—most boys sported some bruises now and then.
Today, two weeks later, the cold temperatures had returned, forcing the boys to again don their winter coats—those fortunate enough to own one. Billy’s arms were concealed by the shapeless jacket he wore, but Evan was sure the gash beside the lad’s upper lip and the angry purple bruise next to his right ear were new.
A sense of foreboding nagged at him all the way through rehearsal. Acting on impulse after he dismissed the group, he stopped Billy at the door. “What happened, son?” he asked the boy directly. “Take a fall, d-did you?”
At first the boy simply gave him a blank look. When Evan motioned to the bruise on his cheekbone, his eyes took on an almost furtive expression.
“Aye, a fall, sir, that’s what it was,” he muttered quickly—a bit too quickly, Evan thought.
“I see.” When the boy refused to meet Evan’s eyes but simply stood, looking down at the floor, Evan hesitated, then asked, “And where d-did you fall?”