Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  They had enlisted some help along the way: Skipper Jones, an unemployed Negro hod carrier, and a Catholic priest known in the area simply as “Father John.” So far, however, no one had come upon the slightest trace of Arthur.

  With Casey-Fitz gripping his hand, Jess led the way across the square. He couldn’t stop the memory that flashed through his mind as they walked. This was where Arthur had first come into their lives. On a bitter November day, an angry Irish striker had shot him down, right here, in Paradise Square. Jess had taken him home to recuperate—and Arthur had stayed, to become a part of their family.

  A tug on his hand called him back to the present, and he glanced down at his son.

  “I’m sure we’ll find him, Dad.” The boy’s voice sounded anything but sure.

  Jess studied the thin face, the solemn green eyes. “Of course, we will, son,” he said, squeezing the boy’s hand. “We’ll keep searching until we do.” He paused. “You’re quite certain Arthur didn’t say anything—anything at all—that might help us know where to look?”

  Casey-Fitz shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing. I could tell he blamed himself for our troubles, and I know he fretted about your resigning—even after you explained. But I don’t have any idea where he might go.” His voice faltered. “I should have watched him more closely, I expect.”

  Again Jess gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “No, you couldn’t possibly have known what Arthur was thinking. Don’t blame yourself, son. There’s no blame in this for anyone.”

  “But Arthur thinks there is,” Casey-Fitz said softly. “He blames himself. That’s why he’s gone.”

  Having no answer for the boy—or for himself—Jess remained silent. “Let’s go get the buggy,” he finally said. “I think our next stop ought to be the police station.”

  When Evan Whittaker walked into the rehearsal room, he knew at once that something was amiss. The boys were huddled together, heads down, and everyone seemed to be talking at once. From the looks of their grave expressions, Evan concluded that whatever had happened was not good.

  They broke apart with obvious reluctance when he rapped his baton. Without waiting for permission to speak, Billy Hogan blurted out, “Mr. Whittaker, sir, Arthur Jackson is missing!”

  No more were the words out of his mouth than Daniel spoke up. “Uncle Mike and Officer Price were just here, asking if we’d help with the search. They think Arthur ran away to the Five Points because of all the troubles Mr. Dalton has been having.”

  Evan stared at them with dismay. He had developed a real fondness for the spunky young black boy. Arthur was one of his most dependable choir members and was showing real promise in the reading classes.

  He glanced at Mrs. Walsh. She was sitting on the piano bench, her features troubled, her hands clenched in her lap.

  “Of c-course, we must help,” Evan said distractedly. “Mrs. Walsh, we won’t be rehearsing t-today. Is your d-driver waiting?”

  She stood, saying, “He’ll wait as long as necessary. I’ll go with you and the boys to help look for Arthur.”

  “Oh—n-no…I d-don’t think that’s—no, you mustn’t d-do that! I’ll see you to your carriage….

  “No, Mr. Whittaker, I’m going to help,” she said firmly, putting on her gloves. “Please don’t be concerned about me. I’ll be quite all right.”

  When she continued to override his protests, Evan reluctantly gave in. Before they left the rehearsal room, he pulled Daniel to one side. “D-don’t let Mrs. Walsh out of your sight. I can’t very well insist that she not g-go, but she can’t possibly have a thought as to what it’s like down here.”

  “Aye,” Daniel nodded, glancing over at Alice Walsh. “But I think she’s the sort of woman who will manage.”

  “Let us hope,” Evan said tightly. “Let us hope.”

  Alice realized that the search through Five Points might well give her nightmares for weeks. Yet, she felt compelled to accompany Mr. Whittaker and the boys, knew an unexplainable need to subject herself to this vale of misery.

  Nothing could have prepared her for her first close-up encounter with the wretchedness of Five Points. She had read about it, of course, but even the newspapers seemed somewhat guarded in their chronicles of the notorious slum, as if words alone were not enough to convey its horror. The women in her mission aid society spoke of the area mostly in whispers, with downcast eyes.

  Up until now, Alice had arrived for choir rehearsals safely ensconced in her buggy, quickly delivered and collected before the taint of the slum could rub off on her well-tailored suit. Not once had she walked into the festering alleys to confront the suffering quartered therein. What lady would?

  The rotting buildings with their broken windows, the streets teeming with garbage and pigs, the slatternly women, some scarcely covered by their tattered dresses, the drunken men with their abusive language and hate-filled eyes—Alice had neither seen nor imagined even a small part of the area’s squalor.

  But as she moved through the streets, well-protected by the police escort and the solemn-faced Mr. Whittaker and his boys, she felt a peculiar sense of satisfaction to be here. Far too long had she been sheltered from the reality of the world she lived in. For too many years she had managed to skirt most of what was unpleasant or painful. It was, she admitted grimly to herself, time for her to grow up.

  Their search went on throughout the remainder of the afternoon and into the evening. And the deeper into the Five Points they went, the more Alice’s shame increased.

  How had she managed to live so long…and so well…ignorant of the fact that thousands upon thousands of people existed in such an abject state of poverty and degradation—like animals? She had not known, had never realized, the appalling conditions under which human beings could actually survive.

  Guilt at her own ignorance and apathy overwhelmed her. She lived in a mansion twice the size her family actually needed, pampering her already spoiled children, indulging herself with rich food, piano playing, and church teas—while an entire community only moments away existed in a veritable nightmare.

  Ignorance was no excuse, she thought grimly. But even if it were, it didn’t apply to Patrick. He knew about this place and its people. He could not help but know, with his involvement in business throughout the city. She had heard him—and her father—discuss Five Points, the Bowery, and other slum areas of New York, where the immigrants—especially the Irish—lived in misery.

  Why, Patrick was Irish himself, although he didn’t appreciate being reminded of it! They could have been doing so much, could have been taking measures to help alleviate the suffering in places like Five Points. Instead, Patrick just went on accumulating more and more wealth, while she continued to squander her days like an indulged, indifferent child, salving her conscience by giving money and playing the piano a few hours a week for Evan Whittaker’s boys’ choir.

  Self-disgust washed over Alice, and right there, in the middle of the abominable stench rising off the littered streets, she promised herself…and her Maker…that she would no longer live such an isolated, wholly selfish existence.

  She did not know where she might begin or what, exactly, she could do. But she would do something—and she would begin right away. And she must make Patrick, too, realize the—the sin of their indifference. He worked hard for the money that provided their luxuries, but surely she could make him see that they must not go on living entirely for themselves, as they had in the past.

  In the meantime, however, she must concentrate on her reason for being here in the first place: Arthur Jackson, of whom there was still not so much as a sign.

  Arthur heard them before he saw them—Mr. Jess and Casey-Fitz, the two of them following Captain Burke up the rickety stairs. They were making their way up to the second floor of the Old Brewery, while Arthur stood beneath them, squeezed inside a dark, concealing alcove.

  He was close enough that he could have reached out and touched the big preacher’s foot as they ascended, had to choke of
f a cry when he saw his tall form reach the landing. It was all he could do not to call his name.

  Instead, he slipped out of the building through the Murderer’s Alley entrance, crouching in the shadows until he could no longer hear their voices.

  They would never find him as long as he stayed in the Old Brewery. The place was a shadowland of dark and winding passages that ran throughout the whole building, with any number of alley entrances and hiding places deep within.

  Arthur knew it was one of the favorite means of escape for the thieves and pickpockets that infested Five Points. A body could get lost in here for months without being found, if he had a mind to.

  As he huddled behind a stack of rags in the fetid darkness, deliberately trying not to identify the rustlings and muffled sounds around him, Arthur knew a moment of the most shattering pain he had felt since leaving the Daltons’ that morning before daybreak. A terrible, aching loneliness assailed him with all the violence of a blow, doubling him over until he thought he would be sick.

  So intense was the hurt that he bit his lip until it bled. Suddenly, the sound of a muttered oath and the strong, sour smell of unwashed bodies loomed over him.

  Caught off guard, Arthur lifted his head, trying to make out faces in the darkness.

  “Here’s another’n!” An agonizing kick in the small of his back sent Arthur sprawling to his belly. He gasped for breath, choking as he was roughly yanked to his feet from behind.

  “He’s a big one! I got him now—hold his arms!”

  Stunned, Arthur twisted to free himself, squinting into the darkness at the two hulking forms that had him trapped.

  He tried to bring his arms up, but a rope slipped down over his head, almost strangling him when his attacker hauled it tight.

  He lunged, charging with his head, screeching like a cornered wildcat, until the rope cut off his air and a fist slammed into his face, silencing him.

  39

  The Warehouse

  Alas! it is a fearful thing

  To feel another’s guilt!

  OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900)

  Word about the missing Negro boy from Pastor Dalton’s household reached the Bowery late that night.

  Bhima and two of the other residents of the museum—the Strong Man and Plug, Brewster’s bodyguard—were huddled in the shadows behind the warehouse.

  “The pastor is fond of the boy,” Bhima told them. “He speaks of him with much affection.”

  “Then we should help find him,” said the Strong Man. His massive frame was encased in a loosely knit sweater and flapping trousers instead of the circus tights he wore on stage. “With all the preacher is doing for us, it’s only right that we do what we can for him.”

  “But not until after tonight,” Bhima reminded him.

  “You’re sure the captain is coming?” growled Plug, the dwarf. “One of the newsboys said he was still in the Five Points earlier this evening, helping search for the Negro boy.”

  “He will come,” Bhima said with confidence. “And we will be waiting.”

  The other two nodded their agreement. Plug touched the deadly looking brass knuckles on his right hand reassuringly.

  The Strong Man again stretched to peer inside the grimy window, while Bhima and Plug waited impatiently.

  Just after midnight, Michael and his men entered the abandoned warehouse across from the dime museum.

  A faint light drifted in through the sooty windows from the streets outside, enough for Michael to see that he didn’t like the looks of the place. Not at all.

  Here and there around the warehouse, upended barrels and boxes littered the splintered wood floor. The heavy scent of mold and dirt and cleaning fluid hung in the air. In a rough semicircle around the far end of the deserted building, packing crates and deteriorating bolts of fabric, stacked nearly the height of two men, formed a natural barrier between the east wall and the main doors.

  “All right, then,” Michael whispered, “spread out. Into the shadows, every man of you—and keep a sharp eye on the door. Remember—don’t move until I give the signal.” He motioned Rourke and Price and the others into place with a final warning: “There will be children with them, don’t forget. So take care!”

  Michael crouched into a dark shaft of shadow between two boxes to wait. Bhima had come through, after all, with the information he’d been trying to get for months. Tonight, Walsh’s men were scheduled to ship out more than twenty of the homeless black children who roamed the streets of the slums…children who would more than likely spend their remaining years in slavery.

  Unless he and his men could stop them.

  A bitter bile rose up in his throat as he considered the terrible fate that awaited the children if they should fail them this night. Nervously fingering the handle of his nightstick, he told himself again that they would not fail. There was too much at stake, more, even, than the lives of the children.

  Walsh, of course, would not show his face or dirty his soft hands with such a mean job. He was too slick…too respectable…to risk his neck at a slave exchange. But his henchmen would be here, and once they were safely put away, Michael hoped to convince at least one of them to save his own skin by squealing on his elusive employer.

  Yet, whatever else happened, the children must come first. He would not endanger them just to get Walsh, no matter how much he wanted to put the snake away.

  In the silence of the warehouse, Michael’s heart hammered against his chest as he went on waiting.

  Somewhere in the distance a clock struck one. Michael jerked to attention. He had lost track of time. How long had they been inside the warehouse, waiting?

  His legs ached from crouching down in the same position for so long. Shifting, he tried to straighten and stretch, then stopped, holding his breath.

  From near the main doorway came a thump, then a shuffling sound. The door swung back with a creak and a groan, and the shuffling drew nearer.

  Total darkness, total silence, except for the shuffling and an occasional soft sob. Then the door grated shut, and Michael heard the thud of a bolt being thrown. A muffled voice issued what sounded like a warning, and the sobbing stopped.

  Peering around the stack of boxes that concealed him, he could see little of anything, except a huddle of small, dark shadows, surrounded by a circle of larger silhouettes.

  He smelled the sulfur before he heard the match strike. Someone lit a torch, then two, then another, and in the eerie, flickering glow he saw a sight that chilled his blood.

  Bhima had been wrong. These were not twenty black children, rounded up to be sold as slaves. Instead, there were close to a hundred lined up, grouped together, their eyes wide with terror in the torchlight, their small faces frozen in frear.

  And not all the faces were black….

  Rage flared in Michael as he saw the frightened faces of four little white girls illuminated by the wavering light. After a moment, he scanned the men holding the torches, recognizing at least four of Walsh’s men—thugs who might, to make things easier on themselves, spill what they knew about their employer’s dirty business dealings.

  Another man stepped into the light, this one smaller than the others. Rossiter! Michael’s heart raced. Of course, the weaselly little bookkeeper would be here, no doubt to make sure no one double-crossed his boss!

  In the darkness, Michael gave a grim smile and nodded. This was more than he’d hoped for! If he could take Rossiter…and his books…it should give him enough evidence to finish Walsh!

  But his first job was to rescue those children.

  As he watched, Rossiter balanced one end of a ledger against his chest and began to write. Just then, a knock sounded on the warehouse door: two raps…pause…three raps…pause…then one more.

  A signal.

  One of Walsh’s men handed his torch off to another standing next to him, then slid the bolt. The door opened just a crack, enough for a man to enter, and a tall shadow eased into the flickering circle of light.

&
nbsp; Michael stared. A sick heaviness settled over him, taking his breath. For an instant he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them.

  There was no mistake. It was his son. It was Tierney.

  Tierney Burke took the distance between the door and Rossiter in three long strides.

  Looking around, he locked his gaze on the bookkeeper. “You can’t do this, Rossiter!” he threatened.

  “Now you just hold on one minute, Burke! You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to do the job. And you’re being paid well—too well, in my estimation.”

  As always, Rossiter’s high, shrill voice grated on Tierney. Scowling, he took a step toward the bookkeeper, who stumbled backward.

  “I knew about the blacks,” Tierney pointed out. “But nobody told me about them!” Without looking, he gestured over his shoulder to where a small group of white girls—some with red hair and freckles—stood huddled in unmistakable terror. They looked to be no more than twelve or thirteen years old; even clad in rags, with dirty faces, they held the first faint promise of budding Irish beauty.

  Rossiter sneered. Out of the corner of his eye, Tierney saw two or three of Walsh’s henchmen move in closer to him and the bookkeeper.

  “Why, the market’s just as good for your little Irish biddies as for the pickaninnies, Burke,” the dome-headed Rossiter said with an ugly smile.

  “Maybe better. Their skin is white, but they’re every bit as dumb as the darkies.”

  Anger erupted into a furious rage inside Tierney. His teeth clenched until his jaw ached, and his hands trembled at his sides.

  He pressed his face close to Rossiter’s, close enough to catch the scent of the man’s fear. “Walsh wouldn’t allow this! He’s Irish himself!”

  Backing up, Rossiter forced a laugh. “Who do you think dreamed up the entire scheme?” He reached to straighten his spectacles. “That’s right: Walsh,” he said with evident satisfaction. “Your boss and mine, boy. Walsh, who sets the runners onto the ships to swindle your dim-witted cousins from the…‘ould country’ as soon as they dock. The same Walsh who owns those fine boardinghouses in the Five Points, where your countrymen live in high style.”