Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what lies in darkness, and light dwells with him.

  DANIEL 2:22

  20

  A Candle in the Dark

  Like a candle lifted in the night,

  God’s love is a light in the darkness.

  ANONYMOUS

  Late September

  Billy Hogan huddled alone in a dark corner, his arms clasped about his propped-up legs, his head resting on his knees.

  It would soon be dark. He could tell by the narrow, fast-fading ribbon of light leaking in from the crack on the outside wall.

  Nobody in the building knew about the small storage press off the coal cellar except Billy and his uncle. And so far as Billy knew, nobody but Uncle Sorley had a key. Even his mum didn’t know about the cramped space, nor about the hours Billy spent inside it.

  At first, Billy had almost welcomed the occasional banishments to the cellar. Until recently, they had seldom lasted more than an hour or so, and the isolation provided at least a temporary reprieve from his uncle’s rage and the threat of another beating.

  Of late, however, Billy had begun to dread the musty, dark hole, even fear it. Uncle Sorley was locking him up more and more often, and for longer periods of time. Yesterday, he hadn’t come to let him out until well after the supper hour. Not daring to ask for food past the mealtime, Billy had gone to bed with an empty belly.

  The thrashings came more often now, too, sometimes for purely imaginary offenses. These days, it seemed that Billy could do nothing right. The slightest fault would set his uncle off. If he couldn’t find Billy guilty of any particular offense, he would simply accuse him of “impertinence,” and either give him a pounding or jostle him down the stairs to the cellar. Sometimes both.

  Uncle Sorley was at the drink all the time lately, which meant he was in a constant state of bad temper as well. Billy’s mother no longer begged him to quit, as she once had, even though there was seldom enough money left over from the drink to buy food. Nagging at him accomplished nothing but to bring on yet another fit of rage—which invariably ended in a renewed bout of drinking.

  Billy raised his head, trying not to think about his uncle. He knew he should try to concentrate on brighter things, to make the time go more quickly.

  Had it been any other day, he might have turned his thoughts to Mr. Whittaker and the boys in the singing group. But not today. Today, he was missing the weekly rehearsal. For a moment, he tried to pretend he was in the upstairs practice room with the others. He even opened his mouth to sing, but all that came out was a sob.

  Singing with Mr. Whittaker’s group was the one pleasant hour of the entire week for Billy. It was the one time he felt safe and even worthwhile. But now Uncle Sorley had taken that away, too.

  A faint rustling sound came from the opposite corner. Billy stiffened. He peered into the darkness, holding his breath, listening. For a moment all he could hear was the roar of his own pulse in his ears. Then the sound came again.

  Rats!

  Billy’s heart pounded, accelerating as he heard the scrabbling, scratching noises coming nearer. He wished he had a stick, a rock—anything that would serve as a weapon. He wished, at least, that he could see.

  How many were there? he wondered. One or two? What if there were more?

  Billy hated rats beyond imagining. And New York seemed to be teeming with them! They were down here, they were upstairs—they were everywhere! Often they found their way into the flat. Indeed, his mum lived in terror of them.

  Many a night he would lie awake on his straw-filled cot, his stomach churning with dread, his eyes wide open to make sure the filthy creatures didn’t come near his younger brothers.

  Swallowing hard, Billy again strained to see more clearly, but the darkness was closing in. Any moment, he realized with a sick sense of dread, Uncle Sorley would be leaving for work, leaving him locked in the cellar room for most of the night.

  His uncle worked as a houseman—a bouncer—at Tiny’s Place, one of the gambling dens in the Bowery. He seldom came home before one or two in the morning. Some nights he didn’t come home at all.

  Another rustling sound from the shadows made Billy pray that this would not be one of those nights.

  “I say, Mrs. Walsh, would you m-mind playing through this for me? Just a b-brief run-through, so I can check the harmony.”

  Alice Walsh gave a cursory glance to the score Evan handed her, then began playing. As he stood looking over her shoulder, listening, Evan admired, not for the first time, the woman’s command of the keyboard. Her sight-reading was impeccable, her rhythm flawless. She made it look so easy, coaxing those wonderful sounds from the keys. A person could easily forget how much time and effort must have gone into attaining such competence.

  When she finished the piece, she looked up at Evan. “Why, Mr. Whittaker, this is very nice! It’s one of your own, isn’t it?”

  “Ah…yes, as a m-matter of fact, it is,” Evan said, embarrassed by her praise. “It’s become m-more and more difficult to find music for the boys, you see, and so I find m-myself either rearranging what we have, or simply writing something new. It’s difficult, though, since I c-can’t really play all the p-parts to check my work.”

  “Your work is excellent. In fact, I think you should consider showing some of your arrangements to a publisher.”

  Evan laughed at her enthusiasm. “I’m afraid I’m n-no Stephen Foster, Mrs. Walsh! My compositions are strictly amateurish attempts.”

  “Oh, I don’t agree with that at all, Mr. Whittaker. Would you like me to take this home and make an accompanist’s copy, as I have your other pieces?”

  “It would be most helpful, of course, but I really d-don’t want you going to any more trouble—”

  She smiled warmly at him. “It’s no trouble. Actually, I enjoy it. Now that the children are older, I find myself with a great deal of time on my hands.”

  Evan nodded absently and began to collect his music. “No d-doubt you’ve noticed that we have a problem developing,” he said. “I’m beginning to think I m-made a mistake in not setting an age limit for our membership.”

  Unwilling to exclude those who expressed an interest in singing, Evan had made a practice of welcoming any boy into the group who didn’t appear to be a troublemaker. As a result, he now had quite a mix in ages among the boys, with some as young as eight or nine, and others, like Daniel John, approaching their late teenage years.

  The problem was that the older boys’ voices had either changed altogether, or were in varying stages of deepening. Consequently, it was becoming more and more difficult to develop practical arrangements for the group as a whole.

  “Perhaps some separate numbers for the older boys would help,” suggested Alice Walsh.

  “Perhaps. But I fear they’re losing interest, and I’m not sure we can d-do much about it. Have you n-noticed their impatience with the younger boys lately?”

  She nodded. “I suppose it’s to be expected. Other than one or two, like Billy Hogan, the younger boys require much simpler music. The older ones get bored waiting for them to learn their parts.”

  At the mention of Billy Hogan, Evan looked up. “Did you n-notice that Billy was absent again today? It’s happening m-more and more frequently, don’t you think?”

  “Have you talked with him about it?”

  Evan nodded. “It’s always the same. He apologizes but n-never really offers much by way of explanation.”

  Looking up from his music case, he hesitated, then blurted out what had been on his mind for several weeks. “I tell you, Mrs. Walsh, I think there’s something very wrong with B-Billy. I’m actually quite worried about him.”

  She rose, stacking her own music neatly on top of the piano. “I’m afraid I agree,” she finally replied. “The poor little boy just wrings my heart. He tries so hard. Obviously, he enjoys every minute of rehearsal. And that incredible voice! But there’s such a sadness about him—” She stopped, letting her words drif
t off, unfinished.

  As if deliberately trying to change the subject, she turned toward Evan, smiling. “And how is your little boy, Mr. Whittaker?”

  Evan brightened. “Oh, he’s quite well, thank you! He’s such a joy to us, you kn-know. I f-fear we’ll spoil him terribly. He’s quite a good baby, though—so quiet and good-natured. Why, he scarcely cries at all!”

  “I’m so happy for you. And how is Mrs. Whittaker?”

  Evan continued to smile, but even as he murmured his usual reply, that Mrs. Whittaker was “well and quite busy these days, with the baby and all,” he felt the familiar stab of doubt as to how well Nora really was.

  He couldn’t help but think she should be stronger by now. Teddy was nearly three months old, but even so, Nora seemed to have regained little strength or vigor. Evan found it difficult not to fret about her; she was pale all the time, and even the smallest task seemed to exhaust her. Yet she insisted that she felt stronger every day.

  He had confided his worry to Dr. Grafton, of course, but the other had offered little reassurance. Evan had grown accustomed to the mild-mannered physician’s reserve—he was, indeed, a man of few words. Nevertheless, something about the doctor’s vague nods and understanding smiles only served to sharpen his concern.

  Still, there could be no doubt that Nora was enjoying their infant son. The radiance about her when she held Teddy in her arms never failed to make Evan’s heart swell with love.

  Teddy was a delight to them both—and a continual wonder to Evan, who up until now had had virtually no exposure to babies at all. He held him as often and for as long as Nora would allow, endlessly fascinated by the delicate perfection of tiny fingers and tiny toes. And when the little fellow gazed up into his eyes and made that funny little chortling sound—as if he found his father highly amusing—Evan would laugh aloud with pleasure.

  “About the boys, Mr. Whittaker—I might have a suggestion.”

  Alice Walsh gave an uncertain smile, waiting for Evan’s nod of encouragement before continuing. “It’s just a thought, of course, but you might consider starting a band—for the older boys, that is.”

  Evan looked at her. “A band?”

  “It might be just the thing. Some of them already read music and play instruments—like Daniel John and Casey Dalton.”

  Evan didn’t want to risk offending the woman, but he scarcely considered a harp and a flute the makings of a band.

  As if warming to the idea, she went on, her words hurried and eager now. “Some of the boys are quite musical. I’m sure they could learn instruments quickly,” she said. “And a band of their own might restore their interest in staying together.”

  Even as she spoke, Evan could anticipate all manner of obstacles. “But we have n-no instruments—”

  She waved a hand as if the problem were negligible. “I’m sure I could locate some used instruments among the merchants and other members of my congregation.”

  “I’m afraid I know n-nothing at all about b-bands,” Evan again attempted to protest.

  “Oh, but you know a great deal about music! And the boys are so dedicated to you, I’m sure you’d have no problem capturing their interest.”

  In spite of his skepticism, Evan actually found himself considering the possibilities. “Still,” he pointed out, “I couldn’t m-manage both the singing group and a band. It would involve n-new music arrangements and additional rehearsals—”

  Alice Walsh seemed to have an answer for every argument he raised. Indeed, Evan was beginning to wonder just how long she had actually been considering her suggestion.

  “I believe I know someone who would help,” she offered. “One of the members of our congregation, Mr. Harold Elliott, is an employee of Firth, Pond—the music publisher. I could speak with him about donating some easy arrangements. I’m sure he’d be happy to help. As for the extra rehearsals…” She hesitated, but only for an instant. “Perhaps—perhaps I could manage the younger boys while you work with the older ones. Just for practices. You’d still be their director, of course.”

  Evan stared at the woman, somewhat bemused. He had never seen Mrs. Walsh like this. She was usually so…quiet. “Well…I suppose it’s worth considering,” he said slowly. “If you really think we could m-manage, that is.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we could,” replied Alice Walsh in an uncharacteristically firm tone of voice. “The boys are intent on pleasing you. They’re quite devoted to you, you know.”

  Inordinately pleased by her words, Evan busied himself with erasing the chalkboard that Lewis Farmington had recently donated. “Yes, well, they’re good b-boys. I enjoy them no end.”

  Again he thought of Billy Hogan. “I believe I shall m-make a call on the Hogan family. I’ve been thinking that I should at least introduce myself to the boy’s parents. Perhaps this would b-be a good time to begin.”

  “But you don’t plan on going this evening, do you?”

  Evan turned, realizing at once what she meant. “Oh…n-no. No, I suppose not. One d-doesn’t linger in the Five Points after dark. Certainly n-not alone. I’ll have to go another time.”

  Directly on the heels of his words came an unsettling thought: if he, a grown man, could not face the Five Points after dark, what must it be like for a small boy to spend his life there?

  The cellar closet was now completely dark. Billy knew his uncle Sorley would not be coming to let him out. At least not soon. For the first time, he would have to spend the night alone in the inky blackness of the cellar.

  Billy bit his lip to the point of pain, squeezed his eyes tightly shut to stop the tears. A boy his age shouldn’t be crying, shouldn’t be afraid of the dark. He was nine years old, after all. He shouldn’t be afraid of anything.

  “I’m not afraid,” he said to the darkness. He heard the trembling in his voice, and said it again, this time louder. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  As the minutes passed and he heard nothing more, Billy wondered if he could have imagined the sounds. He wished he had a lantern. Or even a candle. Anything that would enable him to see what was in the corner.

  In truth, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to see. Still, if he had a light, perhaps they wouldn’t bother him and…

  Something tugged at his thoughts. Unexpectedly, the memory of one of his recent reading lessons came squeezing through his fear. Because he was reading ahead of the other boys, Mr. Whittaker had assigned him an additional lesson to study: some Bible verses from the book of Psalms.

  Once Billy had mastered the verses, Mr. Whittaker had given him a big smile and said the word that all the boys worked hard to hear: “Splendid!” he said. “Splendid job, Mr. Hogan!”

  With his eyes still closed, Billy groped to remember the words, trying to see them just as they had appeared on the printed page:

  “For thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God will enlighten my darkness…even the darkness will not hide from thee…the night shines as the day…the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.…”

  Slowly Billy opened his eyes. The pounding of his heart eased a bit, and he sat up straight. At last—his voice clear, and stronger this time—he spoke again to the darkness. “I’m not afraid,” he said. “I’m not.”

  Mr. Whittaker often reminded them that God was everywhere, that those who belonged to the Lord could never be out of His sight. “Even in the blackest night,” he once explained during the practice of a hymn tune, “He sees you. He is with you. His love is your shelter in the daylight or in the dark.”

  That being the case, God was right here, in the cellar closet. And the dark wouldn’t be a bit of a bother to God, none at all. He could see everything that was going on, even in the hidden corners.

  So Billy kept his eyes closed and asked God to stand watch over him in the darkness. And after a time, he truly was no longer afraid, for he realized he was no longer alone.

  21

  The Chatham Charity Women’s Shelter

  Father in Heaven, give us br
ead;

  (God, make us want to live, instead.)

  May we be clothed by charity;

  (Oh, give us back our faith in Thee.)

  For our sick bodies, give us care;

  (God, save our souls from this despair.)

  Shelter us from the wind and rain;

  (Oh, help us learn to smile again.)

  Grant that our babies may be fed;

  (But what of hopes forever dead?)

  Father in Heaven, give us bread—

  (Oh, give us back our dreams instead!)

  AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  (YOUNG WOMAN REFERRED TO NEW YORK’S CHURCH MISSION OF HELP)

  And what sort of a day will you be having, sweetheart?” asked Michael. He frowned at his reflection in the vanity mirror as he struggled with the top button of his shirt.

  Still in her dressing gown, Sara crossed the room to help. “A busy one, more than likely. I’m visiting Nora this morning, then coming back to tour one of the women’s shelters in the Bowery. Helen asked me to help out during Emily Deshler’s illness.”

  He turned, locking his arms around her waist as she conquered the stubborn button. “Which shelter would that be?”

  “I believe it’s on Chatham Street.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “The one run by Ethelda Crane?”

  “Yes, I think so. Have you been there?” she asked, smoothing the front of his shirt.

  “No, but I’ve met Miss Crane. The subcommission interviewed her when we first began to set up our committees.”

  “She serves on one of the committees?”

  He shook his head. “No. The general consensus was that Miss Crane might be a bit…difficult to work with.” He grinned, pulling her closer. “You’d be wise to approach that one with caution, sure,” he said, grinning at her.

  “The shelter or Miss Crane?”

  “I believe Miss Crane is the shelter. It was my observation that she takes her work very, ah…seriously. I got the feeling she might also take a dim view of anything that could be interpreted as interference.”