Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  Shaking his head, he drove on, dreading what would be, almost certainly, his final call on Elizabeth Ward. Perhaps eventually he would be able to feel pity for the man in England, whose pride of name evidently meant more to him than his own child. But for now, the only emotion he could find in his heart for Edward Winston was a seething rage for the additional, unnecessary pain he was inflicting on his dying daughter.

  With a sigh, he stepped up the pace of Little Milly, his aging mare, praying all the while that Jess Dalton would have gotten his message and would be at Elizabeth Ward’s apartment by the time he arrived.

  33

  Be Thou My Vision

  Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,

  Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.

  ANONYMOUS (IRISH, EIGHTH CENTURY)

  The man who flung open the door when Evan knocked at the upstairs flat was a big hulk of a fellow, obviously inebriated.

  He towered over Evan. Standing in the doorway, he raked one large hand through thinning brown hair as he looked Evan up and down. His stained, dun-colored shirt gaped open over a swollen stomach. He reeked of bad whiskey and body odor.

  For a moment, Evan could only stare, hoping he had the wrong address, that this was not the uncle Billy Hogan had spoken of.

  Clearing his throat, he finally managed to find his voice. “How—how do you d-do?” he stammered. “I wonder if I have the r-right address. I’m looking for one of m-my choir m-members—Billy Hogan.”

  The man eyed him with a look of distaste. Evan was beginning to wonder if he was going to answer him at all.

  “You’re the Englishman,” the man in the doorway finally snarled. “Whittaker.”

  His words were slurred. Somehow he managed to make Evan’s name sound like an obscenity.

  Evan raised his chin slightly. “I-I am Evan Whittaker, that’s correct. And you are—”

  “Billy ain’t here.”

  “I see,” Evan said after a slight hesitation. Irked by the man’s coarseness, he nevertheless kept a civil tone. “Are you, ah, B-Billy’s uncle?”

  “What do you want with the boy?”

  Apparently, the man was bent on being rude. Biting down on his impatience, Evan forced himself not to reply in kind. “We’ve b-been missing B-Billy at rehearsal lately. I was afraid he m-might be ill.” He paused. “I hope that’s not the case.”

  “He ain’t ill and, and like I said, he ain’t here.” The red-rimmed eyes narrowed suspiciously. “We don’t need no Brits sniffin’ about down here. You’d best be minding your own business, not ours.”

  It took everything Evan had to maintain his composure. Reminding himself that the man was obviously drunk, he drew in a deep, steadying breath. “I simply called to inquire after your nephew’s whereabouts, to m-make certain he’s not ill. Perhaps I could come b-back another time—”

  “Don’t bother yourself.” The man’s face contorted into an ugly scowl. “There’s no need for you to come back a’tall—the boy don’t live here anymore.”

  Evan frowned. “He d-doesn’t live here? But, then—where does he live?”

  “In the alleys with his newsboy chums, more than likely.”

  Evan caught a momentary glint of drunken cunning. Something warned him that the man wasn’t telling the truth.

  “I d-don’t suppose you’d have any idea where I m-might find Billy and his friends,” he ventured.

  “I would not.”

  Evan stared at him, disgust and anger mingling. “Yes…well, thank you for your time. I shan’t b-bother you any longer.”

  He could feel that baleful glare drilling into his back all the way downstairs. When he exited onto the street, he actually gave himself a shake, as if to throw off a clinging viper.

  For a moment he stood outside the tenement, trying to think. Spying a policeman just up the street, he started toward him. As he approached, he recognized Sergeant Price, a familiar face about the Five Points.

  To Evan’s vast relief, the sergeant insisted on accompanying him in his search for Billy Hogan. “Why, the newsies are all about the place, Mr. Whittaker: in the Five Points, in the Bowery—a number of them bunk uptown, to be near the newspaper offices. You can’t be going off on your own. Come along—I know most places to be looking.”

  Giving his nightstick a twirl, the policeman took Evan by the arm and propelled him down the street.

  Billy Hogan lay curled on his side in the dank cellar, his feet drawn up almost to his chin. His entire body shook from the cold, for he wasn’t allowed to have a jacket in the cellar. Bearing the cold was part of his punishment, Uncle Sorley said.

  He tried to remember what, exactly, he was being punished for this time. He must have done something very bad, for it seemed he’d been here a long time. Longer than any time before. Days, perhaps an entire week.

  He remembered the thrashing, remembered Uncle Sorley throwing himself at him, pounding at him, his huge, bruising hands hammering at his head, his ears. He remembered being hauled and kicked down the stairs, then thrown inside the storage press. And he remembered Uncle Sorley looming over him, the red, angry gash of his mouth shouting at him over and over, the fire in his eyes, the whiskey smell—

  “This time you’ll stay, boy! You’ll stay down here till you learn to keep that bold mouth of yours shut!”

  Then hours…days…of nothing but cold and darkness and pain. The difference between daylight and dark was vague, for he could barely see. His eyes were so swollen, the cellar so dark, he could scarcely make out anything in the storage press. First came the gnawing hunger, for he wasn’t allowed food, but for the most part, the hunger had passed. His belly still ached some and burned, but he no longer thought much about food.

  Most of the time he slept. His head and shoulders hurt so bad that he welcomed sleep, actually sought it. Even when he dreamed about Uncle Sorley or the rats lurking in the corners, he craved sleep, for it was his only comfort.

  His belly cramped, and he drew his legs up as tightly as he could. Except for the burning in his stomach, he didn’t feel much of anything at all. The weakness was on him bad again. He felt numb and lifeless. Even his feet were numb, as they had been that time back home, when he trekked through a snowstorm to find his dog, Reg.

  He remembered Reg, his old red dog, as if they had parted only yesterday. He had cried and begged to be allowed to bring him to America, for he knew poor old Reg would die without anyone to feed and look after him. The dog was almost blind, and he counted on Billy to bring him his food, to rub his ears, and sometimes sing him a tune.

  For weeks after leaving Ireland, Billy had prayed that someone with a kind heart would take Reg in, would give him a new home so he wouldn’t be lonely or hungry. Sometimes he still thought about him, wondered what had happened to him. An old dog like Reg wouldn’t live long without food or someone to talk kindly to him now and then.

  His mind began to drift, as it usually did when the weakness was on him. He wanted to go to sleep, but the thought of his mother and brothers roused him.

  Had Mum asked about him, he wondered? Did she or the wee boys miss him at all? Were his little brothers all right without him?

  What if Uncle Sorley started beating on them in his absence?

  Billy didn’t think he would. Uncle Sorley pretty much ignored the younger boys. And his mum. He paid her little heed at all, except to snarl at her now and then if supper wasn’t to his liking.

  Perhaps Patrick or Liam would coax Mum to go looking for him while Uncle Sorley was at work. Surely someone would miss him.

  But even if they did try to find him, how could they? No one knew where he was.

  Uncle Sorley had brought him down to the cellar while Mum was at work and the wee boys were playing out front in the street. He said Billy had to stay here until he learned not to talk back. Billy was impudent, he said.

  Billy didn’t even know exactly what impudent meant. And he didn’t remember talking back, he truly didn’t. That’s what Uncl
e Sorley always accused him of, although most of the time Billy didn’t remember his offense. In fact, by the time the beatings were over, he could scarcely remember anything.

  This time when he got out, he would be extra careful not to talk back. Not ever again. He would guard every word and say nothing that could possibly rile Uncle Sorley.

  This time when he got out, he would be the best boy he could be. The best.

  His head felt light again, yet he wasn’t all that drowsy. He stiffened suddenly at a rustling noise from the opposite wall. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited. After a moment, he realized he was grinding his teeth together. The pain in his jaws surprised him.

  There was something…something he needed to remember.…

  It came to him, then, what kept the rats away. He began to hum, his voice sounding distant and strange in his ears. Words came, words that Mr. Evan had taught them. Mr. Evan often said that singing God’s music or speaking God’s Word was like building a fort around yourself…a fort of protection, for the things of darkness couldn’t bear things of the Light.…

  “Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,

  Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.

  Thou my best thought by day and by night,

  Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.…”

  Unable to remember the rest of the ancient hymn, for his mind was like a ship drifting out to sea, Billy went on singing the same words, over and over, until the scratching sounds in the corner finally ceased.

  Over an hour later, Evan and the sergeant had questioned a number of newsboys. Some were small, others nearly grown. Some were huddled on doorsteps, some in alleyways around open fires. Others had pitched rude tents a distance outside the Five Points.

  Without exception, no one had seen Billy Hogan for the past several days. He had not picked up his papers since last week, they said. And, no, they did not know where he might be found.

  By now it was completely dark, and at the policeman’s insistence, they had ceased their search. “I’ll look further uptown tomorrow,” the sergeant told Evan as they headed back toward the buggy. “And I’ll look up Billy’s pal, Tom Breen, as well. We’ll find him, Mr. Whittaker, that we will.”

  His hopes dashed, Evan felt frustrated and increasingly anxious. And the information Sergeant Price relayed as they walked only sharpened his concern.

  Billy’s uncle—Sorley Dolan—was a drunk and a small-time gambler who worked as a bouncer in one of the Bowery dens. To Evan’s dismay, he was not even the boy’s real uncle!

  “He’s just a bum the mother took up with,” the sergeant said. “I don’t know as they ever got married, to tell you the truth. Billy is hers by her dead husband, but the younger two lads are Dolan’s. You’ve got to give the boy credit, though—he looks after those two little tykes as if they’re full-blood to him. A regular little daddy to the lads, he is. That’s why I’m a bit surprised. I wouldn’t have thought that he’d take off like this and leave the wee wanes alone with that soak of a father.”

  “What about Billy’s m-mother?” Evan choked out, sickened by what he was hearing. “What so-sort of woman is she?”

  The policeman shrugged and tucked his nightstick under his arm. As they walked, his eyes moved constantly, darting here and there about their surroundings. They passed hollow-eyed men bunched together in doorways, and streams of raggedy children shouting and tormenting one another. Weary-looking women hurrying home from the factories avoided their eyes as they met and went on by. Defeat and despair fogged the streets, mingling with the uncollected garbage and filth of several days.

  “Nell’s not a bad sort,” the sergeant replied. “She cares for her boys as best she can. But she works days at the shirt factory and tends to drown her troubles in the drink at night. You can’t help but feel sorry for Nell. She’s had it hard.”

  “I d-didn’t know what it was like for him,” Evan said softly, more to himself than to the sergeant. “Poor little fellow.”

  “Aye, I expect Billy has had his troubles,” the sergeant agreed as they came up to the buggy. “Well, then, you’d best be away, Mr. Whittaker. ’Tis almost dark. I’ll keep an eye out for the lad, you can be sure.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. And you’ll let m-me know right away if you learn his whereabouts?”

  The policeman tipped two fingers to his forehead as in a jaunty salute. “I will indeed, sir. And I’m sure we’ll be finding the lad soon. Try not to worry, though it’s good of you to care.”

  By the time Evan reached the mission clinic and found Dr. Grafton’s note, he was exhausted and nearly ready to snap from the strain of the day. The appalling revelations about Billy Hogan’s home life, added to the worry about Nora, had brought on a sour stomach and a throbbing headache.

  Yet, on the ferry across to Brooklyn, his mind refused to let go of the implications of what he had learned. Like bees swarming to a hive, the unsettling images of Billy’s “uncle,” the ugly tenement that was home to the child, and the countless poor boys living out their existence in doorways or back alleys, continued to torment him.

  And where was Billy now? He felt a terrible burden for the sad-eyed little boy, an almost desperate urgency to find him without delay.

  But how? He did not even know where to look.

  Before the ferry docked, something…a thought, a memory…began to nag at him, insinuating itself into the fringes of his mind. What had Sergeant Price said about Billy and his brothers?

  “…a regular little daddy to them, Billy is.…I wouldn’t have thought he’d take off like this and leave the wee wanes alone with that soak of a father.…”

  Troubled, Evan rubbed his chin, thinking. Thinking of the many times he had noticed bruises and cuts on Billy, the boy’s evasive answers when asked about them, the way he often attempted to hide his face, the eyes that seemed to hold a lifetime of heartache…

  What if Billy hadn’t run away at all? What if he had been hurt…badly hurt…or worse?

  Something deep within Evan’s spirit moaned as if bereaved. He sat, unmoving, scarcely breathing, as the full impact of what he suspected seized him, engulfing him in dread.

  He was convinced now that he had not heard the truth. Sorley Dolan had been lying, he was sure of it. There was something wrong, dreadfully wrong, in all this.

  He had to find the boy! He would search until he did find him. As his sense of desperation grew, Evan wished he had not left the Five Points at all. Yet his reason told him it was no place to go wandering about at night, even with a policeman at your side. Besides, Nora would be frantic with worry. He had never been this late getting home after rehearsal.

  Tomorrow he would go back. He would go back to that terrible place and that horrid man. But this time he wouldn’t go alone. He would take Sergeant Price with him.

  34

  Hope for the Hopeless

  I stood beside the couch in tears

  Where pale and calm she slept,

  And though I’ve gazed on death for years,

  I blush not that I wept.

  RICHARD D’ALTON WILLIAMS (1822-1862)

  To Nicholas Grafton’s great relief, Pastor Jess Dalton was waiting for him outside the tenement where Elizabeth Ward lived.

  As the two men shook hands, Nicholas newly considered what it was about the big, curly-headed pastor that gave others such a sense of calm. Being in Dalton’s presence was like taking a deep, cool drink of serenity. The man seemed to exude a steady kind of strength and warmth, a magnetism that attracted individuals from all walks of life, in particular those who hurt. The lonely, the troubled, and the suffering were drawn to Jess Dalton like starving children in search of a banquet.

  Nicholas had come to count on this big, gentle bear of a man in times of crisis, and had never been disappointed. Dalton had left one of the most prosperous, influential pulpits in the city to take on a ministry among the destitute and outcasts of society. There were those among the pastor’s former parishioners who were quick t
o label him a “lunatic abolitionist,” a “madman.” Others scorned his actions, sneering that with the fortune he had inherited from his father and the income he earned from his writing, he could afford to “indulge his pet causes.”

  Nicholas knew that none of the gossip was in the least justified. Jess Dalton might indeed be what some would term “a fool for God,” but he was no madman. As to an inheritance, that might be the case, but certainly the pastor’s unpretentious lifestyle gave no credence to great wealth. He had authored a number of books protesting slavery and oppression, which, at least among the more temperate abolitionists, were extremely popular. Still, from the little Nicholas knew of the publishing world, it was unlikely that Jess Dalton was getting rich off his books.

  After resigning his Fifth Avenue pulpit, Dalton had moved his wife and son to a modest brownstone on West Thirty-fourth Street. The seemingly tireless pastor could be found almost anywhere in the city: ministering to the poor, afflicted residents of the “freak shows” in the Bowery, preaching the gospel to the downtrodden immigrants in Five Points, or presiding over a burial service in Shantytown. To those who had long assumed themselves to be forgotten or despised by God, Jess Dalton was hope incarnate.

  Nicholas prayed that, tonight, the big pastor could impart at least a ray of that hope to Elizabeth Ward.

  “Since I’ve never met your patient,” the pastor said, following Nicholas through the door, “I thought I’d best wait for you.”

  Nicholas nodded. “I’ve told you about Mrs. Ward, haven’t I? About her illness, her little girl, the estrangement from her family?”

  The pastor’s kind blue eyes turned sad. “Yes, I remember. And your note said you believe this to be the end?”

  Again Nicholas gave a nod. “One of the neighbors sent for me,” he said, pausing at the landing before starting down the steps to the basement apartment. “I appreciate your coming, Jess. This is a difficult one.”

  “It never gets any easier, does it, Nicholas?” The pastor put a hand to his shoulder.