by BJ Hoff
“Oh, I take her seriously, all right. I just don’t agree with her.” He shot Rufus a wicked grin. “Besides,” he said, “I’m not at all sure I even know any good women.”
Ah, now it was the Father Admonishing the Prodigal Son stance. Rufus wagged a finger at Jack and tried to twist his features into a disapproving frown—not entirely successfully, Jack noted, probably because Rufus’s face didn’t lend itself to frowning. “Now I’m going to pray that’s not so, brother. And I don’t believe it is.”
Still grinning, Jack stretched and yawned. “If you’re through making a nuisance of yourself, Rufus, I have a newspaper to get out.”
“Far be it from me to keep an important man from his work, brother. We each have our jobs to do, don’t we?” Rufus brought himself to his feet, with some groaning at the effort. “I’m getting to be an old man, Jack. I really am.”
Jack watched him. “How old are you anyway, Rufus?”
“Well, now, I don’t rightly know,” the other said, adjusting his suit coat. “When Dr. Sandleton took me and my mama in, I was just a little fella. Couldn’t have been much more than five or six, I don’t suppose. That was a lot of years ago. I must be an old man by now, sure enough.”
“You’re not a day over forty-five, if that, and don’t give me that poor-little-slave-boy routine,” Jack countered. “You were probably as much of a slyboots when you were five years old as you are now.”
Rufus grinned back at him. They both knew the truth, that Rufus Carver had in fact been a little slave boy but had never once considered himself poor. By his own account, his mother had been an amazing woman—“a little crazy, maybe, but a truly remarkable woman all the same”—who, after his father had been killed by a water moccasin, still managed to escape the slave hunters and get herself and her son to safety in the North. Along the way she had almost drowned pulling another slave child out of the water. In Cincinnati she had narrowly avoided being trampled by a runaway wagon. Finally, a kindhearted Christian doctor and his blind wife had taken in the two runaways, given Rufus’s mother a job, and provided both of them with a home for the ensuing years. Rufus was fond of telling anyone who would listen that “if the Good Lord can get a poor little slave boy out of Mississippi with his head still fastened on his shoulders, then he can surely get the devil out of any man’s soul.”
He left Jack with a hearty reminder not to be late come Saturday, that “the family” was counting on him.
An evening with the Carvers was always a grand time for Jack. Rufus and Amelia’s six children, who ranged in age from four to sixteen, were a fine, lively set. Jack was fond of each of them. Yet at times the experience turned bittersweet for him, when, after a noisy, rambunctious evening at the Carvers’, he went back to his spacious, silent house, feeling his own lack of family even more keenly.
The thought of family jerked him out of his self-absorption with a reminder of something he needed to take care of, and before he started anything else he sent one of the messenger boys downstairs to fetch Cavan Sheridan.
“Two things,” Jack said shortly when young Sheridan stepped into the office. “First off, I wanted to tell you that I wrote my brother a couple of days ago, and I mentioned your sister’s name and last known whereabouts to him. I told him to do some checking around and see if he could locate some word of her.”
The boy smiled, his ink-smudged features creasing in pleasure. “I can’t thank you enough, sir!”
Jack waved off his thanks. “Yes, well, with all this business about bringing others across, it occurred to me we ought to see to your sister first off. I told Brady, if he can find her, to arrange for her passage as soon as possible.”
Sheridan wiped his hands down the sides of his trousers. “I—not that I don’t appreciate it, sir, you understand—but I haven’t quite saved up enough to pay her way—”
Again Jack made a dismissing motion with his hand. “You needn’t fret yourself about the cost. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, sir, I can’t let you do that.”
Blast, the boy was stubborn. “And why can’t you let me do that?” Jack said with forced patience.
Sheridan looked uncomfortable—but then, he usually did. “I’d rather not be beholden, sir. As I said, I’m extremely grateful to you, but I’d really like to pay Terese’s passage myself, you see.”
“No, I don’t see,” Jack snapped. “It seems to me that you shouldn’t be splitting hairs about your own sister’s well-being. But if you’re bound to be pigheaded about the issue, we’ll make it a loan, which you can repay when you have the money. Will that satisfy your pride?”
Sheridan regarded him with a solemn expression. Suddenly, he smiled a little—a wonder in itself, Jack thought, gratified that the boy was actually learning to smile in his presence.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I—you’ll let me know if Mr. Brady learns anything?”
“You’ll be the first,” Jack assured him. “But remember, it will take some time. Now, then, I wanted to see how you’re doing with the story on Willie.”
As yet, there had been no posts from Brady regarding the new assignment. In the meantime, to let Sheridan try his hand at some writing until the stories from Ireland began to come through, Jack had given him the job of coming up with an article about the newsboys: where and how they lived, their family situations, and especially some of the dangers and dilemmas they faced in their work. He’d suggested to Sheridan that he use little Willie Shanahan as an example—unnamed, of course, for the boy’s own protection.
It had been Jack’s observation that most of the boys took their jobs very seriously—and why wouldn’t they, since to most of them it meant their survival? He had the idea of exposing the worthless scum who were beating them up and stealing from them. Perhaps if he could get some of the decent citizens sufficiently aroused, they’d apply a bit of pressure to the police and the politicians to clean some of the human rubbish off the streets.
“I talked with Willie and two of his friends just yesterday,” Sheridan said. “It took some explaining, but I finally convinced them they weren’t in trouble. I tried to speak with Willie’s mother later on, but the woman acted as if I had a tail and horns. She told me to go away and practically slammed the door in my face.” He paused, then added, “Mrs. Harte offered to approach her. She knows some of the other women who live in the same building.”
At the mention of Samantha Harte, Jack’s interest quickened. “How would that be?”
“From her work with the society, I expect.”
“Where does Willie live?”
“Well, Willie lives on the street with the other boys, sir. But his family lives in one of those belowground flats in the Bowery.”
“Good heavens, you can’t ask Mrs. Harte to go into the Bowery!” Jack exclaimed.
Sheridan gave him a puzzled look. “Mrs. Harte goes to the Bowery all the time, sir. And the Five Points as well.”
“Five Points? Samantha Harte goes into the Five Points?”
“Well, not alone, naturally. The police provide protection for some of the members of the benevolent society when they need to visit the Points.”
Five Points—so named because of the five streets that converged in the center of a squalid square in the infamous Sixth Ward—was the worst slum in New York City. In fact, from what Jack had been told by some who had traveled extensively, the mean streets of Five Points just might comprise the worst slum in the world. It was a vile, nightmare of a place, the terror of decent people, and a veritable blight on the city. Reeking with human waste, animal filth, and all manner of corruption, the area provided a perfect hideaway for hardened criminals and a breeding ground for unbridled evil.
It was also populated by what was probably the largest Irish settlement outside of Dublin and a fast-growing community of Negroes—two groups continually at odds with each other, which only added more friction to a place already teeming with trouble.
Even the police avoided going into the
foul sinkhole unless it was absolutely necessary, and then entered only in pairs and with their weapons at the ready. The thought of Samantha Harte so much as allowing her skirts to brush the filthy stones of the streets was almost beyond Jack’s comprehension.
“A remarkable woman,” he muttered. “If a bit foolish.”
“She is a remarkable woman, that’s true,” Sheridan agreed, his tone somewhat defiant. “But I’d hardly call her foolish.”
“Neither she nor any other decent woman has any business going into Five Points. Or the Bowery either, for that matter. And I’d suggest you not encourage her to take such preposterous risks.”
Giving Sheridan no time to object, Jack went on. “Mrs. Harte studiously avoids me, so perhaps you would give her a message?”
“Sir?”
“Just tell her I couldn’t be more pleased with her work,” Jack said, meaning it. “I haven’t seen a typo since she took over the proofreading. I’d like her to know I’m impressed.”
Sheridan broke into one of the brightest smiles Jack had ever seen on that thoroughly Irish face. So that’s what it took, then, to lighten the boy’s typically severe countenance—a bit of praise for Mrs. Harte.
“I’ll be happy to tell her, sir. I’m sure she’ll appreciate hearing it.”
After Sheridan left, Jack pulled in a long breath and sat for a moment thinking about Samantha Harte. She really was doing an exceptional job with the editing and proofreading responsibilities. And based on what he could learn from Sheridan, she was working him like an army mule at the books—with progress already evident. Clearly, the remarkable Mrs. Harte was more than meeting the terms of their agreement.
In fact, Jack’s only disappointment with his newest employee was the fact that he never caught so much as a glimpse of her. Sheridan or one of the other boys delivered the daily copy to her flat and went back to pick it up. It was a smooth, efficient system, and he could hardly complain about it, since he’d approved it at the start.
Still, he wouldn’t mind seeing her again.
Indeed, he wouldn’t mind at all.
24
A MOMENT BETWEEN MEMORIES
They never knew the carefree dust of gladness, but only ashes scattered in the wind.
ANONYMOUS
Samantha left her apartment earlier than she’d planned Saturday afternoon. Since the Shanahan residence wasn’t all that far from the church, she decided to make the visit Cavan Sheridan had asked of her before going on to the dinner.
Even though she didn’t especially like walking alone on Houston Street, she’d grown used to it by now. She couldn’t stop a rueful smile at the thought of her mother; Angela Pilcher would almost certainly fall over with a stroke if she knew her daughter was on foot in such a neighborhood.
But it was a lovely spring day, so warm she scarcely needed a wrap, and she’d been traipsing this area long enough that for the most part even the more disreputable types left her alone. Besides, if she wanted to get anywhere these days, she had to walk. And despite the ever present stench of New York’s notorious garbage problem, she usually enjoyed the experience.
The streets were bustling, as usual, with a continual press of people. Young girls in bright-colored dresses giggled as they strolled along with their beaus. Children laughed and shouted as they whipped in and out among the pedestrians. Hard-looking women and even harder-looking men, their voices often raised in anger and in a variety of languages—mostly Irish and German—shot suspicious looks at Samantha in passing. Others, recognizing the schoolteacher, eked out a smile. Dogs were everywhere, sniffing out their choices from the rubbish piled along the streets. As she rounded the corner onto Mott Street, Samantha met a signboard man with his advertising signs slung over his shoulders. He gave Samantha a toothless grin in greeting and went on by.
In front of the tenement house that was her destination, Samantha had to step back to avoid being run down by a pack of ragged children playing ball. The Shanahans lived in the rear of the building, and Samantha’s sense of well-being fled as she took a long look at the front before going around to the back. It was a dark, leprous-looking place, three stories and a basement. Some of the windows were broken, others missing altogether. Rust-covered barrels of waste stood near the stoop, ringed by a group of poorly clad, hungry-looking men who huddled together, talking and laughing loudly.
Samantha was familiar with the neighborhood, having visited numerous families here from time to time. Even so, she felt increasingly uneasy, especially when she caught a glimpse of flasks being passed among the loiterers. It was a corner lot, so she could reach the rear of the building from the outside rather than having to navigate one of the dark hallways typical of these old structures. Keeping her gaze averted, she ignored the catcalls and smirks as she started around the building.
An almost palpable stench met her in back, and she hesitated before going any farther. Not for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of coming into such a neighborhood alone. But she was here now, and she thought it would be even more foolish to come this far and turn back.
She took in a deep, steadying breath and started down the rickety steps, surprised to note that the steps and the stoop were completely free of litter and grime, as if they’d recently been swept. At the unpainted door, she rapped and waited. When she heard no stirring from within, she knocked again, a little more firmly this time.
Finally, the door creaked on its hinges and cracked open, but only enough for someone to look out. Samantha could scarcely make out the appearance of a thin female face with frightened eyes. Shadowed as she was in the late-afternoon gloom, she might have been either woman or child, Samantha couldn’t tell which.
“What d’you want?” she said, her voice hushed, as though to avoid being heard.
“Mrs. Shanahan?” Samantha ventured, for a closer study revealed that the doorkeeper was indeed a woman and not a child. “My name is Samantha Harte. I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment.”
Immediately, the door began to close. On impulse, Samantha put her hand between the door and the frame to keep it from shutting in her face. “Please, Mrs. Shanahan—I won’t take much of your time. I’d just like to talk with you, if I may. It’s about Willie.”
The woman’s face, already pale, turned ashen. “What about Willie? Is he hurt?”
“Oh, no,” Samantha hurried to reassure her. “It’s nothing like that. Willie is fine. I’m employed by the Vanguard, you see, and the paper is doing a story on newsboys. I’d like to ask you some questions to help our reporter write the article. Please, can’t you just spare me a few minutes?”
“Willie’s all right, then?” The woman seemed less than convinced, but she did finally crack the door a little wider.
“He’s perfectly all right,” Samantha said again. “I’m so sorry if I frightened you. I—may I come in, Mrs. Shanahan?”
Something Samantha recognized as fear leaped in the woman’s gaze. “No! I mean, not now…the baby is sleeping…”
Her accent was Irish, of course, but not terribly pronounced. Apparently, the Shanahans weren’t new to the city. “I’m sorry,” Samantha said, disappointed. “I suppose I have come at a bad time. Perhaps I can stop by one day next week.”
The woman glanced over her shoulder, then opened the door just enough to step outside onto the stoop. She was a young woman, small, not quite as tall as Samantha, who wasn’t much more than three or four inches over five feet herself. Mrs. Shanahan was also painfully thin, almost to the point of emaciation. Studying her, Samantha thought she might have been pretty once, but now she simply looked worn-out and ill. Her red-blonde hair needed combing and fell idly over one side of her face. But her dress, though well worn, was clean and neat.
There was something else about her, something strangely…familiar that Samantha couldn’t identify. She suddenly realized that she must have been staring, for the woman was eyeing her suspiciously.
“Mrs. Shanahan, let me explain about the
article—”
“I don’t have time for that,” the other said, not rudely, but more as if she was intent on getting rid of Samantha. “There’s three besides Willie, don’t you know.” She glanced behind her at the door. “They keep me busy. Right now I have the supper to cook and—”
“Maura!”
Without warning, a man lumbered into the open doorway. He wasn’t a big man, probably only a few inches taller than his diminutive wife. But his wiry frame looked muscular, and there was a hard, mean look about him that didn’t stop at his eyes. At the moment, he was scowling at his wife with undisguised anger. Then his gaze cut to Samantha, who felt his malice like a blow.
She saw two things at once: first, that the woman was trembling, shrinking from him as if she expected him to lash out at her, and second, that the man’s pale gray eyes didn’t quite conceal a spark of wildness that might have been either rage or lunacy.
The recognition was so unexpected, so sharp, that Samantha nearly doubled over. She actually had to wrap her arms around herself to hide her own trembling. Immediately, she took a step back, almost stumbling with the effort. She knew too well what she was witnessing, and she felt sick with the awareness.
“Who’s this?” the man growled, his eyes raking first Samantha, then his wife.
“ ’Tis only a lady from the newspaper, Heber, asking after Willie—”
“Willie?” He glared at Samantha. “What about Willie? What’s the worthless little jacksnipe done now?”
The need to defend the boy was all it took for Samantha to recover her composure. “Willie hasn’t done anything wrong, Mr. Shanahan! Nothing at all. Please don’t misunderstand—as I explained to your wife, the Vanguard is considering an article about the newsboys, and I’m just trying to gather some information for the reporter.”
The man drew himself up to full height, fixing Samantha with a look that was clearly meant to be intimidating. “If Willie’s in no trouble, then it seems to me you got no business coming around here, bothering us with your questions. You leave us alone now.”