Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  “You’ve roused my interest, Jack. Your message sounded almost urgent. Now, you’re much too smart for a breach-of-promise suit, and no one in his right mind would try to cheat a mad Irishman. So what’s the problem?”

  “Problems,” Jack corrected with a rueful smile. “I think I’m about to be sued, for starters.”

  Foxworth merely nodded. “I can’t believe it hasn’t happened long before now. And?”

  “There’s a woman I want you to help. You can start by getting her out of jail.”

  It was Foxworth’s turn to smile. “If the woman is suing you, why would you want her released?”

  Jack waved a hand. “Two different cases, Avery. The woman first. She killed her husband, and I’m hoping you’ll defend her.”

  Foxworth lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps I was wrong about you after all. I thought you had more sense than to play around when there’s a jealous husband on the scene.”

  “Shut up and listen, Avery,” Jack said with no real asperity. “I don’t even know the woman. There’s a…friend who’s concerned enough to want to help, that’s all. Apparently this woman’s husband was a drunk, a mean one. You know the sort, forever beating up his wife and terrorizing his children.”

  “Irish, was he?” Foxworth’s expression was perfectly bland.

  “As it happens, he was,” Jack said agreeably.

  “So uncivilized, your people.”

  “Don’t start. I know a bit about British history, as it happens.”

  The attorney’s expression sobered. “So you think the wife acted in self-defense?”

  Jack shrugged. “I can’t see how a woman could tolerate such abuse indefinitely. It seems to me that sooner or later she would fly apart—perhaps do something desperate.”

  Foxworth nodded. “Would you care to enlighten me as to your interest in this particular case?”

  Again Jack gave a wave of his hand. “I promised an employee—a friend—I’d look into it, see if I could help.” He studied Foxworth. “There’s not much I can do, but you’ve managed to free a lot worse rascals than a poor battered woman.”

  “A poor battered woman who by the law’s definition is also a murderess,” Foxworth pointed out.

  “I still think it sounds more like self-defense, Avery.”

  Foxworth gave another nod. “I won’t dispute the point. But the court might.”

  “You’ll take her case, then? Her name is Shanahan, by the way. Maura Shanahan.”

  Foxworth regarded Jack with a thin smile. “Who will be paying my bill, if I might ask?”

  “Mrs. Harte seems to think the immigrant society will help as much as they can.”

  Again Foxworth arched an eyebrow. “Mrs. Harte?”

  “She works for me,” Jack explained. “Part-time. She’s also associated with one of the immigrant organizations. She’s taken an interest in helping this Maura Shanahan.”

  “Are you talking about Samantha Harte? Bronson Harte’s widow?”

  Jack’s head snapped up. “You know her?”

  Foxworth gave a nod. “Yes, I know the lady. Not well, of course. I’ve represented a few clients for Immigrant Aid, in which Mrs. Harte is apparently very active. She would seem to be an…interesting woman.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “And an uncommonly attractive one as well,” Foxworth added, watching Jack closely. “So, Samantha Harte works for you?”

  “For the paper.” Although the Irish had never been known for being tight-lipped, Jack was determined to reveal no hint of his interest in Samantha Harte. He had the unsettling sensation, however, that Avery Foxworth missed very little.

  “Odd that she would be working at all,” said the attorney. “Her family is quite well-to-do, I believe.”

  “She’s actually very efficient at her job,” Jack said. “I haven’t caught an error on the front page or in any of my editorials since she started proofing the copy.” Not altogether comfortable with the conversation, he deftly moved to change the subject. “As to your fee, Avery—” The attorney laced his fingers together under his chin, waiting.

  “You’ll be paid, never fear,” Jack assured him. “I’ll pick up whatever the immigrant association doesn’t pay. I rather doubt that they’ll pay anything at all, though Sa—Mrs. Harte seems to think otherwise.”

  “Good of you, I must say.” Foxworth continued to study Jack with an increasingly annoying smirk. “You know, Jack, you occasionally display an alarming tendency toward being a Christian gentleman.”

  “For an Irisher, you mean.”

  Foxworth shrugged. Then, opening an elaborately engraved wooden box, he passed it across the desk to Jack.

  “Now I remember why I admire you, Avery,” Jack said, “in spite of the fact that you’re a lawyer. You’re one of the few men I know who can tell a good cigar from a bad one.”

  He helped himself to a slim cheroot, then, at Foxworth’s insistence, another, before passing the chest back across the desk. They lit up almost simultaneously.

  “What’s this about a lawsuit?” the attorney prompted after a moment.

  “My series on prostitution hasn’t been all that popular in some quarters, it seems.”

  Foxworth made a grimace of distaste and nodded slowly. “Ah, yes, the ‘Harlots and Hypocrites’ piece. Not one of your more sensible efforts, Jack. I must admit, I’ve wondered why you couldn’t simply be content with antagonizing City Hall. Heaven knows you’d have a virtual storehouse of scandals to choose from, and lawsuits shouldn’t be a problem with that gang.” He paused, then added, “Death threats, perhaps, but not lawsuits.”

  “I’ve had a few of those, too,” Jack said before he thought.

  Foxworth’s expression sobered. “Death threats? You’re not serious?”

  “It happens,” Jack said, not willing to pursue the subject. “A man makes a lot of enemies in my business. I can’t afford to pay much heed to every crackpot with an ax to grind.”

  The attorney leaned back in his chair. “If you make someone angry enough to threaten your life, Jack, you might do well to take that threat seriously.” When Jack made no reply, he went on. “What form did these threats take? Are you saying there’s been something recent?”

  Jack shrugged. He truly did consider this sort of thing little more than a pesky aggravation. “A couple of random notes,” he replied. “Nothing of any importance.”

  The truth was that one of those notes, received at the office only the past week, had been rabid enough that at first reading he’d actually felt a slight chill. The insults had been particularly vicious, with an unmistakable depth of hatred lacing the entire letter. The writer had left nothing to the imagination about how he viewed the Irish in general and Jack in particular. He was clearly of the popular persuasion that all Irish were subhuman and blights on the land.

  But Jack hadn’t come here to discuss lunatics. “So, then—you’ll take the Shanahan woman’s case, I hope?”

  Foxworth shrugged. “If you want. Where are they holding her; do you know?”

  “Eldridge Street.”

  Foxworth nodded, adding something to the notes he had been making throughout their meeting. “Now,” he said, looking up, “are you going to tell me about this lawsuit or not?”

  “Turner Julian,” Jack said without preamble. “He seems to think that I’ve defamed his sterling reputation, caused him unwarranted embarrassment, and maligned his family name. Come to think of it, if you believe the people he’s been talking to, I’m responsible for just about every unpleasant thing that’s ever happened to him. Why, more than likely he even blames me for his ugly daughters.”

  “He’d best look to his wife for that,” said Foxworth, straight-faced. “Does he have grounds for these accusations?”

  Jack gave him a level look. “Some, I expect. Though I’ll not take the blame for his poor daughters.”

  “Julian wasn’t the only individual you identified by name, was he?”

  “Indeed not. Although I may hav
e paid him special attention. I did apply a few appropriate epithets.”

  Avery Foxworth gave a dark smile and nodded. “Such as the ‘crown prince of physicians’?”

  “‘Scion of the arts and charitable endeavors,’” Jack added. “And, ah, ‘Fifth Avenue medicine man.’”

  Foxworth expelled a long breath. “You questioned his professional competency, among other things, if I remember correctly. In fact, I seem to recall your calling him a ‘charlatan.’”

  “He is,” Jack bit out. “He overdoses most of his patients with laudanum so they’ll not catch on to how incompetent he really is. As for his ‘charitable endeavors,’ he owns no less than three high-class bawdy houses and an entire block of some of the most squalid tenement buildings—death traps is what they are—in Five Points.” He paused. “The pesthole that burned down on Mulberry last month, the one in which the Negro children died? Julian owned it.”

  Foxworth regarded Jack with a curious look. “And because Julian thinks your series defamed him, he is now threatening to sue the pants off you, is that it?”

  “I expect he would phrase it in rather more high-minded terms than that.”

  “No doubt.” Foxworth let out another long breath. “You don’t think Julian has anything to do with these threats you’ve received?”

  Jack shook his head. “Not his style. Too crude for a man of his situation.”

  “Mm. You’re probably right. I assume you have proof of your allegations against him and the others, seeing that you emblazoned them all over the front page for a week.”

  “I’m not a fool, Avery. Of course I have proof.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  Jack shrugged. “A couple of the newsboys also work as bagmen for Julian and the rabble he employs.”

  Foxworth frowned and gave a short shake of his head. “No one is going to pay any attention to your newsboys. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “I have signed statements from two of his former landlords.” Jack twisted his mouth. “And a fourteen-year-old prostitute who not only worked in one of his more prosperous establishments but was also one of the good doctor’s favorites.” Jack paused. “Until he all but beat her to death on his last visit.”

  Foxworth studied Jack, his expression speculative. “All right, Jack. The truth: Why are you so intent on exposing Turner Julian? I sense something a little more personal in all this than a right-minded desire for reform.”

  Jack met the attorney’s scrutiny with a direct look. “Part of it’s personal, part of it’s news. I’ll not be discussing the personal aspects of it. Not even with you.”

  “I don’t like nasty surprises, Jack. I can’t provide you with the best representation if you’re not forthright with me.”

  “I’m no more inclined to air my personal linen than you are, Avery. You’ll just have to accept that.”

  After a long silence, Foxworth inclined his head in a gesture of agreement.

  The truth was that the esteemed Dr. Turner Julian had made Martha’s last days of life a virtual hell, and Jack simply could not bring himself to rake all that up again. After all these years, he still found the memories of her final two weeks almost unbearable. He had never told anyone but Rufus what he suspected—no, what he knew—and he saw no reason to do so now.

  Turner Julian’s disdain for Martha’s Irishness—and for Jack’s, of course—had been almost palpable throughout the course of her treatment. Julian made no secret of his contempt for Jack or his resentment of the fact that a vulgar Irishman could afford his high-priced medical “skills.” He was unforgivably callous to Martha’s pain, seemingly indifferent to the savagery with which the cancer had stripped every last vestige of dignity from her.

  Finally, Jack, enraged and half out of his mind with grief, confronted the physician about his failure to act. “There must be something you can do! I’m not asking for a cure—I know she’s almost gone. But surely there’s a way to ease her suffering.”

  Julian’s Nordic features grew taut. “I told you days ago, I’ve done everything I can. If you want miracles, call a priest.”

  It occurred to Jack that a priest might know more medicine than the arrogant Julian, but lest he make things worse for Martha, he held his tongue.

  The next day, Julian attempted—and botched—a hasty surgical procedure that only added to Martha’s agony and final humiliation. Unable to control his fury any longer, Jack stalked the hospital corridor for nearly a full day before finally managing to confront Julian.

  “You made her worse! She’s in more agony than ever!”

  When Julian tried to push past him, Jack caught his skinny neck with one hand, tightening his grip until the physician’s eyes bulged. “You worthless piece of garbage! You call yourself a doctor? You’re nothing but a quack!”

  He completely snapped then, choking off Julian’s air with one hand while pushing him hard against the corridor wall with the other. Had Rufus not come out of Martha’s room and physically pulled Jack off the terrified physician, he probably would have killed the man.

  He never saw Turner Julian again. By the next morning, he had retained another doctor, but early that afternoon Martha died, screaming in mindless anguish right up to the end. Jack thought he would go mad before it was over for her.

  He would never believe anything else but that Julian’s refusal to prescribe some sort of opiate or other painkiller for Martha during those torturous last days had been deliberate, born out of the physician’s contempt for Martha—and Jack himself—because of who they were.

  To the British aristocracy, the Irish weren’t quite human, and so they let them die, cold and hungry. To New York’s aristocracy, they were also not quite human, and so they let them die in despair and agony.

  Nothing much had really changed for the Irish here in America. They still lived in squalid dwellings, still lived with hunger and deprivation, still faced the contempt and oppression of the upper classes. They were good enough to sweep the streets and haul the manure wagons, build the canals and mine the coal, shoe the horses and work the factories. But they were not to dirty the linens of the better boarding houses or marry the daughters of decent men or even presume to die with the same dignity as their betters.

  Simply because they were Irish.

  Jack had wondered then, and still wondered, how long it would take—what it would take—before the Irish were accepted instead of despised, respected instead of condemned.

  Sometimes he thought it would take an eternity to right the wrongs that had been done to his people.

  As for Turner Julian, at the time, Jack hadn’t yet accumulated enough money or enough power to touch the fraudulent physician. But that was no longer the case. He had waited for years to expose the man for the charlatan he was. Information on the shameful financial dealings and shadowy, secret lives of Julian and his pharisaical counterparts had fallen into his hands during an exhaustive investigation he’d conducted on the slum areas of the city. Once he’d been able to substantiate the facts, he hadn’t hesitated to print them.

  Avery Foxworth’s low voice brought him back to the present. “You have a right to keep your silence, Jack. But I warn you, if a man like Turner Julian takes you to court, you’ll have few champions. His family pedigree is bloated with famous ancestors, and between his wife’s and his own resources, Julian has enough money to take ten newspapermen to trial, if he should so choose. Now tell me, has he made an actual charge against you? How do you know he’s considering litigation?”

  “Rumor,” Jack said, giving another casual wave. “Apparently, Julian is given to rash talk when he’s in his cups—which is rather often, I’m told. He’s been bandying about all manner of wild threats, mostly to do with ‘hauling my hide into court.’ Horace Greeley, for one, let me in on some of his blather.”

  Jack got up. “Look, Avery, the only thing I’ve done is to expose Julian and his kind for what they are. I can support my story, and the lot of them know it. But if they
sue, I’m going to need representation. I wanted to make certain you’ll handle it for me.”

  Foxworth stood and came around his desk, his eyes glinting with something akin to anticipation. “Let’s just say it will be my pleasure. Get in touch when you need me.”

  “And Maura Shanahan?”

  “I’ll see what I can do about getting her released yet today. You’ll make bail, I assume.”

  Jack nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

  Foxworth followed him to the door. “Samantha Harte must be a very good friend indeed.”

  Jack kept his expression carefully impassive. “She’s a fine woman. I’m happy to do her a favor.”

  Foxworth searched his gaze for a moment but said nothing. They shook hands once again, and after flicking his cigar into a nearby cuspidor, Jack stepped outside to head toward his second destination. A glance at his watch showed that it was nearly five. Rufus was probably home by now, so he would go directly there.

  He smiled a little. Amelia would almost certainly invite him to supper, of course.

  And he would almost certainly accept.

  One of Amelia’s delicious meals might even help take the bad taste of Turner Julian out of his mouth.

  38

  CLOTH OF HEAVEN

  Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

  Enwrought with golden and silver light,

  The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

  Of night and light and the half-light,

  I would spread the cloths under your feet.

  But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

  I have spread my dreams under your feet;

  Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

  W. B. YEATS

  Jack had quite a walk from Broadway to Rufus’s house, behind the church on Mercer. It was nearly six-thirty by the time he arrived, and it was still as hot as it had been at two. The sky was darkening, however, and off in the distance a faint, low rumbling of thunder could be heard, signifying the possibility of a rainstorm.

  He’d been utterly foolish to hoof it on a day like this, but at least he wouldn’t be walking home. He had instructed Sheridan to pick him up at Rufus’s house by eight-thirty. Mopping his brow, he walked up onto the porch of the Carvers’ white-frame house, opened the screen door, and called out. When no reply came, he stepped inside. Rufus and Amelia were used to his unexpected visits and had given him to understand that the door was open to him anytime, day or night.