Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  “Really, Mr. Kane—”

  “Why don’t you call me ‘Jack,’ Edgar?”

  “I’m not accustomed to discussing my bank account—Mr. Kane.”

  “Sorry, Edgar, I meant no offense.” With some effort, Jack kept his tone casual. “I confess that I’m not accustomed to dealing with men who are insulted by the subject of money. Most of them find the idea of getting paid for their labors fairly appealing. Especially,” he added with a considerably harder edge in his voice, “those with families to support.”

  Poe started to rise from his chair. Jack watched him in silence. By now he was relatively certain he was wasting his time and even more convinced he wanted nothing to do with this man. Poe seemed unable to let go of his insufferable pride, and Jack had neither the patience nor the inclination to coddle him to a decision that would salve his ego.

  Besides, something in the man put him off, genius be hanged. He thought Poe might be a little mad; he was almost certainly more than a little foolish.

  But Poe had apparently changed his mind about leaving. Looking everywhere but at Jack, he slowly lowered himself back into the chair and sat examining his dessert plate.

  Jack decided to make one—and only one—last attempt to get past the man’s pride. “Though it may surprise you, Edgar—coming from a peasant like myself—I think I can appreciate your commitment to quality in your work.” At Poe’s skeptical glance, Jack gave a rueful smile. “Oh, the Vanguard prints its share of sensationalism, of course, along with the usual tripe—got to keep that segment of the population satisfied so we can pay the bills. But I make it a point to offer something better as well—not just through the paper but by way of my publishing houses. That’s why I’m here.”

  He paused, again sensing more than a grudging flicker of interest from the other. “Let me be perfectly frank, Edgar. I’ve read your stuff”—he saw Poe’s mouth tighten—“your work,” he amended, “and I think you’re a man capable of writing what I’d like to publish. You’re more clever by far than most of the writers I’ve worked with, and despite your somewhat grisly choice of subject matter, you do spin a grand tale.”

  Jack paused, ignoring the other’s surly expression. “The thing is, Edgar, I happen to think you could pen just as fine a story using a less morbid tone than is your custom. Something…brighter, perhaps. More acceptable to the Vanguard’s readers than what you usually write. No less gripping, of course, but possibly less…depressing. More wholesome, is what I’m getting at.”

  Poe shook his head. “Considering your reputation, Mr. Kane, I find your request somewhat puzzling. You hardly strike me as the kind of man given to the sort of pedestrian drivel the religious element so admires.”

  Jack inwardly bristled. There was something about having his reputation called into question by a man like Poe that set his teeth to grinding. But he managed to give a casual shrug, saying nothing.

  “I do not subscribe to the sort of artificial prattle you seem to want,” Poe went on, his tone less pedantic now, even somewhat rambling. “I don’t believe in…happy endings, Mr. Kane. Therefore, I do not write them.”

  Jack leaned his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers and regarding Poe with growing annoyance. “I’m not personally acquainted with too many happy endings myself, Edgar, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist—or can’t exist, at least in a story. And I’m certainly not suggesting that you write—drivel—for my readers. Quite frankly, I respect them more than that. But I see nothing artificial about stories that contain at least a touch of hope to mitigate the despair. A bit of light to relieve the darkness, if you will.”

  He sat watching the somber Poe for a moment. “Forgive the observation, Edgar, but I can’t help thinking that you’re quite a young man to take such a dismal view of life.”

  “What has age to do with anything?” Poe said, lifting a languid hand.

  “Perhaps nothing. But aside from age, you’re a bright, gifted fellow with a lovely young wife, a home, a fine education—and the means of earning a highly respectable income from doing something you apparently enjoy. As for myself, I admit to being the worst of cynics. But I can’t help wondering what would account for your preoccupation with such dreary, macabre subjects.”

  Poe looked at him as if considering how to reply. Then, without warning, he launched into a bitter tale of misfortune that should have moved Jack—and ordinarily would have, had the man not been so obviously engulfed in self-pity.

  He already knew about the “premature loss” of Poe’s actor parents, his alienation from his foster father, his ongoing problems with poor health and indebtedness. But so far as his poor health and even poorer finances were concerned, a great deal of Poe’s difficulties in both areas seemed to be the products of his own excesses.

  By the conclusion of Poe’s diatribe, Jack’s patience was at an end. All he could think of was getting away. He felt an almost desperate need for fresh air and light; at the same time, he wondered why he found the man across from him so oppressive.

  At one time or another over the years he had had dealings with some thoroughly unsavory characters, a number of which were almost certainly as odd as Edgar Poe and a sight less gentlemanly in their conduct. He had trafficked with felons and traded with fools, rubbed elbows with thieves, and risked his own skin countless times in New York’s most abysmal slums—including the vile Five Points—just to ferret out the facts for a story. By now he had surely encountered the very dregs of humanity and should have been inured to just about any manner of corruption.

  Given all that—not to mention that he wasn’t exactly the salt of the earth himself—why did the decadence he sensed in Edgar Poe strike him as so particularly offensive, even as the man himself seemed to hold an eerie kind of fascination?

  In that instant Jack’s eyes met Poe’s, and what he saw there shook him like a blast of winter wind. It was as if something in that dark and haunted gaze threatened to draw him in and trap him in a vacuum from which there was no outlet. In some bizarre way that set him to trembling, he recognized looking out at him something that appeared treacherously familiar, yet terrifyingly alien.

  At that moment he realized that the darkness he sensed in Poe might well be but a reflection of the darkness that inhabited his own spirit.

  Thoroughly chilled, Jack decided that this meeting was at an end.

  And so was his interest in publishing the “tormented genius.”

  He would leave Philadelphia tomorrow. He suddenly found himself not only excessively eager to be away from Edgar Poe but more eager still to be with Samantha. He craved the light of her, the sweet…goodness of her. Perhaps he could figure out a way to see her again before the meeting with Foxworth next week.

  He had every intention of renewing his proposal in the near future—the very near future. This time, he would be more convincing.

  And more resistant to any attempt on her part to turn him down again.

  His decision made, he brought the interview to a close as speedily as possible without being unnecessarily rude. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but it seemed to him that Poe was every bit as anxious to part company as he was.

  It was as if, he thought grimly, like had recognized like and could not abide the resemblance.

  9

  IN THE HARBOR

  November’s wind is a lonely song.

  ANONYMOUS

  NEW YORK CITY

  Cavan Sheridan’s reservations about bringing Samantha to the harbor could not have been more evident. Even now, after nearly an hour on the docks, he was obviously still wishing he had come alone, his strained expression clearly signifying that a lady had no place in such surroundings. But Samantha’s new duties required that she meet any immigrants traveling under the Vanguard’s sponsorship, and she felt it particularly important that she present herself to their first arrivals—especially since Terese Sheridan, Cavan’s sister—was one of them.

  Cavan returned from Albany on Saturday morning, soone
r than expected, and had arrived on Samantha’s doorstep that same afternoon, explaining—with obvious reluctance—that “Mr. Kane had left instructions” for him to escort Samantha to the harbor if and when she wanted to go.

  So far, their excursion had proved futile. Inquiries of harbor officials had yielded only the disturbing news that the Providence had actually docked over two weeks ago. Yet, there had been no message to this effect from any of Jack’s sources, no word from Terese Sheridan and the Madden children. Consequently, there was no way of knowing their whereabouts.

  As they stood looking around, trying to decide what to do next, Samantha pulled her heavy coat more tightly about her. It was bitter cold on the docks. A stinging drizzle had settled over the day, and a harsh wind was blowing off the water. Despite the inclement weather and their lack of success, however, she was glad she hadn’t let Cavan come alone. He was obviously shaken and apprehensive about his sister’s well-being.

  On impulse, she lay a reassuring hand on his arm. “Try not to worry, Cavan. We’ll find them. We’ll keep looking until we do.”

  He managed only the lamest of smiles. “ ’Tis just that we don’t know where to begin.”

  “You said Jack—Mr. Kane—had employed someone on the docks to send word when the ship put in, a Mr. Hoey?”

  Her voice was almost drowned in the pandemonium of their surroundings: the loud clamor of men shouting in foreign tongues, mothers and children wailing, dockworkers clanging metal against metal as they loaded and unloaded cargo—all was noise and mass confusion.

  But both of them heard the familiar voice behind them clearly enough.

  “You might have at least brought along an umbrella, Sheridan.”

  Samantha and Cavan spun around at the same time to find Jack standing directly behind them, a faint smile belying the rebuke in his tone.

  “Jack!” Samantha blurted out his given name before she thought, but Cavan Sheridan seemed not to notice the familiarity. “I thought you weren’t coming back until Monday.”

  She found herself hard pressed to conceal her pleasure at the sight of him. He stood watching her, one dark eyebrow crooked, the familiar quirk of a smile on his face in response to her surprise. As always, he wore no hat, indeed had not even bothered to open the umbrella he carried, and so his head and shoulders were slick with rain.

  With a flourish, he now opened the umbrella and held it over Samantha.

  The way he was looking at her, as if he had been away for months and was virtually starved for the sight of her, made her heart turn over.

  “What—why did you cut your trip short?” she said, struggling to regain her composure, at the same time trying to ignore the way his black eyes continued to hold her gaze.

  “I found myself impatient to get back,” he said quietly, still watching her.

  His close scrutiny and the warmth of his tone disarmed Samantha’s attempt to formulate a cool response. At the same time, the memory of his proposal only a few nights past struck her unexpectedly, threatening to snap the already frazzled thread of her self-control.

  Fortunately, Jack turned his attention to Cavan Sheridan for a moment. “I saw your report from Albany. Fine job.”

  Cavan flushed noticeably under his employer’s approval. “Thank you, sir. I hope it’s all right that I came back sooner than we’d planned. Nothing much seemed to be going on, so there didn’t seem any point in staying.”

  Jack waved off his explanation. “That’s fine, though I may be sending you off again soon.”

  Cavan frowned, and Samantha sensed that he would be reluctant to go anywhere until his sister had been found. “Where might that be, sir?”

  “Connecticut,” said Jack.

  For a moment Cavan’s face registered only bewilderment. “I…ah…don’t believe I know where that is, sir.”

  “Well, you may be finding out soon enough. There’s been some sort of slave mutiny on a Spanish ship. For some reason, the Navy seized the entire vessel and towed it to Connecticut. Sounds as if there’s going to be quite a fuss. The abolitionists have gotten involved somehow, and who knows what’s going to come of it? I don’t have any of the details yet, but could be we’ll want in on the story. But we’ll talk about that later. What of your sister and the little ones? Any word?”

  “Apparently, their ship put in two weeks ago,” Cavan replied.

  “Two weeks ago?” Jack cut a glance to Samantha.

  She nodded. “We haven’t been able to find out anything about Cavan’s sister or the Madden children. None of the officials we talked with were any help. We were just about to look for the other gentleman you told us about—Mr. Hoey.”

  “Hoey’s no gentleman,” Jack said absently, turning to glance around. “But he usually knows most everything going on about the harbor. That’s why I use him now and then.”

  A few feet away, a boy with a filthy face and wearing a coat two sizes too large was perched on his haunches, fishing a string through the cracks of the wharf. Jack got the boy’s attention with a sharp whistle, then palmed a coin from his pocket and held it up.

  The youth, who looked to be no more than eight or nine years old, dropped his string and came running.

  “You know Hoey, lad?” Jack asked him.

  The boy nodded, his eyes locked on the coin in Jack’s hand.

  “Fetch him for me, then, and this is yours.”

  The child stretched a hand for the coin, but Jack held it out of reach.

  “Ah, no—first you bring Hoey to me. And be quick about it, mind! If I have to wait too long, you’ll not get a cent.”

  The boy took off at a run, the tops of his oversized boots flapping about his thin legs. Jack turned back to Samantha and Cavan. “Hoey’s a runner—one of the older boyos,” he said, his expression dark with distaste. “A real master of the trade, Hoey is.”

  Jack’s look of contempt mirrored Samantha’s own feelings. She knew about the runners who infested the docks, a low breed who earned their subsistence by fleecing unsuspecting immigrants right off the boat, many of them the runners’ own countrymen. These unscrupulous creatures would actually board the ships, virtually overwhelming the bewildered immigrants, hawking their services either through ingratiating spiels, or, more often, sheer intimidation. Under the ruse of arranging “decent lodgings at reasonable rates,” the runners would quickly manage to seize an entire family’s baggage and belongings before leading them off the ship and out of the harbor.

  Almost without exception, runners worked for unprincipled men who owned some of the most disgraceful tenements and boarding houses in New York. Once he had maneuvered a band of immigrants off the docks, a runner would proceed to one of his employer’s tenement buildings, where the new arrivals would be packed into dark, filthy rooms with other victims of their deceit and charged exorbitant rates for quarters scarcely fit for animals.

  Jack gestured that they should move back a ways, under the shelter of a warehouse overhang. “You shouldn’t have come out today,” he said, raking a hand through his wet hair as he turned to Samantha. “ ’Tis a wretched day entirely.”

  “I’m not as frail as all that,” Samantha said. “Tell us about your visit with Mr. Poe.”

  His shrug and sour face said it all. “As you see, I wasn’t inclined to spend a great deal of time with the man.”

  “What happened?”

  Jack shrugged. “Let’s just say that Mr. Poe and I seem to have decidedly different viewpoints on the publishing process.”

  “I see,” Samantha said after a second or two.

  He gave a wry smile. “But you still want to know all about him.”

  In fact, she did. She had come to realize that Jack’s perceptions of human nature could be chillingly insightful, if at times almost brutally cynical; she was learning more and more to trust his judgment. Still, even though some of Poe’s work repelled her, and the more lurid stories about the man appalled her, she could not help but be curious.

  “I promise a thorough
recounting over supper,” he said.

  Samantha looked at him.

  Still smiling, he darted a quick glance from her to Cavan, then went on, making it clear that both of them were included in the invitation. “I thought I’d take the two of you to Guiliardo’s, if you’re free. It would seem to be perfect weather for something a bit spicy.”

  Samantha knew she should say no; she’d been seeing far too much of Jack lately. But she had seen the way Cavan’s eyes brightened at the idea, and no doubt he could use some cheering up after the disappointment of the day.

  Besides, the truth was that she wanted to go. It would be an opportunity to hear about the meeting with Edgar Poe, without any concern that Jack might raise the troubling subject of marriage again. Cavan’s presence would guarantee an impersonal atmosphere.

  As for Cavan, he hesitated only a moment, as if to gauge Jack’s sincerity. “Perhaps I should be getting on back—”

  Samantha was relieved when Jack waved off his uncertainty. “Nonsense. Mrs. Harte wants to hear about my meeting with Poe, and I want a briefing on your trip to Albany. You’ll have supper with us.” He stopped, inclined his head toward Samantha, and said, “That is, if you’re free?”

  Just for an instant, caution renewed its war with an unsettling desire in Samantha to be with him. As seemed to happen more and more frequently these days, caution lost the battle.

  “Yes, that would be nice,” she said. “And, of course, you’ll come, Cavan. We know all about your passion for Italian food.”

  Cavan gave a weak smile, but it was obvious that he was still distracted by concern for his sister—as well he might be.

  Samantha turned back to Jack. “Can you think of anywhere else we should look?”

  She stopped as a rumpled, wizened little man in a tattered sweater and a stovepipe hat trotted up to them, the raggedy child Jack had sent off a few moments before at his side.