by BJ Hoff
For a long time, she stood staring at the building. Rain water had pooled in the cobbles of the street, and her pampootas—her homemade shoes—were worn so thin she might as well have been barefoot. But Terese was scarcely mindful of her wet feet. The only thing she could think of was the seemingly hopeless situation into which she had plunged them by her foolhardy act of stealing the passes and fleeing the hospital for the city. Now they truly had no place to go, no shelter from the bitter cold and rain.
But if they hadn’t left the quarantine center, she reminded herself, they probably would not have survived another week.
Aye, but at least at Tompkinsville there had been a roof over their heads.
It was still raining when she led Shona around to the back of the building, in hopes of discovering an unlocked door. A few sodden sheets of newspaper were strewn randomly on the ground, as if the wind had blown them off the wagon parked nearby. A few feet away, two young boys were hunched over a barrel where something was burning. A thin ribbon of smoke snaked upward from the barrel.
The two boys eyed Terese and Shona with suspicion, and it occurred to Terese that she and Shona must look a fright by now. They were probably dirty, and their clothing was soaked from head to toe. But as she took in the boys’ shabby apparel and pinched faces, she decided that these two would probably pay little heed to another’s tattered apparel.
She tried to smile but felt it come more as a grimace. “Please, could we share your fire for a moment?” she said, grateful—not for the first time—that she had learned the English as her da and Cavan had insisted.
Neither boy made a reply, but finally the taller of the two—who looked to be eight or nine at most—gave a jerk of his head as if to indicate assent. He was a proud-looking little fellow, his worn cap set at a jaunty tilt atop a mop of red hair.
With Shona in tow, Terese wasted no time in joining the boys at the barrel. Whatever they were burning stunk of something vile, but Terese was too thankful for the warmth to mind the smell. “Would there happen to be anyone about this morning, do you suppose?” she asked, nodding to the building.
The boy with the cap looked at her, and Terese was caught off guard by the utter lack of childishness in his features. He might have been a tiny man, so hard were his eyes, so tight his mouth.
“ ’Tis Sunday,” he said with a hint of a sneer.
“Aye, it is that,” Terese shot back, irritated by his insolence. “But the two of you are here.”
“We sleep over there,” said the smaller of the two, pointing across the street where another brick building stood, this one with a stairway crawling up its side. “Under the steps.”
“ ’Sides,” the older boy put in, “we’ve sold out of our Sundays.”
Terese looked at him. His speech wasn’t quite as thick with the Irish as her own, but not far from it. “Sundays?”
“The Sunday papers,” said the boy, looking at her as if she hadn’t all her wits.
“You work here?” she said, hope quickening in her.
Again the redheaded boy watched her as if she were a fool. “Not here. We’re newsboys, don’t you know?”
“Newsboys?” For some reason, Terese seemed to be having a difficult time concentrating. Her head ached, and her hands and feet felt strangely numb, disembodied. Her own speech sounded slurred to her, and the boy with the red hair was staring at her as if he found her peculiar entirely.
“We sell newspapers,” he said in a snide tone, as if he were trying to communicate with an eejit. “We work mostly for Black Jack himself.”
“Black Jack?”
“What are you, then, just off the boat?” cracked the boy. “Black Jack Kane, of course. Him who owns the Vanguard. Mr. Kane, he don’t let out his papers to just any boy. He picks and chooses those he knows he can trust.” His chin went up a notch higher. “Like me and Whitey here. We got a better deal than most, don’t you see? Most places, they make you pay for your papers right up front, no matter what. If you ain’t got the money, you get no papers. But Mr. Kane, now, once he learns he can trust a boy, he’ll dole out the papers for a few days without makin’ us pay, if we’re short.”
Terese was only vaguely aware of the boy’s spiel. She wasn’t interested in his newspapers. All she cared about was finding Jack Kane.
“Your Mr. Kane—could you be directing us to his house, then?”
The two boys gaped as if she’d taken leave of her senses altogether. “Sure and you’re daft, if you’re thinking you can just march up to Black Jack’s house!”
“Sure and I will be doing exactly that,” Terese snapped, suddenly impatient with his cheek, “once you give me the directions!”
Both boys snickered. Again it was the older of the two who spoke. “Even if I knew where himself lived—which I don’t—but if I did, and say I was to tell you where that is, wouldn’t the coppers run you off the street? Old Black Jack, they say he lives in a fine big mansion somewheres uptown. You ain’t likely to be finding much of a welcome there, I expect.”
Terese was so numb from weakness that her ears were ringing. “Mr. Kane is expecting us!” she grated. “And you can keep a civil tongue.”
The boy reached to give her a shove. “And you can find your own fire!”
Just then the back door of the building swung open to reveal a big, angry-looking baldheaded man. He poked his head out, then stepped the rest of the way into the street. “What’re you boys up to now, hangin’ around here on a Sunday mornin’? That you, Snipe?”
“Me and Whitey, that’s right, Mr. Wall. We ain’t up to nothing. Just warmin’ ourselves up a bit, is all.”
“Well, you can just be warming yourselves somewhere else! You know the rules—there’s to be no pottering about once you’ve finished with your papers. Now get on with the both of you!”
The older boy cast a sly look at Terese. “Well, but wasn’t we tryin’ to help these girls, Mr. Wall? They’re wanting Mr. Kane’s home address. They claim that he’s expecting them, don’t you see?”
The bull of a man turned to glare at Terese. She felt Shona pull behind her, clinging to her skirt.
“What’s this?” he snarled, his gaze raking Terese with undisguised contempt. “What the divil are you up to, girl?”
Nausea scalded Terese’s throat. She could scarcely force a reply. “Please, sir,” she choked out. “I need to find Mr. Kane. I need to find him right away.”
The man shot her a look of outrage mingled with suspicion. “And what sort of business would the likes of you be havin’ with Mr. Kane?”
The building behind the man had begun to sway, and Terese felt the street tilt crazily beneath her feet. “He’s expecting us, and that’s the truth.”
“Oh, indeed?” The big man sneered, and planted his hands on his hips. “Expecting you, is he? Well, ain’t that strange now, seein’ as how he only left his office but a short time ago? Seems odd, don’t it, that he wouldn’t have waited, if he was expecting you?”
Terese groped for something to steady herself, found nothing, and staggered toward him. “He was here? We missed him?”
“He was. And he didn’t say nothin’ about two raggedy girls either.”
Terese moistened her lips, struggling to get the words out. “If you’d just be telling me where to find him…”
“I’ll be telling you nothing of the kind, you foolish girl! Whatever your game is, you’d best look elsewhere. Why, Black Jack Kane no doubt has scrawny little girls like you for supper!”
He made a move toward her, and Terese stumbled backward. For an instant, the man’s hard features seemed to gentle. Then he began to spin crazily right in front of her, his mouth moving with words no longer audible as a storm of darkness hurtled toward him, sucking him up and out of sight before swallowing Terese along with him.
Madog Wall—predictably dubbed “Mad Dog” by his cohorts—thought of himself as a hard man: hardfisted, hardheaded, and hard hearted.
No one was likely to disagree w
ith him. He had earned his reputation as a formidable fighter by brawling on the docks before coming to work for Jack Kane, and he could still trounce a man twenty years his junior if the situation called for it. His stamina was legendary. No man had ever seen him swagged, and though he seldom engaged an opponent, everyone knew Madog Wall would never back down from a challenge.
What was not so widely known—indeed it was not known at all—was that although Madog coveted the reputation he had earned for himself and maintained it with deliberate effort, he nevertheless had his soft spots. His loyalty to Jack Kane, for example, was so fierce as to be blind, if not obsessive. Then, too, he harbored an almost maudlin weakness for the helpless—especially injured animals and abandoned or orphaned children.
When he saw the older girl’s eyes roll back in her head, Madog lunged to catch her before she dropped to the street. At the same time, he caught a glimpse of the little one at her side, the thin face crumpled in bewilderment and fear.
As he caught the older of the two in his arms, her fancy cloak parted and Madog saw that she was in the family way. Was she the mother of the smaller lass as well? Surely not—she looked little more than a child herself!
The girl was unconscious entirely, limp as a rag doll in his arms. The little one had begun to wail—an odd, thin sound like that of a sick kitten—and tug at the older girl’s hand as if she feared that she were dead.
Madog’s wits failed him for a moment. Clearly, the two lasses were either ill or starving—possibly both. The little one was so thin her flesh appeared like paper drawn over her bones. And the unconscious girl in his arms, though she seemed not so frail, looked as though she might be bad sick. Her cheeks were flaming, and he could feel the heat of her even through that heavy cloak. And her with child!
A thought struck him, and he gave the girl a sharp look. But, no, surely Jack Kane would not be responsible for her condition!
Ah, no, of course not! There was little likelihood of the boss’s consorting with a peasant girl.
So what sort of deviousness was she up to, then?
There was no thought of allowing her to get next to Mr. Kane, of course. If by some unimaginable chance the boss had actually been looking for these two, well, then, he would have stuck around until they showed up, wouldn’t he?
What to do with them, then? They were none of his affair, these two shabby strangers.
He looked at the little girl and saw that she was shaking. Was she that cold, then, or simply afraid?
She looked directly at him, her gaze never wavering. Something in Madog softened in spite of himself. There was no call to be cruel to a wee one like this, after all.
As he stood looking around, it occurred to him that the mission over on Pearl Street would almost certainly take them in. That Dr. Leslie, who ran both the women’s dwelling and the house for the men a few doors down, was a good enough sort. It was said that he never turned a needy soul away.
Madog’s gaze came to rest on one of the newspaper wagons pulled close to the door, then flicked to the wee girl who still stood watching him, a fist pressed against her mouth.
Finally, Madog heaved an exasperated sigh and jerked his head toward the wagon. “Come on then,” he told the little one, hoisting the other girl more securely in his arms. “Let’s get the both of you to shelter.”
12
FACES IN THE CROWD
A man has often cut a rod to beat himself.
IRISH PROVERB
The choir had already begun their opening hymn when Samantha stepped inside the sanctuary. She had shed her coat in the closet at the entrance, but her shoes were dripping, her feet and hands chilled. She tried to ignore thoughts of a head cold as she slipped into a pew next to Cavan Sheridan, who smiled and motioned for the two youngest Carver children next to him to move down and make more room.
Rufus’s oldest boy, Gideon, had come for Samantha in the church wagon, already packed with children from outlying neighborhoods. But the wagon leaked badly, offering little protection to its occupants, and Samantha was almost as wet as if she’d walked part of the way.
As she settled into the pew, Samantha promised herself—again—that from now on she would put aside even more from her wages until she could afford her own buggy. Jack was actually paying her quite handsomely; she should be able to save an extra dollar or two a week without any great sacrifice.
She glanced at Cavan Sheridan again, saw that his pleasant features showed definite signs of strain. Dark smudges under his eyes plainly indicated that his concern for his sister had kept him up most of the night. Samantha wished she could think of some reassurance to offer him, but what was there to say? They could only hope that Jack’s informant—Hoey—would turn up some word before much longer.
She smiled at Rufus’s and Amelia’s two youngest, on Cavan’s right. The taller of the two, Ezra, was whispering something to his brother, Tommy. Both stopped long enough to give Samantha a sheepish grin when she caught their eye.
The church smelled of rainwater and mildew and was, as usual, far too cold for the sake of comfort. The small woodstoves in the front and back never quite managed to chase away the chill in the drafty old building. Rufus sometimes joked that he kept it that way on purpose to make it more difficult for certain members to doze off.
But the choir was warming things up now with their lively rendition of a spiritual. Heads were nodding and shoulders swaying, and Rufus looked animated and eager to begin as the song ended and he approached the pulpit to greet his flock.
The Mercer Street Tabernacle had been Samantha’s church home for over two years, ever since she’d gotten to know Rufus Carver, the preacher, and his wife, Amelia. She no longer felt the need to explain to anyone why she had chosen to join a mostly black congregation. It wasn’t altogether due to the friendship that had sprung up between her and Amelia Carver as they worked together in the slum settlements, although in the beginning that might have accounted for a part of her interest. The fact was that in this place Samantha had found a genuine working out of the gospel of Christ, as well as the kind of unconditional acceptance of herself as a person, that she had never known within the cold stone walls of her former uptown congregation.
The little clapboard building on Mercer Street was not only a shelter, a haven to its people, but it was also a happy place, the kind of place where people wanted to be.
The friendliness and goodwill of the congregation, the soulful, stirring music, and Rufus’s lively Bible preaching worked together to create an atmosphere that was both cheerful and worshipful. It seemed to Samantha that God must be very much in attendance here, and surely he enjoyed every minute of his time among them.
Not all the members were Negro, as it happened. Over the years, several of those who, like Samantha, taught and worked in the settlements—and others, like Cavan Sheridan—had found themselves drawn to the Mercer Street congregation. On any given Sunday morning, one could look out over the crowded pews, as Samantha was doing now, and see an increasing number of light-skinned faces among the regular members.
The one face Samantha wished she might find in their midst, however, was never there, nor, if she were to be honest with herself, was it likely that it ever would be.
But she could still hope. She could still pray. A mocking thought insinuated itself at the edges of her mind: that she was almost certainly praying for the impossible. Yet that scornful whisper could not completely drown out the quieter, gentler voice deep within her spirit reminding her that the God she loved and trusted was Lord of all things, even the impossible.
And so she had not as yet given up her heart’s plea, had never completely ceased searching for that one special face—Jack’s face—among the crowd.
For years now it had been Jack Kane’s habit to work off his tensions or an occasional foul mood with a lengthy, brisk walk. When his mind was cluttered or his emotions in a jumble, he would simply start out walking and not stop until decisions were made or problems solved—or until
he had at least managed to clear his head and lighten his mood a bit.
The weather had never been a deterrent. In fact, he actually found something rather cleansing, even invigorating, about a good walk in a driving rain or a winter snowstorm.
This morning was no exception. He had left the house in an almost desperate rush to get away from the pandemonium of his own thoughts. Addy’s barbed remarks about his “heathen” ways—in other words, his neglect of the Sunday morning mass—had only thrown coals on the fire of his exasperation.
His hovering housekeeper meant well, and for the most part Jack tolerated her impertinence in areas where no one else would have dared to go. But this morning the woman had come very near to exhausting his patience.
In truth, this morning he seemed to have no patience.
After his walk he had taken the buggy as far as the office, where he’d waited in vain for Hoey to turn up with information on the missing Sheridan girl and the two orphans. When the little weasel hadn’t shown, Jack had finally gone storming out of the building.
As much as he tried to blame Addy’s meddling or Hoey’s failure to show up for his black mood, he knew he was dissembling. He had risen from his bed before dawn feeling sour and edgy, and as the morning went on his disposition had only darkened.
His bad temper almost certainly had more to do with the events of the previous day than the morning’s irritations. He had come back to New York eager to see Samantha, hopeful of spending the entire evening with her. Well, he had seen her all right, but not in the manner he would have chosen. They had spent most of the afternoon prowling about the harbor in the rain with Cavan Sheridan, trying to find news of the boy’s sister, who seemed to have disappeared almost as soon as the ship put in.
At supper both Samantha and Sheridan had been too distracted to do more than peck at their meals while they fired questions at Jack about the possible whereabouts of the missing travelers. And to his great disappointment, there had been virtually no time alone with Samantha later on. To cap it off, when they called it a day, he’d come home to find that infernal letter waiting for him.