Song of the Silent Harp

by BJ Hoff

  With no proper sewage or garbage disposal, the alleys teemed with offal and trash. Both the streets and the buildings constantly reeked from the stench of animal and human waste, kerosene stoves, and whiskey. Beneath the dank cellars and fetid garrets ran dozens of underground passages connecting blocks of houses on different streets, affording ideal getaway routes for the hardened criminals who drifted in and out of the district and certain death for anyone else foolish enough to enter.

  The place was the terror of the police force and every decent citizen who was aware of its existence. Home for entire gangs of gun-fighting Irish, thieves, and murderers, it also housed rampant disease and utter hopelessness. Buried in ignorance, filth, pestilence, and poverty, Five Points was a pool of concentrated, unchecked evil. And at the heart of it all stood the predominant landmark of Five Points, the ugly, infamous building to which Michael and his partner were about to escort the unsuspecting ladies. The Old Brewery.

  Lurking in the square, ringed on one side by “Murderer’s Alley,” the old Coulter’s Brewery building had long ago been converted into a multiple dwelling. It was a veritable monstrosity of a place—mustard-colored, sagging, hideous as a misshapen toad. It squatted in defiance of all decency and authority, the acknowledged headquarters of corruption and perversion for all to see.

  Michael hated the very sight of the place. Every trek through its diseased passages brought on nightmares, and he knew tonight would be no exception. His stomach heaved at the thought of what waited inside, but the ladies would not consent to forego their exploration of this most disreputable of the slum’s many dens of corruption.

  Wanting only to have it over and done with, Michael sighed and detached himself from the fence, heading toward Price and the women. “Ladies, if you insist,” he said with a somewhat rude jerk of his head in the direction of the building.

  Ignoring at least three sets of raised eyebrows, Michael parted their numbers and started across the square. With himself in front and Price bringing up the rear, he resolutely marched them straight toward the Old Brewery.

  If human misery and degradation could be measured, Michael thought, then certainly the weight of it within these walls would be enough to sink the city into the ocean. Over the years, any number of journalists and social chroniclers had attempted to depict the stark horror of conditions inside the Old Brewery. All had failed, for indeed there was a point at which raw evil could not be described, only—to the observer’s peril—seen and felt.

  Such was the iniquity running rampant throughout the Brewery’s dark, winding passageways. Michael led the way with a lantern in hand, cautioning the ladies to have a care where they stepped. “The whole of the building is rickety and unsafe,” he warned, parting two drunks sprawled at the bottom of the steps.

  A spur of annoyance nipped at him as they made their way up the tottering stairs and started down the hall. He found something almost obscene in these well-dressed, impeccably coiffed uptown ladies injecting their presence into the squalor and hopelessness of this place. What, exactly, did they think to see or hope to accomplish?

  The boards creaked and groaned in protest as they moved along the hallway. Almost in unison the women lifted their skirts to keep their hemlines from touching the begrimed floor, all the while casting apprehensive glances into the darkness around them.

  Great mounds of what appeared to be filthy rags lay in heaps against the wall, but as they passed by the rags would stir, then attempt to rise, revealing the pathetic forms of human beings, both Negro and white. In the dim glow of the lantern, dozens of half-naked children could be seen cowering or playing in the shadows.

  Too cross by now to make any concession toward the ladies’ delicate breeding, Michael could not resist pointing out a patched section of floor just ahead. “That place was dug up a while back,” he informed them, “after finding some of the boards sawed free. There were human bones underneath—the remains of two bodies.” He stood aside, waiting for the women to tiptoe around the area, their faces pale and taut as they minced away from the shabby repair job.

  His sense of decency overcame his petulance, however, when he realized the sounds coming from a dark alcove just to their left were those of a couple taking their pleasure right there in the hallway—a common enough occurrence in this pit of immorality. With a deft pivot to the side, he managed to divert the group’s attention to himself by swinging the lantern and pretending to stumble as he hurried them past the alcove.

  A few of the rooms were open to view, the doors either ajar or ripped from their hinges. They passed by one, slowing almost to a stop at the sight of three elderly women inside, all lying on a bed of filthy rags pushed into a corner. Each appeared to be feeble and emaciated. Across the room two other women, these younger, sat at a dilapidated table crowded with whiskey bottles and what looked to be the remains of several meals. Beneath the table three children, one but an infant, played with a dog.

  Michael had been down these halls of horror far too many times to react to the cloying hands of the beggars that groped at them as they moved on. The ladies, however, made the mistake of digging into their handbags so often he was sure they would go home without a coin.

  From every shadowed corner came the sounds of weeping or groaning, whether from sickness or desolation no one could say. By now most of the women had gone pale and begun to look somewhat ill, making Michael feel a bit ashamed of his earlier crankiness. They had, more than likely, never experienced anything near the squalor of Five Points before today.

  He did not doubt their sincerity. The simple act of submitting to a tour through such a vile place indicated they at least had the sensitivity to think of others less fortunate than themselves. There was little enough human decency and Christian charity in this city; certainly he had no right to be faulting the few who displayed a measure of it.

  Michael stepped out of the way, allowing the ladies to sidestep a drunk sprawled face down in the hall. Waiting for the women to pass, his attention was caught by one in particular, who appeared to be lagging a bit behind the others. A slender, straight-backed young woman, her rich chestnut hair was caught in a thick chignon that seemed to defy the frivolous bonnet perched on top of her head. She walked with a slight limp, scarcely noticeable, and her expression was not so much one of revulsion as compassion. Her attention seemed to have been caught by something just ahead, and he turned to look in the direction of her gaze.

  Her eyes were fastened on a little girl who was huddled just outside a closed door. The young woman stopped when she reached the child, separating herself from the rest of the group who walked on, accompanied by Officer Price. Michael was about to urge the straggler on, but he hesitated when she stooped down to gaze into the child’s face.

  When she spoke, her voice was low, and, as he would have expected, unmistakably refined. But it was also a voice touched with genuine warmth and concern.

  The woman had soft hazel eyes and a small oval face with a nearly pointed chin. So fine-boned was her frame that she seemed to bend beneath the heavy weight of her hair. But a note of firmness in her voice and the strong line of her jaw belied any hint of frailty.

  Smiling, she reached out a hand to the child, who regarded her with a mixture of distrust and awe. “Hello,” said the young woman, withdrawing her hand when the little girl ignored it. “Is this where you live?”

  Suspicious eyes burned out of a dirty, bruised face. The little girl, about five years old, was clad only in a filthy sack of a dress. Her body was covered with grime and sores, and Michael knew a moment of rage at the thought of parents who would allow a child to go around in such a state.

  “My name is Sara,” said the soft-voiced young woman. “Won’t you tell me yours?”

  The child studied her for another moment, then answered in a whisper, “Maggie.”

  “Maggie,” the woman repeated. “Why, that’s a lovely name! And is this where you live, Maggie?”

  The little girl nodded, staring at the
woman across from her. The distrust in her eyes had given way to puzzlement, and as she gaped, she sucked the thumb of a grimy hand.

  To Michael’s amazement, the young woman dropped down to her knees in front of the child, seemingly mindless of the fact that her fine wool suit would be instantly ruined by the grime covering the floor. “Do you have any sisters or brothers, Maggie?” she asked, touching the child lightly on the forearm.

  The little girl jumped back, as if unaccustomed to being touched, at least in so gentle a manner. The young woman immediately dropped her hand away.

  “Brothers,” the child finally answered in the same hushed tone. “Me has two brothers.”

  Michael noted the thick brogue as southern Ireland, most likely County Kerry. Appraising the child more carefully, he decided she’d be a fair little thing were that wee pinched face scrubbed clean and her long black curls combed free of their tangles.

  “Aren’t you frightened out here in the dark, Maggie?” the woman asked. “Shouldn’t you go inside, with your mother?”

  The child hunched her shoulders. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Not allowed.”

  The young woman—Sara—looked confused for a moment. “You’re not allowed to go inside your rooms, Maggie? Why is that?”

  “Mum is visiting.”

  “I see. Well, couldn’t you visit, too?”

  Again the child shook her head. “Not allowed. Mr. Tully wouldn’t like it.”

  Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Tully? That’s your mother’s guest?”

  The little girl stared as if she didn’t understand.

  “Mr. Tully only visits with your mother?” Sara asked tersely.

  When the child bobbed her head stiffly up and down, Michael expected the refined young woman to either blanch or blush. She did neither. Remaining as she was, on her knees, she put a hand to the riot of black hair falling over the little girl’s face, smoothing it back from her temple. “Well, Maggie, I can see that you’re a very good girl, obeying your mother as you do. I wonder if she would allow you to have a sweet?”

  The child’s face brightened, though her eyes still held a glint of uncertainty. “A sweet?”

  “A peppermint,” Sara said, fumbling inside the pocket of her skirt. “Would you like one?”

  The little girl’s eyes went from the young woman’s face to the piece of candy she held out to her. Finally, she nodded, extending a dirty hand. Sara smiled, pressed the candy into the outstretched hand, then got to her feet.

  “I must go now, Maggie,” she said, “but if I may, I’d like to come back soon and visit with you.”

  The child stuffed the peppermint into her mouth like a greedy baby bird, then looked up. “Will you bring more sweets, then?”

  “I certainly will. Now, you must stay right here, Maggie, close to your own door, until your mother is…is finished with her visit. It’s not a good idea for you to go wandering about the building. Will you do that, Maggie?”

  The little girl nodded distractedly, her attention wholly absorbed in the peppermint. Michael moved to escort the young woman on down the hall.

  “I suppose there are hundreds of others just like her trapped in this dreadful place,” the woman said after a bit.

  “Aye, and she’s in better shape than most,” Michael bit out. “See here, Mrs.—”

  “It’s Miss, Sergeant Burke. Miss Sara Farmington.”

  “Yes, well, Miss Farmington, you told the child you’d be back—”

  “And so I shall.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you, Miss Farmington,” Michael said with an edge in his voice, “but a lady would not dare to enter Five Points without a police escort. And, begging your pardon, these little…junkets into the district take a great deal more of our time than we can actually spare on such—”

  “Foolishness?” she finished for him, then stopped, and turned to look into his face.

  Michael was somewhat taken aback by her direct scrutiny. Behind that gentle, unassuming gaze he caught a glimpse of a formidable, iron-clad will. He was also struck by the fact that Miss Sara Farmington reminded him a little of Nora—at least Nora as he remembered her.

  “Do you know, Sergeant Burke,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re quite right. I don’t believe any of us ever stopped to consider the ramifications of taking you away from your duties.”

  Her frown of concern left no doubt as to her sincerity, and Michael suddenly felt awkward. She seemed a true lady, after all; he hadn’t meant to insult her. “Don’t take offense, Miss Far—”

  “Oh, I’m not,” she hastened to reassure him. “Not at all. It’s just that you’re absolutely right. We simply didn’t think. Crime is running rampant in our city, and here we are, expecting the police to play bodyguard so we can go exploring. It’s really quite unforgivable. And totally unnecessary.”

  “Well, now, you can’t be coming into this terrible place by yourself, Miss Farmington. You can see that it’s no place for a woman at all, much less a woman alone.”

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about that!” she said, laughing. “None of us is brave enough to come down here alone! But in the future we shall enlist the help of some of the gentlemen from our congregation. They should be more than capable of providing us an escort.”

  “Miss Farmington, even the police dread coming in here! And we never come in unarmed!” Michael was horrified at the thought of some silk-vested deacon attempting to see to the safety of this fine young woman and her friends. “If you must come, then it should be only with a police escort. But I cannot help wondering—why are you so determined to come at all?”

  She seemed to enjoy his discomfiture, her eyes twinkling with amusement. But as he watched, her expression abruptly sobered. “Sergeant Burke, we want to help these people—and we believe we can. I know this probably sounds like nothing more than womanly idealism to you, working as you must amid truly deplorable conditions. But we happen to think that, with enough planning and financial backing, we can make a real difference in Five Points. We’re prepared to plan for years, if necessary, and to spend a considerable sum of money in order to turn this into a decent place to live.”

  Michael shook his head. “It’s been talked about before, Miss Farmington, many a time, with no results, none at all. You’ve seen the poor souls for yourself—their wretchedness. What could you possibly hope to accomplish that would make any difference for them?”

  She straightened her shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “What we will do, Sergeant Burke, is to pray, praise, and proceed.”

  Michael stared at her. “Begging your pardon, I—?”

  She smiled. “That is the scriptural order of things for God’s people when they prepare to conquer a heathen nation. Read your Bible, Officer Burke—oh, I’m sorry, your faith doesn’t really encourage that, does it?”

  Michael could not contain a slight smile at her flustered expression. “Well, as a matter of fact, Miss Farmington, I am that rare creature, an Irish Protestant who can actually read—and does read, especially the Scriptures. I might point out that some of my Catholic friends can also read. And do.”

  One eyebrow went up in challenge. “But not the Bible.”

  He shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. That would not seem to be any of my business.” He gave her a look to remind her it was also none of hers.

  “Your rebuke is noted, Sergeant,” she retorted with a dryness that made a grin break across his face.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, Michael pacing his stride to her slight limp. When they reached the downstairs landing, the others were waiting to continue the tour, giving Michael no opportunity to apologize to the young woman for his rudeness.

  By early afternoon they concluded their tour and led the ladies out of Five Points to their waiting carriages. Turning onto Broadway, Michael pulled in a deep, cleansing breath of fresh air, his first since entering the slum that morning.

  He felt a faint edge of disappointment that he’d bee
n unable to talk more with the plucky Sara Farmington. Just as quickly, he was struck by a feeling akin to shame. How could he be seeking the company of another woman when he had only recently committed himself to marriage with Nora? But he immediately justified his attraction to Sara Farmington by deciding it was her vague resemblance to Nora that had piqued his interest in her in the first place.

  He spent the rest of the way back to headquarters in prayerful thanks that Morgan had written when he did, asking for help for his family and Nora’s. If the lot of them had taken it upon themselves to make the crossing with nobody waiting on this side, they might well have ended up in Five Points, with all the rest of its hopeless victims.

  Through Morgan’s intervention, Nora and her family would be spared that particular hell. With that thought—and the thought that in only a few weeks he might be a husband again—Michael quickened his step and lifted his face to catch the sun. Giving his nightstick a bit of a twist, he then continued up Broadway with the jaunty, purposeful step of a man whose life has taken on new purpose and challenge.

  30

  Nora’s Turning

  I know where I’m going,

  I know who’s going with me,

  I know who I love,

  But the dear knows who I’ll marry….

  OLD IRISH BALLAD (ANONYMOUS)

  The Green Flag

  They had been at sea almost three full days before Nora finally read Michael’s letter.

  The first day out she had been too devastated, too dazed to think, much less read. The second, she had suffered the assault of a peculiar sort of illness—not seasickness, exactly, at least not like that of the other passengers close by. She had not endured the same painful retching, had not even lost the contents of her stomach. All the same, she’d been ill enough that she could do nothing more than lie weakly on her berth, staring up at the ribs of the moldy ceiling as the bile from her stomach rose and ebbed, filling her mouth with a bitter, nauseating acid.