by BJ Hoff
The crewman attempted a wide-gapped smile. “I thought I heard something, is all, Captain. Thought I’d best have a look. The door was unlocked.”
Schell froze the man in place with a threatening glare. “You thought you’d have a look, all right!” The captain’s voice cracked like a pistol shot. “Thought you’d take your pleasure like the rutting pig you are, that’s what you were doing!”
“Aw, Captain, what’s the harm? I was just breaking one of them in, you know. What difference does it make? That’s what they’re for.”
Schell’s face went livid, engorged with contempt. “Yes, that’s what they’re for! But not for the likes of you!” He broke off, backhanding the sailor across the face.
The man’s head reeled. Daniel caught his breath, and put a hand to his cheek at the memory of his own encounter with the captain’s vicious temper.
“Garbage!” Schell hurled at the sailor. “You are garbage! That is cargo in there, do you understand? This entire ship is cargo! And you are to have nothing to do with the cargo beyond loading it and unloading it!”
The blood pounded in Daniel’s head, making his ears ring. His stomach knotted even tighter as he went on watching.
The captain reached past the man to yank the cabin door closed, then turned to bark an order over his shoulder.
The crewman behind him stepped up. “I want to know who left that door unlocked!” Schell grated, pointing to the cabin. “And you pass the word that if I hear tell of another man interfering with the cargo of this ship, he will be flogged until the deck runs red with blood!”
Turning back to the offending sailor, he moved the lantern closer to his face. “Well, you stupid fool, let us hope she was worth a keelhauling.” His voice was low but thick with menace. A brief slash of a smile appeared, then faded as he stood watching the crewman drag the protesting sailor down the deck.
Holding his breath, Daniel watched Schell turn the handle on the cabin door and push it open. He stood just inside the doorway, lifting the lantern to inspect whatever lay within. Somebody inside the cabin was crying!
Daniel pulled in a ragged breath, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to bring blood.
After a moment, the captain turned and closed the door, this time locking it with a key before walking away.
Daniel stayed where he was for a long time after Schell disappeared. His heart banged wildly against his ribcage as he huddled in the shadows, trying to understand what he had just witnessed.
At last he got up his nerve to creep over to the cabin door and put his ear to it. Hearing nothing, he lifted his hand and touched the door, hesitating a moment before rapping lightly. When there was no answering reply, he again tapped softly on the door.
After another long silence, he glanced around uncertainly. With the lantern gone, the darkness on the deck was thick and relentless. But it wasn’t the darkness of the night that gripped Daniel, trapping him in a surging wave of panic. It was another kind of darkness, one so cold and reeking of corruption it could almost be touched.
It was the darkness that rode the waves with the Green Flag, a presence that permeated the entire ship. He could hear its whisper above the tormented cries in steerage, over the roar of the waves above decks, in the secret shadows of the passenger cabins, even in the wind that flew the sails.
He had sensed the darkness before, had heard its whisper, felt its touch, smelled its decay. Tonight he thought he at last understood what it was.
The darkness had taken on a soul of its own. The soul of the Green Flag.
Back in steerage, Daniel gave Whittaker a dose of the laudanum, then propped himself up in the bunk next to the Englishman, watching him.
What he would give to tell Whittaker about this night: what he had seen and heard, what he suspected. But Whittaker was in pain most of the time, and when he wasn’t, he was sleeping. It wouldn’t do to bother him with anything that might cause him upset.
He would have to wait until the Englishman was stronger, had at least begun to mend. Then he would tell him. Perhaps Whittaker would understand, would know what to do.
With a rush of dread, Daniel felt the presence of an Enemy aboard the ship. Unseen, unknown…but real. Terribly real.
He was suddenly frightened, as frightened as he had ever been. How could he hope to defend himself or his loved ones against what he could not see?
We are not contending against flesh and blood, but against the powers of an unseen world.
How did one fight against a whisper, an elusive presence, a shadow of evil?
Put on the entire armor of God…the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shoes of peace, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, the sword of the Spirit—God’s Word.
Pray…plead…watch.
Slipping down off the bunk, Daniel dropped to his knees and began to pray.
37
Afternoon Encounters
A little love, a little trust,
A soft impulse, a sudden dream,
And life as dry as desert dust
Is fresher than a mountain stream.
So simple is the heart of man,
So ready for new hope and joy;
Ten thousand years since it began
Have left it younger than a boy.
STOPFORD A. BROOKE (1822–1916)
New York City
Late April
It was an almost springlike afternoon in New York. The air was gentle, the sky was clear, and on this part of the street in front of the Tombs—the Hall of Justice—there was no ripe smell of manure droppings or piled up garbage.
The entrance door had been propped open, but Michael Burke had come all the way outside and stood leaning up against one of the huge Greek columns that guarded the front of the building. At his feet, a baby boy lay sleeping in a basket.
He had found the infant abandoned in the dark hallway of a Mulberry Street tenement, wrapped only in thin rags, hidden in the same basket in which he now slept. When a thorough questioning of the building’s tenants and surrounding neighbors yielded no clue as to the baby’s parents, Michael had brought him back to the station and filed a report. Now he waited for an agency volunteer to pick up the foundling and take it to one of the designated hospitals or protectories.
While he waited, he read over the ship arrival notices in The New York Packet. These days he faithfully checked every issue of the Packet. If the ship had left Killala near the end of March, it had been at sea for nigh on four weeks by now. That being the case, it could arrive in the harbor as early as next week.
Of course, he had no way of knowing exactly when it set sail. Nor had he any certainty that Nora and her family were aboard.
The past few weeks of waiting and wondering, hoping—and occasionally dreading—had been the most exasperating, nerve-wracking experience in Michael’s memory. Not to know if Nora was coming, and if she were, how she would react to him after so long a time; whether she would be willing to marry him; how her boys and Tierney would get along if they should wed; where he was going to put so many people…
He could not remember a time when his mind had felt so cluttered, so heavy, so fragmented.
Added to this was his concern over the increasing amount of time Tierney was spending in the employ of Patrick Walsh.
The boy was working almost every Saturday, from daylight to dark, out at Walsh’s posh palace on Staten Island—and that was in addition to his regular after-school job at the hotel.
Lately Michael sensed a gap widening between him and his son. It grated on him, but he had to concede a certain amount of jealousy about Tierney’s adulation for his employer. Walsh had achieved an impressive record of successes for an Irish immigrant. But Michael wanted Tierney to value some things more than money and influence and achievement—things like integrity and Christian principles, for example.
Yet, every time he raised the subject with the boy, Tierney would fire back that he was the one always encouraging him to “better himself.” Sin
ce Michael could not deny the truth in the challenge, their debates always ended in a deadlock.
It was no wonder he was sleeping poorly, when he slept at all, and even less wonder he could not seem to concentrate on anything more complicated than the ship arrival notices.
His attention was suddenly diverted by a hackney cab slowing in front of the building. As soon as the two gray horses clopped to a halt, the driver leaped down to assist his passenger.
Surprised, Michael watched as Sara Farmington stepped from the carriage, gave instructions to the driver, then started toward the front steps.
Again he noted a faint limp in her stride, though her posture was straight and confident. She was wearing a fine spring suit, soft blue with white piping, and a somewhat more sensible wee hat than he observed on most women.
She smiled as soon as she saw him. Michael straightened, stepped out from the column and greeted her.
“Miss Farmington? Don’t tell me you’re here for another jaunt into Five Points so soon.”
Still smiling, she glanced from him to the sleeping infant in the basket behind him. “Not today, Sergeant Burke, although I did intend to request an escort for next week. This afternoon, however, I’m here to relieve you of your little burden.”
She went to the foundling and, stooping down, lifted him carefully from the basket. The infant slept on as she cradled him gently against her shoulder.
“You’ve come for the child, then?”
“That’s right,” she said distractedly, studying the face of the sleeping infant. “I volunteer for the Infants Hospital on Wednesdays and Thursdays.”
“You are a busy young woman, Miss Farmington,” said Michael, gazing at her with interest.
She shrugged. “There’s no need to be idle in New York City. Especially these days, with the population exploding as it is.”
Her eyes went to The New York Packet Michael held. “Do you have family scheduled to arrive soon, Sergeant Burke?” she asked, rubbing the baby’s back as she inclined her head toward the paper.
Michael glanced at the Packet in his hand. “No. That is, not family. But friends.”
“I see. When do you expect them?”
“As early as next week, possibly. But I don’t even know for certain they are coming,” he added. “I’ve been watching the notices, just in case.”
The infant stirred a bit, cooed, and Sara Farmington smiled down at him. “Well, I hope they arrive safely. What ship are they booked on?”
“The Green Flag. It’s a small packet, I believe.”
“I’m not familiar with the name. I’ll have to ask my father. Perhaps he’d have some information for you.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, he’s very informed about the vessels coming into New York,” she replied, shifting the infant to her other shoulder. “I’ll see if he knows anything about your friends’ ship.”
“Is your father employed at the harbor?”
She looked at him, her eyes glinting with a faint light that appeared to be amusement. “Well, actually,” she said, “Father’s in the business of building ships. But he haunts the harbor all the same, so he might have some information for you.”
A bell went off in Michael’s mind.
Sara Farmington.
Lewis Farmington, the millionaire shipbuilder! Farmington was a contemporary and close friend of John Jacob Astor. Astor, himself an immigrant from Germany, had made his fortune by investing the profits from his fur trade in farmland on Manhattan Island. Farmington, like McKay of Boston, had amassed a sizable fortune of his own by building some of the finest—and fastest—sailing ships in the world.
“You’re not Lewis Farmington’s daughter?” Michael blurted out, immediately dismayed by his lack of tact.
To her credit, Sara Farmington grinned at him. Her response was genuinely unaffected. “I’m afraid I am.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Michael stammered, suddenly feeling awkward and crude and—very Irish. “I didn’t mean to be rude; I simply hadn’t connected the names.”
“It’s all right,” she quickly assured him. “You weren’t rude at all.”
Michael still felt the fool, but wasn’t she being grand about it?
Sara Farmington changed the subject with ease. “I think I’d like to walk for a bit, with the baby, before taking him back to the hospital—it’s so beautiful today. Would you like to keep me company, Sergeant Burke? Do you have time?”
“Yes, of course,” Michael said, pleased that she asked. “But let me carry the little fellow. He’s underfed, but still a bit of a chunk.”
“Why do you suppose he was abandoned?”
Michael frowned, reaching for the baby. “We find dozens just like him every month, many already dead. I suppose it’s often a case where the mother is unmarried or unable to care for them. At any rate, the number is increasing as the city grows.”
“It’s difficult for me to understand how a mother could actually abandon her own baby,” she said quietly, her gaze lingering on the fair-haired infant’s face.
“No offense, Miss Farmington,” Michael said grimly, “but if you’ve never been hungry and frightened—perhaps even desperate—it’s not a thing you would understand.”
His remark brought her up short, and he felt impatient with his own gruffness. But it was the truth, after all. How could those who had never known want even hope to understand those who had never known anything else?
Miss Farmington seemed a fine lady—a compassionate one, that much was certain—but to his way of thinking she could spend the rest of her life doing her bit of work in the slums and still never fathom the hopelessness of the poor wretches she was so determined to help.
There was, after all, no changing the fact that she was a Farmington, not a Flanagan.
His blunt statement made Sara stop and think.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I’m sure you’re right.” Watching the brawny sergeant heft the infant against his chest with one large hand, she couldn’t help but wonder if the man spoke from experience. Had he ever been hungry or desperate? He was an Irish immigrant, so it was more than possible he knew whereof he spoke.
Holding the infant with one hand, the sergeant offered a supporting arm to Sara until they reached the bottom of the steps. Watching him as he instructed the hackney driver to wait, she noted how very small the baby looked in his arms.
He seemed a man of many facets, this Sergeant Burke. One might think him a hard man were it not for his eyes. His handsome face—and indeed it was handsome—at first glance appeared somewhat stern, perhaps because of the deep lines that bracketed his mouth and webbed out from his eyes.
But the eyes spoke a different tale. They reflected the varying colors of the man. They were wounded eyes. Sara sensed that the strapping Irishman had endured deep, personal pain. Not to mention the fact that he must daily encounter things no decent man could ever hope to forget. But they were also eyes that loved life, good-natured eyes that looked out upon the world with humor and tolerance and great kindness, as if they liked most of what they saw.
While he wore the marks of an old pain, the scars appeared to be fading. Sergeant Burke was a strong, determined man, unless Sara was very much mistaken. A survivor.
And most likely married.
The unbidden thought made Sara blink.
Well, what if he were? It was certainly of no concern to her, she reminded herself as they walked. “How long have you been in New York, Sergeant?” she asked, feeling a need to lighten her own tension.
“Almost seventeen years now.”
Sara would have guessed a shorter time. The Irish lilt in his speech was still evident.
“I see. And do you have…family?” she asked as they started up Franklin Street.
He nodded, glancing over at her with a faint smile. “A son. Tierney. He’ll soon be fifteen, though I’m finding it hard to believe.”
“Tierney? That’s an Irish name, I imagine.”
“
Aye, my wife chose it.”
So there was a wife. “I see. Then your wife is also Irish?”
“She was, yes.” He hesitated only an instant, then volunteered, “My wife died when the lad was small.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sara said softly. An old pain…
“I’ll be marrying again, perhaps,” he said abruptly, darting a glance at her that made Sara wonder if he had spoken without thinking. “If my friends do come over, that is,” he added quickly. “And if my proposal is accepted.”
“That’s…wonderful for you,” Sara said lamely, unsettled and somewhat confused by the faint edge of disappointment she felt at his blunt announcement.
“It’s nothing definite, mind,” he put in. “I’ve written to ask, that’s all. Nora may have a different notion entirely.”
“Nora,” Sara repeated softly. “Such a lovely name.”
“We were children together,” he offered in his brusque way. “Grew up in the same village. Her husband died last year, as did her little girl. Things have been hard for her, with the famine and all…” He let his words die away, unfinished.
“I see,” Sara said awkwardly, “Well, I hope things work out for both of you.”
He gave a small nod, but said nothing more. They walked on in silence for a time before Sara stopped. “I should get back with the baby, I suppose.”
“Aye, he seems to be waking up,” said the sergeant, glancing down at the squirming infant against his chest.
For a moment he stood regarding Sara with a questioning gaze. A smile flickered in his eyes, then reached his mouth. “I’m curious, Miss Sara Farmington,” he said. “Why is it you do what you do?”
She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
He continued to study her. The intensity of his gaze would have seemed bold from any other man, but Sara felt not the least bit offended.
“You’re the daughter of a very important man. Why, then, do you spend most of your days in the slums?”
The question was a familiar one. When she was younger and still not altogether certain as to exactly what was expected of a Farmington, Sara had occasionally been very wicked, affecting the frivolous, somewhat addlepated behavior people seemed to expect from the idle rich. She had given that up as soon as she’d realized that her feigned foolishness was exactly what they approved of.