“Your wife wanted to plant coralbells,” Grace said, hoping to lessen the awkwardness in their conversation. “I told the children about that, and we ordered the seeds. When they return—and they will, safe and sound, you’ll see—we’ll plant them like their mother wanted.”
The precinct doors flew open, sending a breeze down the corridor to the place they sat. Two figures scurried toward them, Mrs. Hawkins and Reverend Clarke. They embraced Grace and then the reverend took Grace’s chair next to Mr. Parker.
“Edith telephoned us, love.”
“Oh, Mrs. Hawkins. The children!”
“I know. I know. We’ll pray and ask God to send his angels to protect them.”
42
ON THE WAY TO THE HARBOR, Owen commandeered eight more men and positioned them along the pier, in an adjacent fishing boat, and in the park near the statue in case anyone tried to escape that way. Twilight fell, bringing both a help in cloaking them and a hindrance in hiding the suspects. Dear God, give us skilled instincts.
He held his breath a moment before he boarded the boat and thanked God that true criminals had a streak of pride that often gave them away. He turned to look again at the name painted on the side of the boat: Goo Goo, just as it had appeared in the background of Grace’s photograph. She had only gotten half of her subjects in the image, and Owen had to believe she’d done that on purpose. He would let her know as soon as he could how smart that had been. In the background was Goo Goo’s ugly mug—just as Dasher had described him and pretty much the way Grace had drawn him. Goo Goo’s ugly profile wouldn’t be missing from the mug shot wall now.
And now Owen was about to surprise him before he could even try to make a bargain with the children as ransom. So long as the children were unharmed, this was perfect.
But all had to go as planned. The timing had to be spot-on.
Owen drew his pistol and inched onto the boat as Jake did the same from the opposite side. They crept toward a window to look inside the boat.
A tapping came from the stern, and then a small foot appeared from under a cover. Owen hurried over and pulled off the tarp. The children had been gagged and tied to a stack of crates, but they did not seem harmed.
“Don’t worry. I got ya.”
They bobbed their heads.
“Now, when I get you loose, you have to be very, very quiet. Understand? Not a peep.”
They nodded again.
“Good.” He waved toward one of his lookouts.
The man hurried over, and together they got the children loose.
The boy started to cry.
Owen slapped his hand over the frightened child’s mouth. “Quiet, boy. Mac, take them on out of here.” When Owen let go, the children bit their lips and went with the officer.
Jake stood at the cabin door, taking aim, as Owen gazed into a porthole. Goo Goo and his gang sat around a table, leisurely playing faro. Knox probably wanted his men to learn how to cheat folks at illegal gambling, another vice of the city.
The men laughed and smoked, leaning back in folding chairs. They’d thought they had plenty of time—probably assumed the police were searching farther up near the west side docks. Who would look here? There had been an escape. It was the old case of making your pursuers think you’d run as far as possible, when you were really right under their nose.
Knox slumped in his chair, examining his cards. He had no idea what was about to happen. Owen paused and motioned for Jake to back off. Instinct told him something wasn’t right.
The barrel of a gun struck his ribs. A gruff voice whispered in his ear. “Call off your goons and order them to bring the camera.”
“A little late, aren’t ya, Smokey?”
“Those urchins don’t matter. We want that camera and you got it. Hand it over.”
Jake had managed to sink into the shadows. Stupid Dusters, senses all dull, thankfully.
“My partner has it.”
Smokey spun around but aimed his rifle at Owen again before Owen could move. “You got nobody.”
Owen sensed his men advancing forward, slowly.
“Do you see a camera in my hands, man?”
Smokey shook his head. “Well, you make a better hostage than those kids anyway. They’d trade a cop, even a dead one, for the evidence, I figure. Nobody but a college-boy cop would go to so much trouble to run down the Dusters. Don’t they tell you anything from up at Tammany, man? Dimwit! Get down there.” He cocked his head in the direction of the cabin. “You and me’s gonna show Goo Goo I was the one who caught you.” He moved starboard.
“Afraid of Knox, aren’t you? Is that any way—?”
“Shut up!” Smokey staggered, even more dangerous with that loaded weapon because of his drugged state.
Owen took a deep breath. “Hold on, Davis. Better to have that evidence than a dead cop, you know. The department will track down a cop killer, even for a college cop like me.”
“You got it or not?”
“Jake, send that camera over here.”
Jake was far smarter than any fuzzy-minded addict.
A shot rang out.
The idiot had fired aimlessly, hoping to hit a target he couldn’t see. Owen turned and grabbed for the weapon, but Davis stumbled back and pointed it at him. Owen held his arms up. “You want the camera or not?”
That caught his attention.
“Jake, you hear me?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Something, a box of some sort, slid toward them and landed at the gunman’s feet. Davis reached for it, and Owen grabbed the barrel of his weapon, wrenching it away. The boys playing cards scrambled on deck. New York’s finest surrounded them, guns at the ready. If there was one thing the city’s gangs did not like, it was being outnumbered. When cops outnumbered gangsters, the cops usually won.
But this time the gang leader was in jeopardy, so they put up a fight. Owen rolled to the ground to get out of the line of fire. Pain shot up from his ankle, but he couldn’t be sure he’d been hit.
“Owen, your gun,” Jake yelled.
The pistol Davis had forced him to drop earlier rolled toward him from the the starboard side. He got off a few shots.
“Hold up!” Jake yelled. “We got ’em!”
Goo Goo could not escape this time.
43
WHEN THE CHILDREN burst through the precinct doors, followed by several policemen, Grace joined their father in gathering them up and planting kisses on their cold cheeks.
“I got out of the ropes,” Linden said, showing her his wrist. “I was quiet. A good boy. I’m going to be a policeman one day.”
“Let me look at you all.” They seemed fine and unscathed. Grace held the lad tight and closed her eyes, thanking God.
“You all go on home now,” the police captain said. “We’ll take care of the criminals and get your statements later.”
Owen and another policeman limped in behind them. Linden ran over and hugged Owen’s knees.
“Are you all right?” Grace asked, pulling Linden back.
“Fine. Just a twisted ankle. You all should go along home now.” He smiled.
“Thank you,” Grace said. “You do a good job chasing down criminals and robbers.”
He chuckled. “Thank you for trusting the New York City police, Miss McCaffery. I know that was difficult for you.”
It had been. And so was trusting God. But look what had happened. The best outcome.
Grace followed Mr. Parker and the children out to his carriage.
When they were all tucked in bed, Grace approached Mr. Parker. He seemed to have aged ten years. “Please, let me stay with them. If they have bad dreams, I’ll be right here.”
“Thank you, Grace. I’ll be in my chair all night if any of them need me.”
Auntie Edith paced back and forth in front of the parlor hearth, holding baby Douglas. “I was worried sick.”
“Let me take the baby. Everything is fine now.” Grace carried the slumbering lad upstairs.
Sometime later Grace found that she, like Mr. Parker, could not sleep. Still dressed in her day clothes, she came downstairs. Popping her head into the parlor, where Mr. Parker sat in front of a roaring fire, she offered to make warm milk. “And Edith?”
“Thank you, Grace. Edith’s gone to bed.”
When she brought two mugs back with her, she noticed the man had been crying. “Don’t worry, Mr. Parker. The children were not harmed at all.”
“I have no doubt about that. Linden’s bright disposition seems untarnished, and the girls just seem more angry than anything else, a justified anger. And they are sleeping, yes?”
“All of them like bears.”
“Good, good.”
“Then what, if I may ask, is on your mind? Thinking about their mother?” She swallowed a mouthful of the warm milk, praying that she hadn’t overstepped.
“I had a long talk with Reverend Clarke. He helped me see that God does not blame me for my past and that it’s not too late to right wrongs. I’m donating the tenement I own in Chatham Square to the Tenement House Committee of the Charity Organization. They are doing some fine work on the Lower East Side, making living conditions more acceptable. I’m donating funds as well, and Reverend Clarke says First Church will help too.”
Thank you, God. I did not have to bring up the tenement. “Well, that’s a good thing, no?”
“Very much. I’m not sad, not really. I have regrets, but mostly I am vastly overwhelmed how God forgave me. I am redeemed and no longer a slave to those old feelings of unworthiness.”
She set her mug down on a side table and clasped her hands in her lap. “Oh, Mr. Parker, what a wondrous thing.”
They sat quietly for a moment, watching the flames. Grace did not think that the fire’s glow was what had transformed this man’s expression. His entire face was smoother, his eyes brighter, the muscles in his jaw more relaxed. This was what she’d been searching faces to see, what she saw in her mother, Reverend Clarke, Mrs. Hawkins, and Owen. But she hadn’t realized that the inner glow was something that could instantaneously come upon a person. It wasn’t there, and then it was.
“Grace?”
“Aye, yes, Mr. Parker?”
“You’re Irish. Perhaps you are familiar with the ancient Irish hymn ‘Be Thou My Vision’?”
“My mother used to sing it to me at night.” Before the workhouse, but she did not need to explain.
“There is a verse that speaks to me:
“Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise,
Thou mine inheritance, now and always;
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of heaven, my treasure Thou art.”
“Beautiful, Mr. Parker.”
“Ah, yes. I am no longer seeking man’s empty praise. Tomorrow the children and I will plant coralbells.”
A fitting tribute to Mrs. Parker. Grace was happy she’d told him about the flowers.
She went upstairs trying to remember the rest of the verses. The tune was firmly in her head but not the words.
“Ma, I will miss you so!” Grace clung to her mother in Hawkins House’s parlor. Her mother was preparing to return to Ireland. S. P.’s business was finished, and the baby had received a leg brace to help his bones grow straight.
“And I you, my heart.”
“Let’s take a walk. Me, you, and the baby. I need to ask you about something.”
“That’s why we came early, darlin’. So we could have a wee bit of time together.”
Grace was surprised when S. P. agreed. Owen McNulty had stopped by, and the two of them were engaged in police talk. The influence of Tammany Hall and other such topics the women had no interest in.
They stepped out into the cool, dry air. Ma looped a blanket over the wee one’s head, hoisted him on her shoulder, and they headed toward Battery Park, a spot more pleasant to take a walk in than it had been in previous days. They paused where they could look at Lady Liberty holding her torch over the harbor.
“Ma, remember that old hymn you used to sing to me at night, ‘Be Thou My Vision’?”
Her mother began to hum.
“There is a part I can’t remember. The verse that begins ‘Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word.’ I can’t remember the rest. Can you sing it to me?”
“Surely, I can. Let’s sit on this bench. Patrick gets heavy.”
They sat, and Grace leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder and stared down at the baby. So beautiful. So innocent. So recent from the hand of God.
Ma began to sing.
“Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son,
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.”
“Ma? Is it true that I can be God’s dwelling place?”
“Oh, nothing truer than that, my child.”
Then Grace knew, without a doubt. Her earthly father’s criticisms did not matter any longer. Her abilities, whether lacking or not, did not determine her worth. Grace’s great Father wanted her, loved her, believed in her. Mr. Parker had experienced a transformation. So could she.
Grace lifted her face to the clouds, where the sun splintered through, and felt a warm glow bathe her despite spring’s chill. Yes, her mother was leaving, but she felt a contentment she could not explain. Aye. Come, Lord Jesus, and dwell in me.
Epilogue
GRACE SAT IN THE PARLOR, examining the photographs the police department had returned to her. She lifted the one that showed only half of Hazel’s face. “I’m so pleased you saw that boat, Owen. I meant to mention it, but once the children were taken, it left my mind.”
Owen, seated on the sofa next to her, clicked his tongue. “I was not completely surprised by it. Guess I patrol there so often, I knew something didn’t belong. Besides, as often as those Dusters moved from the docks to the park, they had to have a boat. Smart thinking on your part to get that in the shot. I’m just glad the children are safe.”
“Very fitting that they’ve promoted you to detective. If they had not, I would have had a word with that Captain Nicholson.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute.”
Grace examined her photographs again. Then she caught Owen’s gaze and held it, losing herself in the warmth of his eyes, so happy she had let this policeman into her life. God knew. Now she did too.
Annie brought her a brown envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t know. A messenger boy just brought it.”
Grace opened it and pulled out a note.
Dear Miss McCaffery,
I’ve been cleaning out my desk, preparing to take my things to a new office. I came across your photograph again, and I thought perhaps you’d like to have it.
Yours truly,
Augustus F. Sherman, Ellis Island Registry
She pulled out the photograph.
Owen took it from her hands. “Hey, I met that girl on a trolley once.”
Grace stared at the wee face, wrinkled and bearing a weight of worries. Her mother. S. P. Feeny. Men in uniform. A new job. A place to call home. Those had been the things frightening her back then. Those fears were gone now.
Owen tapped a finger on the image. “I haven’t seen her for a long time. Have you?”
She smiled. “I have not.” That Grace McCaffery had disappeared along with that tattered petticoat.
He leaned close to her, his sweet breath brushing her cheek. Her heart fell to her stomach as he lifted her chin with his index finger and brushed his lips across hers. Oh, what she would have missed if she hadn’t given up her distrust of the police.
He leaned back a bit when the sound of someone’s footsteps clattered in the hall. Hawkins House was a busy place, a happy and joyful lively place.
He glanced at her. “Where’s that camera?”
“Why?”
“We need a new picture of the Grace I see now. Let’s go o
ut to the park.”
“Now?”
“Sure. It’s not far.”
Spring flowers had begun to pop through the earth, and the trees were a vivid green. Nothing like spring to renew your spirit.
He stood across the walk, the harbor at his back. “Think this will work?”
“Hold your breath, count to three, and then click the shutter.” She smiled.
Click.
He lowered the camera. “Beautiful.”
A Note from the Author
NOW THAT MOST EVERYONE carries a camera-equipped smartphone, snapping a candid photo is commonplace. But at the turn of the twentieth century, amateur photographers taking pictures on the street was an alarming novelty. A comment in a contemporary newspaper opined about how this new invention might invade privacy. At the affordable price of only one dollar, soon everyone would have a box camera. So I wondered, What if someone took a photograph of a person who did not want his picture made? What could happen, good or bad? After I determined that I wanted to write about an Irish immigrant struggling to make her way in the huge city of New York, the germ of the idea about the Brownie box camera began to work on me.
The Brownie camera was a marvelous invention during a time when many of the modern conveniences we enjoy today were being created. What an exciting time it must have been. But for the streams of immigrants coming through Ellis Island (the ancestors of many of you reading this), it was also a scary time to be in New York—corrupt police, greedy tenement owners, various dangers from those preying on naive new arrivals. I’ve often asked myself how our ancestors survived at all.
I love research, and I value accuracy and honesty, so I must note here that I’ve taken a couple of liberties with the historical record. I hope readers will allow me these slight manipulations of the timeline. First, the John Ericsson statue in Battery Park was not erected until 1903. After spending some time in Battery Park, I admired the statue and imagined Grace pondering it, wondering why it was there. There are several statues and monuments in the park today, but at the turn of the century this one must have stood out. So I decided to include it, even though my story takes place in 1900–1901. Second, historians note that Ellis Island was closed after a fire in 1897 and did not reopen until December 17, 1900. I’ve stretched that a bit to allow Grace to arrive a couple of weeks earlier than that.
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