by BJ Hoff
God’s troubadour. God’s minstrel.
1
SUSANNA: BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS
Home’s not merely roof and room—it needs something to endear it.
CHARLES SWAIN
Aboard the steamship Spain
New York Harbor, August 14, 1875
Was this an ending or a beginning?
Susanna Fallon had asked herself that question countless times since leaving Ireland, and now she was asking it again.
At first light, she had gathered on deck with the other passengers aboard the Spain, all of them eager for the sight of New York. Susanna wished she could believe that the sun rising over the sprawling American city heralded the dawn of an exciting future, a new life with new opportunities. But as the harbor came into view, any hopes she might have held for tomorrow threatened to sink. A flood of doubts rolled over her, vast and unfathomable as the ocean itself.
Susanna pulled her wrap tighter, watching as the ship slowly eased its way toward the pier. Floating garbage and debris littered the water, and she covered her nose and mouth against the stench. At the same time, a small barge angled up alongside them, and she could see an assembly of people thronging the smaller vessel, some waving at the passengers on the deck of the Spain.
“Why, look there, Mother—I believe some of our friends have come to meet us!”
Susanna recognized Mr. Moody’s voice and turned to find him and Mrs. Moody, along with their children and the Sankeys, grouped just behind her. Nearby stood Dr. Carmichael, who had traveled to the States with the Moodys as a part of their entourage. Apparently, the Scottish physician had played some role or other in the British Isles crusades, although Susanna had never quite determined exactly what that role was.
“Ah, Miss Fallon, here we are at last!” boomed Mr. Moody. “How does it feel to be in America?”
The burly, bearded D. L. Moody and his wife were beaming at her, and Susanna attempted a smile in return. “In truth, Mr. Moody, the only thing I’m feeling at the moment is panic.”
It struck Susanna that the American evangelist looked nearly as tired as he had when she’d first encountered him upon leaving Liverpool. And small wonder, given the fact that even aboard ship he had been continually attending to the needs of others.
His wife, who seemed to draw from a limitless supply of kindness, patted Susanna on the arm with a gloved hand. “You’ll be just fine, dear,” she murmured. “You’re going to love America, you know. This is a splendid opportunity for you.”
“Of course, it is!” Mr. Moody added, his tone enthusiastic. “Now, you did say there will be someone to meet you?”
Susanna nodded uncertainly. “That’s what I was told, yes.”
Mrs. Moody surprised her by pulling her into a quick embrace.
“We’re so very glad we met you, Susanna. We’ll be praying that everything goes well for you, dear. You’re very brave, to come so far on behalf of your niece and brother-in-law. I know the Lord will look after you.”
To her dismay, Susanna felt hot tears sting her eyes. Her chance meeting with the Moodys and the Sankeys had done much to ease her dread of the ocean voyage. Upon learning that she was a young Christian woman traveling alone, both couples had gone out of their way to look after her, inviting her to sit with them at mealtimes, answering her endless questions about the United States, and engaging her in frequent discussions about her own country of Ireland, as well as their common interest in music.
Even before the crossing, Susanna had learned a great deal about Mr. Moody and his “campaigns,” as he referred to them. It seemed that the whole of the British Isles had been taken by surprise at the success of the Moody/Sankey meetings, not only in England and Scotland, but also in the heavily Protestant north of Ireland—and in the mostly Catholic south as well.
Susanna had been only one of thousands who had flocked to the early crusades. She could scarcely believe her good fortune a few months later when she found herself aboard the same ship as the American evangelists, who were returning to the States. To have the privilege of spending time with these esteemed spiritual leaders and their families had not only made the voyage less harrowing for her, but had actually given her a number of pleasurable hours.
Only now did the finality of their parting strike her. She was going to miss them greatly.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she choked out, “all of you—for your kindness to me. I can’t think what the crossing would have been like without you.”
“Well, dear, it was awfully good of your brother-in-law to arrange first-class passage for you,” said Mrs. Moody. “Otherwise, we might not have encountered one another at all. And how fortunate for you, to be spared the ordeal of traveling in steerage.”
At the thought of the brother-in-law she had never met, Susanna tensed. Mrs. Moody, however, seemed not to notice. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again, Susanna. There are plans for Mr. Moody to hold meetings in New York this fall.”
“And if that works out,” Mr. Moody put in, “we’ll expect to see you in the very front row. Until then, you take special care, Miss Fallon, and just remember that your friends the Moodys and the Sankeys will be praying for you.”
He paused, then drew a strong, encompassing arm around his wife and motioned that the Sankeys and Dr. Carmichael should move in closer. “In fact, we would like to pray for you right now, before we leave the ship.”
And so they did, standing there on deck. Susanna had heard Mr. Moody pray before, of course: at their table before meals, at a shipboard worship service, and during the revival meetings she and her friend, Anna Kearns, had attended at the Exhibition Palace in Dublin. It seemed that when D. L. Moody prayed, he spoke directly with God, whom he obviously knew very well and approached boldly and eagerly, with an almost unheard-of confidence.
But to have this amazing man praying solely for her was an overwhelming experience entirely. By the final Amen, much of the strain that had been weighing on her for weeks seemed to melt away.
Once they disembarked and the Moodys and Sankeys had joined their welcoming party, Susanna’s earlier apprehension returned in force.
The harbor was a different world. She found herself unable to move more than a few feet in any direction because of the throngs of people milling about. The noise was almost deafening—a harsh, unintelligible din of a dozen different languages, all flooding the docks at once. The shouts and laughter of sailors and passengers, the cries of greeting and wails of farewell, the pounding of feet on the planks as children ran and shoved their way among the grownups, the occasional blast from a ship’s horn—all converged and hammered against Susanna’s ears until she thought her head would split.
She stood there in the midst of this bedlam, not quite knowing what to do, fighting off a rising surge of panic. In that moment, she realized with a stark new clarity how utterly alone she was.
A man’s voice sounded behind her. “Signorina Fallon?”
Startled, Susanna whipped around as if she’d been struck, ready to defend herself.
“You are Susanna Fallon?” he said.
He was young, with a fairly long, pleasant face and lively eyes behind his spectacles. And he was smiling at her, a wide, good-natured smile. He was also holding a bouquet of flowers and appeared not in the least threatening.
Susanna stared at him. The dark features, the Italian accent—it could be no one else.
But so young! According to Deirdre, Michael Emmanuel ought to be in his mid to late thirties by now. Yet he had called her by name.
“Mr. Emmanuel?” she ventured.
He gave his head a vigorous shake. “No, no! I am not Michael. I am Paul Santi, Michael’s cousin. I have come to take you home.”
“Home?” He nodded.
“Sì.”
Whether it was fatigue or anxiety, Susanna’s mind seemed to have gone suddenly dull. “I don’t—how did you recognize me? How did you find me?”
“Your hat,” he said, ge
sturing toward Susanna’s bonnet. “Did you not write that you would be wearing a hat with blue ribbons?” His smile brightened even more. “These are for you,” he said, “with Michael’s compliments.”
He thrust the lavish bouquet into Susanna’s hands. “If you will come with me, signorina, we must first go there, to the depot.” He pointed to a granite, fortresslike circular building. “Castle Garden,” he added. “I will help you with the registration and the paperwork. Michael has already made arrangements for you to be passed through quickly. Do not worry about your luggage—I will take care of it. I have been through this myself, you see. I know exactly what to do.”
Susanna glanced across the dock and saw the tall, kindly featured Dr. Carmichael standing there, watching them. For an instant, she was seized by an irrational desire to run toward the man, to flee the solicitude of this dark-eyed foreigner for the pleasant-natured physician and his link to the Moodys.
But she hardly knew Dr. Carmichael any better than she knew this Paul Santi. She must be mad entirely to think of throwing herself at the mercy of a man who was known to her only by his association with the Moodys—themselves strangers until a few days past.
Regaining her wits, she turned back to Paul Santi and, bearing her bouquet and a hard-won sense of determination, managed a careful smile and a civil word as he led her across the docks.
2
HARBOR OF HOPE
Hope of the world,
Afoot on dusty highways,
Showing to wandering souls the path of light…
GEORGIA HARKNESS
FROM THE HYMN “HOPE OF THE WORLD”
Andrew Carmichael stood for a moment, taking in the sights and sounds around him.
No matter how many times he entered the harbor, it seemed new to him. Perhaps because of the ever-increasing flow of immigrants arriving each day, bringing with them their different languages and customs, their private struggles, their secret dreams. And their hopes that, in this land where others before them had found a future free of tyranny and despair, they, too, might build a new and better life for themselves and those they loved.
Andrew was convinced that no matter what brought them here by the thousands, what kept them here was hope. America offered a new kind of hope, one without boundaries. A hope that here, just beyond the walls of Castle Garden, waited opportunities that in their old land would have always remained just out of reach. Opportunities for success and happiness, and for the priceless gift of freedom.
And what kept him here? What had motivated him to leave his native Scotland with surprisingly few regrets, holding fast only to his memories of people who loved him and still prayed for him so faithfully? Why had America molded itself to his heart, to his very being, so tenaciously that he no longer thought of anywhere else but New York as home?
He smiled a little. Only the Lord knew the answer to such questions. And so far God had revealed little to Andrew about any divine plan for his life, other than the fact that it included trust. Trust and obedience.
It required a monumental amount of the former, Andrew thought, to generate the latter. At least in his case.
He sighed. It had been a fine trip. In the words of Andrew’s father, D. L. had “reeled them in” by the thousands, and Andrew himself had benefited greatly from every service, every Bible study, every prayer meeting.
His decision to delay his return home and join D. L. and Ira Sankey midway through the crusade had been a sound one after all. He had been able to assist with the new converts, as well as seeing to the health of the workers. But as always, he had been ministered to as much as any of the seekers who had come to the altar. His soul had been nourished, his spirit renewed, his faith strengthened. He had also been reminded once more of the depth of God’s grace in his own journey of forgiveness and restoration. And he was thankful.
But now he was home again, back on the shores of New York, preparing to return to his solitary flat and his cramped, dimly lighted office where too many patients crowded the waiting room, and too few possessed the means to pay their bills. Back to his own work.
He really had to get serious—immediately—about taking on an assistant, or perhaps even a partner, in his practice. He simply couldn’t continue the exhausting routine to which he’d subjected himself over the past few years. But what manner of partner would be willing to share the kind of practice to which Andrew had committed himself? The search itself would be time-consuming and depleting. And in addition, a new partner would mean a new office—a larger space than the shoebox in which he now worked. When he considered the time and the effort it would require to locate both a partner and another office, the entire prospect seemed overwhelming.
Later. He would think about that later.
He flexed his neck and shoulders to ease the pain and stiffness that had settled into them, then glanced across the docks and saw Susanna Fallon, the young Irish woman the Moodys had befriended during the crossing. She was holding a bouquet and seemed to be deep in conversation with a slender, dark-haired fellow who smiled broadly and used his hands a great deal as he spoke.
When Miss Fallon happened to turn his way, Andrew touched his fingers to his cap and nodded. The young man looked to be a decent sort, and Miss Fallon was smiling, so after another moment Andrew gave a farewell nod and started off to hail a hack.
It was time to go home.
Paul Santi seemed a veritable tempest of energy and efficiency. Susanna found herself increasingly grateful for his assistance, for inside the enormous building all was confusion. Immigrants milled about everywhere, in the aisles or crowded together on benches, some sitting on boxes. The heat and humidity were stifling, and the odor of fear and unwashed bodies permeated the place. In the center of the building, a staff of a dozen important looking gentlemen engaged in what Paul Santi called the “registration process.”
To her great relief, with the help of Paul Santi and an official who took over her arrangements, Susanna was whisked through the lines. It seemed no time at all before they had completed the questions and paperwork, then boarded the steamer that Paul Santi said would take them home.
Home. Susanna tried to ignore the twist in her stomach induced by the very mention of the word. Home was what she had left behind. Home was Ireland, her childhood, the family farm.
Whatever else might be waiting for her at the end of this reluctant journey, she could not bring herself to hope it would ever take the place of home.
3
UP THE HUDSON
I am trusting Thee, Lord Jesus,
Trusting only Thee…
FRANCES R. HAVERGAL
Susanna Fallon endured the steamer ride up the Hudson River much as she might have suffered a trip to the gallows.
Her initial sense of relief that she’d been met by the pleasant-natured Paul Santi instead of her formidable brother-in-law had already given way to an escalating sense of dread. She was finally about to meet the man her sister had married in what Deirdre herself once called “a moment of madness.” More than once she had questioned the wisdom of this new venture. Only the conviction that God’s hand was in the entire experience—that and the thought of the motherless niece she had never seen—had brought her this far.
Deirdre’s child, Caterina, was only three years old, still little more than a baby, and young enough to need the care and affection Susanna was eager to give. Even so, she harbored no illusions about her role in her niece’s life, nor did she have any intention of trying to supplant Caterina’s real mother.
Deirdre had been dead for over a year now, but surely the child would have retained some memory of her. Susanna had no desire to erase that memory. She meant only to assume her rightful role as the girl’s aunt and, by doing so, offer her the love and guidance Deirdre would have provided had she lived.
Even Michael Emmanuel had insisted in his posts that his daughter needed Susanna. And the bitter reality was that Susanna needed a home. With her parents gone and the family’s small dair
y farm sold for debts, her choices had been few: stay in Ireland and hire on as a governess; make an undesirable, an unthinkable, marriage to Egan Dunn; or accept Michael Emmanuel’s offer to come to America and make her home with him and Caterina.
And so here she was, installed on a ponderous steamboat, churning up a river that gouged its way through the wildest piece of countryside she had ever seen. Towering, rugged cliffs rose up on either side, and the low-hanging clouds of an August afternoon sky hovered overhead. She was about to commence an arrangement with a stranger she already distrusted, in spite of the fact that she didn’t even know what the man looked like.
Perhaps, Susanna thought grimly, this was her own “moment of madness.”
A sudden blast from the steamer’s whistle jarred her out of her doleful thoughts. She looked toward the gorge stretching north, then raised her eyes to the massive rock cliffs and climbing woods that rose above them, on the east side of the river.
Beside her, Paul Santi gave a quick smile. “It is just beyond there,” he said cheerfully, the words thick with his Italian accent as he pointed upward, to their right. “Bantry Hill.”
Bantry Hill. Susanna swallowed against the hot taste of acid rising in her throat. Deirdre had named the place after their Ireland home, but her sister’s letters had made it only too clear that she had never found the sort of happiness here she had known as a child on the farm back in Bantry.
When Susanna had first read Deirdre’s glowing recollections of life on the farm, she had thought it a bit odd. Hadn’t her sister been dead set on getting away from the farm and traveling all over the world? And now here she was reminiscing about a life she had been only too eager to leave.
Still, Susanna reasoned, she, too, had often daydreamed about exploring other places, in spite of her love for home. But she was different. She had never shared Deirdre’s hunger for adventure, nor her boldness. Had it not been for the series of devastating events over the past year, she seriously doubted that she would ever have left Ireland.