Song of the Silent Harp (43 page)

“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.

These days, she no longer played such games. She was not at all impressed about her station in life, but on the other hand she didn't take it for granted. Most of the time, she was glad to be the daughter of the wealthy, influential Lewis Farmington. It gave her the means to do many of the things she believed needed doing.

Besides, she liked her family. Father was a wonderful man, if a bit eccentric—eccentric by society's standards, that is. He loved to work with his hands, and he didn't care nearly so much for the money he made as he did for the fine ships that made the money. He was always generous in helping to fund Sara's “projects,” and wasn't above harassing his friends and associates to do likewise.

Her brother, Gordie, was also a dear, though his wife, Doris, was a terrible bore. Doris
was
impressed with their station in life, and determined that everybody else should be as well. Poor Gordie had to sneak
his
contributions to Sara's “projects” out from under his wife's avaricious eye.

“Miss Farmington? I'm sorry, I had no right to ask you such a question.”

Apparently she'd been silent so long he was worried he might have insulted her. Sara shook her head, smiling to reassure him. “It's a perfectly natural
question, Sergeant,” she said honestly. They turned now and headed back toward the hackney. “I just don't happen to have a very good answer for it. I suppose I do what I do because I think it's what Jesus would have done if
He
had been born wealthy instead of poor.”

Sergeant Burke slowed his pace and shot her a surprised look.

“I promised Him when I was still a little girl that I would be as much like Him as I possibly could be,” Sara tried to explain. “I didn't realize until I began to grow up how difficult it was going to be to keep that promise, mostly because of my father's money.”

By now they had reached the cab, and the driver was eyeing them curiously. Still holding the baby, the sergeant continued to watch Sara with a half smile. His close scrutiny made her feel awkward, but the obvious approval in his gaze also made her feel…good.

“If I may venture my opinion, Miss Farmington,” he finally said, his voice quiet but warm, “I think you have kept your promise in a grand way.” He paused. This time when he smiled it was broad and friendly. “Now then, I believe you mentioned something about needing an escort for another excursion into Five Points next week?”

Sara stared at him, then grinned. “I did indeed, Sergeant.”

He helped her into the cab before handing over the infant, now wide awake and beginning to make more insistent threats. “Would next Tuesday suit you, then, Miss Farmington?” the sergeant asked, leaning close as she adjusted the baby on her shoulder. “About two o'clock, say?”

Bouncing the infant gently up and down to soothe him, Sara returned his smile. “It would suit me just fine, Sergeant Burke.”

As the cab pulled away, Sara looked down at the baby in her arms and sighed deeply. She was almost twenty-six-years old and had already faced the likelihood that she would remain a spinster. She wouldn't have trusted a single one of the eligible suitors in her own crowd. In the first place, most of them were terrible bores who couldn't carry on a conversation about anything but making more money and gambling it away. In the second place, she was quite sure they were more attracted to her father's fortune than to her.

Then, too, there was the matter of her being lame. It didn't bother
her
all that much, except for those times when the aching in her leg kept her awake most of the night, but she supposed many men were put off by it.

It seemed the few really interesting men she met—and they
were
few—were already married, or at least about to be. Like Sergeant Burke.

Again she sighed. After a moment, however, her mouth twitched. She put a hand to her lips to catch the giggle rising in her throat. How
would
the cream
of New York's society react to the idea of Lewis Farmington's only daughter being smitten with an Irish “copper”?

Sara glanced down at the baby. He had stopped his complaining and now lay quiet, staring up at her with a miniature frown and wide eyes.

Impulsively, Sara drew him as close as she dared, taking care not to squeeze him too tightly. During the remainder of the ride to the hospital, she cuddled the warm little bundle to her heart, pretending he was her own.

Half an hour later, Michael was walking south on Elm, his step somewhat lighter than it had been earlier in the day. Miss Sara Farmington seemed to have a cheering effect on a person, she did.

Again today he had noted that something about the young woman reminded him of Nora. That, of course, was why his heartbeat increased a bit when she was close by.

Still, she was a wonder on her own. Certainly she set aside the idea that all wealthy young women were vapid and foolish. She was as sharp-witted as any man Michael had ever met, and seemed to have the purpose of her life well in focus.

Glancing around his surroundings, he frowned in exasperation. The street was ankle-deep in mud and refuse, its stench sickening in the warm temperatures. The rotting smell of garbage, the clamor of children playing in the street, and the barking dogs darting wildly in and out between heaps of rubbish intruded into Michael's thoughts of Sara Farmington. It seemed wrong, even disrespectful, to be thinking of her in the midst of these surroundings. Perhaps he was being foolish, but he deliberately put the thought of her out of his mind.

He had reached the corner of Elm and Duane when he heard the barking of a horde of wild dogs, then gunshots.

His stomach knotted. Whipping around the corner onto Duane, he spotted a middle-aged Negro, pistol in hand, shooting randomly into the midst of a pack of dogs.

One after another fell into a bloody heap in the mud, while those still alive darted back and forth, yelping and barking as if caught in a net. Others, wounded but not quite dead, lay whimpering helplessly in their pain.

In an instant Michael grasped the fact that this was apparently one of the Negroes paid two dollars a day by the city to rid the streets of wild dogs. He froze, his hand going to his gun even as he took in the grisly scene.

Across the street, he spied three little boys, the smallest scarcely out of didies, all huddled together, watching wide-eyed as the Negro took aim at a
bedraggled black-and-white pup. The little mutt was racing around in circles as if it had gone berserk from all the commotion.

A cry went up from the frightened little boys across the street when they saw the Negro's intent.

What Michael saw was the likelihood of a bullet hitting one of the children.

With a cry, he lunged forward, raising his gun and taking aim at the black man.
“Drop your gun! Throw it down!”

Slowing his stride as he approached the man, he again warned him off the dogs. “I said, get rid of the gun!”

The man was either deaf or an idiot. Waving the gun at the pup, he ignored Michael entirely.

At the same time a big, mean-looking black dog bared his fangs and planted his feet in the mud in direct challenge to the Negro.

Heart pounding, Michael yelled once more. This time the man turned, bringing the gun around with him.

Michael's eyes swept the scene, taking in the black dog, the Negro's gun now trained on
him,
and the panicked little boys. He turned his own gun on the black dog.

Suddenly the dog leaped from the ground, hitting the Negro full force.

The man screamed as the dog slammed into him with a roar. The Negro's eyes were stunned and panic-stricken. His arm went up, and the gun went off.

Michael's chest exploded into a fireball, and the afternoon sun fell to earth.

38

In that spectralest hour, in that Valley of Gloom,
Fell a Voice on mine ear, like a wail from the tomb…
For here were my cords of Sleep suddenly broken,
The bell booming Three;

But there seemed in mine ears, as I started up, woken,
A noise like fierce cheers, blent with clashings of swords,
And the roar of the sea!

J
AMES
C
LARENCE
M
ANGAN
(1803–1849)

T
he rumor circulating steerage claimed they would see America within days, perhaps as early as next week. Each time she heard the word being passed among the aisles, Nora was struck by a new wave of anxiety.

Folding the blankets from the girls' bunk, she stood holding them in her arms, staring across the room at the children. Except for Katie, who was too weak and wrung out to be petulant, they were bored, and growing more and more restless in their confinement. They had all lost weight and looked unhealthy. The sparse remainder of the few provisions they had carried on
board was now entirely ruined, invaded by weevils and rats. They were subsisting on their ship allowance, which was scarcely enough to keep them from starving.

They were all weak, Nora included, all ill to some extent. Even those who thus far had managed to escape the typhus still suffered the effects of stale air, insufficient food and fresh water, not to mention the deadly fumes of sickness they were forced to endure day and night.

Still, the children had their rare moments of cheerfulness, and Daniel John was one of the reasons. Tonight he had a group of a dozen or more in the corner, entertaining them with his harp, he and an elderly man with a squeeze box.

Nora tried not to think about the squalid floor where the children had flopped to listen. Katie, wee Tom, and at least a dozen others had made a ring around the musicians and sat, nodding their heads and patting their knees in time to the music. Even the deaf Johanna, taking her cue from the others, rocked to and fro in her silent world to a rhythm only she could hear.

Thank the Lord for the children,
Nora thought, watching them. At times they almost managed to make life's madness and troubles bearable.

But what would become of the children once they reached America?
Apprehension twisted like a rope around her heart. Starting over in a new land all alone would be frightening enough in itself, but starting over with a son and three young children in tow was enough to make her quake with terror. She had absolutely nobody to depend on except herself—and they had nobody to depend on except her.

Why…oh, why had she thrown Michael's letter away? He was their only link to this new land. He would have helped them
—
indeed, had wanted to help them!

Foolish! So foolish! In her mindless pride, she had thrown away their best hope. Why hadn't she thought of the young ones instead of herself? Now they would be completely alone, with nobody who would care—who would even
know
—they had arrived! In her selfish disregard for the consequences, she had tossed away the address of the one person who might have made a difference for them!

What in the name of heaven would she do with these children? She could not fail them; she must not. She and Catherine had promised each other years ago to look after each other's children should it ever become
necessary.

In addition, there was Evan Whittaker to think about. Obviously, they could not abandon him, not after all he had done for them.

What worried her most was the question of where they would live, once they arrived. The money from Morgan would not last long, not with so many to house and feed. She would have to arrange affordable lodging until she could find a job.

A job.
God have mercy, what kind of job could a widow with a houseful of children hope to find?

Angry with herself, she turned and began making up the bunk. She
must
not do this, she
would
not give in to her old fears! Worry over the terrors of the lurking unknown would defeat her before she ever stepped off the ship. She must think things through, stay calm, try to plan.

It helped to remember that she had a son who was no longer a child. Daniel John was smart and strong and always eager to do what was asked of him, and then some. He must go to school, of course, but that didn't mean he couldn't work part-time.

They would manage. They
had
to manage.

But on the heels of her resolve came a fresh stab of regret at her thoughtless haste in destroying Michael's letter. If Morgan knew what she had done, he would be livid with her!

On the other hand, if Morgan knew what
he
had done to
them,
he would be devastated.

Morgan. She must not think of Morgan. It only made things harder than they already were.

Evan was trying to wake up. He thought he heard music…a harp…the bright sound of children. He wanted to listen, but the sounds swelled and died away into silence.

He fought to open his eyes, but they were too heavy, and he was too weak. It didn't matter. Whether he was awake or asleep, the days and nights remained the same.

He passed the time in a twilight world induced by the laudanum, drifting through the slow-rolling hours in a haze of pain and macabre dreams. He never quite slept, but simply hung suspended in a drug-induced web, where his nightmares were the only reality.

Tonight was no different. He was awake, yet not awake, aware but without any real sensations—except for the pain. Even that was easier now, almost bearable. He was healing, that much was certain. Even the sullen Dr. Leary
had made a grudging snarl of approval the last time he'd examined his…

Stump. Say the word. Say it!

He tried to force the word from leaden lips, but it remained only a hateful thought.

You no longer have an arm. You have a stump…

For days now, he had struggled to face the reality of his circumstances. Between the ebb and flow of an opium stupor, he tried out a number of words and descriptions, searching for one that did not sound quite so grisly.

He was a man with one arm. A one-armed man. He'd had an arm surgically removed. Amputated.

He was a cripple…he had a stump. He would never be whole again…

There. That was further than he had gone before. And as far as he would ever need to go. There was nothing else to be said.

Lord…oh, Lord, why did You allow this to happen to me? Didn't I do what You asked? Didn't I go where You sent me? I was obedient, I even managed to put aside my cowardice, to trust Your guidance, Your power…Why, Lord?

The pain that seized him now was far worse than all the physical agony he had endured so far, a pain that went beyond bodily suffering. Indeed, the distress of body was nothing compared to the anguish of soul that now closed over him, weighing him down like a sodden grave blanket.

From somewhere…a dark, shadowy place he had not known existed within him…came a whispering, an ugly hiss of accusation:

God betrayed you, didn't He? He let you down completely, after everything you went through to obey Him! He let you down…He failed you…failed you…

Evan shuddered, stiffened in horrified denial. Again the dark pit in his spirit gaped open, and the whisper grew more insistent:

You trusted Him…you've always trusted Him. Well, just see how He's rewarded your trust. Look at yourself…look at your ugly self…

His Bible…where had he put his Bible? Desperate, he pushed himself up on his right arm, looked around, but all was a blur. Where were his eyeglasses? His heart thudding madly with the effort, he patted the bunk around him, stretching to peer down at the floor. There was no sign of the eyeglasses or the Bible.

He tried to squirm to the edge of the bunk to feel beneath it, but was overwhelmed by a dizzying surge of nausea.

Sinking back onto the bunk, he threw his arm over his eyes and waited for his head to stop spinning.

Why did God allow this to happen? You were only doing what was expected
of you, just as you always have. You've always done your best, you've been a good man, a decent man, lived an honorable life. But does God care about any of that? Does He care about what you're going through right now, at this moment…does He even know?

Something cold and depraved was breathing on Evan's soul, struggling to suffocate his faith.

“Jesus…Savior…Jesus.…”

Over and over he mumbled his Shepherd's name, clinging to it like a shield.

Finally, out of his memory, the words came, light exploding in the darkness:

“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

He has failed you…

“Shall we receive good from the hand of God and not trouble?”

He allowed it to happen…

“He wounds, but He binds up…He smites, but He also heals.”

If He's really as powerful as you seem to believe, why didn't He keep you from this dread thing? Why didn't He save your arm? Where was His power when you needed it? Where was He then?

“In his hand is the life of every living thing and the breath of all mankind.”

He took your arm…He made you ugly and repulsive…He made you a joke, a caricature of a man…

“But the Lord sees not as man sees…He looks on the heart.”

He has deserted you, you fool! Why shouldn't you deny Him and start anew?

“I know that my Redeemer lives…though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him…”

“Mr. Whittaker?
Mr. Whittaker!
Are you all right? Is there something you need?”

Evan opened his eyes. It was the boy, Daniel, peering down at him with worried eyes. “What is it, Mr. Whittaker? Can I get you anything?”

“Oh…no…I…I'm all right.” As if coming out of a fog, Evan's mind began to clear slowly.

“Do you need the laudanum, Mr. Whittaker?”

“
No!
No,” he said again, this time more quietly. “No more laudanum. I'm…I b-believe I'm feeling somewhat better…I don't want any more laudanum. But perhaps…one thing…”

“Aye, sir, what is it?”

“My B-Bible…do you think you could find it for me? I, ah, I like to k-keep it handy. And my eyeglasses…I can't seem to find them either…”

“They're under here.” The boy reached into a small box at the foot of the berth and handed Evan his eyeglasses, then his Bible. “I put them away until you were ready to read again.”

Fumbling, Evan set his eyeglasses in place, noting grimly that even such a simple task was awkward for a man with only one hand. Then he held the Bible to his chest for a moment.

Frowning with concern, Daniel bent over him. “Are you quite sure you're feeling better, Mr. Whittaker?”

Nodding, Evan lay the Bible beside him. “I am now, yes,” he said, managing a weak smile. “There is something else you could do for m-me, though, Daniel—if you don't m-mind.”

“Of course. Anything at all, sir.”

“I want you to g-get rid of the laudanum. Right away. All of it.”

The boy's gaze was skeptical.
“All
of it, Mr. Whittaker? Are you sure?”

Evan reached to grip the boy's forearm. “Yes, I'm
very
sure! I…I don't b-believe I'll have any further use for it, and it…it makes me sleep too much.” He paused, then added, “Tomorrow, once my head clears a b-bit more, perhaps you would help me get up, walk around a little. I must start b-building up my strength.”

Daniel nodded, his eyes still uncertain. “I'll be glad to do that. If you're sure you feel strong enough.”

Evan put a hand to his cheek, grimacing at the feel of a full growth of beard at his fingertips. “Oh, my. Do you suppose you could help m-me get rid of this as well? I must look dreadful.”

The boy studied him soberly. “I'll help you shave, of course, if that's what you want, Mr. Whittaker. But I believe Mother's right—you look right snappy with the beard.”