Sons of an Ancient Glory (28 page)

Uncle Sorley was at the drink all the time lately, which meant he was in a constant state of bad temper as well. Billy's mother no longer begged him to quit, as she once had, even though there was seldom enough money left over from the drink to buy food. Nagging at him accomplished nothing but to bring on yet another fit of rage—which invariably ended in a renewed bout of drinking.

Billy raised his head, trying not to think about his uncle. He knew he should try to concentrate on brighter things, to make the time go more quickly.

Had it been any other day, he might have turned his thoughts to Mr. Whittaker and the boys in the singing group. But not today. Today, he was missing the weekly rehearsal. For a moment, he tried to pretend he was in the upstairs practice room with the others. He even opened his mouth to sing, but all that came out was a sob.

Singing with Mr. Whittaker's group was the one pleasant hour of the entire week for Billy. It was the one time he felt safe and even worthwhile. But now Uncle Sorley had taken
that
away, too.

A faint rustling sound came from the opposite corner. Billy stiffened. He peered into the darkness, holding his breath, listening. For a moment all he could hear was the roar of his own pulse in his ears. Then the sound came again.

Rats!

Billy's heart pounded, accelerating as he heard the scrabbling, scratching noises coming nearer. He wished he had a stick, a rock—
anything
that would serve as a weapon. He wished, at least, that he could
see.

How many were there?
he wondered.
One or two? What if there were more?

Billy hated rats beyond imagining. And New York seemed to be teeming with them! They were down here, they were upstairs—they were
everywhere
! Often they found their way into the flat. Indeed, his mum lived in terror of them.

Many a night he would lie awake on his straw-filled cot, his stomach churning with dread, his eyes wide open to make sure the filthy creatures didn't come near his younger brothers.

Swallowing hard, Billy again strained to see more clearly, but the darkness was closing in. Any moment, he realized with a sick sense of dread, Uncle Sorley would be leaving for work, leaving him locked in the cellar room for most of the night.

His uncle worked as a houseman—a bouncer—at Tiny's Place, one of the gambling dens in the Bowery. He seldom came home before one or two in the morning. Some nights he didn't come home at all.

Another rustling sound from the shadows made Billy pray that this would not be one of those nights.

“I say, Mrs. Walsh, would you m-mind playing through this for me? Just a b-brief run-through, so I can check the harmony.”

Alice Walsh gave a cursory glance to the score Evan handed her, then began playing. As he stood looking over her shoulder, listening, Evan admired, not for the first time, the woman's command of the keyboard. Her sight-reading was impeccable, her rhythm flawless. She made it look so easy, coaxing those wonderful sounds from the keys. A person could easily forget how much time and effort must have gone into attaining such competence.

When she finished the piece, she looked up at Evan. “Why, Mr. Whittaker, this is very nice! It's one of your own, isn't it?”

“Ah…yes, as a m-matter of fact, it is,” Evan said, embarrassed by her praise. “It's become m-more and more difficult to find music for the boys, you see, and so I find m-myself either rearranging what we have, or simply writing something new. It's difficult, though, since I c-can't really play all the p-parts to check my work.”

“Your work is excellent. In fact, I think you should consider showing some of your arrangements to a publisher.”

Evan laughed at her enthusiasm. “I'm afraid I'm n-no Stephen Foster, Mrs. Walsh! My compositions are strictly amateurish attempts.”

“Oh, I don't agree with that at all, Mr. Whittaker. Would you like me to take this home and make an accompanist's copy, as I have your other pieces?”

“It would be most helpful, of course, but I really d-don't want you going to any more trouble—”

She smiled warmly at him. “It's no trouble. Actually, I enjoy it. Now that the children are older, I find myself with a great deal of time on my hands.”

Evan nodded absently and began to collect his music. “No d-doubt you've noticed that we have a problem developing,” he said. “I'm beginning to think I m-made a mistake in not setting an age limit for our membership.”

Unwilling to exclude those who expressed an interest in singing, Evan had made a practice of welcoming any boy into the group who didn't appear to be a troublemaker. As a result, he now had quite a mix in ages among the boys, with some as young as eight or nine, and others, like Daniel John, approaching their late teenage years.

The problem was that the older boys' voices had either changed altogether, or were in varying stages of deepening. Consequently, it was becoming more and more difficult to develop practical arrangements for the group as a whole.

“Perhaps some separate numbers for the older boys would help,” suggested Alice Walsh.

“Perhaps. But I fear they're losing interest, and I'm not sure we can d-do much about it. Have you n-noticed their impatience with the younger boys lately?”

She nodded. “I suppose it's to be expected. Other than one or two, like Billy Hogan, the younger boys require much simpler music. The older ones get bored waiting for them to learn their parts.”

At the mention of Billy Hogan, Evan looked up. “Did you n-notice that Billy was absent again today? It's happening m-more and more frequently, don't you think?”

“Have you talked with him about it?”

Evan nodded. “It's always the same. He apologizes but n-never really offers much by way of explanation.”

Looking up from his music case, he hesitated, then blurted out what had been on his mind for several weeks. “I tell you, Mrs. Walsh, I think there's something very wrong with B-Billy. I'm actually quite worried about him.”

She rose, stacking her own music neatly on top of the piano. “I'm afraid I agree,” she finally replied. “The poor little boy just wrings my heart. He tries so hard. Obviously, he enjoys every minute of rehearsal. And that incredible voice! But there's such a sadness about him—” She stopped, letting her words drift off, unfinished.

As if deliberately trying to change the subject, she turned toward Evan, smiling. “And how is
your
little boy, Mr. Whittaker?”

Evan brightened. “Oh, he's quite well, thank you! He's such a joy to us, you kn-know. I f-fear we'll spoil him terribly. He's quite a good baby, though—so quiet and good-natured. Why, he scarcely cries at all!”

“I'm so happy for you. And how is Mrs. Whittaker?”

Evan continued to smile, but even as he murmured his usual reply, that Mrs. Whittaker was “well and quite busy these days, with the baby and all,” he felt the familiar stab of doubt as to how well Nora really was.

He couldn't help but think she should be stronger by now. Teddy was nearly three months old, but even so, Nora seemed to have regained little strength or vigor. Evan found it difficult not to fret about her; she was pale all the time, and even the smallest task seemed to exhaust her. Yet she insisted that she felt stronger every day.

He had confided his worry to Dr. Grafton, of course, but the other had offered little reassurance. Evan had grown accustomed to the mild-mannered physician's reserve—he was, indeed, a man of few words. Nevertheless, something about the doctor's vague nods and understanding smiles only served to sharpen his concern.

Still, there could be no doubt that Nora was enjoying their infant son. The radiance about her when she held Teddy in her arms never failed to make Evan's heart swell with love.

Teddy was a delight to them both—and a continual wonder to Evan, who up until now had had virtually no exposure to babies at all. He held him as often and for as long as Nora would allow, endlessly fascinated by the delicate perfection of tiny fingers and tiny toes. And when the little fellow gazed up into his eyes and made that funny little chortling sound—as if he found his father highly amusing—Evan would laugh aloud with pleasure.

“About the boys, Mr. Whittaker—I might have a suggestion.”

Alice Walsh gave an uncertain smile, waiting for Evan's nod of encouragement before continuing. “It's just a thought, of course, but you might consider starting a band—for the older boys, that is.”

Evan looked at her. “A band?”

“It might be just the thing. Some of them already read music and play instruments—like Daniel John and Casey Dalton.”

Evan didn't want to risk offending the woman, but he scarcely considered a harp and a flute the makings of a band.

As if warming to the idea, she went on, her words hurried and eager now. “Some of the boys are quite musical. I'm sure they could learn instruments quickly,” she said. “And a band of their own might restore their interest in staying together.”

Even as she spoke, Evan could anticipate all manner of obstacles. “But we have n-no instruments—”

She waved a hand as if the problem were negligible. “I'm sure I could locate some used instruments among the merchants and other members of my congregation.”

“I'm afraid I know n-nothing at all about
b-bands
,” Evan again attempted to protest.

“Oh, but you know a great deal about music! And the boys are so dedicated to you, I'm sure you'd have no problem capturing their interest.”

In spite of his skepticism, Evan actually found himself considering the possibilities. “Still,” he pointed out, “I couldn't m-manage both the singing group
and
a band. It would involve n-new music arrangements and additional rehearsals—”

Alice Walsh seemed to have an answer for every argument he raised. Indeed, Evan was beginning to wonder just how long she had actually been considering her suggestion.

“I believe I know someone who would help,” she offered. “One of the members of our congregation, Mr. Harold Elliott, is an employee of Firth, Pond—the music publisher. I could speak with him about donating some easy arrangements. I'm sure he'd be happy to help. As for the extra rehearsals…” She hesitated, but only for an instant. “Perhaps—perhaps I could manage the younger boys while you work with the older ones. Just for practices. You'd still be their director, of course.”

Evan stared at the woman, somewhat bemused. He had never seen Mrs. Walsh like this. She was usually so…
quiet.
“Well…I suppose it's worth considering,” he said slowly. “If you really think we could m-manage, that is.”

“Oh, I'm sure we could,” replied Alice Walsh in an uncharacteristically firm tone of voice. “The boys are intent on pleasing you. They're quite devoted to you, you know.”

Inordinately pleased by her words, Evan busied himself with erasing the chalkboard that Lewis Farmington had recently donated. “Yes, well, they're good b-boys. I enjoy them no end.”

Again he thought of Billy Hogan. “I believe I shall m-make a call on the Hogan family. I've been thinking that I should at least introduce myself to the boy's parents. Perhaps this would b-be a good time to begin.”

“But you don't plan on going this evening, do you?”

Evan turned, realizing at once what she meant. “Oh…n-no. No, I suppose not. One d-doesn't linger in the Five Points after dark. Certainly n-not alone. I'll have to go another time.”

Directly on the heels of his words came an unsettling thought: if he, a grown man, could not face the Five Points after dark, what must it be like for a small boy to spend his
life
there?