Sons of an Ancient Glory (44 page)

Sandemon's heart hammered like a fist at his chest as he threw his arms about the youth, holding him tightly.
“Hold on, boy! Hold on!”

“Don't let me fall! Please, God, don't let me fall!”
The boy's delirium swelled to near madness, and Sandemon clasped him even closer to his chest.

“You won't fall! Hold on to Sandemon! I won't let you fall!”

He went on crooning to the terrified youth as if he were an infant to be soothed. Finally, little by little, the boy quieted, though his hands never loosened their death grip on Sandemon's shoulders.

Easing him back just a little, Sandemon searched the boy's eyes. Tierney's gaze cleared, then finally focused. “You are safe,” Sandemon assured him gently. “Don't be afraid. You're safe now.”

The boy stared up at him, and even as he watched, Sandemon saw the fear return, the horror remembered. He held the boy with one arm around his shoulder, putting an ear to his chest. The heat of his body had cooled measurably. The heartbeat was already increasing in strength.

He would recover.

“What happened?” the boy asked, his tongue thick. “Where have I been? What happened to me?”

Still holding him, Sandemon searched the youthful, frightened face, damp and slick with perspiration.

“I think, Tierney Burke, that you have been to the gates of hell,” Sandemon replied, his own voice weak and somewhat unsteady. “God be thanked that in His mercy, He brought you back.”

The boy lay so still he seemed not to breathe. Those searching blue eyes, in which Sandemon had seldom seen anything but the darkness of cynicism or the glint of pride, were now glazed with something else. For a moment, Sandemon thought the youth would mock him, and he stiffened, bracing himself for more insult.

But Tierney Burke merely lay staring up at him, limp as a broken doll. To Sandemon's amazement, the boy grasped his free hand and clung to it. “Thank you…”

Sandemon waited, holding his breath.

“I almost fell…I would have died.” He stopped, gasping. “Thank you…for holding me back. For not letting go of me. I owe you…Sandemon.”

“It was not I who kept you from falling, Tierney Burke, but your merciful Savior. He held you back to give you more time—time to make your choice between death and life, between heaven and hell.”

Tierney gave a weak nod, his eyes closing. Sandemon's eyes filled, but he smiled a little as he gently eased the boy down on the pile of quilts that served as his pallet. Then, getting to his feet, he went to glance out the window. The wind had stilled, leaving the night hushed and peaceful once more. He gave a weary but relieved sigh, then started to tiptoe past the sleeping Jan Martova.

“Sandemon?” the Gypsy called softly.

Stooping down beside him, Sandemon asked, “How are you feeling? Better now?”

The Gypsy nodded as if to say he was doing all right. His eyes met Sandemon's and he reached to touch his arm. “I was listening to you,” he said. “I heard you praying for Tierney Burke…and speaking of your God. The One you call your Savior.”

Sandemon nodded, wondering what was to come.

“Will you tell me more?” asked the Gypsy.

“More?” puzzled Sandemon.

“Tell me more about your Jesus.”

Slowly, a smile broke across Sandemon's face. Forgetting his fatigue, the countless hours without sleep, he sank down to sit on the floor beside the Gypsy. “Indeed, I will,” he said, patting the boy's hand. “You just rest, now, and I will tell you more about my Jesus.”

In her bed upstairs at Nelson Hall, Annie stirred in her sleep. Turning over, she opened her eyes, listening.

The wind had stopped. Still she listened, just to be sure. Finally, hearing nothing, she yawned and reached over to stroke Fergus's head. Then she tugged the covers securely under her chin and murmured one last drowsy prayer for Sandemon and, after a moment, another for Tierney Burke and the Gypsy.

Turning over, she gave a soft sigh and went back to sleep.

P
ART
T
HREE

LIGHT OF HOPE

 

Glorious Grace

See to it that no one misses the grace of God.

H
EBREWS
12:15

We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness,
Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave.

L
ADY
W
ILDE
(1824-1896)

Early November

New York City

F
or the first time since the choir's inception, Evan Whittaker shortened a Thursday rehearsal. He was anxious to leave the Five Points before dark, and he still had two stops to make before going home.

With November bearing down upon the city, the days seemed much shorter. Even though it was only a little past four, the gloom of early evening was already gathering, casting deep shadows over the streets—and over Evan's spirits. He now turned Lewis Farmington's buggy onto Mulberry Street, where Billy Hogan lived, and a vague sense of anxiety churned in the pit of his stomach. Despite the boy's unmistakable enthusiasm for the singing group, Billy had shown up only once in six weeks for rehearsal. That had been three weeks past, and for the entire hour the little fellow had not once looked Evan in the eye. He had been nervous and withdrawn, tucking his chin against his shoulder as if to hide the ugly bruise darkening his temple.

Evan had sensed something unsettlingly different about Billy that day. The boy had seemed distant, withdrawn—removed from the others in the group, and from Evan.

Troubled over the lad's peculiar behavior, Evan had made an attempt to talk with some of the other boys about him, but had learned nothing. Even Billy's closest friend, Tom Breen, had been no help, although Evan sensed an odd evasiveness in the older boy's replies. Each time Evan questioned him, Tom said the same thing: yes, he still saw Billy; but, no, not recently; and no, he hadn't a clue as to where Billy might be keeping himself on Thursday afternoons.

“Workin' at his papers or shovelin' coal for the Arab, most likely” was all the Breen lad ever volunteered. On one or two occasions, Evan thought the boy had been about to add something, but instead he merely shrugged and walked away.

Today, he intended to ask his questions directly of Billy himself if he found him at home. If not, he would talk with someone in the family. He had taken quite a liking to the thin little lad with the wheat-colored hair and angelic voice. He would hate to think Billy might be ill or in some sort of trouble.

Later, Evan intended to stop by the mission clinic to see Dr. Grafton. The physician's request that Evan “drop in” concerned him more than he liked to acknowledge. He had tried for weeks to coax Nora into visiting the doctor, always with no success. Invariably, she insisted that she was “perfectly fine, only a bit tired,” and he was to “stop fussing over her.”

As luck would have it, Dr. Grafton had dropped by the house late one afternoon to check on Teddy. Evan had been at home at the time and, against Nora's protests, insisted the doctor examine her as well. But despite his concerns he was nevertheless caught unawares when that impromptu examination led to another, this one at the doctor's office in Manhattan. Then, just today the message had come through Daniel that Evan was to stop by the mission clinic, after hours.

He could not help but worry that his fears about Nora's health might be justified after all. In spite of her insistence that there was nothing wrong, she seemed exhausted by the slightest exertion, continued to eat poorly, and appeared altogether enervated by the end of the day.

Daniel, too, had recently confided a concern for his mother's health. Like Evan, he had noticed her extreme thinness and unnatural color. All things considered, Evan thought he had reason to feel uneasy.

Sighing heavily, he brought the buggy to a halt in front of an ugly brown tenement squeezed in between two others just like it. For a moment, he sat studying the building. It was a harsh picture of decay, with rotting doorframes and windows; the filth of decades scaled its entire frontage. At first glance it appeared strangely top-heavy, as if the building itself were leaning forward. A closer inspection revealed that its peculiar listing appearance was actually the fault of a sagging porch. It ran the length of the second floor and looked as if it might break off from the rest of the structure at any moment.

The place was so stark and ugly it appeared almost malevolent. Its neighboring dwellings were equally hideous. Evan felt faintly ill at the thought of a child like Billy Hogan growing up in such abominable surroundings.

The children playing in the street were, for the most part, filthy, dressed in rags that scarcely covered them. They seemed to pay no heed to the garbage and animal offal that was everywhere. Wild-looking dogs prowled about, ignoring the children as they scavenged for food.

One never quite got used to the abandoned children, Evan thought—the homeless, and the hopeless, forgotten little ones. Even those with a roof over their head at night often had no real home, only a place to sleep. With drunken or destitute parents, there was frequently no nurturing, no family life, no love. He had been told by Sara Farmington Burke—and he believed it—that in the Five Points, a child could simply disappear one day without a single soul ever knowing or caring where he might have gone.

“God help them,” he said under his breath as he stepped out of the buggy and stood, bracing himself to enter the building. “God help them all…and please, God, help Billy Hogan.”

Nora sat in the rocking chair by the front window, gazing down at the warm, sleeping infant in her arms. She touched a finger to one incredible soft cheek, then to a corner of the tiny mouth, curved in the hint of a smile as he slept.

It was hard to believe that he had been with them only a few months. Why, last year at this time she hadn't even known she was carrying him!

Teddy was such a good babe. Never a moment's trouble, not even when he was restless in the night. He seldom cried, except when he was hungry. He would lie quietly in his crib for the longest time, smiling and watching the bright-colored wooden animals Daniel had hung from the ceiling to amuse him.