by BJ Hoff
Many, like Brian, had fought with a fury right to the end, when they were finally captured or slaughtered. Others, fearing for their lives or the punishment that would fall to their families, had fled the battle for the shelter of the hills.
It was but one more vain attempt to turn farm boys into warriors. There had been other endeavors in the past—visionary plots by well-intentioned patriots and ludicrous schemes by dark-souled pirates. All proved futile. For Ireland was no country of gentleman soldiers, but rather a land of poor, uneducated farmers. Its true gentry had been destroyed by England’s greedy colonization, its scholars and professional men mostly scattered and persecuted. The nation’s military force consisted of farm boys with borrowed muskets and homemade pikes, homeless poets, and frieze-clad fishermen.
Yet every few decades a rebellion would erupt to further deplete the already weakened peasantry. Just so with this latest. Both the rumors and promises had proven false, and Ireland was once again defeated. Brian was but one of the unfortunates to be captured by the scarlet-coated scorpions, and today his hasty sentence would be accomplished.
Dan looked around their surroundings. He was sickened by the curious crowds, the swaggering soldiers filling the streets of Castlebar. Business was brisk for the taverns and the shops this day, he noted angrily. Sure, and there was nothing like a proper hanging to draw the crowds.
Looking back to Peg, he determined once more that she must not witness what was to come. The babe was due any day now, and she was already failing from her despair.
She did not realize the hideous torment that awaited poor Brian. Somehow he must get her away before the hanging.
Dan had seen men hang before today. The cruel and grisly act—even when the victim was a stranger—was a gruesome sight to behold. And the rope was not the worst of things. After the hanging, Brian’s body would be taken down, tarred, and hung up again for the crowds to view.
It would destroy Peg entirely. He could not, he would not allow her to watch.
Hadn’t Brian made him promise to take care of his Peggy and the lads? Dan had given his word that he would see to them, had sworn to do his best for Brian’s wife and for his sons and the unborn babe.
The thought of the child made him even more determined to get Peg away. “We will find us a less crowded place, Peg,” he said, taking her arm. Giving her no chance to protest, he led her off from the courthouse into the dusty street.
They tried to squeeze through the noisy crowd, only to become entangled in it. One middle-aged woman with a red petticoat and a loud mouth swore at them; beside her, a big, florid-faced youth, who looked to be her son, grinned as if he were well in his cups.
At last, two soldiers, one of whom shot a look of contempt at Peg’s swollen middle, backed off just enough to let them pass.
When they reached the fringes of the crowd, Dan took both of Peg’s hands, making her face him. “You will hear me now, Peg. I promised my brother to see to you and the family, and I will do so. I would fail him in the worst way altogether were I to let you stay in this terrible place a minute longer.”
When Peg attempted to protest, Dan tightened his grip on her hands and raised his voice. “You will do as I say, Peg! I may be an unmarried man, but I know well enough that you’ll risk the babe and perhaps your own life as well if you insist on watching our Brian’s final misery.”
She attempted to wrench away, but Dan held her. “No, now you will hear me! Sure, Brian could have no doubt—none at all—as to your devotion. You have been a faithful wife. You have made him a happy man—you have blessed him. But I heard him last night, Peg. I heard him plead with you, before we left the cell, not to come to the hanging! Isn’t that so, Peg?”
Her mouth trembled, but she gave a small nod. “Aye, he did,” she admitted softly. “But, Dan—”
“Oh, Peg, don’t you see how it is? No man would have his wife watch him die—especially by the rope! Don’t we both know what a proud man is Brian? Your being here today would give him more grief than the hanging itself! He would fear for you, and for the babe—and wouldn’t he be shamed? Would you heap still more sorrow on the man’s heart, Peg? Isn’t it enough that he must hang like a common felon? Must he also have the pain of knowing you will witness his disgrace?”
Peg’s shoulders sagged, her hands went limp, and all the light went out of her eyes. Dan could have wept for the terrible bleak anguish that looked out at him.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Peg gave a soft keen of despair. “Oh, Dan…Dan…what am I to do? I will have no husband, no home…oh, didn’t they even burn our home, Dan! What am I to do without Brian?”
Dan put an arm around her shoulders and, sensing her submission, began to lead her off, one step at a time. “You will lean on our Lord, Peg,” he answered quietly. “And you will lean on me. We will take shelter with the Old Man and the Mother for now—they have already opened their door to us. We will work hard and honor Brian’s memory. We will do all we can to give his sons a better world. A better life, in a free Ireland. It’s what he would want, now, isn’t that so?”
Peg stopped, turning to face him. Her eyes were almost calm now, deep, unstirred pools of sorrow and defeat. “That is a noble thought, Dan, and I know you do mean well. But today I give up my husband. Tomorrow it may be my sons. Somehow I count the price of Ireland’s freedom too dear. Too dear, indeed.”
The sound of drums rolled over the street, hovering between them. Sick at heart, Dan led his brother’s wife away.
Behind them, the eager crowd waited to see the hanging of Brian Kavanagh.
PART ONE
DREAMS CHERISHED
Bright Promises
How sweet are your promises to my taste.
PSALM 119:103
1
The Five Points Celebration Singers
How happy the little birds
That rise up on high
And make music together
On a single bough!
ANONYMOUS (NINETEENTH-CENTURY IRISH)
Five Points, New York City
Early October 1848
Inside the Big Tent in Paradise Square, Evan Whittaker faced the ten youthful, expectant faces turned toward him with the numbing admission that he hadn’t the vaguest idea what to do next.
Knowing he had brought this present dilemma upon himself only compounded his sense of failure. The entire situation was bizarre beyond imagining: a one-armed British immigrant playing choir director to a mix of black and Irish boys. And in the middle of the vilest slum in New York City!
Today marked the third official rehearsal of the Five Points Choral Society. Evan had chosen the name himself; not particularly inventive, he conceded, but at least it supplied an identity to the singers.
Not that the singers cared very much about their identity.
Evan wished he had not been so hasty in responding to Jess Dalton’s plea for help. If only he had stayed home from last month’s mission department meeting. If only he had stayed silent at last month’s mission department meeting!
He winced at the memory of his own impulsive behavior. It was totally unlike him, completely out of character, to offer an unsolicited opinion or suggestion. And yet he had done just that.
Pastor Dalton had begun the meeting by voicing his concern about the church’s efforts in Five Points: “It’s not that we haven’t made progress,” he said. “The health clinic is an indisputable success. The worship services are growing by the week, as are the Bible studies. But I’m beginning to despair of bringing about any real difference in the lives of these people unless we can somehow get them to stop fighting one another! The Negroes hate the Irish—the Irish hate the Negroes—they both hate the Polish—” He broke off, running a hand through his full head of curly hair. “There must be something that would bring them together instead of tearing them apart!”
“Music,” Evan had said quietly, without the slightest hesitation. “There’s nothing quite like music to b-build a bridge.”
The words had slipped so easily from his tongue. Why, he’d scarcely even stuttered! Jess Dalton had shown immediate interest, and, swept up in the pastor’s enthusiasm, Evan impulsively agreed to give the matter some thought.
The next thing he knew, he had been put in charge of organizing—and directing—a choir. Their first rehearsal had been an abysmal failure, the second no less a disaster. In addition to Daniel John, Arthur Jackson, and Casey Dalton—all of whom showed up, no doubt, solely to lend their support—only a token number of Irish and black youths had returned for the second and third rehearsals.
And these few faithful, Evan admitted grimly, appeared anything but enthusiastic. Still, they were present and, for the most part, willing. He could not simply walk out on his responsibility.
With a sigh, he tapped his baton on the makeshift wooden music stand. Doing his best to ignore his feelings of inadequacy, he turned to the challenge at hand, that of rendering “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow” as a song of praise rather than a funeral dirge.
During a break halfway through rehearsal, the three friends in the back row held a hurried conference.
“Appears to me Mistah Evan needs some help,” suggested Arthur Jackson, his voice low.
Daniel Kavanagh and Casey Dalton nodded agreement.
“Mother says Evan is discouraged,” admitted Daniel. “At first he was excited about the choir, but now he’s feeling inadequate. He’s wondering if somebody else couldn’t manage it better.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mister Evan at all!” Casey Dalton stepped closer to the other two. “’Tis the music that’s wrong!”
Daniel regarded Evan with a troubled look, taking note of the slight slump of his shoulders. “Still, I think Mother’s right. He’s blaming himself.”
“S’pose he wouldn’t want no suggestions from boys like us,” Arthur said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Daniel looked at him. “What sort of suggestions?”
The black boy shrugged, looking from Daniel to Casey Dalton. “Seems like there ought to be some way we could tell him the truth.”
“I’d not want to hurt his feelings,” Daniel said quickly. “He’s trying his best, after all.”
“That’s true.” Arthur shrugged. “But his best ain’t ever gonna work down here if he don’t do something about the music!”
Casey Dalton nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid that’s so. What do you think, Daniel? You know him best. Would he be wanting our opinions or not?”
Daniel thought for a moment, his eyes on Evan. “Aye,” he said uncertainly, “I expect he would.” Shouldering his harp, he added, “We might as well give it a go, I suppose.”
Evan saw the three boys coming toward him and resigned himself to the fact that they were going to quit. He couldn’t blame them. So far, today’s rehearsal was proving still another failure. Most of the boys seemed to expend more energy yawning than singing. Obviously, they’d rather be anywhere else but here.
Lifting his chin, he forced a smile as he watched the three approach. Daniel, the tallest, was flanked by the other two boys. Arthur Jackson’s enormous dark eyes looked everywhere but at Evan. The small, thin-faced Dalton lad wore his usual lopsided grin; as always, his hair was an unruly tumble of red curls.
“Well, b-boys,” Evan said, thinking to delay their desertion if at all possible, “it’s g-good to have you here today. You’re all wo-working hard, I can tell.”
Daniel looked acutely uncomfortable. “Evan? We were wondering…could we speak with you? Just for a moment?”
Evan nodded, making no reply. His heart sank even further.
“The thing is—” Daniel stopped, darting a quick glance at Arthur Jackson. The black boy merely raised his eyes and began studying the top of the tent with excessive interest.
“Yes, Daniel?” Evan prompted halfheartedly.
Again the lad hesitated. Evan pretended not to see the Dalton boy nudge Arthur, who still appeared intent on his examination of the canvas roof overhead.
Obviously, the black youth had been appointed spokesman, albeit a reluctant one. In spite of his disappointment, Evan could not stop a faint smile. “Was there so-something you wanted to ask, Arthur?”
Arthur lowered his gaze from the tent top to Evan. He pursed his lips, still hesitating. “I wouldn’t want you to take me wrong, Mistah Evan,” he finally said.
So they were quitting. Evan took a deep breath. “You m-may say whatever is on your m-mind, Arthur.”
The boy dug his hands even deeper into his pockets, shifting from one foot to the other. “The thing is…we was thinking that if you was to use—maybe a different kind of music…”
His sentence died away, unfinished. Evan frowned, puzzled. “A different k-kind of music?”
The black boy’s eyes brightened. “Uh-huh, that’s right. A different kind.” He paused, shooting a look at the other boys before going on. “The kind of music you been using is just fine, Mistah Evan—for old folks.”
Evan winced. He saw Daniel frown and poke Arthur in the ribs.
The black boy gave Daniel a puzzled look, then turned back to Evan. “Oh, you’re not old, Mistah Evan! I just meant to say that maybe the music is…well, kinda stuffy.” He stopped. “Maybe.”
Evan blinked. “St-stuffy?”
“Uh-huh. That’s right. Stuffy.”
Evan looked from the black boy to Daniel, who was now examining his shoes intently. The Dalton lad had his head down as well.
They weren’t quitting, after all!
“I see.” Evan cleared his throat, delaying his reply. “Well, then—what sort of m-music would you like to sing, Arthur?”
The boys looked at each other.
“See here, b-boys,” Evan said gravely, “I would very much like to hear your opinions. It’s p-perfectly obvious that things aren’t g-going well. If you have suggestions, let’s have them.”
Daniel looked at him closely. “Truly, Evan?”
“Truly.”
Too eager to be tactful, all three boys began speaking at once. Evan quickly caught their point: The music was dry. The music was dull. The music was boring.
“We need to sing more movin’ music,” Arthur Jackson put in.
“M-moving music?” Evan repeated.
The black boy once again took the initiative. “Uh-huh, movin’ music. Music that makes you feel like you just can’t stand still, like you just gotta move, maybe even shout a little! That’s what kind of music we’d like to sing.”
“Arthur knows a lot of grand music, Evan,” Daniel put in, “the kind of music they sing in…in—”
“Miss’sippi,” Arthur finished for him. “Where I come from.”
“Sure, and there’s a great deal of lively Irish music as well,” Casey Dalton quickly pointed out. “Mother plays it on the flute, you know. Jigs and reels and the like.”
“We could even sing some of the sea chanties the sailors and dock workers sing,” suggested Daniel.
Evan raised an eyebrow.
“Without the curse words, of course.”
“We could maybe use different instruments, too, Mistah Evan.” The black youth’s dark eyes danced with enthusiasm. “I can play the harmonica, and Daniel, he’s learnin’ how to fiddle. He could save the harp for the slow songs, if you still want to sing some of them, too.”
Evan considered the three with guarded interest. “It sounds fine, b-boys. But I’m afraid I d-don’t know very much about other kinds of music. I’m familiar only with the traditional music of the church.”
The three boys exchanged disappointed glances.
“Still,” Evan said firmly, straightening his shoulders and giving the lads a smile, “even old folks like me can always learn something new.”
He paused. “With a bit of help, that is.”
Michael Burke was on his way out of Five Points when he spotted the crowd at the church tent in Paradise Square. Fearing trouble, he turned back and crossed the square to hav
e a look.
As he approached, the singing from inside the tent grew louder. Much louder.
He had heard this kind of singing before. Loud and spirited, with an irresistible rhythm, it was the music of the freed blacks in the city.
He parted the spectators at the entrance to the tent and went inside. The scene that greeted him made him stop and stare in amazement.
At the front of the tent, a number of youths, mostly black, were singing and swaying to the music. Their faces were creased in good-natured grins, and as they sang, they clapped their hands to the rhythm.
Leading them was Arthur Jackson, the young black boy the Daltons had taken into their home a few months ago. He seemed to be having himself a fine time, stamping one foot and pounding his hands together as he led the others in song.
Up until now, Michael would have thought he could no longer be surprised. Presumedly, after fifteen years on the New York City police force, he had just about seen it all.
But he had not seen the likes of this, and that was the truth! Black and Irish stood shoulder to shoulder, singing together, swaying together, grinning at each other—almost as if they had forgotten their bitter enmity. Even as he watched, two boys moved out of the crowd of spectators and went to the front to join the other singers.
But the most astounding sight of all—the sight that made Michael blink and gape in disbelief—was not Arthur Jackson or the unlikely choir. Somewhat off to the side, but still very much in the thick of things, stood the always correct, somewhat straightlaced Evan Whittaker, rapping his baton on the music stand and tapping his foot to the beat. The man was beaming a wide, boyish smile.
Michael knew for a fact that the Englishman’s idea of great fun was a night at the opera or the lecture hall. Yet here he was, clearly enjoying himself as much as his singers!
