by BJ Hoff
Suddenly, from around the end of the stable, a great gray thundercloud came charging toward her. The next thing Annie knew she was smack on her backside, looking up into the scruffy face of the largest wolfhound she had ever seen! He gulped down Pilgrim’s apple in a shake, then eyed the sugar lump that Annie still held in her hand.
Her momentary panic gave way to indignation. Scrambling up from the stable floor, Annie dusted off her backside, then turned to scold the canine thief. “You horrible beast! That was Pilgrim’s apple, it was! And just what might you be doing in our stables, I’d like to know? We don’t allow strays at Nelson Hall!”
The wolfhound swallowed the last of the apple—core and all—and wagged his huge tail, banging it loudly against the side of the stall. Clearly, he was not in the least intimidated by her fierce scolding.
Then, as if invited, he reared up on his hind legs, firmly planting both immense paws on Annie’s shoulders. Her mouth dropped open, but when she would have shrieked at the animal’s impertinence, he grinned broadly and began washing her face with his enormous tongue.
“Ughh! Get off me, you filthy beast!” Annie shoved the dog down, fixing him with a withering glare as she wiped her face with one sleeve.
The creature simply went on grinning, his idiot face rapt with delight.
Annie stared him down, taking a moment to study his condition. His wiry coat was rough and tangled, matted with burrs, and altogether filthy. She thought his color was brindled, but with all the dirt it was difficult to tell. His leering face was scratched, with a dried cut over one eye. His nose appeared to have been scraped by a quarrelsome tomcat.
In spite of his slovenly manners, however, she felt a sharp pang of sympathy for the beast. Where would anything so ugly or rude ever find a home? No doubt he was lost, thrown out on his keeping—just as she had been.
Obviously, he was hungry—he’d made short work of that apple, hadn’t he? And, just as obviously, he was eager for company and a bit of affection.
As Annie stood there appraising the wolfhound, a thought struck her. Could this wretched beast just possibly be the answer to the TROUBLESOME NUN? Could he be the Lord’s response to her unspoken prayer?
The wolfhound grinned, and Annie grinned back as she thought about a possible encounter between the beast and Sister Louisa. Sure, and wouldn’t the ungainly brute quickly take the starch out of the nun’s habit?
Of course, the Seanchai would at first resist the very thought of harboring such a huge, untidy creature. Yet, Annie knew his great heart to be tender for strays. He had taken her in, after all! Remembering her own state the day she’d arrived at Nelson Hall—her soiled clothing and raggedy hair and smelly shoes—she decided that there was indeed hope for the wolfhound.
Besides, she thought she knew how to assure the beast a home at Nelson Hall. It was all in how he was presented, that was the thing.
Growing more confident by the moment, she decided to give the wolfhound a name right away. A worthy name by which to introduce him to the Seanchai.
Searching her mind, she dismissed a number of possibilities as too grand or not quite grand enough. Finally, it came to her. She would call him by the noble name of Fergus! Fergus, son of Roy, hero of Ulster!
“Aye, that is it, then! You shall be called Fergus! The Seanchai will respect you for your name until he learns to appreciate you for yourself!”
Fergus’s introduction to the Seanchai did not go quite as Annie had planned. With the intention of making the dog more presentable for his first meeting with the Seanchai, she set about giving him a quick bath and a much-needed grooming. She soon discovered that the wolfhound was not of a mind to cooperate.
After heating the water so the beast would not freeze, she set to work in earnest on his disreputable appearance. A clash of wills developed over the washtub, and an hour later, Annie was near despair, having demanded and cajoled, threatened and shoved—all to no avail.
When she finally managed to coerce the dog into the tub, he refused to stand and let her scrub him. Instead, he turned playful, the result being that Annie was quickly drenched, wetter by far than the wolfhound.
“You are an ugly, cantankerous beast!” she bellowed at the dog, shivering from the water that by now had soaked through her own coat. “An eejit and a disgrace! Sure, no one will be of a mind to take you in and give you a home unless you have a proper bath! Now, then—if you don’t obey me this instant, I shall cast you out of the stables and you can starve in the streets, for all I care!”
Still grappling with the animal, Annie let fly with a string of choice, forbidden curse words, relics from her former life in the Belfast slums. The dog perked up his ears and gave her his undivided attention, as if to indicate that here was a language he understood.
Just as Annie had hopes of getting him under control, she heard a voice from the doorway: “What wicked, wicked child is in this stable?”
With one foot in the washtub and the other braced upon the wolfhound’s back, Annie shot a startled look toward the stable door. There, hands splayed on his hips, stood an angry Sandemon, nostrils flaring, wide mouth thinned to a displeased line.
All Annie’s confidence fled, and she cringed at the thought of the words she had just uttered. She was a Christian now, after all, and she had promised her Lord Jesus—and her friend Sandemon—to be done with the language of the streets.
Worst of all, at Sandemon’s side, in the wheelchair, sat the Seanchai. A narrow-eyed, tight-jawed, white-knuckled Seanchai!
Clearly, they were both outraged and furious with her. Annie wondered, fleetingly, which sin would draw the worst of their wrath: the ugly, forbidden dog—or the ugly, forbidden curse words.
Either way, she acknowledged with a sigh, it would seem she was in trouble. Again.
As Annie stood groping for a word of defense, Fergus preened, grinning at the sight of new faces. With a mighty leap, he cleared the tub and took off at a gallop.
He stopped only when he reached Sandemon and the Seanchai, giving a vigorous shake to dislodge the soapy water from his coat.
The Seanchai’s face turned as fiery as his hair, and Sandemon’s nostrils flared like wings.
Suppressing a moan, Annie turned a bright, hopeful smile on them both.
“He is for you, Seanchai!” Annie exclaimed. “A gift!”
The Seanchai peered over the wolfhound’s lathered shoulder as Fergus stood on his hind legs and embraced him.
Annie had all she could do not to wilt under the fire blazing out from those green eyes. Fergus’s great head only partially muffled the unintelligible roar.
Annie pulled herself up with feigned confidence. “Fergus! Bad dog! Down!”
To her great amazement, the wolfhound dropped his huge paws from the Seanchai’s shoulders. Cocking his head to the right, he regarded the man in the wheelchair with solemn interest, then turned his eyes on Sandemon.
Annie blinked, her hopes rising a notch. “Good, Fergus,” she managed. Daring a smile, she said, “Isn’t he grand? He’s very well trained, as you can see.”
Sandemon shot her a formidable glare, then took a step toward the dog. Instinctively, Annie moved toward Fergus at the same time. As if sensing an invitation, the wolfhound began to circle them both with frenzied swoops. Cutting in and out between their feet, he forced Sandemon to perform a light-footed dance to avoid losing his balance. When he righted himself, the normally unflappable black man loomed over Annie with a terrible scowl.
She again managed to calm the dog with a sharp command, but Sandemon seemed altogether unimpressed. Jabbing a warning finger at Annie, he demanded, “Where did this—animal—come from?”
“And what,” broke in the Seanchai, taking up where Sandemon left off, “did you mean about his being a ‘gift’?”
Taking heed of Sandemon’s stone visage and the Seanchai’s strangled tone of voice, Annie knew she had only seconds to redeem the situation—and save the wolfhound.
Lowering her head an
d folding her hands in front of her, she said in a very small voice, “He was meant as a gift to you, Seanchai. I thought you would be pleased.”
“And what is the occasion for this…gift, might I ask?” he rasped in a scathing whisper. “Is it Christmas? My birthday? Have I missed an event of some importance?”
Relieved, Annie heard the faint shift in his tone from anger to acid. With deliberate hesitation, she raised her gaze to his, then lifted a hand to brush away an offending strand of hair. “Sure, and there is no special event, Seanchai. Didn’t I think a fine animal such as this would be a help and a comfort to you? Why, he can fetch and guard the stables and hunt a bit.” She paused to catch a breath, then hurriedly added, “And he’s quite fierce enough to frighten off any intruders!”
“We do not have intruders,” snapped the Seanchai.
“So far as we know,” Annie pointed out.
Sandemon rolled his eyes toward the heavens, and Fergus whined.
“Where did he come from?” asked the Seanchai.
Annie shook her head. “Sure, and didn’t he simply…appear, from out of the forest? ’Twas almost as if he came looking for us, as if he knew our need for a strong, noble watchdog such as himself.”
Scrupulously averting her gaze, Annie pretended not to hear Sandemon’s low sound of disgust.
“I’m truly sorry, Seanchai,” she went on in a thin little voice. “I thought you would be pleased. Why, haven’t I worked most of the morning, grooming him so you would be able to see his fine appearance? Having read about the bond between gentlemen and their hounds, I had thought to make you a gift you’d treasure entirely!”
Finally, she dared a glance in his direction. Her hopes soared as she saw him regarding Fergus with a critical but not unkind eye. “He’s large for a wolfhound,” he said doubtfully.
“No doubt he’s of fine, sturdy stock,” offered Annie.
“And no doubt he will eat as much as a pony,” Sandemon said mildly.
“Perhaps,” Annie admitted, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms about the wolfhound’s great neck. “But he will more than earn his keep, hunting game and standing guard.”
After a calculated pause, Annie got to her feet. She beamed a radiant smile at both men in preparation for her final thrust. “I should think,” she pointed out piously, “that with a child and a helpless nun to consider, you would want some means of protection on the premises.”
Still smiling, Annie waited. The Seanchai turned slightly in the wheelchair to look up at Sandemon. The black man again lifted his eyes heavenward.
Holding her breath, Annie watched as Fergus padded with dignity to the wheelchair. He hesitated only an instant before laying his scruffy head in the Seanchai’s lap, nuzzling as close to him as he could possibly manage.
Annie silently applauded the wolfhound’s instincts.
After a moment, one large hand began to scratch the dog’s soggy ears.
Looking on with a beatific smile, Annie gleefully envisioned the first meeting between Fergus and Sister Louisa.
5
The Dark Side of the Soul
The dooms of men,
Are in God’s hidden place.
W.B. YEATS (1865–1939)
New York City
Early November
Tierney Burke knew the docks of New York Harbor nearly as well as he knew his own neighborhood. Nevertheless, he did not relish creeping about them at night. Especially on a Saturday night, when he could just as easily have been spending time with Connie Hawkes.
Patrick Walsh had acted as if tonight’s job were some sort of a great favor, as if Tierney should be flattered at having been singled out in such a manner.
For his part, Tierney considered the assignment little more than snooping. Spying on two of Walsh’s unscrupulous runners seemed a meaningless pursuit, not to mention a risky one at that.
He suspected his employer was testing him—and not for the first time. Pushing him to see just how far he would go.
Walsh’s continual baiting was beginning to anger Tierney. He was not one to shirk an assignment, and the man knew it. The element of risk was no deterrent—it merely added a bit more spice to the stew. Nor was he particularly put off by the illegal nature of his employer’s varied “enterprises.” While he suspected that much of Walsh’s vast wealth had been accumulated on the wrong side of the law, his own part in things was that of a mere messenger boy or a go-between. He was a paid employee—nothing more.
Besides, as he saw things, Patrick Walsh was no more a criminal than a number of politicians and policemen on the city’s payroll—only a bit more clever and a good deal more successful. One thing was irrefutable: Walsh paid his employees well. Tierney earned more money in a month working for Walsh than he could have made in an entire year in any of the other mean, paltry jobs available to an Irish boy in New York.
He had his limits, however. It was no secret among Walsh’s other boys that Tierney Burke would have nothing to do with any shady dealings involving the city’s immigrants—in part, because bis own da had come across years ago. He was the son of an immigrant, and he thought of the thousands of Irish now flooding the streets of New York as his own people. He would do nothing to add to their already considerable wretchedness.
Tonight’s work, however, came uncomfortably close to violating that resolve. Tierney was repulsed by the despicable runners who infested the harbor like rats. To him they represented the lowest sort of humanity, predators who fed themselves on the misery of others, many of whom were their own countrymen.
He knew how they worked well enough. The contemptible swindlers would ingratiate themselves with the immigrants before they ever got off the ship. A recent law requiring the scoundrels to be licensed had merely given them “credentials” to flash around the docks, affording them a kind of respectability.
By appealing to the foreigners’ natural confusion and fear, the runners easily took charge, offering the frightened newcomers the benefit of their experience, as well as their “protection,” as they herded their victims down the gangplank. Within hours, they usually managed to bilk their prey of what money and meager worldly goods they had brought with them.
Runners were known to have no scruples, no sense whatever of morality or decency. They would even go so far as to board ships in quarantine, mindless of the danger of typhus and other diseases. It wasn’t unusual for them to have some hired thugs close-by to guarantee their own protection, as well as to make sure none of their victims escaped on the way out of the harbor.
Patrick Walsh and others of his ilk had refined this corrupt practice to a new level of efficiency. Using a middleman as a broker, Walsh would purchase complete lists of steerage passengers, usually from mercenary captains who sold out to the highest bribe. Upon arrival, entire groups of frightened, bewildered immigrants were herded off the ships, then led to boardinghouses owned by Walsh. Outlandish rents were demanded, and those who might dare to raise questions were threatened with the law.
To the already oppressed Irish, the law was synonymous with unfairness and brutality. Tierney’s father, a policeman himself, maintained that the Irish immigrant’s fear and hatred of the law was to be expected. Their experience with the police was limited to the toadying constables back in Ireland who, carrying out the demands of English landlords, tumbled the cottages of the poor and drove them out, half naked and starving, onto the road, where they would die of the hunger and the cold.
In Ireland, the law meant harsh judgment, swift punishment, and no mercy. Only God knew what the law might do to them in this strange new land!
The two runners Tierney was tailing tonight were little more than professional pirates who had been particularly successful during their short time in Patrick Walsh’s employ. Too successful, perhaps. Apparently, Walsh was convinced that Monk Ferguson and Sweet Bailey were up to a bit of other business on the side.
The ship Tierney had been watching for the past half hour was a big one, an English co
ffin that had put in at South Street just this evening, after clearing the quarantine station at Staten Island. Steerage passengers were milling about on deck, the fretful cries of children and worried murmurs of their parents adding to the clamor on the docks.
Nighttime made little difference in the harbor. Even now, going on eleven, sailors and runners pressed through the noisy crush of disembarking immigrants. Cursing and shouting rose above the babel of foreign tongues. What laughter could be heard sounded shrill and uncertain. Women keened and strong men wept, and Tierney suddenly felt himself engulfed by a thousand dreams and as many sorrows.
How many of those dreams would be washed out to sea before this night ends? How many new sorrows would rise with the dawn of their first day in New York City?
A foghorn bleated in the distance. Shivering, Tierney pulled the collar of his seaman’s jacket snug about his throat. The night wind blowing in off the water stung his face, and he ducked his head against the cold.
Next time, he vowed sourly, he would not be so quick to rise to Walsh’s challenge.
In the candlelit dining room of the mansion on Fifth Avenue, Sara Farmington and her father lingered over dessert.
“I can scarcely believe I have you all to myself this evening,” Sara said, toying with her spoon. “That’s rather a rare occurrence these days.”
Lewis Farmington lifted one dark eyebrow. “Have I neglected you, dear? I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s been a somewhat hectic week for me.”
“So it would seem,” Sara agreed. “You’ve dined out, what, three times, with Winifred this week?”
If she’d expected to fluster him, she should have known better. Scooping up a spoonful of lemon pudding, he merely beamed a cheerful smile, saying, “Why, yes, I believe I have. I’ve been trying to help her make some order of her financial affairs.”
