Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  The newspaper came down, although he clung to it like a shield. “Sara,” he said reasonably, “I’m a policeman, remember? I arrest robbers and help elderly ladies across the street. Sometimes I crack heads, and I often chase pigs. But I never, never address mission bazaars. Never.”

  When he would have hidden once more behind the paper, Sara reached across the table and stayed his hand. “It’s important, Michael. These women need to know the hard truth, even if it makes them uncomfortable.”

  “What will make them uncomfortable, Sara a gra, is the visible proof that their genteel lady chairman has gone half-cracked and not only married a crude Irish cop, but is actually parading him about at her teas.”

  Sara glared at him. “You are not at all crude—except when you choose to be, as you are doing right now. More than likely,” she added with a smug smile, “I’ll be the envy of every woman there for having the courage to marry such a dangerously handsome man.”

  He grinned at her. “No doubt. But I’m still not giving a speech to your church ladies,” he said with annoying finality. “Your grandmother is late this morning, isn’t she? Have you checked on her?”

  “She’s getting dressed. I expect she’ll be down any time now. Don’t change the subject, Michael. There’s another reason I’d like you to be at the bazaar, although I really do hope you’ll consider speaking. I think Jess Dalton is going to need all the support he can get; having you there will guarantee him at least one ally.”

  Michael sighed, folding his papers with great precision as if to make a point. “Why is that?”

  “The news is out about their plans to keep Arthur Jackson in their home indefinitely.”

  Michael groaned his understanding, and Sara went on. “The Pulpit Committee has already called a special meeting.”

  Michael straightened in his chair, frowning. “You don’t think they’d ask him to leave?”

  Sara looked down at her plate. “Quite frankly, I don’t know what to expect. I wouldn’t be so concerned if Father were on the committee, but he isn’t.” She sighed. “There are some truly good people in our congregation who won’t be bothered in the least by the Daltons taking in a Negro boy. But there are others…” She let her words drift off, unfinished.

  “There are others who will make things miserable for them,” Michael finished for her, scowling. He shook his head. “It’s too bad. He and Mrs. Dalton genuinely care for the lad, that’s obvious.”

  Sara nodded, then brightened somewhat. “Well, one thing is certain: Jess Dalton isn’t a man to back down in the face of opposition. If he’s decided to give Arthur Jackson a home, he’ll do just that.”

  “Aye, he will,” Michael said, still frowning. “But let us hope he doesn’t lose his pulpit in the process.”

  Just then Sara’s grandmother appeared in the doorway of the dining room. “It’s outrageous,” she said, walking the rest of the way into the room. “Heaven help the Daltons—and the boy—if the wrong people happen to discover he’s a runaway slave. Someone will turn him in to those awful slave catchers.”

  Michael rose and helped her into her chair. “Fortunately, those who know Arthur’s background are very few,” he pointed out, bracing her cane against the table. “And there’s no one among them who would deliberately hurt the lad.”

  “Still,” said Grandy Clare, “there will be trouble. You wait and see if there’s not.”

  “Speaking of trouble,” Michael said, shooting Sara a look over her grandmother’s head, “is Whittaker still bringing his singers to your bazaar?”

  Sara smiled and nodded. “He is indeed. The Five Points Celebration Singers will provide the entertainment for the afternoon.”

  Still standing, Michael drained the last of his coffee from his own private mug. From the very outset of their marriage, he had flatly refused to drink from Grandy Clare’s delicate china teacups. “Not one of your more clever ideas, Sara,” he remarked dryly.

  “I’m sure they’ll do just fine,” Sara said defensively.

  “Oh, I’m not doubting that for a minute. They do a grand job, there’s no denying it. It’s just that it might be a bit much for the refined sensibilities of your church ladies, that’s the thing.” He winked at Grandy Clare. “All those black and Irish faces in the same room at one time, you know.”

  Not to be baited, Sara shrugged. “Perhaps it will distract them from Jess Dalton’s…‘radical behavior.’ At any rate, my main purpose in asking Evan to bring the boys wasn’t necessarily for entertainment. I’m hoping to impress some of the mission sponsors, show them what can be done in a place like Five Points with just one godly man who is willing to make an effort. I think Evan has accomplished wonders with those boys.”

  Michael nodded. “He has, indeed. Now—if you ladies will excuse me, I’ll go and bring the buggy around.”

  “I will remind you again,” said Grandy Clare, “that Robert would be more than happy to drive us to services. That,” she added dryly, “is one of the reasons I pay him.”

  Michael grinned at her. “And I will remind you, my lady, that I am perfectly capable of driving a buggy now and then. Besides,” he added, “I happen to enjoy it.”

  Sara followed him to the back door, where she held on to his hand for a moment. “You still haven’t answered my question,” she reminded him. “About whether you’d speak at the bazaar.”

  “And I thought you followed me out here for a private kiss,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “Besides, I did answer you.”

  “Really, Michael!”

  “Ah, Sara…Sara, you are going to be my undoing, and that’s the truth.”

  Out of her grandmother’s view now, Sara gave him an ardent kiss and embrace. “You’ll at least think about it, won’t you, Michael? Promise me you will.”

  He smiled, a smile Sara took to be the beginning of defeat. “Perhaps,” he said, making no move to release her. “Then, again, it’s possible that I might require a bit more coaxing.”

  Kerry Dalton sneaked a look at her husband, standing beside her as they greeted the departing worshipers from the morning service.

  Jess looked tired, she realized with concern. Tired and somewhat disillusioned. Of course, no one would even suspect the disillusionment unless they knew him well. His kind and cheerful countenance successfully masked the turmoil Kerry knew to be going on inside him.

  She had to fight to keep her own anger and disappointment from showing. Although reactions had been mixed, she was convinced that even the most supportive members of the congregation were not altogether untouched by some of the wilder rumors that had been circulating.

  The decision to take Arthur Jackson in, to give him a home as long as he wanted to stay with them—and to actually encourage him to stay—had, just as Jess predicted, brought on an entire hailstorm of exaggerated stories. The most farfetched one to date, and the one that most infuriated Kerry, was the perfectly ridiculous tale that the pastor’s interest in Arthur was motivated by the fact that the young black boy had taken a bullet actually meant for Jess!

  No one seemed to pay any heed to the fact that Arthur had suffered a lengthy, difficult recovery from his injury, that he was virtually destitute, and that they were merely trying to provide him with shelter and a measure of protection.

  The truth was, she and Jess had grown more than a little fond of Arthur Jackson—as had their son, Casey-Fitz. While it was true that Arthur had a father somewhere in Mississippi, the poor man was a slave and could offer nothing in the way of assistance or protection to his son. She and Jess could, and were determined to do so.

  Jess’s warning that Arthur’s background remain a secret caused Kerry to study the faces of the departing worshipers even more closely as they passed through the line. The contrast in expressions made it painfully clear that those who took issue with the Daltons’ decision far outnumbered those who did not.

  The Kenneth Maltbys, for example, made a point of breaking out of the line just before reaching Jess and K
erry. Some, like the elderly, sharp-tongued Horace Pollard, were more inclined to direct confrontation.

  The stooped, fiery-eyed importer brought the entire procession to a halt when he stopped, leaned on his cane, and squinted up at Jess. “Pastor,” he said sharply, “I’ve supported you in just about everything you’ve done since you came here. Some were worried that we were getting ourselves one of those abolitionist preachers who thought black folks were just as important to the good Lord as us white folks.”

  He paused, and Kerry felt Jess stiffen, as if bracing himself for what might come next.

  “I’m happy to see that they were right,” Horace went on. “This town has more than enough preachers who call themselves ‘abolitionists’ when they’re propped up behind a pulpit—but who wouldn’t be caught dead shaking a black man’s hand! I for one am proud to know a man of the cloth who isn’t all talk. But you watch your back, Preacher. Good men make good targets, if you take my meaning.”

  After pumping Jess’s hand and winking at Kerry, he went on out the door. Kerry felt somewhat reassured to know there were men like Horace Pollard among the congregation, even if they were few in number.

  As the line continued to move forward, her suspicions were confirmed that many of those who seemed most opposed to the idea of a black boy in their midst—and in the home of their pastor—were the same ones who found it…difficult…to be civil to her.

  Apparently, an Irish immigrant wife was equally as undesirable as a homeless black boy.

  Evan Whittaker found himself unable to concentrate during the morning worship hour. Nora, again feeling poorly, had insisted that he come and bring the children, but he was finding it difficult, if not impossible, to pay attention.

  It did not help that the congregation still occupied temporary quarters, the church building having been destroyed in a January fire. Then, too, Mr. Beecher was again absent from the pulpit. Of late, there had been frequent bouts of illness, and it was rumored that he might be gone for several weeks.

  Although Evan had mixed emotions about the highly popular—and often controversial—pastor, there was no denying the fact that his presence was greatly missed. His impassioned messages about the evils of slavery, his insistence on vigorous congregational singing, and his flamboyant charm, both in and out of the pulpit, made his absence keenly felt.

  Yet, Evan doubted that it would have made much difference at all this morning had Beecher been present. He would still have been distracted.

  He was absolutely sick with worry about Nora. She was having an extremely difficult time with her condition. Lately, he delayed leaving the house in the mornings because it meant leaving her alone, ashen with nausea, with only Little Tom to see to her. When he returned home at evening, more often than not she was still pale and unsteady, though she would insist that she was “feeling much better.” She would sit through supper with him and the children, but Evan was all too aware that she took only a few bites of food, and then with visible effort.

  Unbeknownst to Nora, he’d conferred with Nicholas Grafton, but the kindly physician had been able to offer little advice, and even less encouragement. “I’m keeping close check on her, you can be sure, Evan. Still, there’s very little we can do except to make certain she gets proper rest and a good diet.”

  When Evan explained that he felt she was getting neither, the doctor had frowned, but said only, “Yes…well, watch her closely and be sure she doesn’t overdo. If she doesn’t perk up soon, she may have to lie in for most of her term. I do wish she’d been stronger at the outset.”

  At times Evan had all he could do to keep from actively wishing that Nora had never conceived this child. Knowing it would break her heart if she should learn his true feelings, he continued to pretend he was wildly happy about the baby, forcing a smile for her sake, when what he really felt was stark terror.

  A nudge from Johanna, then a tug at his hand from Tom, made Evan start and glance about him. The congregation had risen and the interim pastor was midway through the benediction.

  His face flaming, Evan scrambled to his feet. He had worried through most of the service.

  Lewis Farmington was helping Winifred into the carriage after the morning worship hour when Chester Pauling walked up.

  “Lewis, I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

  Lewis speculated on how the hawk-faced Pauling would react if he refused, as would be his preference. Instead, he grunted an assent, indicating to Winifred that he’d be only a moment.

  Turning around, Lewis found himself eye level with Pauling’s thin gray mustache. Chester was a tall, cadaverous man with a perpetually morose frown. Lewis suspected that Chester Pauling had been born frowning.

  “Lewis, there’s a meeting tomorrow night at my house that I thought you’d want to attend.”

  Quite certain he wouldn’t want to attend, Lewis merely gave a forced smile and said, “What sort of meeting, Chester?”

  Pauling’s heavy eyebrows drew tighter, forming a bridge over his beak of a nose. He cleared his throat. “Some of us are getting together to, ah, discuss this thing with the pastor.”

  Irritated, Lewis raised his chin. “What thing might that be, Chester?”

  Pauling again cleared his throat. “Ah…this abolitionist business…and the Negro boy he’s taken in. You know.”

  “The pastor will be at the meeting, I take it?”

  “Well…no. No, we simply want to, ah, examine the situation.”

  “It seems to me,” Lewis said sharply, “that any kind of meeting about the pastor should include him.”

  To his credit, Pauling looked uncomfortable. “It’s not quite that simple, Lewis. We have to take a close look at how Dalton’s actions may affect the entire congregation. Before we actually confront the pastor, we want to be sure we’re in agreement.”

  You back-stabbing Pharisee, Lewis thought. You’ve already decided to try to force a resignation.

  Drawing himself up to his full height—which was still considerably less than Pauling’s—Lewis summoned all the self-control he could muster. “I don’t want any part of your meeting, Chester. I don’t want anything to do with this whole business. Mostly,” he said, scowling, “because I happen to believe it is none of our business. Quite frankly, Chester, I think you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  When the other man tried to stammer out a protest, Lewis ignored him. “I can almost guess who will be at your meeting, though. Ashton and Maltby and Felix Willard—oh, yes, and I’m sure Charles Street as well.” He stopped, drew in a long breath. “Thank you for asking, Chester, but I believe I have a prior engagement tomorrow evening.”

  Without giving the red-faced Pauling an opportunity to reply, Lewis turned and got into the carriage.

  Winifred was all concern. “Lewis? Is something wrong? You’re quite flushed!”

  He patted her hand and managed a smile, although he wanted nothing more than to drive his fist through the roof of the carriage. “Everything is just fine, my dear. Don’t worry your pretty head. I just had to present my apologies that I couldn’t attend a meeting tomorrow night, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Lewis. Are you disappointed?”

  Lewis looked at her. “Actually, Winnie, I am,” he said quietly. “I’m very disappointed.”

  As they drove off, he silently consoled himself with the reminder that Jesus, too, had preferred the company of sinners to that of Pharisees.

  22

  Hope for the Hopeless

  And love can reach

  From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach

  Than those by mortals read.

  JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY (1844–1890)

  When Mr. Whittaker asked to talk with him just before rehearsal on Thursday, Billy Hogan immediately started worrying that he’d done something wrong.

  Ever since he’d been caught sneaking Finbar into the practice room, he’d taken extra care to be on his best behavior. Of course, the business with Finbar had worke
d out all right, after all. Mr. Whittaker had taken the mischievous kitten home to his wife and family, and they liked him just fine.

  As he gauged the director’s expression just now, he saw that he didn’t look a bit cross; indeed, he seemed to be smiling. Still, Billy’s mouth felt dry as dust, and his belly burned with anxiety as he faced the Englishman at the door. Trouble always meant the chance that Uncle Sorley would find out.

  Billy would do just about anything to avoid another of his uncle’s fierce thrashings.

  Evan quickly went out of his way to reassure the freckle-faced youth, for he looked about to bolt at any moment. “How old are you, B-Billy?”

  “Sir? Oh—nine…close on nine, sir.”

  Evan nodded, thinking the little fellow looked even younger. “Then I should imagine you’re old enough to accept the additional responsibility I have in m-mind for you.”

  The boy simply stared. Evan was struck by the dismaying realization that the lad seemed to be afraid of him. He could not think why; moreover, he found the idea highly unsettling. To his knowledge, he had never intimidated a single soul in his life. Certainly, he had no wish to frighten a child.

  Gentling his voice even more, he went on. “Of course, you re-remember that next week is the m-mission bazaar at the Farmingtons’, and that we will be singing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes…well, I have something rather special I’d like you to do that d-day, if you will. You know that we’ve b-been rehearsing the ‘Star-Spangled B–Banner’—”

  At the boy’s nod, Evan went on to explain. “I’d like you to t-take a solo p-part in the song, Billy—I’ll show you where today as we rehearse. Also, there’s a short reading I thought you might render just b-before we sing.”

  Evan had expected the youth to be pleased. Instead, young Billy simply gaped at him, obviously appalled. “A—a reading, is it, sir?”