Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  Fury blurred Tierney’s vision, and for an instant Rossiter’s detestable face receded. It was all he could do not to slam a fist into him, but he knew Walsh’s men would jump him if he tried.

  He dragged in a long breath and tried to think. Since the only thing Rossiter understood was money, he decided to meet him on his own ground. “I’ll take care of the girls, then. How much?”

  Rossiter stared at him, then snorted. “You’re not serious? All of them?”

  Tierney glanced at the girls, then back at the bookkeeper. “There are only four. I’m good for the money—you’ll have it by midday tomorrow. Besides,” Tierney added with a shrug, “what do you care? My money’s as good as the next man’s. Just give me the paper, and I’ll take them off your hands.”

  The bookkeeper hesitated. “I don’t know…they’re already spoken for… Mr. Walsh wouldn’t like it….”

  Tierney lifted an eyebrow. “Come on now, Rossiter. We both know Mr. Walsh thinks I’m a fine fellow. He’d be the last to begrudge me a bit of fun.”

  Hoagland, a big man who was missing one ear, gave a laugh. “Go on, Rossiter. The boy’s right. Give him the girls.”

  Rossiter looked from Hoagland to Tierney. With a grudging nod, he handed him a paper. “Get them out of here, then. Take them outside before the buyers get here. And you be sure to bring me the money no later than tomorrow!”

  Banking his anger, Tierney snatched the paper out of Rossiter’s hand and started toward the girls.

  Michael was too far away to hear the exchange between Tierney and Rossiter, but when he saw Tierney herd the four white girls outside, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  He watched as the men with torches now encircled the other children. Rossiter stood to one side, his books open, his glasses glinting in the reflected torch fires.

  The men separated the children into groups one by one, pushing them roughly, as Rossiter stood making his notes. When the smaller ones had all been counted, Walsh’s men began to herd the older boys forward.

  “Got some big ones this time,” said the man with a missing ear. “Good for the field work, I expect.”

  As Rossiter glanced at the next in line, Michael narrowed his eyes. The torchlight distorted the boy’s face, but there was something familiar—

  “You ain’t gonna get away with this!” the boy said, his voice unsteady. “Mr. Jess and Captain Burke, they looking for me! Soon as they find out—”

  Michael’s head snapped up as one of Walsh’s goons backhanded the boy across the face. The black boy fell, immediately pushing himself up on his hands, then rolling over to glare up at his captors.

  With a sinking heart, Michael recognized Arthur Jackson.

  All day, he and Dalton and Evan’s boys had been searching for the missing lad, and had come up empty-handed. Now he knew why: Walsh’s men had found Arthur first.

  His breath shallow, his mind spinning like a fury, Michael tried to think. With Rossiter and his books, there should be enough evidence to convict them all—including Walsh. Tierney was outside, out of danger. Rossiter would be no problem, but there were at least ten of Walsh’s thugs here—undoubtedly armed.

  But he had twelve men and the element of surprise. If he acted now.

  His decision made, Michael pushed himself up. Without a word, he moved out from behind the boxes, then lifted a hand to signal his men.

  Tierney hurried the four girls away from the warehouse to the edge of the Bowery district, where he gave them a stern warning. “Go home, now—all of you! If you don’t have a home, go to one of the police station lodging houses. You’ve seen what can happen to you on the streets!”

  They were all crying by now, sobbing and nodding their heads as they huddled together. Finally, one of them—the tallest and the prettiest of the four—wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. “But what about the others?” she asked, her voice tremulous.

  Tierney stared at her. “What others?”

  “The others like us,” she persisted. “The ones what was caught—the black ones. They’ll sell ’em, they will—sure, and, they told us so right out.”

  The others like us…the black ones….

  Tierney tried to swallow down the sour taste in his mouth. “Go on,” he said grudgingly, “get away! I’ll see what I can do.”

  As the girls scattered into the darkness, Tierney turned and stared back toward the warehouse. The girl doesn’t know any better, he thought, she doesn’t know the difference between the blacks and the Irish….

  But maybe he was the one who didn’t know any better. He had seen for himself what Patrick Walsh was capable of, after all. Had he really thought a snake like that would differentiate between Negro and Irish—him, who disavowed his own Irish blood?

  His own blind spot made it worse. That after all this time, he could have been naive enough to expect anything but consummate evil from a man like Walsh was nothing short of foolishness on his part.

  Da had been right about Walsh all along….

  He had sensed Walsh’s wickedness, his depravity, right from the start. That’s why he had been so set on exposing him and putting an end to his rotten dealings. Da wouldn’t have been the least surprised to learn the extent of Walsh’s corruption.

  The thought of his father only served to deepen his anguish. It would destroy him to know his only son had been a party to tonight’s bad business. It would break his heart entirely. Da, who made no distinctions between Negro or Irish, black or white, rich or poor…who would give his life just as quickly for a black person as a white…who would believe anything of a man like Walsh…but not of his son.

  Da…oh, Da!

  Sick with shame, Tierney squeezed his eyes shut. He was unable to think of anything else but his father, yet the thought made him want to weep.

  Finally opening his eyes, he stood staring at the warehouse. After a moment, his heart pounding, he took off at a dead run.

  40

  Trial by Fire

  It seemed life held

  No future and no past but this.

  LOLA RIDGE (1883–1941)

  Arthur Jackson, still dazed and stinging from the slave catcher’s blow, heard everything the man called Rossiter said to the tall boy with the scar above his eye.

  Burke, the bald-headed man had called him. Tierney Burke. Arthur knew the name. Tierney Burke was the captain’s son, wasn’t he?

  But what was he doing here? He couldn’t be one of the slave catchers, could he—with his daddy a policeman?

  Still, Captain Burke was an Irishman. And those people did hate the colored folk something fierce.

  Arthur wondered if anybody in this city liked anybody else. Or were they mostly all like the people at the big church, fussing and feuding and making trouble for the few really good folks, like Mr. Jess?

  Nothing was fair in the city, it seemed. Captain Burke, he seemed like a pretty good man, yet he had a son working for the slave catchers.

  And Mr. Jess—well, they didn’t come any better than that man, and just look at all the trouble he was in!

  For that matter, how about himself? He’d run away to help Mr. Jess, and because of that, he had a rope around his neck and was going to get sold—maybe even sent back to Mississippi.

  A shivery chill, like the kind that came with a sickness, trickled down the back of Arthur’s neck, all the way down his spine.

  Any boy with a lick of sense knew that Mississippi was one of the worst places for a slave to end up. Mississippi and Alabama were as close to hell on earth as a slave boy could get.

  Oh, Lord…please, Lord, don’t let me end up back in Mississippi! If I got to go back to the South, couldn’t I maybe just go to Virginia, or somewhere else, somewhere that’s not quite so bad for colored boys?

  A sudden movement in the back of the warehouse caught Arthur’s eye. He looked over the bald man’s shoulder, into the shadows. There was something shiny back there. Something like a flash of light. A flash of light from a badge. A policeman’
s badge.

  Locking his eyes on the badge shaped like a star, Arthur began to smile.

  Hubert Rossiter glared down his nose at the arrogant young buck in the center of the torches. He was a feisty one, all right. The kind who would have brought top dollar at a regular auction. Too bad the price had already been set at so much a head. Quantity, not quality, was what counted tonight.

  Already, he regretted letting Tierney Burke make off with the Irish girls. His first thought was that the high and mighty boy wonder would get in trouble with Mr. Walsh—would finally hang himself, and good riddance! But the more he mulled it over, the more he began to question his judgment. Walsh seemed to favor the young pup, in spite of his cheek. There was never any telling how he’d react to the boy’s insolence. More than likely, Burke would walk away from this episode smelling like a rose, as usual.

  Rossiter turned his anger on the black boy, wondering how it would feel to slap that defiant face. Then he saw the dark eyes lock on something behind him. At the same time, a faint smile began to creep over the Negro boy’s features.

  The skin on Rossiter’s forearms tightened. In the split second it took for him to realize something was wrong, one of Walsh’s men charged forward with a curse, only to be stopped by a low voice.

  “Drop your weapons, boyos. It’s all over.”

  Tierney reached the warehouse, heaving from the exertion of his run, only to find the main door bolted from within. He sagged against the door for a moment, then turned and made his way around the building, pulling on every door he passed.

  In the back alley, he tried the last door in vain. Leaning his head against the splintered wood, he choked down an oath of frustration.

  “Over here!” a voice whispered.

  Tierney lifted his head, looked around, but saw no one.

  “Here!” hissed the voice, louder.

  Tierney glanced down. Coming toward him out of the darkness was a dark-haired, dark-eyed…something…on a wooden cart.

  He squinted, then realized what he was seeing. The legless “Turtle Boy” from the dime museum. He had seen him on stage a couple of times, had passed him on routine trips to the Bowery, riding about the streets on his little cart.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, forcing back a shudder of revulsion as he eyed the boy.

  The Turtle Boy stared up at him, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “We thought Captain Burke might need some help,” he said matter-of-factly, raising one hand to gesture over his shoulder. Two shadowed forms entered the alley from the other side: one, a huge, muscular youth, almost grotesque in size, and the other, a mean-looking dwarf.

  “I’m his son,” Tierney said, studying the three of them. He shifted uneasily, realizing how differently he responded to these people than his father would. What Da would call their “differences” made him feel uncomfortable, almost fearful.

  “Yes,” the Turtle Boy replied shortly, “I know. I heard part of your conversation with Walsh’s man inside.”

  Perched on his cart, he regarded Tierney with an unsettling mixture of what looked to be pity and suspicion. “Have you perhaps changed your mind about your employer tonight?”

  Immediately defensive, Tierney frowned. “What do you know about my—employer?”

  “Being without legs doesn’t mean I can’t see and hear,” said the Turtle Boy curtly. “Patrick Walsh is well known in the Bowery.” He paused. “At least, by reputation.”

  Before Tierney could ask further questions, the boy went on. “There’s no time for this now. Do you see that hole, there, in the side of the building?” He pointed to a large, gaping hole just above the foundation of the warehouse. “I’m going in and unlock the back door. You come in with them,” he said, motioning toward the dwarf and the big, heavy-shouldered youth.

  Tierney nodded dumbly, standing aside as the legless boy nipped himself off his cart, then scooted easily through the hole in the wall.

  After another moment, he heard the bolt slide free. Soon, the back door cracked open.

  As soon as he returned to the alley, the Turtle Boy, using his hands and moving as swiftly as a young seal, hefted himself back onto the cart and started for the door. “We’ll have to be very quiet,” he warned.

  Tierney followed the others into the dark warehouse, stopping just inside. At the far end, toward the front door, he could see a circle of men holding torches.

  His eyes went to Rossiter, who seemed frozen in place as he stared at—what?

  Tierney squinted, then caught his breath. There, silhouetted against the torchlight, was the unmistakable form of his father, advancing on Hubert Rossiter with a gun.

  Michael held the gun on Rossiter as he continued to move forward. Keeping his eyes on the bookkeeper, he jerked his head toward the children. “Stay back!” he told them, still closing in on Rossiter.

  He glanced to see them backing up, eyes wide with fear. “Now,” he said to Rossiter, his voice low, “you’ll just be giving the book to me—and very carefully.”

  Extending his left hand toward the bookkeeper, he spied a movement by one of Walsh’s henchmen. “HOLD IT!” he shouted, swinging his gun around.

  But he was too late. With a mighty heave, the goon hurled his torch straight at Michael.

  He ducked, and the torch bounced across the floor toward the opposite end of the warehouse.

  His men scattered, flinging themselves out of the way as the torch landed at the base of a stack of crates. Boxes and packing crates blazed up like dry tinder, illuminating the warehouse in an exploding flash of light.

  Walsh’s men, swinging torches and clubs, piled into the policemen. Michael lunged toward Rossiter, but was too far away to reach him.

  Running at a crouch, he shouted, “Don’t shoot!” to his men, but the warning came too late. Gunshots echoed off the walls of the cavernous building. Abandoned containers of cleaning fluid exploded as bolt after bolt of discarded material shot up into flames.

  Dense, black fingers of smoke snaked upward, slithering around the rafters as the fire gathered momentum. Michael could already feel the heat. His throat burning, he whirled around, signaling his men to move forward. “Hurry! You men in the back—get out of there! Now! Get those children out of here!”

  Turning back, he saw Rossiter at the main door. With the ledger securely tucked under one arm, he was struggling with the bolt on the door.

  “No!” Michael screamed, taking off at a run toward him. “Don’t open the door!”

  The bookkeeper whipped around, his eyes wild as he stared into the fire. Without warning he hurled the ledger across the floor into the blaze. Then, turning back, he jerked the bolt free and threw the door open.

  The blaze exploded with a roar. Men screamed, windows shattered, and chunks of the ceiling let go as the flames whooshed over the walls, a raging ocean of fire.

  Rocked by the backdraft, Michael stumbled, righted himself, and again dropped to a crouch.

  The ledger! It was his only evidence against Walsh! He had to get the ledger!

  His eyes burned, his lungs struggled for air as he lurched toward the fire. His men came staggering past him, herding the children toward the door.

  Denny Price, with a little boy on each arm, tried to stop him, but Michael pushed him away, shouting, “Keep going! Get them out of here!”

  Spying the ledger, which had landed near a barrel, Michael pitched forward, losing his balance and floundering. The fire came racing toward him across the splintered wooden floor, coiling and rolling like hell unleashed.

  His chest exploding from the smoke, his heart thundering with panic, he gave one strangled gasp and flung himself full-length across the floor, grabbing for the ledger.

  The fire met the barrel. Michael saw a blinding flash of light, then nothing more.

  Trying to stay clear of the smoke, Tierney saw the explosion coming before it happened.

  “Da!” he yelled, his voice lost in the roar of the blaze and the clamor of shouting and shr
ieking children. “No, Da! Don’t go back!”

  He made a desperate, futile lunge toward his father, falling just as one of the ceiling timbers gave way, pinning his right leg to the floor. Dazed with pain and smoke, Tierney writhed and twisted, struggling to free his leg. Smoke billowed around him, nearly blinding him. The heat seared his skin, his eyes.

  He knew he was losing consciousness, fought against it.

  Suddenly, the weight was released from his leg.

  Almost blinded by the dense smoke and gasping for breath, he felt himself lifted from the floor and carried toward the open door, away from the inferno.

  He heard the sound of wheels whirring past him, and a small, shadowy form scooted by, toward the center of the fire.

  Choking, Tierney fought for air, but found only smoke. Then the merciful darkness closed in around him.

  Prodded along by one of the policemen, Arthur Jackson was on his way outside. Something made him slow his steps to glance back over his shoulder. At that instant, he saw Captain Burke dive toward the fire, his arms outstretched.

  Arthur didn’t think. Breaking free of the other children milling toward the open door, he charged back, toward the fire, head down, to help the captain.

  His head snapped up when he heard the explosion. At the same instant he leaped into the wall of fire, throwing himself between the captain and the flaming barrel.

  His last conscious act before the blinding light sucked him inside was to give the policeman a hard shove with both feet.

  When Michael came to, a light drizzle had begun, misting his face. He coughed, heaved, then shook his head, clenching his teeth against the pain.