Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  He forced his eyes open, but they wouldn’t focus; all he could see was a mass of colors and distorted shapes. He started to drift off again, into the blackness. Suddenly it all came rushing back to him: the warehouse…the children…the fire…Tiemey….

  Tierney!

  At last his head began to clear. Again he choked and coughed, clutching his throat, which still burned with a vengeance.

  He looked up, and found himself staring into the concerned face and gentle eyes of Bhima.

  “Bhima? How…where’s my son?”

  He tried to push himself up, but a dizzying rush of pain sent him sprawling onto his back again. He squeezed his eyes shut, then flung an arm over them.

  Bhima’s soft, consoling voice spoke out of the darkness. “Your son is fine, Captain. But you must not try to get up just yet. You had a very close call….” The boy’s words drifted off as Michael once more gave in to the momentary comfort of darkness.

  When he again opened his eyes, Tierney hovered over him, studying him with a worried gaze.

  “Da? It’s over now. You’re all right, Da.”

  For an instant, Michael forgot his sick despair at his son’s involvement in the evil of this night. “You’re not hurt?”

  The boy shook his head. “Took some bruises on my leg is all. I’m fine.”

  Staring at him, Michael remembered what he had seen. “You left—”

  “I came back.” Tierney’s voice sounded strangely harsh and unsteady.

  Michael searched his son’s eyes but could read nothing in the hooded gaze. “Was it you who got me out?”

  Tierney shook his head. “No,” he said, and Michael saw a faint trembling of his lip. “It was the—the one you call ‘Bhima.’ He and his friends—” His voice faltered. “They…brought both of us out.”

  “Bhima—” Michael again tried to push himself up. “Where is he? Where did he go?”

  “He’s with the children, Da,” said Tierney. “He and the others went to help the children. You’d better lie still now. You took an awful lot of smoke.”

  A thought struck Michael, and he gripped Tierney’s hand. “Rossiter! And the ledger—what about the ledger?”

  Tierney glanced away, saying nothing. He got to his feet when Denny Price walked up, backing away to make room for him.

  Dropping to one knee, Price wiped a hand across his smoke-blackened face, waiting until Tierney walked away.

  “The ledger’s gone, Mike. In the fire.” He hesitated, then added, “Rossiter’s dead. We got two of the other goons, though. They’re already in custody.”

  Michael looked away, his gaze scanning his surroundings. Across the street, the warehouse was still burning, lighting the night sky with a gold and crimson glow. A firewagon was there, in front of the building, and some of the Bowery residents had formed bucket brigades. The smell of smoke was almost overpowering.

  “They’ve got it under control,” Price said. “The rain should help finish it.”

  Michael drew in a ragged breath, immediately choking and gagging when his lungs rebelled. His throat was tight, his eyes burning, not so much from the smoke as from the bitterness of defeat.

  “We were so close,” he muttered. “We almost had him.”

  Glancing across the street, he saw Tierney. The boy was standing at the west wall of the dime museum, one arm braced against the building, his head hung low, his eyes downcast.

  Heavyhearted, Michael looked away, turning his gaze in the opposite direction. In the middle of a vacant lot, directly across the street, stood a tall, powerful figure of a man, who seemed to be staring down at something near his feet.

  Jess Dalton. As soon as Michael recognized the big pastor, he pushed himself up on one arm, catching his breath at a fresh wave of dizziness. His head cleared, and as he watched, he saw Dalton, in his shirtsleeves, his dark hair damp and tousled, bend and carefully scoop something into his arms.

  The drizzle had increased to a light rain, and a cheer went up from the firemen.

  Michael was only vaguely aware of Denny Price’s low voice beside him. “We lost Scanlan tonight, Mike. Bill’s gone….”

  Jess Dalton had started walking in their direction, and Michael pushed himself up even further.

  As the pastor came closer, Michael saw that he was carrying a blanket-draped form, limp and still, like a broken doll….

  “…and the Jackson boy…he didn’t make it either….”

  Jess Dalton kept walking. He was close enough now that Michael could see his eyes, glazed with anguish, and his face, wet, but not with rain…with tears….

  “…the poor little fellow, he hadn’t even got a good start on his life, such as it was….”

  Michael fought not to strangle on the painful lump in his throat. “How?” he choked out. “What happened?”

  Price didn’t answer right away. When he did, Jess Dalton had almost reached them, the burden in his arms seemingly weightless as he cradled it against his massive chest.

  “Rourke saw him run in after you, when you went for the ledger.” Price paused, then added softly, “Bhima and his friends, they brought you and Tierney out…but the black boy was the one who saved your life….”

  Jess Dalton stopped in front of them. The rain was falling steadily now, and as Michael looked up to meet the stricken gaze of the pastor, he felt his own tears spill over and mingle with the rain.

  A great sorrow clouded his spirit, and Michael knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that tonight heaven itself wept over New York City.

  41

  Sons and Heirs

  Behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed on us, that we should be called children of God!

  1 JOHN 3:1 (NKJV)

  Arthur Jackson was buried on Good Friday. Because he had helped to save the life of a New York City police captain, he was given a hero’s funeral, along with Officer Bill Scanlan, who had also perished in the warehouse fire.

  As Daniel Kavanagh stood at the graveside with Evan Whittaker and the boys’ choir from Five Points, other deaths—too many others—passed with wrenching clarity before him. He closed his eyes against the pain, remembering….

  So many partings, his heart whispered, so many goodbyes. His father’s face, strong and good, rose in his memory. Then Ellie, his little sister, dead of the famine fever before her seventh year. Tahg, his gentle-natured older brother, buried at sea before their ship of escape ever left Ireland. And Katie, his childhood sweetheart…dead, after only a few months in America. Thomas, her father, Catherine, her mother. Gone. All of them gone.

  And now Arthur. A runaway slave. A boy whose only dream had been to live free, to live like a human being instead of an animal. Also gone, just like the others.

  Daniel opened his eyes, scanning the other mourners at the grave. With a fresh twinge of sadness, it occurred to him that Arthur would have been more than a little surprised at the mixed crowd who had gathered to pay their last respects to him.

  People like Bhima and his friends from the Bowery—the Strong Man and a dwarf named Plug. Lewis Farmington and Evan’s Aunt Winifred. A small band of black laborers from the pipe factory. Mrs. Walsh. Miss Sara. Uncle Mike. Even Tierney.

  And what looked to be the entire New York City police department.

  Daniel’s throat tightened, and tears scalded his eyes as a kilted piper from the police force, standing on a gently sloping green hill nearby, began to play.

  After a moment, the boys’ choir, of which Arthur had been such a proud and loyal member, added their voices to the wail of the pipes….

  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me!

  I once was lost, but now am found—

  Was blind, but now I see.

  Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

  I have already come;

  ’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,

  And grace will lead me home.

  When the last words of the hymn died away, Evan Whitt
aker stepped back to stand with his boys, between Daniel and Casey-Fitz.

  For a moment, his mind went to Nora, who waited at home for him.

  Thank God for Nora…the light of his heart, the joy of his life. When everything else seemed darkened by shadows, Nora’s love still came shining through to warm his world. Even now, in the midst of another tragedy, her love buoyed him on….

  He glanced at the little fellow at the end of the row. Billy Hogan was crying openly for his friend. The sorrow of the day only deepened in Evan as he saw yet another new bruise on the boy’s cheek.

  He must not…he would not…let this child end up as one more tragedy. As soon as possible, he would talk with Michael Burke about his suspicions. Somehow, he was going to help that little boy, or, God forbid, he might end up like Arthur Jackson…another statistic, another child in despair…or worse….

  Evan looked at Jess Dalton, standing at the head of the burial plot, his wife weeping quietly at his side. The Daltons, he realized with some consolation, had, at least for a brief time, been the light—and the joy—of young Arthur Jackson’s life. They had given the homeless boy refuge, provided him with a greater sense of freedom than he’d ever known in his short lifetime, filled the emptiness of his world with love and caring.

  For a time, however fleeting, Arthur Jackson had known the shelter, the haven, of a home.

  And now he would know the eternal security of a heavenly home…

  “Arthur Jackson has gone home….”

  Jess Dalton’s resonant voice soared above the graveside like a trumpet call. Surprisingly steady in spite of his own private pain, the big pastor’s words brought Evan’s heart an unexpected gift of hope and comfort, reminding him that in two days it would be Resurrection Sunday….

  “I am the Resurrection and the Life; he who believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live….”

  The pastor went on, his voice growing stronger as his words echoed across the springtime afternoon….

  “God says that once He has put the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, we are no longer slaves—but sons. We are sons and heirs of the Father Himself, through Jesus Christ.

  “Arthur Jackson was born a slave, but he dreamed of freedom. He ran away from the only home he’d ever known to come here…to New York City…in search of his dream, in search of freedom.”

  Tears fell freely down the big pastor’s face as he lifted both arms toward heaven. In a voice that rang, not with grief, but with exultation, he proclaimed:

  “Arthur Jackson is no longer a slave! He is a son, beloved heir of the Father. And he has found the freedom of which he dreamed. Arthur is free…free at last!”

  Evan bowed his head and, with an aching heart, began to pray…Lord, let this boy’s death not be in vain…let it be a new beginning, for all of us…from this time forth, let us strive all the more to bind up the wounds, to bridge the differences, to tear down the walls. Oh, Lord…make Your people one in You….

  Early Saturday morning, Tierney Burke stood with his father and Sara on the docks, waiting to board one of Lewis Farmington’s new packets, the Land of Canaan.

  Until today, he would not have believed that the thought of sailing for Ireland could bring him anything but sheer joy. Instead, his heart seemed caught up in a storm of conflicting emotions, not the least of which was the unexpected pain brought on by the thought of leaving his father.

  “You have the letter for Morgan?” Da asked again.

  Tierney had lost count of how many times he had repeated the question. Touching his shirt pocket, he said, “I do, Da. It’s right here.”

  His father’s face was tight and strained, and when he chanced to meet Tierney’s gaze, he quickly looked away. “Aye…well, I’ll be sending him a letter as well. Right away.”

  Tierney nodded, not knowing what to say.

  The three of them jumped when the ship’s horn blasted.

  “Well, then,” his father said awkwardly, “you’ll be leaving soon. Here it is…your dream at last.”

  Again Tierney nodded. He glanced at Sara, shaken by the depth of kindness and understanding in her eyes. He had her to thank for getting him passage so quickly. Her, and her father.

  “Sara,” he said, his voice sounding thin and unnatural in his ears, “thank you again. For everything.”

  She smiled at him, and Tierney was dumbfounded to see tears in her eyes.

  “You’ve already thanked me, Tierney. Just…take care. And write to us. You will write?”

  He nodded, unable to meet her gaze any longer. “Da….”

  “This is what you always wanted,” his father broke in, repeating the same words he had said often throughout the morning. “You’ve waited a long time for this day.”

  “I…that’s true…but I hadn’t thought it would be like this….”

  “Aye…but it would seem the only way now,” said his father gruffly.

  It seemed to Tierney that Da looked older this morning than he had ever seen him. Older and sad and strangely unsure of himself.

  “By now Walsh knows about your freeing the girls,” his father was saying. “And how you came back to help the others. There’s no telling what he’ll try.” He paused, then added in a slightly stronger tone, “Especially if he learns you’ve filled us in on all his illegal—businesses.”

  “I hope I gave you enough to help, Da.”

  “Everything helps. The time will come when there’s enough,” his father said grimly. “It will come.”

  Again the three of them stood, not speaking, each glancing about the docks as if they hadn’t already inspected the entire harbor several times during the past hour.

  “I expect we’ll miss you!” his father suddenly blurted out.

  Tierney turned a startled look on him. The hurt in Da’s eyes arrowed right to his heart, and for one terrible moment he thought he would burst into childish tears.

  He would miss him, too. Oh, Da…I will miss you more than you would dream, more than I would have believed, until now.

  As if he had read his thoughts, Da suddenly reached for him, pulling him into a fierce embrace. Tierney’s voice strangled on the unshed tears caught in his throat. He heard Sara give a small sob, which only made it harder.

  “Tierney…” Da choked out, his arms still wrapped tightly about him, “I hope you find what you’re looking for. I hope Ireland doesn’t disappoint you.”

  Knowing in another moment he would fly apart entirely, Tierney eased himself back, out of his father’s arms. Forcing a weak semblance of a smile, he said, “It’ll be grand, Da. I’ve no doubt about it. Ireland’s for me, all right.”

  His father glanced down at his hands, as if wondering what to do with them. “Well…but you know you can always come home. I’ll get things fixed up here in no time at all, so you won’t have to worry about coming back when you’re ready.”

  “Oh, I know, Da. I know you will. And I’ll be back….”

  He could not bear another moment of this, could not endure his father’s anguished gaze. “Well…I expect I should go aboard now, don’t you?” he muttered, looking neither at his father nor at Sara.

  Without another word, he turned his back on the two of them…and New York…and, slinging his jacket over his shoulder, started up the gangplank.

  When he reached the deck, he went to the rail. They were still standing there, watching him. Sara waved, then Da.

  Tierney lifted his hand to wave. There was enough distance between them now that they couldn’t see the tears he could hold back no longer. His vision blurred as he smiled and waved goodbye.

  And so at last, he was on his way to Ireland.

  42

  Gifts of the Heart

  He’ll meet the soul which comes in love

  and deal it joy on joy—

  as once He dealt out star and star

  to garrison the sky,

  to stand there over rains and snows

  and deck the dark of night—

  so, G
od will deal the soul, like stars,

  delight upon delight.

  ROBERT FARREN

  Dublin

  April

  The night before the wedding, Sandemon and Annie were still hurrying to complete the last details of the gift which might, at least in part, fulfill a certain dream.

  The two of them were hard at work in the stables, their heads bent low over the project. The wolfhound sat nearby, watching their efforts with a skeptical, though polite, expression.

  Intent on her part in things, Annie bit her lip almost to bleeding as she held the last part of Sandemon’s invention in place to be hard-soldered.

  “This…should…do…it,” said Sandemon, easing back from his work at last to appraise the finished product.

  Annie also contemplated the results of their efforts, imitating the black man’s solemn nod of approval. “A fine job,” she said, glancing at Fergus as if to say, I told you so.

  “Only if it works,” cautioned Sandemon. “It remains yet to test its effectiveness with the Seanchai, later tonight.”

  On her knees beside their creation, Annie refused to even consider failure. “Of course, it will work, Sand-Man! You said it would!”

  Raising his head, he nodded distractedly. “We must take it into the house now. Later, I will present it to the Seanchai and help him experiment with it.”

  Annie would have liked very much to see the Seanchai’s face when he beheld their creation, but the hour was already growing late—and Sister had given strict orders that she report to her yet tonight for some last minute instructions.

  No doubt she intended to “do something” with Annie’s hair. Sister tended to become a bit wild-eyed about things like clean hair and clean socks and clean fingernails.

  “You must tell me every word the Seanchai says when he sees it,” she reminded Sandemon.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Even if it’s a total failure and he thinks us demented?”

  “If it’s a success, he will think we’re quite wonderful,” she pointed out.

  Helping him to wrap the culmination of two weeks’ work in paper and canvas, she changed the subject. “I’d like your opinion on something, Sand-Man.”