Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  Panic struck her, and Johanna opened her mouth to scream. But no sound came.

  She had to wake Aunt Nora! She started for the bed, then stopped. A thin finger of flame was already creeping up one leg of the crib.

  Without another thought, she lunged toward the crib, grabbing Teddy up into her arms. As she pulled him against her, she turned back toward the bed and saw Nora shift as if she were coming awake.

  A ribbon of fire slithered between Johanna and the bed. Smoke burned her eyes, filled her lungs. The baby’s small fists clutched at her dress as he stared at the flames in obvious terror.

  In desperation, Johanna threw back her head and squeezed her eyes shut, straining, pleading, for the voice to come.

  A shuddering vibration ripped from her throat. Her eyes snapped open, and she saw Nora bolt upright in bed, gaping at the scene around her in horror.

  Sara was in the sitting room, reading by the fire, when she heard Michael’s voice. Surprised but pleased, she jumped up from her chair, calling out to him as she hurried from the room.

  “Michael? I thought you said you wouldn’t be home until late—”

  She stopped dead at the sight of her husband and the young girl at his side. Her mind instantly registered the fact that Michael looked strained and slightly harried, while the girl appeared resentful and even a little frightened. “Michael?”

  His expression momentarily brightened at the sight of her. “Sara, I’ve brought you a visitor.”

  It took only a moment for recognition to dawn. “Good heavens—it’s…Quinn, isn’t it? Quinn O’Shea, from the Shelter! Why, my dear, how good to see you! But how did you ever manage to find me?”

  Sara broke off, looking at Michael for an explanation, but he merely lifted his brows in an expression of wait-and-see.

  Stepping closer, Sara decided she’d been right about the fear in the girl’s eyes. Impulsively, she reached for her hand. “Well…it’s very nice to see you again, Quinn. I’ve thought quite a lot about you.”

  Something flickered in the gold-flecked brown eyes—whether relief or surprise, Sara couldn’t tell.

  “You…you do remember me, then, ma’am?”

  The girl’s voice trembled. Sara studied her, wondering at her obvious distress.

  “Why, of course, I remember you! Michael, I told you about meeting Quinn at the Shelter?”

  He regarded Sara, then the girl, with a slightly puzzled frown. “I’m not sure I recall—”

  “Oh, surely you do!” Sara interrupted, smiling at Quinn. “The day I toured the Chatham Women’s Shelter with Helen Preston and the others. I told you about talking with one of the young residents. Remember?”

  Michael nodded slowly, finally giving a faint smile of recognition. “Aye…I believe I do at that. I expect I’d forgotten the name.”

  Still holding Quinn’s hand, Sara studied her. She had wondered from time to time about what might have become of the slight Irish girl, who had so poignantly reminded her of a trapped and helpless animal. Compassion mingled with curiosity at the sight of those wounded eyes and the thin frame beneath that hideous, shapeless dress.

  “Would either of you like to tell me what’s going on?” Sara asked, trying not to show her impatience.

  “Miss O’Shea here has asked to talk with you,” Michael said dryly. “She insists that she will speak with no one else, that it’s a matter of some importance.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked, and after searching his eyes a moment, Sara turned back to Quinn. “Is something wrong, dear? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  The girl seemed highly agitated. She bit her lower lip as her gaze darted around the room. She looked as if she were tempted to turn and run.

  Uncertain as to whether she should press, Sara looked to Michael for help.

  He hesitated for a moment, regarding the girl with an unreadable expression. “Sara, why don’t you show Miss O’Shea where she can freshen up a bit, and then perhaps we could have some supper while we talk. I could do with a bite, and I imagine she could, too.”

  “Oh, of course! I expect neither of you have eaten, have you?” Tugging gently at Quinn’s hand—a painfully thin hand, she noted, Sara said, “Come along, dear. Let’s you and I go upstairs. Michael, Mary should still be in the kitchen. Why don’t you ask her to set out another meal for you and Quinn? There’s potato soup and roast beef—and fresh bread. We won’t be long.”

  Winifred had her head halfway in the oven, checking the ham, when she heard the scream—a primal sound, like that of a wild animal. Straightening, she raced to the door to see the troublesome cat go tearing down the hallway, screeching like a wild thing. She leaned against the doorpost and sighed. How could one tiny cat make such a hideous noise?

  And what had the little goblin gotten into now? She wiped her hands on her apron, preparing to do battle with the cat, children’s pet or not.

  She was on her way down the hall when she heard the baby shriek and begin to cry. She wrinkled her nose against the acrid smell of…smoke! Her heart in her throat, she took off running.

  At the bedroom door, one sweeping glance took in the terrifying scene: the blazing tablecloth, the flames lapping at one leg of the crib, the fire spreading over the floor. And in the midst of the nightmare—Johanna!

  With one arm the girl held Teddy tightly to her, while with her free hand she lifted her skirts to avoid the flames snaking past her as she jumped. And Nora—oh, Lord have mercy—Nora was stumbling from the bed, trying, in all her weakness, to yank the blankets off, no doubt to cover the fire!

  Flying into the room, Winifred grabbed Johanna and pushed her and the baby safely out into the hallway. Then she went back for Nora.

  Nora, dazed, was struggling to breathe. Winifred half-carried her from the room, entrusting her to Johanna’s care. Running back into the bedroom, she hauled the blankets from the bed in one sweep and began to throw them on the flames.

  After a moment, Johanna appeared next to her. They fought the fire side by side, using blankets, then pulling the drapes from the windows for good measure. Though it seemed an eternity, they finally brought the flames under control.

  Other than a room filled with smoke and some ruined drapes and bedding, there was little damage. Exhausted, Winifred wiped a hand over her eyes and stood looking at Johanna. The girl’s thin, lightly freckled face was smudged, her eyes red-rimmed from the smoke. They were both coughing, and Winifred knew if her hair was even half as smoke-dusted as Johanna’s, she was a sight.

  But they were safe.

  Putting an arm around the girl’s slender shoulders, Winifred led her from the room, where Nora stood with the baby whimpering in her arms.

  Taking Johanna by her shoulders, Winifred slowly turned her around so the girl could read her lips. “I want to be sure you realize what you did tonight, Johanna,” she said, speaking slowly and deliberately, her eyes going over the thin, smudged face.

  Johanna’s eyes widened, and Winifred hurried to reassure her. “You are a very brave girl, dear,” Winifred said, squeezing her shoulders. “You saved your baby brother’s life tonight. Quite possibly, you saved all our lives tonight.”

  Johanna flushed, but Winifred held her gaze, going on. “It’s true, dear. And when Teddy is old enough to understand, we will tell him about the night his big sister saved him from the fire!”

  She hesitated, then gently put a hand to Johanna’s smoke-tracked cheek. “Child…did you know you have a voice?” Lightly, she touched the girl’s throat. “I heard you cry out.” Winifred touched her own ear, then Johanna’s throat once more. “I heard you, dear.”

  Johanna put her own hand to her throat and, her eyes wide, nodded. A trace of a smile stole over her smoke-grimed face.

  Reaching then to take the baby, Winifred stood by as Nora and Johanna embraced. When they released each other, Johanna turned, her gaze going to Teddy. Winifred smiled and without hesitation handed him over.

  “Aren’t you a lucky baby,” she said
, making sure Johanna could read her lips, “having such a brave big sister to take care of you?”

  40

  The Sound of Singing

  Thou, and Thou only, first in my heart,

  High king of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

  Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,

  Still be my vision, O Ruler of all.

  ANONYMOUS (IRISH, EIGHTH CENTURY)

  On the other side of the door, they could hear a man’s voice raised in anger, followed by the low tones of a woman and children. The sergeant pounded three times. After a moment they heard the thud of heavy footsteps stumbling over the floor.

  “Uh-oh,” muttered Sergeant Price. “It sounds as if Sorley is at home, blast the luck. Do you mind holding this for a bit, Mr. Whittaker?” he asked, passing Evan the lantern he’d brought with him from the patrol wagon.

  Watching the door, Evan tensed. Like the sergeant, he had hoped Sorley Dolan would be away. Although it was reassuring to have the strapping policeman at his side—armed with a nightstick and a pistol—he dreaded a second confrontation with Billy’s drunken “uncle.” Drawing himself up, he pulled in a deep breath, waiting.

  The door flew open, crashing back against the inside wall. Sorley Dolan loomed in the doorway. His bloodshot eyes narrowed when he saw Evan and Sergeant Price.

  “G’d evening to you, Sorley,” said the sergeant. His tone was cheerful as he stood tapping the palm of one hand with his nightstick. “Having a night off from the job, are we?”

  “What is it you want?” snapped Dolan. Turning his attention to Evan, he eyed him as he might have an ugly insect. “And what’re you doin’ here again?”

  “Now, Sorley, is that any way to be greeting an officer of the law—not to mention a gentleman like Mr. Whittaker?” The sergeant’s fixed smile stopped short of his eyes, Evan noticed, and the nightstick was still very much in evidence as he slapped it against his hand with a little more vigor.

  “I thought I told you the boy don’t live here anymore!” Dolan snarled, glaring at Evan.

  Sergeant Price gave Evan no chance to reply. “But weren’t we just thinking that Billy might have come home by now? Sure, a boy his age isn’t likely to favor life in the street to his own warm bed, now is he? Especially with the winter upon us.”

  “Well, he hasn’t come back, and I don’t look for him to!”

  Dolan made a move as if to slam the door shut, but the sergeant stopped him by wedging one large foot in the doorway. “If you’ve no objection, Sorley, I believe we will have a look about the flat, all the same.”

  Evan heard the subtle change in the policeman’s voice as his tone took on a note of warning.

  The sergeant shoved his way past Dolan, saying over his shoulder, “Come on in, Mr. Whittaker. Sorley doesn’t mind.”

  Holding his breath, Evan followed the sergeant inside to one of the most sparely furnished, dismal rooms he had ever seen. The floor was bare wood, splintered and stained. There were no curtains at the window, no rugs on the floor—no sign of even the slightest attempt at homemaking, except for a cookstove, thick with grease, and a rickety table crowded with bottles and dirty dishes.

  Four rough, unmatched chairs, two of them broken, were pulled up to the table. In one of them sat a dull-eyed, sallow-faced woman of indeterminate age. She looked up as they entered but said nothing. Two small boys in the corner near the window stopped their play to watch Evan and the policeman with wary expressions. After a moment, they both scurried over and plopped down on the floor at the woman’s feet.

  Evan shuddered at the thought that this cold, desolate room was home to Billy Hogan. No doubt the worn-looking woman was his mother, the nervous little boys her sons by Dolan.

  Sorley Dolan stood in the middle of the room, his meaty shoulders hunched as if in self-defense. His face was flushed and set in a dark, malignant scowl.

  “You got no call breaking into me house, Price!” he exploded. “I done told the Brit that the boy is gone, and he won’t be back!”

  The sergeant paused in his inspection of the room to face Dolan. “Why, Sorley, I didn’t break into your house! The door was wide open, didn’t you see?”

  Abruptly, his forced good humor disappeared, giving way to a cold, hard look of challenge and a thickening of the brogue. He stepped closer to Dolan. “Tell me, though, Sorley, what is it that makes you so sure young Billy won’t be coming home? You wouldn’t be keeping any secrets from us, now would you?”

  Not waiting for a reply, the sergeant pointed with his nightstick to a thin blanket strung over a doorway. “That’s the bedroom, is it? We’ll just have a look.”

  “There’s no one in there!” Dolan thundered, feinting as if to charge the policeman. The sight of the sergeant’s hand going to his gun stopped him.

  Finally, the woman spoke. “’Tis the truth,” she said woodenly. “Billy ain’t been home for days.”

  Sergeant Price studied her with a skeptical eye. “Where is the lad, then, Nell? Sure, you must know the whereabouts of your own boy.”

  She shook her head. Watching her slow movements, the dejected, slightly glazed expression, Evan thought she must either be slow-witted or in her cups, he couldn’t tell which.

  “Nell?” prompted the sergeant.

  Before she answered, the woman slanted a quick look at Dolan, who twisted his mouth into an ugly sneer but said nothing.

  The woman dropped her eyes to the table. “Billy run off,” she said, her voice so low it was barely audible. “I don’t know where.”

  The sergeant regarded her with a look of disgust, then motioned to Evan that he should follow him into the bedroom.

  Evan raised the lantern to light their way into the dark room. There was virtually no furniture, except for two large pallets in one corner and a sagging iron bed at the opposite end of the room. Raggedy blankets had been tossed over the pallets and the bed. Dirty clothes littered the floor.

  A feeling of great sadness settled over Evan as he stood looking about the cold, cheerless room. Once more he was overwhelmed by the realization that Billy Hogan had lived and slept in these dreary, disheartening surroundings.

  “Could there b-be another room?” he asked the sergeant. “We can’t simply give up on the b-boy!” Desperation seized his heart. There was not even the slightest sign that Billy had ever lived in this wretched place. For all the evidence of his presence, one could almost imagine the child had never existed at all. And yet Evan could not shake the feeling that something of Billy was still here…if not the boy himself, then at least some part of the anguish or loneliness he might have suffered in these rooms.

  Suddenly realizing that the policeman had spoken to him, he turned. “I’m sorry, Sergeant?” he said, blinking.

  “I was just saying, in answer to your question, Mr. Whittaker, that these two rooms are it. There’s nowhere else to look, I’m afraid.”

  Evan nodded, still unable to shake the nagging sensation that Billy was near. On one level, he understood that his concern and anxiety for the boy might be clouding his reason. There was also the fact that he had gone for two days with scarcely any sleep or nourishment. That alone was enough to impair his judgment.

  Aware that the sergeant was watching him, Evan expelled a long breath. “Yes…well, then, I suppose there’s really n-nothing else we can do here, is there?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Whittaker.” The policeman motioned toward the makeshift curtain that divided the dreary bedroom from the main living space. “I’ll have another go at Dolan before we leave, though I don’t think he’s likely to tell us any more than he already has.”

  “I’d n-not want to see you provoke the m-man, Sergeant. He’s obviously bad-tempered—and drunk. There’s no telling what he m-might do.”

  “Oh, I can handle Sorley well enough, sir,” the sergeant answered with a grim smile. “You needn’t worry yourself about that.”

  In the outer room, Dolan stood at the open door, his face a thunderhead. The woman and lit
tle boys were just as they had left them.

  Evan followed Sergeant Price to the door. The policeman shot a nasty grin at Dolan, whose mottled face darkened even more. “I’ll be back, Sorley,” said the policeman. “I’m sure you must be worried about the boy, but we’ll keep up the search, don’t you fret. And I’ll be stopping by now and again to let you know of any developments.”

  He paused, and Evan saw his eyes go hard. “And, Sorley, should I find out that you’ve not been entirely truthful with us—” He broke off. Again he began to tap the nightstick against the palm of his hand, saying nothing more but merely shaking his head as his eyes raked Dolan one last time.

  Sorley Dolan made a low, growling sound in his throat and lunged forward, but the policeman was quicker. In a movement so fast Evan almost missed it, the hand with the nightstick swung upward, catching Dolan under the throat. At the same time, the sergeant threw himself against the man, driving him against the wall, pinning him in place with the nightstick wedged under his chin.

  The sergeant pushed his face into Dolan’s, his teeth bared in a terrible rictus of a smile. “You don’t want to be trying my patience like that, Sorley.”

  His eyes blazed as he shoved the nightstick even harder against the man’s throat, but he never raised his voice from its quiet, menacing tone. “Now, I’ll be back, Sorley. One way or the other, I’ll be back. And you had best be hoping that before I come, I find young Billy, safe and sound.”

  In the storage closet off the coal cellar, Billy Hogan came awake with a moan. The sound of his own voice and the sharpness of still another new pain had roused him from his twilight sleep.

  He lay on his side, listening to his labored breathing. He tried to pull in a deep gulp of air, but the pain in his chest squeezed off the attempt. Every part of his body hurt, even his teeth.

  He lifted a hand to make sure he could still see, for his right eye was almost swollen shut, and his left burned and watered all the time. He could just make out the outline of his fingers in the darkness. Relieved, he dropped his hand back to his side.