Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  From a nearby corner came the familiar, dread rustling sounds. The rats were waiting.…

  Their noises were louder than Billy remembered. He thought he heard a squeal, but his ears rang so fiercely of late that he couldn’t be sure.

  He put a hand to his belly. He couldn’t imagine why it was so big when he hadn’t eaten for such a long time. He felt swollen and sore. For some reason, he found himself remembering the starving Hayes children back home, before they died in the snow. Their bellies had been swollen, every one of them, though their arms and legs had been nothing much but sticks.

  Was he starving? It didn’t seem likely, since he wasn’t even hungry. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had last eaten, but if he were starving, he would be hungry, wouldn’t he?

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go back to sleep. He slept most of the time now, when the pain didn’t keep him awake. He no longer listened for the door to open, no longer strained to hear Uncle Sorley’s voice saying he could come out.

  Uncle Sorley wasn’t coming back for him this time.

  Billy tried not to think of his uncle; instead, he turned his thoughts to his da. He thought about his da a lot lately. It was peculiar, how he could still remember Da’s face, the sound of his voice, after so long a time. He had often awakened him on cold winter mornings by wrapping him up tight in the covers and lifting him out of the bed, blankets and all. Da would hold him on his lap then, the two of them perched on the side of the bed, until Billy came awake, still drowsy and warm in his father’s arms.

  Here in the cellar, when the cold gnawed at his bones and the pain wracked his body, Billy would pull himself up into a tight ball, pretending that he was back in his own bed at home, and Da was holding him, keeping him warm. Sometimes he even fell asleep that way, imagining the feel of his da’s strong arms wrapped about him.

  Billy’s eyes came open as the scratching sounds grew closer. He shivered, gritting his teeth.

  Staring into the darkness, Billy struggled to remember…something.

  The song…he had to find the song…the song about the light…Mr. Evan said the Light would keep the things of darkness away.…

  Someone whispered in the darkness. Billy smiled, thinking it might be his da, after all, come to let him out.

  Sing, Billy…sing. Sing away the darkness…sing about the Light.…

  Keep on singing, Billy…keep on singing.…

  Inside the small dark entryway downstairs, Evan and Sergeant Price stood talking in hushed tones. Still sensing the same peculiar restraint he had felt in the apartment, Evan found himself deliberately putting off leaving the building.

  “I don’t quite know what to do n-next, Sergeant,” he said, “but I’m m-most grateful for your help. And your patience.”

  The policeman waved away his thanks. “I want to find the little lad as much as you do, Mr. Whittaker. Billy’s a fine boy. As for what to do next, I’ve already passed the word to the other men. We’ll all be keeping an eye out for him, you can be sure.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Evan hesitated, weary beyond measure, yet unwilling to give up. “I don’t suppose…we could walk around a bit m-more.”

  “We can do that, if you like. But if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Whittaker, you look as if you could do with a good night’s rest. Are you all right, sir?”

  “Oh…yes, I’m…”

  Evan was totally unprepared for the sudden tightening of his throat, the stinging of his eyes. His voice caught, and, dismayed by his own weakness, he slumped against the wall, his body trembling. “I’m sorry…”

  Sergeant Price moved to take the lantern. “Mr. Whittaker,” he said kindly, putting a hand to Evan’s shoulder, “why don’t I just see you to the ferry? My word on it, I’ll not give up the search for the little fellow.”

  Evan nodded, wiping his hand across his eyes. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. I should g-go home. I don’t want to worry N-Nora any more than—”

  He broke off, holding his breath as he listened. It couldn’t be…yet, that voice…

  He knew that voice!

  The sergeant frowned, still holding on to him as if he feared Evan might fall where he stood. “What is it, sir?”

  “D-did you hear something?” Evan asked him, moving away from the wall. For a moment, he’d thought he heard a child’s voice. Billy’s voice. But he must have imagined it.…

  And then he heard it again. “There! Did you hear that?”

  He strained to listen above the other muffled sounds echoing through the building—a baby crying, voices raised in an argument, children shouting at one another.

  “Perhaps I was wrong,” he said uncertainly. “I thought…it sounded like someone…singing.”

  They both stood, tensed and expectant. Scarcely breathing, Evan sorted out the sounds, one at a time, dismissing one, then going on to the next, much as he did when he was listening for a sour note among the boys in the choir.

  There! He put a hand to Sergeant Price’s arm. “Do you hear?”

  Slowly, the sergeant nodded, regarding Evan with a questioning expression. “Aye, there would seem to be someone singing, right enough.” His puzzled frown hinted at his unspoken question: what of it?

  Evan turned to stare at the narrow, boarded door in the shadows. He moved toward it, leaned and pressed his ear against the scaling wood.

  “…Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,

  Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art,

  Thou my best thought by day and by night…”

  “Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.” Evan finished the words, barely able to choke out the last. “That’s him! That’s Billy!” He turned to the sergeant. “I’d know that voice anywhere!”

  The policeman stared at him. Then, holding the lantern with one hand, he released the wooden bar across the door.

  The door opened onto a dark, steep stairway. “Must go to the coal cellar,” said Sergeant Price. “Looks black as the pit down there.” Holding the lantern out, over the stairway, he started down. “Hold on tight, sir. These steps are in bad shape.”

  The singing was still faint, but sounded closer now. Evan’s heart hammered. It was Billy, all right! There was no mistaking that bell-like voice, though it sounded fearfully weak and tremulous.

  He was singing the same words over and over again, words to the old Gaelic hymn “Be Thou My Vision.”

  Evan thought his heart would explode as they descended the rickety stairway.

  Sergeant Price ducked his head as they entered a dark, filthy cellar. Inside, he raised the lantern, passing it slowly from side to side. They could see nothing but a coal bin and some empty crates.

  “Listen…” Evan whispered. In the eerie glow from the lantern, their eyes met. The singing had stopped.

  Seized by a spasm of coughing as the coal dust filled his lungs, Evan fumbled for his handkerchief. When he could again catch his breath, he watched the sergeant explore each corner of the cellar, then shake his head.

  “But he must be here somewhere!” Evan insisted. “We heard him!”

  Suddenly, the policeman whipped around, raising a hand for Evan to listen. “There! It’s coming from the other side!”

  The sound was faint, like the whimper of a wounded animal.

  Sergeant Price motioned for Evan to follow him. “Over here,” he said. He lowered the lantern, revealing another door in the shadows behind the steps.

  “Blast! It’s locked!” muttered the sergeant as he shook the handle. Handing the lantern to Evan, he threw his shoulder against the door, but it held.

  “Stand back, sir.”

  Evan stood aside while Sergeant Price took a step back from the door. One good kick was all it took; the shabby door broke free from its frame and slammed inward against the wall. Retrieving the lantern from Evan, the policeman drew his gun. As they entered, he tracked the sound of the soft moaning with the beam of the lantern.

  Evan’s heart hammered, and
a wave of dizziness swept over him. He knew he was on the verge of passing out. He stopped for just an instant, willing his head to clear, forcing himself to breathe deeply.

  Sergeant Price trained the lantern on the far corner of the closet, following its beam until he suddenly stopped. “Lord, have mercy!”

  A moan of horror ripped from Evan’s throat as he stared at the nightmare scene before them. Billy Hogan lay, facing them, curled up like an infant. His face was a mass of bruises and cuts, his eyes swollen shut. Dried blood streaked his face. His knees were drawn up almost to his chin, but Evan could see that the child was emaciated. Despite his protruding abdomen—no doubt the effect of starvation—his arms looked pitifully thin.

  The boy moaned, and Evan went weak with relief. He was still alive!

  Sergeant Price stepped forward, and gave a cry. Evan moved closer. His eyes followed the swaying light from the lantern—the sergeant’s hand was trembling—and saw a sight that threatened to take his sanity.

  A band of large brown rats hovered malevolently near the prostrate child’s feet, as if poised in some macabre death watch.

  Evan threw a hand over his mouth and gagged. The sergeant roared in rage and rushed at them, sending them squealing and scurrying back to their nest.

  “Devils!” the policeman thundered as they ran. Pocketing his gun, he turned to Evan. “Why don’t you let me take care of this, Mr. Whittaker?”

  But Evan was already on his knees beside Billy. “I’m all right,” he insisted. For a moment he was afraid to touch the poor, bruised body, fearful of inflicting still more pain. Finally, he was able to bring himself to put his hand to the wheat-colored hair, now matted with dirt and blood. The boy was shaking, his entire body jerking violently, as if in the throes of a seizure.

  “Poor lad is freezing,” muttered the sergeant, throwing off his coat and tucking it carefully around the small body.

  “Oh, Billy…Billy!” The boy’s name tore from Evan’s throat like a sob. “What have they d-done to you?”

  Billy moaned but didn’t open his eyes. Evan went on stroking the boy’s hair and calling his name, moving to make room for the sergeant when he knelt beside him.

  “Let’s have a look at the little fellow,” he said softly. The policeman’s large square hands moved as gently and as confidently as those of a surgeon over Billy Hogan’s small body. Evan could almost sense the man fighting to keep his anger under control as he appraised the evidence of such unthinkable cruelty.

  “He’s taken a terrible fierce beating, poor little lad. And he’s half-starved as well.”

  “Sergeant…” Hearing the tremor in his voice, Evan stopped to draw in a steadying breath. “The rats…”

  “It wouldn’t appear that the filthy creatures got a chance at him, Mr. Whittaker.” Putting his ear to the boy’s chest, he listened. “But he’s in a bad way, poor lad. It’s the hospital for him, but I’d not want to move him yet.”

  He got to his feet, saying, “If you’ll stay with him for a bit, I’ll go for Doc Hilman—he’s just up the street. And I’ll need to get one or two of my boyos down here to help out. We’ll be locking Sorley Dolan up yet tonight.”

  With the sergeant’s help, Evan sat down on the floor, bracing his back against the wall so he could cradle the boy’s head in his lap. The child mumbled something incoherent, his body still shaking. Evan tried as best he could to soothe him, stroking his hair, murmuring words of comfort. The sergeant stood, watching the boy with compassionate eyes.

  Suddenly, Billy twisted, then gave a sharp moan as if the effort had sent fresh pain shooting through him. “Da?”

  Evan bent lower over the boy. “Billy…Billy…can you hear m-me?”

  The boy turned his face up toward Evan, but his eyes remained closed. “Da…is it you, Da?”

  Over Billy Hogan’s small body, Evan looked up and met the gaze of Sergeant Price. Shaken, he saw that the eyes of the big, rugged police sergeant were glazed with tears, as were his own.

  “He thinks you’re his daddy, Mr. Whittaker,” said the policeman with a faint, sad smile for Evan. “His real da died some years back, before they came across.”

  Looking down at the boy Evan murmured, “Your…your Father is here, B-Billy. He’s right here with you.” Oh, Lord, You are here…You’ve been here all along, haven’t You?

  With a last look at the boy, the sergeant said, “I’d best be going after the doc and my men, Mr. Whittaker. You’ll be all right till I get back?”

  Evan nodded, never taking his eyes off the small, battered face. His hand trembled as he continued to stroke and smooth the boy’s hair. Again Billy twisted and moaned. “Da? Is it morning yet?”

  Evan’s breath caught in his throat. He nearly strangled on his words as he strained to answer. “Soon, B-Billy. Soon, it will be…m-morning.…”

  Slowly, as if the very act were an agony, Billy opened his eyes. He stared up at Evan through narrow slits. “Mr. Evan? Is that you?”

  Somehow Evan found the strength to smile. “Yes, Billy. It’s…M-Mr. Evan.”

  The child’s swollen mouth actually curved in a vain attempt at a smile. “You were right…about the singing, Mr. Evan.”

  Evan leaned closer. “What’s that, son? What about the singing?”

  Billy’s eyes closed again, but the ghost of a smile remained. “I remembered what you told us, Mr. Evan…about the singing…how it would build a fort round about us to keep away the things of the darkness—”

  Billy gave a gasp beneath the sergeant’s heavy coat. “It worked, Mr. Evan. It worked…just like you said it would. Did you hear me? Did you hear me singing?”

  The tears Evan had struggled to control now fell free, streaming down his face. “Oh, yes, Billy…I heard you singing,” he choked out. “I heard you, son…and so did your heavenly Father and all His angels.”

  41

  The Ways of Women

  May God be praised for woman

  That gives up all her mind,

  A man may find in no man

  A friendship of her kind.

  W.B. YEATS (1865-1939)

  Not long before midnight, Evan finally arrived home. Two of Sergeant Price’s men brought him across from the hospital on a small boat sometimes used for searching the harbor.

  He practically stumbled the last few steps up the walk. He could not remember ever being this weary in his life. But at least he had the comfort of knowing that Billy Hogan was safe in a hospital bed at Bellevue, and he expected that by now the brute responsible for his injuries was in a cell. There had been no mistaking Sergeant Price’s resolve to lock up Sorley Dolan before the night was over.

  Aunt Winnie opened the door before he could insert his key in the lock. “Evan…dear boy, you look absolutely exhausted!”

  Inside, he allowed her to take his coat for him. His weary mind reached to identify the odor in the house. “Aunt Winnie? Is something b-burning?”

  She turned to face him, and he saw for the first time that she looked uncharacteristically disheveled. Her hair was mussed; her dress appeared wrinkled and—stained. He stared at her, feeling the beginning of alarm. “Aunt Winnie, is something wrong?”

  She took him by the arm. “Everything is under control, dear. You needn’t worry. We had a minor fire, but no one was hurt.”

  “A fire!” His stomach knotted with dread. “Nora—”

  Holding him firmly in tow, Aunt Winnie steered him toward the parlor. “Now, dear, everything is perfectly all right, I promise you. Nora is fine. So are Teddy and Johanna. Come along, you can see for yourself.”

  As she led him across the hall, Evan knew one irrational instant of denial. He was exhausted, famished, and slightly ill. He simply could not deal with another crisis yet tonight.

  “In here, dear. We’ll explain.”

  He stopped just inside the doorway of the parlor, vastly relieved to see Nora on the small settee in front of the fireplace, smiling rather wanly at him. A thrill of surprise shot through hi
m at the sight of Johanna in the rocking chair by the window, with Teddy sound asleep in her arms! She, too, looked up and smiled as he entered.

  For a moment Evan simply stood, staring at the scene in front of him. But his relief and pleasure quickly gave way to renewed concern as he became even more keenly aware of the smell of smoke.

  Before he could ask anything else, Aunt Winnie urged him into the room. “I must warn you, dear, that the bedroom is a bit of a disaster. I’ve tidied up as best I can, but we’ll have to replace the drapes and the bedding.”

  Evan gawked. “Whatever are you t-talking about? What happened?”

  Aunt Winnie shushed him. “The baby’s sleeping, dear. Do keep your voice down.” Leading him over to the settee, she went on, her tone characteristically cheerful. “There. You just sit right here with Nora, and I’ll explain. Then we’ll get you something to eat. A cold supper will have to do, though, dear. I forgot all about your dinner while we were putting out the fire in the bedroom.” She paused, catching a breath. “I’m afraid I burned the ham.”

  It was nearly midnight by the time Sara had seen Quinn O’Shea safely to bed, then sat listening in dismay to Michael’s bleak news about Nora.

  They talked quietly in the sitting room, Sara curled up in the armchair by the hearth, while Michael stood with his back to the fire, warming his hands.

  Still shaken by the events of the evening and her fear for Nora, Sara was beginning to feel the effects of the long day. She could think of little to say, other than the question that had lodged in her mind since first hearing about the seriousness of Nora’s condition. “She will be all right?” she asked anxiously. “With proper treatment and the right care…she can get well?”

  “I’m not…certain that’s the case,” Michael said after a noticeable hesitation. “But if not altogether well, at least she should see some improvement. That’s how Evan put it.”

  “Poor Evan. How is he?”

  Michael shrugged. “Pretty much as you’d expect. Frightened. Distressed. But…managing, I’d say. You know how he is.”