Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  Didn’t Nora herself maintain that the Lord had been with her, at her side, through the very worst times in her life, through all the pain and the suffering she had endured?

  What was it she had told him the night Teddy was born?…“This much I do know and believe…I am closer to our Lord during those times than at any other moment of my life.”

  Considering what God had done for Nora…for all of them…in the past, Evan felt he could do no less than trust His faithfulness for the future. His father’s exhortation echoed in his mind: “Be brave, and trust God.”

  He walked on, only vaguely aware of the sharpness of the wind. As he walked, he seemed to feel the very heartbeat of the city, sensing its energy and agony all about him. He passed among people of countless nations, people of unknown tongues and exotic dress. America was rapidly becoming a nation of immigrants, a nation virtually built upon the dreams and sweat and suffering of all those coming to her shores in search of refuge.

  It seemed a wonder and a glory to Evan that the God who had sustained Nora…and himself…through the shadowed valleys of their lives was also the God of all the thousands of immigrants who even now were building this new nation. How He could be in the midst of so many people, yet abide in the hearts of each, was a miracle that never ceased to amaze Evan.

  For while it was true that there was suspicion and division, in some cases even hatred, among the peoples of these various nations, there was also a common bond of faith joining them all: faith in the same God upon whom the early colonists had founded their nation.

  Thousands had already begun to push west, lured by the fortunes to be made in gold…and to the north, to the security of factories and industry…or to the heartland, where land was vast and rich and fertile. And they were taking their faith with them.

  For over seventy years, God had been at the heart of the growing, struggling United States. And now, as they were about to enter a new decade—the 1850s—God was still at the heart of a surging, dynamic America, whose boundaries seemed limitless…and whose destiny appeared to be greatness.

  For as long as God was at the heart of America, could America be anything less than great?

  Walking more slowly now, Evan looked about at the omnibuses, the police wagons, the hackney cabs, the carriages. He wound his way among merchants and street vendors, organ grinders, businessmen and beggars.

  And all along the way, the ever-present, often homeless, children darted in and out of alleys, playing their games or plying their trades, peddling paper flowers or candy, shining shoes or picking pockets. They were everywhere. Children with dirty faces and hungry eyes, timid smiles and tear-tracked cheeks. Clothed in rags or paper shoes, their bodies were often bruised, their gazes furtive. Some orphaned by circumstance, others discarded, like dirty rags…abandoned, forgotten, and alone.

  America’s children.

  And it dawned upon Evan as he walked that something must be done for these little ones if America was to have a future. The country, this wonderful new nation, was failing her children! And if the country failed her children, her children would eventually fail the country.

  The hope…the future…of any nation was its children. Something had to be done for the Billy Hogans of the United States. They needed a place to go, these outcast, abused little ones: a place where they could be safe and grow up knowing the peace and love of God and a family.

  But where? Evan slowed his pace. A sense of desperation, a fathomless kind of yearning, like nothing he had ever known, swept over him. He was still dimly aware of his surroundings, but it was as though nothing existed except the swelling urgency inside him. He was no longer tuned to the clamor or the heartbreak of the city.

  In that moment, even as he continued walking, he felt himself seized and held captive. He felt the cold, but not its sting—as if the Father had wrapped His arms about him and was holding him, carrying him…all the while whispering to him…

  I will take care of Nora, Evan. Trust Me.

  Heartened beyond measure, Evan pressed his muffler closer to his throat. “I know, Lord…I know You will.”

  I will take care of Nora’s needs…and yours. I will sustain you and your family, Evan. Trust Me.

  It no longer mattered that he was in the middle of a busy city. Evan walked on, his steps lighter, his heart lighter, too, as he murmured a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

  Trust Me, Evan, to take care of you and those you love. And I will trust you to take care of My children.

  Evan caught a breath and held it, his heart racing.

  I have brought you to this place for a reason, Evan. I have blessed you along the way with family and friends. I have put people in this city for you, people to love you and encourage you and affirm you…and I have put you in the city for My people. For my children. I told you I would ask much of you.…

  Evan stumbled, then stopped where he was, waiting. “Yes, Lord?”

  As you entrust your loved ones to Me, I now entrust My children to you. Save the children, Evan. Trust Me…and save My children.

  Trembling, Evan looked around. He was astonished to realize he had walked all the way to the Bowery. He was on Elizabeth Street, near Grand, in the midst of one of the largest German settlements in the city.

  He stared out into the street, at shoppers and merchants making their way between the horse-drawn buggies and wagons coming and going. Turning, he scanned the buildings lining the street, most of them familiar. The bakery, the cooper shop, the sign maker’s. Not an entirely disreputable neighborhood, by New York standards.

  Unexpectedly, the sun came out, struggling through the low dense clouds of the November sky, casting a faint silver spray across the rooftops, illuminating one building just to his right.

  Three stories high, it was a wide, sturdy-looking structure of dark brick that, although obviously not new, looked to have been reasonably well maintained. It appeared to be vacant—unusual in this neighborhood.

  Evan started to walk away—he had already been gone from home far longer than he’d intended—but he found himself hesitating. As he stood there, his gaze traveling the length and breadth of the building as the sun hovered just overhead, he thought he heard…just for a moment…the sound of laughter and singing.

  Children’s laughter. Children’s voices.

  He glanced around. There were no children in sight.

  His eyes went back to the building that had taken on a strangely cheerful, friendly appearance in the warm glow from the sun. He stood there a long time, staring at the vacant building.

  At last he turned once more to leave.

  And again, he heard the children. Happy, carefree, countless children.

  I have brought you to this place, Evan…for the children.…

  As if caught in a dream, Evan found himself approaching the building. Slowly, he walked up the stone steps to the massive double doors, where a sign had been posted: For Sale or Lease. Inquire at Gartner’s Bakery.

  Evan stared at the sign for a long time before retracing his steps. In the street, he turned for one last lingering look at the stalwart brick building. Familiar, somehow, like an old friend.

  As he stood there, he felt something stir, like a whisper, a murmuring in his spirit.

  Whittaker House.

  A place for the children.

  Then, with the distant voices of children ringing in his heart and the early afternoon sun shining golden upon his back, Evan Whittaker turned away and started down the street, toward Gartner’s Bakery.

  43

  In Search of an Ancient Glory

  The country’s history and our own

  Lie just beyond the portals of the Past.

  Here we confront ourselves

  In the echoing footsteps

  Of all those who have gone before.

  ANONYMOUS

  Dublin

  Early December

  The sky at noon was startlingly clear. December had made an unseasonably mild entrance, with a succession of
almost balmy days and crisp nights.

  Outside the Gypsy wagon, Sandemon, in his shirtsleeves, felt himself gripped by a restless, indefinable yearning more often associated with young hearts in the springtime of the year. He had been too long confined: almost five weeks in this wagon with the two youths. Five weeks of critical illness and the relentless strain of nursing. Five weeks of fending off the impatience and peevishness occasioned by such confinement.

  Soon it would be over—a great relief! He threw the last of the contaminated cloths on the fire and stood watching the smoke wind its way slowly upward. He was missing Nelson Hall and the household, missing them grievously: the mercurial humor and companionship of the young master, the delight of the children, the shy kindness of Mistress Finola—and, of course, the peppery wit and wry good will of Sister Louisa.

  His family.

  Poking at the fire with a stick, his thoughts roamed to each of them, wondering how they had fared this past month. What sort of new mischief might young Annie have involved herself in by now? And the baby—ah, the golden son of Nelson Hall—he would be rounder still, and more alert. And the Seanchai…

  His mood sobered. He fretted much about the young giant, so very needful, yet so determined in his quest for independence—and so poignantly obvious in his love for his wife.

  Sandemon knew, whether anyone else in the household did or not, that the two still lived as friends, not as intimates. They were clearly devoted to each other; only a blind man would not be sensitive to the affection that flowed between them. But they lived apart—entrapped, he suspected, by their individual fear of rejection and, perhaps, by a lack of awareness of each other’s feelings.

  Yet he held high hopes, indeed had given much prayer to those hopes, that in his absence the two would finally acknowledge their love…and their need…for each other. If the Seanchai once perceived the depth of feeling in his young wife’s eyes, perhaps he would at last be able to throw his restraint to the wind and open his arms to her…just as he had already opened his home and his heart to her.

  But he was a proud man, the Seanchai—proud, and possessed of uncommon self-control. Sandemon had long sensed the conflict of emotions in the young poet. His fierce resolve to place no demands, no obligation, on the tragic young woman he had married must surely do continual battle with his love for her.

  As for Mistress Finola, although she could not look at her husband without her heart rising in her eyes, she appeared equally determined to expect nothing from the marriage.

  Sandemon sighed and shook his head. He did not fancy himself to be a matchmaker. All he could do was pray for them, these two young lovers who loved only at a distance. He would continue to pray, and continue to hope that by now, at least one of them might have realized the gift they were meant to be to each other—and taken steps to break down the wall keeping them apart.

  He expelled a long breath, staring into the fire at the smoldering remnants of his long, arduous battle against the cholera. With a rueful smile, he thought perhaps he should also be praying for patience—patience enough for just one more day. For tomorrow—ah, tomorrow—they would be leaving the wagon at last! Tomorrow he would be free to return to the family!

  But the thought of tomorrow brought to mind the disturbing question of what tomorrow might mean for the young Gypsy inside the wagon. Just this morning, he had confided to Sandemon and Tierney Burke that he no longer had a home to go to. When questioned, he had explained the concept of marhime—banishment from his family and the entire Gypsy camp.

  Tierney had tried to persuade him that he was wrong, that surely his people would welcome him back. But Jan Martova had simply turned his mournful black eyes on his friend, saying, “You do not understand our ways. I assure you. By now, I have been banished from the kumpania.”

  Sandemon turned to glance at the open windows of the wagon. From the sound of the conversation inside, it seemed the argument was still going on. He could not help but overhear the youths’ exchange, and what he heard troubled him greatly—not only for Jan Martova, but for Tierney Burke as well.

  “But that’s crazy!” Seated on the floor of the wagon, Tierney leaned against the wall. He had to make a determined effort to keep his contempt for the absurd Gypsy customs out of his voice. “You didn’t do anything wrong! Why would they banish you for trying to help a friend?”

  Opposite him, also on the floor, Jan Martova sat, rosining the bow of his violin. “I told you, you cannot hope to understand our ways. You are Gorgio. Our laws are ancient and logical only to the Rom.”

  “Your laws are unfair, if you ask me,” muttered Tierney. He went on, giving Jan no opportunity to respond. “As for keeping your wagon here, on the grounds, I don’t know whether Morgan would allow it or not. But I’m not the one to ask. I’ll have no say in it, especially now.”

  Jan nodded. “I understand. The decision has to be the Seanchai’s. I merely thought perhaps, if you were to speak with him first…”

  Tierney let out a short, self-mocking laugh. “Morgan isn’t going to let me back inside Nelson Hall! Not after what I did. By now, I’ve been banished, just like you.”

  Jan Martova studied him. “Will he really be that angry, do you think?”

  Tierney gave another humorless laugh. “I think he may very well wring my neck!” He cracked his knuckles. “If he even gets that close to me.”

  For a long time Jan said nothing. One forefinger traced the neck of the violin. Tierney noted the gentleness with which his friend handled the instrument, as if it were made of marble or gold, rather than old, battered-looking wood.

  “So, then, what will you do?” Jan asked. “Where will you go?”

  Tierney shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll get a job, I suppose. Find a place in Dublin for a while.”

  Jan shook his head. “I cannot think it will come to that. I believe you misjudge your Seanchai.”

  Tierney made no reply. Although he had witnessed only fleeting glimpses of Morgan’s temper, he had seen enough to convince him he would no longer be welcome at Nelson Hall.

  He supposed he really couldn’t blame Morgan. The man had opened up his home to him, practically made him one of the family, taking him in on short notice, with no questions asked. In repayment, Tierney had lied to him and willfully defied his authority.

  He thought Morgan might have eventually forgiven the deceit. The man could be surprisingly tolerant at times. But Tierney imagined the chances of his forgiving anyone who endangered his family were slim indeed. And there was no denying the fact that his recklessness had put the entire household at risk.

  He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. A gnawing sense of guilt had kept him awake most of the night. He was thoroughly disgusted at the way he had botched everything. The mess he’d created for himself was bad enough, but to realize what his foolishness was likely to cost Jan Martova made it worse. He was beginning to think he should have stayed in New York and taken his chances with Patrick Walsh.

  “I regret that I won’t be able to keep my wagon here,” Jan said. “I had hoped to stay close, for the sake of our friendship.”

  Tierney opened his eyes. “We can still be friends,” he said awkwardly, not quite knowing how to voice his own feelings.

  The other gave a brief nod. “That’s true. We can maintain our friendship wherever we are. But I would like to stay because of Sandemon as well.”

  Tierney shifted and stretched, impatient with the weakness that still swept over him with even the slightest movement. “You like him a lot, don’t you?”

  “Sandemon?” Jan nodded. “I think he is a noble man, yes. A great man. But even more than that, I am hungry for his teaching.”

  Tierney thought about his own feelings toward Sandemon. “I didn’t care much for him at first, I admit. Back home, the Irish and the blacks don’t get along.”

  Jan Martova looked surprised. “But why not?”

  Tierney shrugged. “There aren’t enough jobs to go ar
ound, and the blacks will work for lower wages. It causes a lot of bad feelings.”

  “But surely you must respect Sandemon?”

  Tierney hesitated, then nodded. “I suppose I do. He risked his life for us, after all. Yeah, I owe him.”

  Jan Martova nodded. “He has changed my life, I think.”

  Tierney regarded him skeptically. “Changed your life?”

  Jan smiled and laid the violin aside. “Yes, I would say he has done just that. All the more reason I had hoped to stay close to him. I want to continue to learn from him, about your—my—God.”

  Always ill at ease in any discussion about faith, Tierney remained silent.

  “Are you a believer?” Jan asked abrupdy.

  The question made Tierney squirm. Avoiding the other’s gaze, he delayed his answer. But the memory of the fever-dream he’d had during the cholera wasn’t as easy to avoid. The dark tunnel, the faceless shadows that had groped at him, the whispering, the lake of fire…

  No matter how hard he tried to forget what he had seen that night—or thought he had seen—it wouldn’t go away. Not completely. Like some kind of dread specter, it lurked, just below the surface of his mind, rising to haunt him when he least expected it.

  “I don’t know what I believe,” he finally answered. And he spoke the truth. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been confused and at odds with himself about what he believed. He wasn’t like his da, who never seemed to question or doubt matters of faith. With Da, it had always been a case of absolutes. Right is right, and wrong is wrong. No compromise.

  But for Tierney, it had never been that simple. He had never actually thought through what he believed, had never really confronted his feelings or tried to articulate them. At some level he knew he believed in God, and certainly he believed in evil. He supposed he believed in heaven and hell, though what constituted each had never been clearly defined in his thinking—another difference between him and Da.