by BJ Hoff
Dalton smiled. “More than possible. My grandfather came from Ireland. He was a printer,” he went on to explain. “He got himself into trouble with the English authorities, printing ‘inflammatory materials’. His intention was to go back to Ireland once his offenses were forgotten, but he met my grandmother here and stayed.” He paused, then added, “And there’s my wife, of course. She immigrated only a few years ago. So you can see I have strong ties to Ireland and its people.”
The big pastor lifted his regretful eyes to Michael. “What will it take to change things, Sergeant? What can the church do to make a difference for the Irish—or the Negro? It does seem that the solution ought to begin with God’s church, but I confess I sometimes wonder where to start.”
Michael met his look. “I would ask you this, Pastor: Where is the Lord’s church? Where was it—other than a brave few, of course—when the Irish were dropping by the thousands along the road, dying of starvation and the fever?”
Tasting his own anger, Michael knew he should stop. This was a man of God he was addressing, after all. A man of the church. But the spurs of resentment and disillusionment in his soul drove him on. “Where is the church when the black slave is torn away from his wife and his babies and put in chains or when he’s beaten to a bloody pulp for accidentally looking into a white man’s face?”
The preacher’s eyes were pools of sadness. He did not speak, but merely shook his great head.
Michael’s voice grew hoarse from the acrid sting of bitterness. “You ask me what the church can do, Pastor. Well, I ask you: What has it done? Where has it been? Where, exactly, is it now? Right now?”
Dalton delayed his reply, looking off into the distance for a moment. Turning back to Michael, he finally said, “That’s a fair question, Sergeant. With no easy answer. One thing I’m certain of: It’s not the celebrated saints who always achieve the greatest things for the Lord. The greatest orators, the fieriest preachers, the most eloquent writers—they do a fine work, and we need them, every one. But it seems to me that the Lord often uses the smallest soldiers to gain the greatest ground—one victory at a time.”
The pastor’s good-natured face creased with a smile, but his eyes burned with the zealous faith of the patriarchs. “The reality of the Lord’s church has little to do with great cathedrals and congregational meetings. I suspect its presence in the world is less dependent on hymn singing and sermons than on compassion and love.
“I’ll tell you where God’s church is, Sergeant: It’s with the aging Quaker widow ladling soup to an endless line of starving Irish peasants.”
As the pastor spoke, Michael watched him carefully. Sensing the man’s passion, his fervor, he felt a faint stirring in his own spirit. The intensity of the preacher’s words drew Michael into the very center of the flame that burned within Jess Dalton’s spirit.
This was a man on fire…on fire for God.
Michael’s interest quickened, and the preacher nodded, still smiling. “Yes. And it’s with the emaciated, ailing priest who has given his own meals in order to feed the starving children in his parish. It’s inside the prison walls with the repentant felon who spends the remainder of his life telling his cell mates about the changing love of Christ. It’s with the circuit-rider evangelist in his worn-out clothes on his run-down horse, who gives up hours, and even days, teaching Negro slaves to read and write. It’s with fine young women like Sara Farmington who are willing to leave the luxury of a Fifth Avenue mansion to nurture dirty, lonely children in a rat-infested tenement.”
The preacher put a hand to Michael’s shoulder—a big, calloused, ever-so-gentle hand. “And it’s with the honest, noble-hearted policeman like yourself, Michael Burke,” he said softly, “who puts his life on the line every day to make the city a safer place for decent people.”
He paused, gazing intently at Michael for a moment before going on. “Don’t you see, Sergeant, the church is where it’s always been. In the humble, servant hearts of all those who are willing to be the helping hands of the Savior. That’s where the church is.”
Michael swallowed against the lump in his throat, his eyes locking with the kind, knowing gaze of the preacher. The unspoken understanding between them brought an unexpected thrill of joy to his soul.
Aye, he thought with dawning conviction, indeed, that is where the church is. And it is also with this soft-spoken, heavy-shouldered preacher who is willing to risk his life defending four frightened Negro boys in the middle of New York’s greatest shame.
11
The Music of the Heart
The happiest heart that ever beat
Was in some quiet breast
That found the common daylight sweet
And left to heaven the rest.
JOHN VANCE CHENEY (1848–1922)
Early Monday morning, Evan Whittaker stood at the large, wide window of Lewis Farmington’s office in Brooklyn, looking out over the East River to the tip of Manhattan.
As always, he had shared his employer’s carriage, then the ferryboat, to the shipyards. Parting company when they arrived, Evan came inside to his office, leaving Mr. Farmington to walk about the yards, browsing and inspecting, just as he did every morning.
This was Evan’s favorite time of day. There was still more than an hour before the actual workday would begin, but already the river teemed with a great forest of ships, their tall masts swaying, as white sails and the flags of many nations waved in the cold November wind. All up and down the shore, clippers and schooners, ferryboats and sloops moved in pursuit of the day’s business.
Like the morning itself, fresh and poised on the threshold of a new beginning, the busy traffic on the river seemed to point to the city’s exciting promise.
“This is the day which You have made…. Oh, Lord, I rejoice…I am glad in it….”
Evan voiced his praise aloud as a song, immediately putting his fingers to his lips in surprise. How long had it been since he’d broken out in singing, simply because his spirit could not contain his joy?
He loved to sing—partly for the sheer joy of the music itself, and partly for the pleasure that came when he could express himself without the stumbling block of a stutter. In music, his words flowed without hesitation, unhindered by the stops and starts that marred his speech.
His strong tenor voice was, in fact, the one gift of which he might have been slightly vain, had it not been for the lack of opportunity to use it. Other than joining in the Sunday worship hymns, his times for vocalizing were few.
Nora had caught him at his solitary singing once this past summer, in the gardens behind the mansion on Fifth Avenue. It had been one of those perfectly lovely August days when everything in sight, from the serene clouds above to the tiny violets blooming alongside the garden lane, looked to be painted in place by the brush strokes of the Master. Touched by the beauty of his surroundings and moved by gratitude for the return of his health, Evan had begun to sing a simple, poignant hymn from his childhood.
At that moment, Nora had unexpectedly appeared, causing him to freeze with embarrassment. Quickly, with the kindness so much a part of her nature, she had put him at ease, commenting almost shyly that it was “grand to hear the song of his heart.”
To his surprise, she went on to ask if he’d like to learn an old Irish tune that was one of her favorites from childhood. She spent the next half hour teaching him a lovely little children’s song—I Wish I Had the Shepherd’s Lamb—coaching him first in English, then in her mysterious Gaelic language.
Now as he awaited the arrival of his employer, Evan caught himself smiling again at the memory. It had been a special time—a gift, really—to hear Nora sing the happy little tune in her soft, almost childish tones, and laugh at his feeble attempts to learn the Gaelic. The myriad colors of the flowers, the sweet-scented warmth of the afternoon, had seemed to make the garden a magic place that, for the moment, belonged only to the two of them.
“P-Perhaps I should take up your Gaelic in earnest,�
�� Evan had said, laughing at himself. “It would certainly hide my pesky old stutter.”
Nora’s expression had immediately sobered. “Does it bother you so much, then? I didn’t know.”
“Well, I d-don’t suppose I’ll ever be fond of it,” Evan returned with a deprecating shrug, “b-but I’ve learned to live with it well enough.”
“It’s odd, you know,” she replied after a moment, “but I seldom even notice it. I doubt that I ever would if you didn’t poke fun at yourself so.”
Oh, she was wonderful! She was simply…splendid! She would never know the moments of pure, crystal joy she brought him with her acceptance, her patience, and her small words of praise and affirmation. It wouldn’t do for her to know, of course, for she might be offended if she ever became aware of the depth of his feelings.
“Well, you certainly seem a happy man this morning, Evan! You look as contented as a cat in the sunshine.”
The booming voice of Lewis Farmington jarred Evan from his reverie, and he turned, embarrassed at being caught daydreaming like a schoolboy.
The lithe, dapper Farmington strode briskly into the office. “I expected you’d be waiting for me. We might just as well get started, I suppose. I should be making some notes on those drawings Cannon dropped off last week.”
“I’ll have to go and get them,” Evan offered. “They’re still in Mr. Donaldson’s office, I believe.”
“In a moment.” Mr. Farmington dropped down into the huge leather chair behind his desk. “Wonderful view, isn’t it? I never tire of it. Makes a man feel as if he’s a part of something important, somehow.”
Evan came to stand at the front of the desk. “Why, yes,” he said, relieved that the older man thought his euphoria was due to the view. “It d-does at that.”
“I have something for you.” Lewis Farmington’s sun-bronzed face creased to a broad, good-natured smile. “If you’re interested, that is. Do you happen to like the opera, Evan?”
“The opera? Why, y-yes, very much,” Evan answered, watching as Mr. Farmington opened his desk drawer and removed an envelope.
“Good, good! I have tickets for the opening at the new Astor Place Opera House next week.” Farmington fumbled through the contents of the envelope. “Let’s see, now—ah, yes, Ernani, that’s what they’re doing. Some young Italian composer—”
“V-Verdi,” Evan offered. “Giuseppe Verdi.”
“Yes, well…I like to listen to the music, but I don’t know much about the composers. Will it be any good, do you think?”
“A-As a matter of fact, I attended the opening p-production in London t-two years ago,” Evan said. “It was excellent.”
“Oh, you’ve seen it before? Well, was it good enough that you’d care to see it again?”
“Again? Oh—yes, yes, of c-course, I would.”
“Fine. Here are tickets for you and Nora.”
Evan stood staring at the two tickets in his employer’s outstretched hand. “For N-Nora? And me?”
Lewis Farmington glanced up. “Why, yes, even if Nora’s not an opera fan, I’m sure she’d enjoy seeing the new theater. It’s supposed to be quite something, you know.”
Evan stared at him. “I—I doubt that N-Nora even knows what opera is.”
Farmington seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I expect that’s so. It should be quite an experience for her, wouldn’t you say?” As if the matter were entirely settled, he went on. “I’ll escort Sara, and you can escort Nora. The ladies couldn’t go without us, of course—no ladies are admitted without escorts. Oh—and another thing, Evan, we mustn’t forget—admittance will be restricted to those wearing kid gloves.”
Evan blinked. “Are you…s-serious, Mr. Farmington?”
His employer chuckled, leaning back in the chair. “Isn’t that a hoot? They’re already calling it the ‘Kid-Glove Opera House’ around town. The whole idea sounds like something Astor himself thought up, if you ask me. He’s a caution, the old scoundrel.”
New as he was to the city, Evan had already heard a great deal about the eccentric John Jacob Astor—the “landlord of New York.” Astor, a German immigrant, had started out in New York City as a baker’s helper, later moving on to work for a Quaker fur merchant, flogging moths from the pelts in storage. He was now reputed to be the richest man in America.
“You know M-Mr. Astor, sir?” Evan asked, impressed.
Farmington’s expression sobered. “Yes, I know Astor, poor soul.”
Evan frowned. Poor soul? The man who owned Manhattan?
Farmington smiled a little, as if he had read Evan’s thoughts. “He is a poor soul, believe it or not. Oh, he’s a rich man, all right! He’s accumulated enormous wealth, as you know. Made most of it in the fur trade. And real estate, of course. The man raked in a fortune during the Panic. Bought up mortgages from those who couldn’t make their payments, then foreclosed.”
He frowned. “There’s always a great deal of money to be made at the expense of others, isn’t there, Evan? And goodness knows, Astor has made more than his share.” Shaking his head, he went on. “He’s in his eighties now, and still hoarding every dollar as if it were his first. I fear he doesn’t enjoy his money very much these days. He’s weak as an infant. In fact, when I last saw him, he was drooling like a pup and could scarcely speak. Has to be watched every minute.”
What a difference, Evan thought, in the ways men handle their money. Some, like Lewis Farmington, made their money work for them. Others, and it sounded as if Astor might be one of them, simply worked for the money, became obsessed with it—frequently possessed by it.
In the short time he had worked for the man, Evan had already observed that Lewis Farmington was, if not actually indifferent to his wealth, certainly unimpressed by it. At times Farmington almost seemed to view his fortune as a challenge. He apparently enjoyed using his money to make a difference: in the city, in his church, and in the lives of those less fortunate.
“Well, now, about the opera—” Farmington’s voice jarred Evan out of his thoughts.
“Oh, yes—well, I w-wonder…”
“You needn’t worry about the kid gloves, Evan. Sara, I’m sure, will be more than happy to lend Nora a pair, and you’re certainly welcome to borrow a pair of mine.”
Evan’s pale face flushed, and he glanced down briefly at his empty sleeve. Farmington’s eyes followed the glance, as if suddenly he realized his mistake.
“I’m sorry, my boy,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s quite all r-right, Mr. F-Farmington,” Evan stammered.
“I’m an old fool,” Farmington blustered. He fixed an intent gaze on Evan’s face, and his tone softened. “You know I’d never deliberately—”
“I know, Mr. Farmington,” Evan said. “I’ve h-had quite a t-time getting used to the idea m-myself. P-Perhaps I could w-wear one glove and c-carry the other…” He paused, and a twinkle filled his eye. “Mr. Astor’s people might not let m-me in unless I had both.”
“Then you accept my offer?” Farmington beamed, obviously relieved that Evan hadn’t taken offense at his blunder.
“Well…well, thank y-you very much, Mr. Farmington.” Evan faltered. “It’s just that…I can’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t be b-best to offer the extra ticket to—to Sergeant Burke.”
Evan drew in a deep breath, swallowing down his disappointment. It had been a difficult suggestion to make, but it seemed only right, in view of the way things were with Nora and the policeman.
For a moment Lewis Farmington said nothing. His dark eyes probed, making Evan uncomfortable.
“Evan—” He stopped, cleared his throat, then began again. “Evan—I’m going to say something to you, and if I’m altogether out of line, you just tell me so, and I’ll mind my own business.”
Astonished, Evan hastened to protest. Farmington, however, waved him off with a quick movement of his hand. Leaning forward in his chair, he folded his hands on the desktop and said
firmly, “Sit down, son.”
With a jerk, Evan lowered himself to the chair. He felt a sudden stab of apprehension, wondering if he had somehow failed in his work.
He found that difficult to believe. As recently as two days ago, he had overheard Mr. Farmington praising him to Silas Donaldson, the shipyard’s assistant manager.
“Evan, I’m a good deal older than you,” said Mr. Farmington, “and I’d like to think that, after all these months of working together, I have your trust.”
Taken aback at his employer’s blunt announcement, Evan stared at him in confusion. “Why…why, of course, you d-do, Mr. Farmington!”
“Good.” Mr. Farmington linked and unlinked his fingers several times. “Then I wish you’d confide in me—man-to-man.”
Evan stared at him blankly. “C-Confide in you, sir?”
“Yes. About Nora. You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?”
Looking up from his hands, Farmington met Evan’s horrified stare straight on.
“I—I don’t—”
“Well—aren’t you?”
Evan tried to swallow, failed, bit his lip instead. “I…ah…I am very fond of N-Nora, of course. We went through a h-harrowing ordeal together… and we’ve become awfully g-good friends over the past few m-months. At least, I like to think our friendship is special, but—”
“Good heavens, man—there’s nothing wrong with being smitten over a fine young woman like Nora Kavanagh! What I’m wondering is why, if you’re taken with her, you don’t do something about it?”
Stunned, Evan could do nothing but sit and gape at his employer. Had he made such an obvious spectacle of himself that even Lewis Farmington had seen his feelings for Nora?
“Well?” His employer looked at him with an openly quizzical expression.
Feeling more foolish by the moment, Evan groped for a reply. “I…I’m n-not sure I understand, sir.”
