Dawn of the Golden Promise

by BJ Hoff

  The old man eyed him with contempt. “No more than a couple of hundred or so is all.”

  Still sour-faced, the grizzled custodian raked Winston with a knowing look. “’Tis the Stump you want to be talkin’ to. If he’s of a mind to talk, that is. He knows most of the ugly mugs about the Bowery, I’d wager. He’s the one who can put you in touch.”

  “The Stump?”

  “He’s on stage right now. The one what has no arms.”

  Winston swallowed. His reluctance to confront one of the freaks in residence warred with his anxiousness to finish the nasty job still ahead.

  After a moment his impatience won out. “Is there somewhere I can wait for him?” he asked the scowling custodian.

  “Two doors down on the right.” The old man stabbed a finger in the direction of a dark, narrow hallway.

  Winston’s gaze went to the shadowed corridor behind the irascible custodian. A shiver trailed down his spine. He imagined all manner of ghastly abominations lurking in the corners, could almost smell the vile odors that surely permeated such a place.

  He steeled himself, looking straight ahead as he started down the dim, scaling hallway. He fumed as he went at his deceased father—and at Dalton, the hulking dolt of a clergyman who had forced him to such a pass.

  His original plan had been simply to collect the girl and take her back to England. Once there, he would rely on his old chum, Charley Seagrave, a jaded solicitor with even less scruples than Winston’s own, to arrange a legal guardianship and see to the details of the will. His niece could be dealt with later, after he’d had time to plan more thoroughly.

  But Dalton had gotten hostile and moved to delay things. Now the entire matter couldn’t be resolved for at least another month.

  Just enough time for Dalton to launch an investigation, an investigation that could lead to Winston’s losing the girl altogether. Even out here among the savages, the courts might not look kindly on a profligate, to use his dear departed father’s favorite indictment of his only son. Especially a profligate whose gambling debts exceeded half the value of the family estate, and whose thirst for whiskey was practically legendary in London.

  So, as distasteful and inconvenient as it was, he had effected a swift change of plans. He would have the girl abducted and gotten rid of before she was placed in his custody. That would keep him clear of the law. As soon as the deed was discovered and his unfortunate niece out of the way, he would be on his way back to England, to his inheritance and a new life—a much more comfortable life.

  At the door the old man had indicated, Winston stopped, sniffing the stale air in the corridor. He leaned against the wall—gingerly, with only one shoulder, for the plaster was filthy—and stood brooding over his lot as he waited for the one called Stump.

  None of this was his fault, really. All credit went to his intractable, puritanical father, who had taken it upon himself to punish his wayward children for their rebellion.

  No doubt his father would view it all as divine justice, since he had always thought himself to be in league with the Divine. A duly appointed administrator of righteous retribution.

  Heaven’s Hangman.

  First, poor Elizabeth had been banished and disinherited for marrying her boorish Irish stable hand. Then, after a change of heart, the old man restored Elizabeth and her little brat to his will, this time leaving his son’s—Colin’s—inheritance in question. Only in the event of Elizabeth’s death would Winston gain control of a part of the vast estate—and only with his niece out of the picture could he count on ever being as sinfully rich as he intended to be one day.

  It could not come too soon. Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Winston pushed away from the wall. With a fixed smile, he smoothed his collar, forcing down the sour taste of revulsion as the creature called Stump slowly came into view.

  31

  Abandoned

  Only the ashes that smoulder not,

  Their blaze was long ago,

  And the empty space for kettle and pot

  Where once they stood in a row.

  ANONYMOUS (1847)

  By the time he dismissed the boys from rehearsal, Evan was nearly ill with worry. He knew his panic was irrational; small boys occasionally got it into their heads to forgo a responsibility, or even a privilege, for that matter. It wasn’t all that inconceivable that Billy had simply gone off on his own for the afternoon.

  No doubt he was foolish to fret so. More than likely the boy had taken up with one of his chums and forgotten the time. Or perhaps Quinn had sent him off on an errand without mentioning it to anyone.

  She had not. When Evan approached her in the hallway as the boys filed out, she gave him a puzzled look. “Why, no, sir. I haven’t seen Billy at all this afternoon.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “I am, sir. Is something wrong, Mr. Whittaker?”

  “I certainly hope not,” Evan said, distracted. “It’s not like B-Billy to m-miss rehearsal. Not like him at all. I wonder if I shouldn’t—” He stopped, looked at the girl. “Quinn, would you m-mind very much going for Sergeant Price while I speak with Mrs. Whittaker? I’m going to b-be leaving for a time, and I want her to know. If you can’t find the sergeant, ask after him, would you? One of the officers is usually close by.”

  “Aye, sir—I mean, yes, sir, I’ll be glad to.” She paused. “Billy Hogan is not in trouble, I hope?”

  Evan looked at her. He knew their young housekeeper was partial to Billy. He had seen her with the boy on frequent occasions, had noted her obvious affection for him. Of course, Quinn was quite good with all the boys, but she did seem to have a particular fondness for Billy Hogan. Perhaps the solemn-faced little fellow helped to ease her loneliness for her younger sister back in Ireland.

  “Mrs. Whittaker and I told you about B-Billy’s family—the m-mother’s neglect, his stepfather’s abuse?”

  Quinn nodded, her eyes darkening. “And the brute is out of jail already, so I hear.”

  “Yes, and that’s why I’m concerned. I’m afraid B-Billy may have gone to see his family and encountered Dolan. There’s n-no telling what the man might do, especially if he’s drunk. And he almost always is.”

  Before Evan had even finished his explanation, the girl turned to go. She yanked off her apron, giving it a toss as she started for the door.

  “I’ll find the sergeant,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Whittaker. We’ll find Billy Hogan, we will.”

  As he watched her hurry out the door, Evan fervently hoped she was right.

  Billy Hogan took the darkened stairway up to the flat as slowly and as quietly as he could. When he reached the door, he put his ear to it a moment, listening.

  There was nothing but total silence on the other side. He tried the knob and, finding the door unlocked, edged it open with caution.

  Although he saw nothing, heard nothing, he half expected Sorely to come flying at him, drunk and in a rage. But when he stepped the rest of the way into the room, he was greeted by an eerie quiet, a strange hollowness, in which the beat of his heart seemed to echo like a drum.

  He knew an instant of relief that Sorley was not on the premises, quickly followed by a prickling of concern when no one else appeared.

  “Mum?”

  He flinched at the sound of his voice in the stillness, lowering his tone even more to call the names of his brothers. “Patrick? Liam? ’Tis Billy, your brother. If you’re hiding, come out now.”

  Nothing stirred except the growing wave of uneasiness rising in him.

  Billy stood unmoving, looking about. For the first time he saw that the room was virtually empty.

  His pulse hammered faster as his mind took in the barrenness of the room. The dilapidated table and all four chairs were gone. The grease-covered cookstove still squatted in the corner, but without his mother’s teapot. There was no sign of crockery or kettles, not even a tin cup.

  “Mum?” he said again, choking down a l
ump in his throat that had not been there a moment before.

  His legs felt wooden as he started toward the doorway to the bedroom. The curtain separating the bedroom from the kitchen was still hanging, and he pulled it aside with a trembling hand, holding his breath as he stepped inside.

  The bedroom was dark and shadowed without a window, but Billy could clearly see that it was as vacant as the kitchen. The sagging iron bed his mum and Sorely had shared was gone, as were the pallets the boys had slept on. No dirty clothes littered the floor, no blankets lay tossed in the corners.

  There was no sign that anyone had ever lived here.

  Billy stood staring into the emptiness for a long time before whispering into the silence. “Mum?”

  His eye caught a glimpse of color in the corner where he and his brothers had once slept, and he crossed the room, bent over, and picked up a small blue sock in need of darning.

  As he stood there a bitter cold wind seemed to blow through the flat, chilling him to the bone, leaving him numb and dazed.

  They were gone. Without so much as a word or goodbye, with not even a letter to explain, they were gone.

  For an instant he considered running downstairs to see if perhaps they had left word as to their whereabouts with Mr. Hudgins. But almost as quickly as the idea appeared, he knew it to be futile.

  Mr. Hudgins would know nothing. Nothing at all.

  They had simply packed up and left him to his own keeping. His mother, his brothers—all of them.

  He was abandoned. Alone.

  Sorley’s doing, he supposed. But perhaps not entirely. His mum could have sent word, at least. If she cared for him at all, she could have sent word.

  Slowly, he sank down to the floor, his back against the wall, his knees propped up to his chin. In the ominous silence of the empty room, his ears heard but his mind did not register the quiet, padded tapping of soft footsteps coming up the stairs. With the small sock clutched tightly in his fist, Billy squeezed his eyes shut against the tears he refused to shed.

  Quinn had surprised herself by insisting on accompanying the sergeant and Mr. Whittaker to the Five Points. Sergeant Price, as she might have expected, argued against her going, reminding her that the slum was a vile and treacherous place entirely, filled with desperate men and vicious women.

  He started his harangue the moment she fetched him from his perch in front of Diley’s Bakery, and the man didn’t let up until they collected Mr. Whittaker.

  Clearly, though, Mr. Whittaker did not mind her coming. Indeed, he almost seemed glad that she had offered, saying she’d be a comfort to Billy once they found him.

  The afternoon shadows deepened with the early gloom of lowering clouds as the three of them took the distance to Mulberry Street almost at a run. The closer they came to Billy’s former home, the less they spoke among themselves, as if each harbored a silent fear of what waited ahead.

  Sergeant Price led the way up the dark steps to the second floor, easily taking two at a time, his nightstick in hand.

  Upstairs, they found the door to the flat ajar. Quinn saw the sergeant withdraw his gun before tucking his nightstick under his arm. With his free hand, he pushed the door open.

  “Nell?” he called out, his voice lower then usual. “Nell, ’tis Sergeant Price, come to see about you and the lads. We’ll be coming in now.”

  The moment they stepped across the threshold Quinn was struck by a strong sensation of emptiness. The room was bare, except for a cookstove and frayed curtains at the window. She had the feeling that even a whisper would echo indefinitely in the desolate silence.

  Mr. Whittaker broke the quiet, his voice taut and thin. “Why…it looks as if n-nobody is here, as if…they’ve m-moved…” He let his words fall away as the sergeant went to pull the curtain to the adjoining room.

  The policeman stood in the doorway for a moment. Then Quinn saw the broad back stiffen, the hand with the gun drop slowly to his side.

  His voice sounded peculiar when he spoke, as if he were strangling on his words. “Mr. Whittaker,” he said quietly. “In here.”

  Quinn rushed to Sergeant Price’s side and peered past him. There, in the grim, shabby bedroom, Billy Hogan sat against the wall, staring into the gathering darkness. Beside him, like a faithful sentry, lay Finbar the cat, his crossed eyes wide and watchful, his sleek body curled against Billy’s legs.

  Quinn hung back for a moment. The two men moved past her into the bedroom. By the time she stepped through the doorway, Mr. Whittaker was on his knees on the floor beside Billy. The sergeant, too, dropped down beside the boy.

  Billy Hogan looked from one man to the other, his eyes enormous and smudged with sadness, red-rimmed but dry. Quinn recognized the look for what it was: the slightly dazed, disbelieving stare of one who has been abandoned, rejected by the very people in his life who were supposed to care.

  Oh, she knew the look, right enough. And well did she know the feeling.

  “They’re gone, Mister Whittaker,” said Billy Hogan in a terrible, hollow voice. “My mum, my brothers…they’re gone. Gone without a word. I’m alone.”

  Mr. Whittaker—the kindest man Quinn had ever known—shook his head. He reached to clasp the boy’s shoulder, almost losing his balance in the effort. Sergeant Price quickly steadied him with one large hand.

  Quinn’s throat felt tight and swollen as her quiet-voiced British employer gently lifted the cat and placed the purring, warm bundle into the boy’s lap.

  “No, Billy,” said Mr. Whittaker, his voice infinitely gentle. “You are not alone. You have another family. You have m-me, and Mrs. Whittaker—and Miss Quinn. And don’t forget Teddy and all the other b-boys at Whittaker House.” Mr. Whittaker removed his hand from Billy’s shoulder and stroked the cat, whose purring grew louder. “And Finbar. He obviously loves you very m-much.” He paused and swallowed hard. “We all love you.”

  As he spoke his hand moved to Billy’s hair, and Quinn could sense the soothing effect his touch and his words were beginning to work on the sorrowful-eyed little boy.

  “It seems to m-me, Billy, that you have quite a large family indeed, wouldn’t you say?”

  The boy hugged Finbar to his chest, and his eyes rose to meet Evan Whittaker’s. Finally he nodded, slowly.

  “And, Billy—I promise you, son,” Mr. Whittaker went on, “that we will never leave you. Perhaps your mother and brothers will return one day soon, b-but even if they don’t, you will always have us. You have m-my word on it, Billy. And I do not break my word.”

  The boy studied Evan Whittaker’s face for another moment. Then, his expression solemn, he lifted his chin slightly and said, “Thank you, Mister Whittaker. I’ll be very good, I promise. I’ll try to make you proud.”

  Quinn saw Sergeant Price’s eyes mist and knew an instant of surprise. She wouldn’t have believed the big hardheaded policeman capable of a tender thought.

  Her own eyes clouded over as she watched the sergeant pick the boy up in his sturdy arms and hoist him, still holding the cat, onto his back.

  “Why don’t we just be giving you and Finbar a lift home, Billy?” he said cheerfully. “Hang on, now, and we’ll be back at Whittaker House in a shake.”

  As Quinn watched, the boy smiled wanly. Then, cradling the cat in one arm, he locked his other arm about the sergeant’s neck and hitched both legs about the man’s middle. An unfamiliar feeling caught her sharply off guard. Her heart seemed to vault to her throat as an enormous wave of tenderness swept over her. She felt herself drawn to the policeman’s strength, yet moved beyond measure that this big, powerful bear of a man could be so easily gentled by a small boy’s need.

  Shaken, Quinn reminded herself that strength could just as quickly transform to cruelty, a most formidable weapon when turned upon the unsuspecting.

  With a deliberate act of will, she suppressed the temporary softening of her heart. If and when she ever allowed herself a woman’s affection for a man, he would need to be as gentle, as kind and tender
hearted as the poet behind her weekly letters: Daniel Kavanagh.

  That man could not be Daniel Kavanagh, of course. But at the very least, he would have to be a great deal like him.

  She avoided the sergeant’s eyes as she reached to squeeze Billy’s shoulder and reassure him. The boy gave her a smile, and Quinn smiled back, then quickly turned away before the policeman could catch her eye.

  She set her face straight ahead, her eyes averted, as they started for Whittaker House. Deliberately, she avoided looking at Billy and the policeman during the long walk home.

  32

  Justice or Mercy?

  Is God unjust? Not at all!

  For he says to Moses,

  “I will have mercy

  on whom I have mercy,

  and I will have compassion

  on whom I have compassion.”

  ROMANS 9:14-15

  After not finding Michael at the station later that afternoon, Denny Price decided to go by the Burke residence.

  In truth the rambling old mansion on Thirty-fourth Street was the home of Mrs. Burke’s grandmother, but Mike and his wife had moved in with the elderly Mrs. Platt right after their marriage.

  As a rule, Denny would have felt out of place entirely in such grand surroundings, but Mike was his friend, not just his captain—and Mrs. Burke treated everyone the same, beggar or king. She was just as quick as Mike to make a body feel right at home, and it pleased him no end that she seemed to approve wholeheartedly of his and Mike’s friendship.

  As he crossed the street and started toward the house, Denny was aware that today he needed a friend. It had been a black day for the most part, capped by the incident with the poor little Hogan lad. Sure, it would do him good just to sit with Mike for a time and compare stories about each other’s day.

  As he closed the iron gate behind him and started up the walk, it began to rain, a light but steady drizzle, the kind likely to go on for hours. The thought of Billy Hogan pressed in on him again. The cowl of gloom that had set in when they found the boy alone in the deserted flat was still upon him, darker now than ever.