Dawn of the Golden Promise

by BJ Hoff

  “He’ll show,” Fritz said again, praying it would be soon.

  When the rap on the door finally came, Fritz jumped, watching nervously as the man stepped inside.

  Sergeant Price certainly looked the part of the felon, with his dirty, rumpled clothes and soot-streaked face. He carried a lumpy, tattered carpetbag in one hand. Fritz held his breath and waited.

  The Englishman’s gaze raked the newcomer.

  “Well?” he snapped.

  “Not so loud,” the abductor warned, his tone harsh. “You’re the Brit?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind! Have you done the job I’m paying you for?”

  Price regarded his interrogator. With his cap pulled low and a fierce glare in his eyes, he gave off a strong aura of menace. “You haven’t paid me for nothin’ yet,” he answered sullenly. His eyes flickered to the large carpetbag he held in his hand.

  Winston’s face flamed, and his eyes narrowed. “Let me see,” he breathed.

  “Not until I have my money,” Price returned. His grip tightened on the handle of the bag.

  “Let me see the evidence, you fool—now!” The Englishman grabbed the heavy carpetbag, heaved it onto the narrow cot, and jerked it open. With his back to both men, he froze. For a moment complete silence descended over the tiny room.

  Fritz’s blood ran cold. Sergeant Price had better be convincing—very convincing—or they were both dead men.

  At last, as if in a daze, Winston lifted a sack of sand out of the carpetbag and held it in his palm as if measuring the weight. He wheeled around and shook it in Price’s face.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he screamed. “Where is the girl?”

  For a moment Winston looked as if he might lunge at the abductor. But Price held his ground, and the Englishman seemed to be considering his opponent’s superior size and bulk. Price held him off with a steely glare.

  “The girl is just where I left her. And there she will stay until I see some cash.”

  “Do you mean she’s still alive?” Winston rasped the words out with a look of raw fury.

  Price straightened to his full height and fixed a withering stare on Winston. “I’m not fool enough to commit murder on the promise of an Englishman.” He spat out the last word. “The lass is alive—and she will stay alive until I see your good intentions, your honor.”

  “That wasn’t the arrangement.”

  Price stared him down. “The arrangement,” he grated out in the same rough voice, “was abduction and murder. Half the job is done, mister. Now, unless you want to do the other half yourself, I’ll see my money.”

  “You—”

  Price took a step toward Winston. The Englishman stumbled backward.

  “Have you got the money or not, mister?”

  “I have it! I told him—” He jabbed a finger toward Fritz. “I said when the job was finished!”

  Price’s eyes flashed. “And I said I’ll finish the job after I’m paid. And that’s the last time I will say it, Brit. You pay me now—me and Stump—or I gather up the little lassie and take her home.”

  Fritz’s heart stopped as he watched the two face off. Only when the Englishman slowly reached inside his breast pocket did he let out a ragged breath.

  “Very well,” Winston muttered. “Here’s your money. And his!” He scowled, then tossed a small money bag to Fritz, a larger one to Sergeant Price. “Now do what you’ve been paid to do!”

  The sergeant’s eyes glinted. “Aye, that I will, your honor. That I will.”

  At that instant the room exploded. Michael crashed through the door, gun leveled on Colin Winston as Denny Price reached behind his back to pull his own pistol from his belt.

  With one sharp motion, Denny jerked the gun in Winston’s face and gave a nasty grin of satisfaction. “I am doing what I’ve been paid to do, Mr. Winston. I am placing you under arrest for conspiring to kidnap and commit murder. If you’ll be so kind as to cuff the gentleman, Captain?”

  Michael felt an almost dizzying sense of gratification as he watched the incredulity in Winston’s eyes change to understanding, then fury.

  The Englishman turned on Fritz Cochran. “Why, you filthy, treacherous freak—”

  For just an instant Michael entertained a brief but gratifying mental image of beating Colin Winston senseless. Instead, he jerked the raving Englishman around and put the cuffs on him. Denny Price, he noted, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as he let go an entire stream of descriptive epithets at the crimson-faced Winston. Denny was not a lad given to profanity, but he still managed to express in unmistakable terms his contempt for a man who would order the murder of his own niece.

  For the first time in a very long time, Michael felt good about being a policeman.

  Less than half an hour later, having received the awaited message, the officer who had been posted at the Daltons’ house throughout the evening delivered Kerry Dalton to the dime museum.

  Sergeant Price was waiting at the back door and flung it open the moment he saw her.

  Kerry rushed inside, her heart hammering. She stopped short when she saw the big policeman. For a moment she stood searching his eyes, her legs shaking beneath her.

  The sergeant smiled—a wide, beaming, thoroughly Irish smile that made his eyes dance. He dipped his head in a small bow to her. “You have come to collect your wee lass, I expect, Mrs. Dalton. It will be my personal pleasure to take you to her.”

  Relief poured over Kerry, threatening to leave her faint. When the sergeant offered her his arm, she quickly accepted it, releasing him only when she stepped inside Bhima’s room.

  Her gaze took in the entire room in one sweep, coming to rest on the group huddled in the corner. “Jess!” she cried. He turned, his face lighting up at the sight of her. He broke free of the others and strode rapidly across the room.

  “Kerry—it’s all right! Winston is in custody. Michael Burke and another officer have already left with him.”

  Kerry didn’t care about Winston. She could not think of anything at this moment but her little girl.

  “Jess—where is she? Where’s Amanda?”

  Jess wrapped an arm about her shoulder and pulled her to his side. But before he could answer, Kerry heard the high, delighted laughter that always made her think of a bubbling fountain.

  She turned from Jess, putting a hand to her mouth as she watched the group across the room part. Out of their midst, whirring toward Kerry and Jess, came Bhima, the sweet, gentle-natured boy who had no legs, on the small cart that served as his means of transport. Seated on the cart in front of him was Amanda, laughing excitedly, obviously having the time of her life.

  She spied Kerry immediately and threw both arms in the air. “Mumma!”

  Bhima brought them to a stop directly in front of Kerry. “What a perfectly delightful daughter you have, Mrs. Dalton,” he said. “Although after tonight, you may have to buy her a wagon. I’m afraid we’ve indulged her no end.”

  The tears ran freely down Kerry’s face as she lifted her baby girl into her arms. “How can I ever thank you…all of you?” she choked out.

  Her eyes went to Sergeant Price, now leaning against the opposite wall of the room, a tired but contented smile creasing his soot-smudged face. “And especially you, Sergeant. I can never thank you enough! You risked your own life for Amanda.”

  “Ah, now, Mrs. Dalton,” the sergeant said, pushing away from the wall and thrusting his hands into his pockets. “There was never really any danger at all, don’t you see? Giving a blackhearted Englishman like Winston his just desserts is no more trouble than bringing a cowardly dog to heel, and that’s the truth.”

  He grinned at her. “Though I’ll admit,” he added, “it might be a bit more satisfying.”

  PART THREE

  THE PROMISE RENEWED

  Hope for the Future

  There I will give back her vineyards,

  and will make the Valley of Troubles

  a Door of
Hope.

  HOSEA 2:15

  34

  Nation of Exiles, Land of Liberty

  The nation has a smell all its own,

  a scent that drifts out upon the water

  to fill the air and the senses

  of those countless numbers

  standing at the ship’s rail

  with longing eyes and yearning hearts…

  It is the very breath of freedom,

  borne on the wind of hope.

  MORGAN FITZGERALD (1850)

  Late September

  Before leaving for the harbor, Sara made one last-minute inspection of the east wing, which had been aired and partly redecorated for the Fitzgeralds. Her grandmother followed her every step of the way, commenting or criticizing, as the condition warranted.

  “I do wish there had been time to have more of the furniture replaced.” Her grandmother leaned on her cane as together they appraised the second largest bedroom in the wing. “We really haven’t changed anything since you and your brother used to spend weekends with us, when your grandfather was still alive. Most of the pieces are terribly dated.”

  “Oh, Grandy, the furniture is just fine. The little Fitzgerald boy is scarcely more than a baby, after all. I doubt that he’ll care whether the furniture is old or new.”

  Her grandmother didn’t look convinced. “Still, the girl will be sharing the room with her little brother. And she’s old enough to be sensitive to her surroundings.”

  “That’s why we moved the brass bed and Mother’s desk in here. And the dolls.” Sara smiled fondly at the rag and china dolls propped randomly around the room. She had selected them from her own girlhood collection, and the sight of them brought back a stream of memories, all of them pleasant. “Annie Fitzgerald is going to love this room. I’m sure of it.” She frowned. “I only wish Tierney were coming, too. Michael is so disappointed.”

  Her grandmother pursed her lips. “I know, dear. But boys that age are bound to strike out on their own—adventure, that sort of thing. I’m sure Michael understands.” Grandy paused, still considering. “Well, at least the Fitzgeralds can have a nice, large sitting room off the bedchamber. And the blue room turned out just splendidly for their servant. What’s his name again? Sandemon. Yes, we’ve put him right next door to the Fitzgeralds.”

  Sara nodded. “That’s just fine, Grandy. But try to remember that Sandemon isn’t a servant. I believe Morgan refers to him as ‘his man.’ They’re quite close, almost like family, according to Michael.”

  “Well, he sounds like a veritable wonder. I find myself almost as eager to meet the amazing Sandemon as Morgan Fitzgerald himself. At any rate, my first consideration is to make sure things are comfortable and cheerful for all of them, so they’ll feel at home.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Sara said, crossing the room to remove a stray pin in one of the draperies. “I’m more concerned that we’ve anticipated Morgan’s needs. It must be difficult enough being confined to a wheelchair when you’re in your own home and can adapt things accordingly. I’m sure there’s no telling all the problems he must encounter when he travels. Michael helped me, and we tried to plan as carefully as possible, but I still worry that we might have forgotten something.”

  It had been Michael’s idea to install a ramp leading off the side entrance, and he himself had made some additions to the plumbing to compensate for his friend’s disability. In deference to Morgan’s size, they had even invested in a new, much larger bed for the guest room that he and his wife would share.

  They seemed to have accomplished a great deal in only a few weeks, but Sara continued to fuss about details, anxious that nothing of any consequence be overlooked. “Michael says Morgan wouldn’t want us to go to any trouble on their account, but we’re both too excited about their visit to think of the preparations as ‘trouble.’”

  Sara held on to her grandmother’s arm as they walked out of the room into the hallway. “Grandy, I want to thank you again for inviting them to stay here. It will be so good for Michael. He’s been so happy ever since we found out they’re coming.”

  Her grandmother stopped for a moment to adjust her cane. “I’m really quite excited about this visit, you know. It’s an honor to entertain someone of Morgan Fitzgerald’s caliber. The man is quite a dignitary, even if Michael does howl every time I say so.”

  Her grandmother went on talking as they started down the hall. “As I told you and Michael, dear, I plan to enjoy their company immensely. Your grandfather and I used to have guests regularly, and I rather miss all the bustle and excitement. Besides,” she added, her eyes lighting with amusement, “I’m looking forward to some dinner conversation that includes something more than the exploits of cops and robbers. For now, though, if we don’t want the poor man and his family stranded in the harbor, you’d best collect Michael and your father from the parlor and be on your way. I’m sure both of them are pacing the floor by now.”

  Nora peered into the mirror of her vanity, trying to be objective about her appearance as she considered, somewhat reluctantly, how she might look to Morgan after so long a time.

  Older, that much was certain. Most of the hair at her temples had gone to silver, and there were faint lines at her mouth and the corners of her eyes that had not been there before.

  Although she and Morgan were nearly the same age—thirty-six—Nora knew she looked older than her years. And what about Morgan? No doubt both of them had changed a great deal since their last parting.

  It would be difficult, seeing him in the wheelchair. Even though she had eventually grown used to the idea, she still worried over how she would respond when faced with the reality.

  How many changes they had been through since their childhood days in the village…Morgan, Michael, and herself.

  Tragic changes, some of them. Even as a young man, Michael had lost a wife. And Morgan, in the prime of his manhood, had been crippled by an unknown assailant. He had been left almost entirely alone after the death of his brother, Thomas, then his niece, Katie, and nephew, Tom—both of whom had died after reaching America.

  As for herself, Nora had known her own tragedies, her own losses. Her first husband, Owen, their wee daughter, Ellie, and soon after, Tahg, their eldest son. Her health had almost been destroyed by the famine and scarlet fever, her heart weakened, her strength depleted.

  But for all the tragedy in their lives, they had not been left without joy. There had been gifts of love for each of them: new mates, children, and a very special and enduring friendship.

  She wondered anxiously what it would be like for them today, when they were finally reunited after so long a time. Would they be strangers, unnatural and ill at ease with each other? Or would the tie that had somehow bound them throughout the years, even an ocean apart, prove to be as strong as she had long believed?

  Evan walked in, rousing her from her thoughts as he came to stand behind her at the vanity. With a smile, he clasped her shoulder. “You look lovely,” he told her, leaning to kiss her cheek. “As always. But, Nora, are you quite sure you feel strong enough to go this m-morning?”

  She nodded. “What does it take to convince you? ’Tis just as I’ve been telling you, Evan—I feel stronger and more fit than I have for an age; I have felt so for days now. You mustn’t take on.”

  “B-but you’ll be careful not to overdo.”

  “I’ll be very careful, I promise you. But I want to be there today, with you and Michael. You do understand, don’t you?”

  He straightened, his hand still clinging to her shoulder. “Of course, I understand.” He studied her for a minute, as if he wanted to say something more but didn’t quite know how.

  “Evan?”

  He shook his head. When he avoided her gaze in the mirror, Nora turned to face him. “Something is troubling you, Evan. What is it?”

  Slowly he turned back to her. “I…feel ashamed to tell you,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I’m b-being altogether foolish, but as m-much as I’m loo
king forward to seeing Fitzgerald again—I can’t help feeling somewhat…anxious.”

  Nora frowned, unable to read his expression. “Anxious? Why would you feel anxious about Morgan? He admires you entirely.”

  Again he looked away. “You—the two of you—once cared very d-deeply for each other. You loved each other…”

  Nora stared at him in dismay, understanding finally dawning upon her. “Oh, Evan…surely you do not mean…you cannot think…”

  She reached for his hand. “Oh, Evan…Evan! How can it be, that you are unsure of my love, after all this time? Can you really doubt me, after everything we’ve been to each other?”

  He looked thoroughly miserable. Nora was grieved that he could feel anything less than total confidence in her love, yet she thought she understood. But before she could move to reassure him, he turned away from her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice almost inaudible. “I would never question your faithfulness, Nora. Never. I suppose…it’s m-myself I doubt. A m-man like Fitzgerald, after all—such a great man—even in a wheelchair, he surely overshadows m-most men. And you did love him. And he, you.”

  With his back still turned to her, he touched his empty sleeve—an unthinking gesture, Nora suspected, but not an entirely meaningless one.

  Slowly, she got to her feet and put a hand to his shoulder. “Evan…look at me,” she said quietly but firmly.

  When he finally turned back to her, she stepped closer, gripping his hand with both of hers. Her eyes went over his face…that good, strong, kind face, with its polished spectacles and precisely trimmed beard and scrubbed cheeks.

  Oh, how she did love this man!

  It brought such pain to know he thought himself wanting in her eyes because of stature or a missing arm or his halting speech…or any of the other traits he seemed to view as weaknesses. In truth, those things only endeared him to her that much more. It even made her angry somehow, to realize how lightly he held himself in his own estimation.