by BJ Hoff
Annoyed with her own bad timing, she turned, intending to leave, then stopped when one of the surgery doors opened to reveal a spry looking little man with a black eye over which a row of neat stitches had been drawn. Right behind him stood Andrew Carmichael.
The physician saw her right away, his face registering surprise and, to Bethany’s relief, recognition.
“Dr. Cole!”
The doctor’s lab coat was wrinkled, the sleeves noticeably too short. A shock of dark hair fell over one eye. He appeared slightly rumpled and somewhat bemused. But at the moment, the only thing that mattered to Bethany was that he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
He came the rest of the way into the waiting room, watching while his patient, a small, spindly-legged man, gave a jaunty wave and went out the door. Then he turned to Bethany. “Well, it’s good to see you again, Dr. Cole. Nasty morning, though, isn’t it?”
“I’m so sorry,” Bethany burst out. “I can’t believe I was foolish enough to come by on Monday morning. I wasn’t thinking—”
“No, no, this is fine! I’d almost given up on your coming at all.” A faint flush crept over his features, as if he’d suddenly realized he might have said too much.
Even on the day of the fire, when they’d first met, Bethany had sensed an unexpected awkwardness in this man. Not shyness, exactly, but something akin to it, and she’d wondered why that should be.
Andrew Carmichael looked to be in his mid to late thirties, and although he wasn’t exactly a handsome man by contemporary standards, his long, clean-shaven face held a definite appeal and hinted of a strong, but pleasant character. According to the staff members at the Infirmary, he was held in high esteem, not only by his peers among New York’s medical community, but by many of the missionary organizations throughout the city as well.
During the years since he’d settled in New York, the Scottish physician had apparently established himself as a brilliant and totally dedicated doctor, albeit somewhat unconventional in his lifestyle and treatment methods. Without exception, his name was spoken with the kind of respect and admiration usually reserved for much older, more elitist physicians.
He was also known to be a man with a heart for the underprivileged, taking the sort of unlikely risks most other physicians of his reputation would never have considered. It wasn’t uncommon, her sources at the Infirmary told her, for Andrew Carmichael even to venture into the Five Points—the most abominable, dangerous slum area of the entire city—where he freely offered his skills to the poor wretches who threw themselves upon the mercy of the rare mission clinic in the district.
Bethany thought it peculiar that such a man would appear so unassuming and found herself liking him all the more for his lack of pretension.
She was also uncommonly pleased by the warmth of his greeting—he seemed utterly delighted to see her. She wasn’t accustomed to others responding to her so spontaneously. She was aware of her natural reserve, especially with those outside her family or small circle of acquaintances. Admittedly, she tended to keep others at arm’s length.
All the more reason she didn’t want to impose. “Really,” she began again, mindful by now of the unconcealed interest of the patients watching them, “I can see how busy you are. Why don’t I come back another time?”
“Please don’t leave.” He came to stand a little closer to her. “You brought your case,” he said, inclining his head toward her medical bag.
“I…yes. Force of habit, I suppose.”
He nodded, studying her. “I…ah…don’t suppose you’d like to lend a hand?” he said, giving a tip of his head to indicate the waiting patients.
Bethany stared at him. “You mean—now?”
His face creased in a smile that seemed to make the years drop away. “Of course, you’ll have to use the dispensary,” he said as if he had suggested the most natural thing imaginable. “Which is also the supply room. I’ve only one examining room, I’m afraid.”
Bethany looked from Andrew Carmichael to the patients waiting for his attention: the restless infants and children, some clearly feverish; the elderly man and woman who sat holding hands at the end of the room; the little girl standing by the window, her right leg noticeably shorter than the left.
She turned back to him. “You’re serious?”
He regarded her for a moment. “I’ve been told that you’re an excellent physician, Dr. Cole,” he said, his expression holding what looked to be both challenge and expectation. “Would you agree?”
Bethany tightened her grip on her medical case, cast another glance at the crowded waiting room, then faced Andrew Carmichael, who was watching her intently. “Perhaps you might want to judge that for yourself,” she replied.
Another disarming smile broke across his features as he made a sweeping motion of the waiting room with one hand. “Then choose your patient, Dr. Cole, and follow me.”
18
REVIVAL IN BROOKLYN
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Saviour all the day long.
FANNY CROSBY (FROM “BLESSED ASSURANCE”)
October
Sergeant Frank Donovan couldn’t think of anything he’d rather not be doing than attending a revival meeting, especially a revival meeting in Brooklyn. To begin with, he didn’t hold with revivals—not that he knew all that much about them, or needed to. Moreover, he didn’t like Brooklyn. And he did know a good deal about Brooklyn. More than he wanted to.
He kept his peevishness to himself, however, as he led Miss Fanny Crosby down the aisle. Miss Fanny, of course, had no way of knowing that their encounter this evening was not mere chance. On this particular occasion, Eddie O’Malley had “accidentally” run into Miss Fanny in front of her Varick Street apartment and squired her to the ferry, where Frank—who “just happened to be going across to Brooklyn on police business”—escorted her the rest of the way to the revival.
Miss Fanny had become a special duty to the police force—and to the fire department, the railroad men, and a host of other city workers who had taken a serious interest in the well-being of the little lady who for years now had ministered to them all. No matter the weather, no matter how busy or exhausted she might happen to be—if indeed Miss Fanny even knew the meaning of the word exhaustion—she always had time for “her boys.”
And they in turn looked after her safety, as well as they could without her knowing it. Frank doubted that, strong-willed and independent as she was, Miss Fanny would appreciate anyone fussing over her. No matter. It simply would not do to have the woman roaming about on her own in a crowd such as this, and her without the means to see what was going on right under her nose. So, with his captain’s permission, he would be keeping an eye on her for the rest of the evening.
As far as Frank was concerned, if ever there was a saint walking, it was Fanny Crosby.
The woman seemed to be everywhere at once. Even the boys on the force were hard pressed to keep up with her. In spite of the fact that she couldn’t see, Fanny Crosby was the liveliest, busiest woman Frank had ever met up with. If she wasn’t scurrying about one of the Bowery missions, teaching a Bible study or telling stories to the children, she could be found visiting the sick at Bellevue or the orphan home or, more worrisome still, bustling here and there about Five Points—a leprous, disgraceful sore on the entire city of New York, and a place Frank Donovan would like to torch in its entirety.
Miss Fanny also was reputed to spend a great deal of time—although Frank could not imagine where she found the time—writing her poems and hymns. It was said the woman had written so many hymns that even she had lost count, and Frank could believe it. Those who knew her best claimed she gave away to the poor just about everything she made from her writing. And from the looks of the neighborhood where she lived, that might well have been so.
She had a husband, Miss Fanny did—a blind musician named Alexander Van Alstine. But theirs did not seem a conventional marriage, not in Frank’s estimation. Mis
s Fanny continued to use her maiden name, and, even though she and her husband shared an apartment, they were seldom seen together socially. Apparently, they went about what they called “the Lord’s work” in different ways, in different places.
That was their affair. For his part, Frank had resigned himself to tonight’s event, which was being held, of all places, at a skating rink. It seemed that none of New York’s churches were large enough to hold the mobs that packed these Moody/Sankey meetings.
As he might have predicted, Miss Fanny insisted on sitting as far down front as possible. “I might not be able to see what’s going on,” she explained cheerfully as they continued down the aisle, “but at least I’ll be able to hear everything.”
Frank found it necessary to flash his badge a few times, and more than once he had to shoulder their way through the crowd, but at last he delivered his charge safely to the third row center. When he would have taken his leave, however, with the excuse that he should stay in the back to keep an eye on the crowd, Miss Fanny gripped his hand and insisted he sit down beside her.
“Now, Sergeant, you told me yourself that you’ve never had the experience of hearing Mr. Moody preach.”
“And that’s the truth, Miss Fanny, but—”
As if she hadn’t heard, she went right on. “Well, it’s high time we remedied that, it seems to me. You’ll be blessed, I promise you, by Mr. Moody’s inspired preaching and Mr. Sankey’s wonderful music.” She smiled. “Oh, I’m so glad we ran into each other tonight! This is the Lord’s doing; I’m sure of it.”
For a little woman, Fanny Crosby was powerful strong. Frank tried in vain to remove his hand from her grasp. “The thing is, Miss Fanny, I’m on duty tonight, you see, so I really ought to stay where I can watch what’s going on.”
“Nonsense! Brooklyn isn’t your jurisdiction, but even if it were, I’m sure the other men could handle things just fine without you. There’s not going to be any trouble here tonight,” she assured him. “This is a revival meeting, Sergeant! These are God’s people. It may be a skating rink, but tonight it’s the house of the Lord. Now you just sit yourself right down here beside me and prepare for a blessing. My other friends will be along any moment, and I want you to meet them.”
Frank had yet to figure out why he found it so difficult to refuse a middle-aged blind woman. True, it was a rare occurrence entirely when Miss Fanny requested a favor. But when she did, it was sure to be accompanied by that sweet-mother smile of hers, and Frank knew right then and there he might just as well give up and do whatever she asked.
So with a somewhat exaggerated sigh, he plunked himself down onto the seat beside her. “I’ll stay long enough to meet your friends,” he said, “but then I’ll need to be up and about.”
He kept his tone firm, all the while hoping neither George Tully nor that weasel-faced Nestor Dillman from the Brooklyn force would witness his humiliation. Frank Donovan, perched right down front in a revival meeting, where no doubt some Protestant preacher was about to whip the crowd of thousands into an amen-shouting, hellfire-and-brimstone frenzy. He scarcely believed it of himself.
With that thought, he slid a little lower in his seat.
At the same time, Miss Fanny gave him yet another bright smile and a motherly pat on the hand.
With Michael at her side, Susanna stood in the aisle about halfway toward the front of the building, trying to catch a glimpse of Miss Fanny Crosby, whom they were to join this evening.
She could not have been more surprised when Michael asked if she’d like to accompany him tonight. A revival meeting wasn’t exactly the kind of event with which she would have associated her bewildering brother-in-law, although his invitation didn’t surprise her quite as much as it might have a few weeks ago.
As time passed, however, she found it increasingly difficult to believe that Michael’s faith was superficial or somehow contrived for the sake of appearances. At first, Susanna, who had been raised Protestant by both parents, had assumed that Michael and his household would be Catholic. But according to Rosa, Michael’s upbringing had been somewhat untraditional. Apparently his father, a practicing Catholic, and his mother, a Protestant from Northern Ireland, had exposed their son to each of their beliefs. Over the years he had explored both faiths for himself, eventually deciding on Protestantism, although he obviously maintained a wide circle of acquaintances among the Catholic faith.
In all aspects, he appeared to live an exemplary life, and his friends and associates—at least the ones Susanna had met—seemed genuinely fond of him, as did his small household staff. Certainly, there was no question but what he was a good father to Caterina. He was openly affectionate with his daughter and generous almost to a fault. Indeed, Susanna thought he might on occasion indulge the child just a little too much. Still, he seemed inclined to be firm and consistent in matters of discipline.
All things considered, Susanna supposed she shouldn’t have found it peculiar that he’d be interested in a revival meeting. In any event, she had been pleased to no end when he invited her to come with him tonight. Not only was she looking forward to hearing Mr. Moody preach again, but she hoped to spend at least a few minutes with the Moodys and Sankeys after the meeting.
She turned to again scan the rows of seats behind them, then looked toward the front, wondering how they would ever find Miss Fanny in such a crowd. The building, which was actually a large skating rink, was packed with people, most already seated but many still milling about. There were few vacant seats to be seen, even though it was still early.
“Michael, perhaps you’d rather wait while I go and see—”
Just then, Susanna caught a glimpse of Miss Fanny’s beribboned little hat and her dark glasses. “There she is. Close to the front. And it looks as though she’s managed to save seats for us. This way,” she said, taking Michael’s arm to direct him.
Gus, the wolfhound, and Paul Santi had stayed at home tonight with Caterina, who was still recuperating from a nasty cold, so it was up to Susanna to serve as Michael’s guide. She led him through the crowd as best she could, increasingly aware of how difficult this sort of situation must be for him. Even though he wore the dark glasses that should have alerted others to his disability, he still had to depend on someone—in this case, Susanna—to “part the waters” for him.
At first it had unnerved her a little, acting in this capacity. But Michael seemed inclined not to take himself—or his blindness—too seriously, and within minutes had managed to ease Susanna’s anxiety by making light of her iron grip on his arm and her erratic stops and starts.
She was surprised to find Miss Fanny seated next to a uniformed policeman, whom she introduced as “Sergeant Donovan, my escort for the evening.”
The policeman stood, his dark eyes flicking over Susanna, then darting to Michael with a sharp, inquisitive stare even as they shook hands. But their greetings were brief, for on the platform Mr. Sankey was already seating himself at a small, modest organ, ignoring the much larger and finer instrument nearby. Any chance for further conversation was lost when Mr. Moody entered the auditorium, along with an enormous choir which appeared to be at least two hundred voices strong.
Mr. Moody was just as Susanna remembered him: a burly, bearded figure of a man with extraordinarily kind eyes. He now walked directly to the platform and, with an upraised hand, led the assembly in prayer. Shortly afterward, Mr. Sankey began playing the organ and leading the crowd in the hymn “Hold the Fort.”
From that moment on, the evening belonged to D. L. Moody, Ira Sankey, and the Lord.
Frank Donovan quickly excused himself to Miss Fanny as the man at the organ began to play and sing. He didn’t go far, just off to the side at the end of their row.
Leaning against the wall as he listened, he had to admit that the music wasn’t all that bad. The man Sankey had a big, rich voice and a way of delivering a song that was beginning to bore a hole in Frank’s discomfort.
He glanced over at Miss Fanny who
, as if she sensed him watching her, turned slightly and smiled in his direction. Frank sighed. It was hard to believe a saintly woman like herself would resort to such deviousness, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d known all along this evening’s events weren’t altogether accidental. Considering her subtle but ongoing concern for the state of his soul, she might well have engineered the whole evening herself, simply to get him under the roof with this pair of traveling evangelists.
He wouldn’t put it past her. Not at all.
He shook his head, smiling to himself. He had a clear view of the blind man and the Fallon girl, whom Miss Fanny had introduced as Emmanuel’s sister-in-law. Susanna Fallon was more than a little attractive, in a quiet sort of way. She was slender and fairly tall for a woman, with dark, soulful eyes and an interesting face, all framed by a tidy arrangement of heavy, chestnut hair shot with gold. She was young. Too young, Frank reminded himself ruefully. Obviously a churchgoer like the rest of the crowd, she held her songbook open, but she seemed to know the words mostly by heart as she sang along with everyone else.
Frank saw no resemblance to her deceased sister. Emmanuel’s wife had been the bold, dramatic type who could snare a man at twenty paces and leave him babbling in the dust as she passed on by.
He would wager the girl was down on her luck. Her black dress appeared a bit worn, and there were no jewels. He wondered why her brother-in-law had brought her across. Perhaps with the intention of making her the next Mrs. Emmanuel?
Frank thought that unlikely, given her youth and decidedly unsophisticated appearance.
On the other hand, would a man who couldn’t see be all that concerned with how a woman looked?
But Emmanuel’s first wife had been a stunner, he remembered. He’d seen them together one night a few years back when he had duty on Broadway, near the opera house. They’d been surrounded by a crowd of admirers, but Frank had been close enough to get a good look at them and had asked Johnny Keenan who they were. At the time, he’d thought them a handsome pair, although the woman had appeared overly flashy, decked in her finery and enough jewels to light an entire city block. Still, she’d been a looker, no doubt about it.
