Land of a Thousand Dreams (61 page)

“Aye,” Daniel nodded, glancing over at Alice Walsh. “But I think she's the sort of woman who will manage.”

“Let us hope,” Evan said tightly. “Let us hope.”

Alice realized that the search through Five Points might well give her nightmares for weeks. Yet, she felt compelled to accompany Mr. Whittaker and the boys, knew an unexplainable need to subject herself to this vale of misery.

Nothing could have prepared her for her first close-up encounter with the wretchedness of Five Points. She had read about it, of course, but even the newspapers seemed somewhat guarded in their chronicles of the notorious slum, as if words alone were not enough to convey its horror. The women in her mission aid society spoke of the area mostly in whispers, with downcast eyes.

Up until now, Alice had arrived for choir rehearsals safely ensconced in her buggy, quickly delivered and collected before the taint of the slum could rub off on her well-tailored suit. Not once had she walked into the festering alleys to confront the suffering quartered therein. What lady
would?

The rotting buildings with their broken windows, the streets teeming with garbage and pigs, the slatternly women, some scarcely covered by their tattered dresses, the drunken men with their abusive language and hate-filled eyes—Alice had neither seen nor imagined even a small part of the area's squalor.

But as she moved through the streets, well-protected by the police escort and the solemn-faced Mr. Whittaker and his boys, she felt a peculiar sense of satisfaction to be here. Far too long had she been sheltered from the reality of the world she lived in. For too many years she had managed to skirt most of what was unpleasant or painful. It was, she admitted grimly to herself, time for her to grow up.

Their search went on throughout the remainder of the afternoon and into the evening. And the deeper into the Five Points they went, the more Alice's shame increased.

How had she managed to live so long…and so well…ignorant of the fact that thousands upon thousands of people existed in such an abject state of poverty and degradation—like animals? She had not known, had never realized, the appalling conditions under which human beings could actually survive.

Guilt at her own ignorance and apathy overwhelmed her. She lived in a mansion twice the size her family actually needed, pampering her already spoiled children, indulging herself with rich food, piano playing, and church teas—while an entire community only moments away existed in a veritable nightmare.

Ignorance was no excuse, she thought grimly. But even if it were, it didn't apply to Patrick. He
knew
about this place and its people. He could not
help
but know, with his involvement in business throughout the city. She had heard him—and her father—discuss Five Points, the Bowery, and other slum areas of New York, where the immigrants—especially the Irish—lived in misery.

Why, Patrick was Irish himself, although he didn't appreciate being reminded of it! They could have been doing so much, could have been taking measures to help alleviate the suffering in places like Five Points. Instead, Patrick just went on accumulating more and more wealth, while she continued to squander her days like an indulged, indifferent child, salving her conscience by giving money and playing the piano a few hours a week for Evan Whittaker's boys' choir.

Self-disgust washed over Alice, and right there, in the middle of the abominable stench rising off the littered streets, she promised herself…and her Maker…that she would no longer live such an isolated, wholly selfish existence.

She did not know where she might begin or what, exactly, she could do. But she would do
something
—and she would begin right away. And she must make Patrick, too, realize the—the
sin
of their indifference. He worked hard for the money that provided their luxuries, but surely she could make him see that they must not go on living entirely for themselves, as they had in the past.

In the meantime, however, she must concentrate on her reason for being here in the first place: Arthur Jackson, of whom there was still not so much as a sign.

Arthur heard them before he saw them—Mr. Jess and Casey-Fitz, the two of them following Captain Burke up the rickety stairs. They were making their way up to the second floor of the Old Brewery, while Arthur stood beneath them, squeezed inside a dark, concealing alcove.

He was close enough that he could have reached out and touched the big preacher's foot as they ascended, had to choke off a cry when he saw his tall form reach the landing. It was all he could do not to call his name.

Instead, he slipped out of the building through the Murderer's Alley entrance, crouching in the shadows until he could no longer hear their voices.

They would never find him as long as he stayed in the Old Brewery. The place was a shadowland of dark and winding passages that ran throughout the whole building, with any number of alley entrances and hiding places deep within.

Arthur knew it was one of the favorite means of escape for the thieves and pickpockets that infested Five Points. A body could get lost in here for months without being found, if he had a mind to.

As he huddled behind a stack of rags in the fetid darkness, deliberately trying not to identify the rustlings and muffled sounds around him, Arthur knew a moment of the most shattering pain he had felt since leaving the Daltons' that morning before daybreak. A terrible, aching loneliness assailed him with all the violence of a blow, doubling him over until he thought he would be sick.

So intense was the hurt that he bit his lip until it bled. Suddenly, the sound of a muttered oath and the strong, sour smell of unwashed bodies loomed over him.

Caught off guard, Arthur lifted his head, trying to make out faces in the darkness.

“Here's another'n!” An agonizing kick in the small of his back sent Arthur sprawling to his belly. He gasped for breath, choking as he was roughly yanked to his feet from behind.

“He's a
big
one! I got him now—hold his arms!”

  Stunned, Arthur twisted to free himself, squinting into the darkness at the two hulking forms that had him trapped.

  He tried to bring his arms up, but a rope slipped down over his head, almost strangling him when his attacker hauled it tight.

  He lunged, charging with his head, screeching like a cornered wildcat, until the rope cut off his air and a fist slammed into his face, silencing him.

39

The Warehouse

Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!

OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900)

W
ord about the missing Negro boy from Pastor Dalton's household reached the Bowery late that night.

Bhima and two of the other residents of the museum—the Strong Man and Plug, Brewster's bodyguard—were huddled in the shadows behind the warehouse.

“The pastor is fond of the boy,” Bhima told them. “He speaks of him with much affection.”

“Then we should help find him,” said the Strong Man. His massive frame was encased in a loosely knit sweater and flapping trousers instead of the circus tights he wore on stage. “With all the preacher is doing for us, it's only right that we do what we can for him.”

“But not until after tonight,” Bhima reminded him.

“You're sure the captain is coming?” growled Plug, the dwarf. “One of the newsboys said he was still in the Five Points earlier this evening, helping search for the Negro boy.”

“He will come,” Bhima said with confidence. “And we will be waiting.”

The other two nodded their agreement. Plug touched the deadly looking brass knuckles on his right hand reassuringly.

The Strong Man again stretched to peer inside the grimy window, while Bhima and Plug waited impatiently.

Just after midnight, Michael and his men entered the abandoned warehouse across from the dime museum.

A faint light drifted in through the sooty windows from the streets outside, enough for Michael to see that he didn't like the looks of the place. Not at all.

Here and there around the warehouse, upended barrels and boxes littered the splintered wood floor. The heavy scent of mold and dirt and cleaning fluid hung in the air. In a rough semicircle around the far end of the deserted building, packing crates and deteriorating bolts of fabric, stacked nearly the height of two men, formed a natural barrier between the east wall and the main doors.

“All right, then,” Michael whispered, “spread out. Into the shadows, every man of you—and keep a sharp eye on the door. Remember—don't move until I give the signal.” He motioned Rourke and Price and the others into place with a final warning: “There will be children with them, don't forget. So take care!”

Michael crouched into a dark shaft of shadow between two boxes to wait. Bhima had come through, after all, with the information he'd been trying to get for months. Tonight, Walsh's men were scheduled to ship out more than twenty of the homeless black children who roamed the streets of the slums…children who would more than likely spend their remaining years in slavery.

Unless he and his men could stop them.

A bitter bile rose up in his throat as he considered the terrible fate that awaited the children if they should fail them this night. Nervously fingering the handle of his nightstick, he told himself again that they would not fail. There was too much at stake, more, even, than the lives of the children.