Land of a Thousand Dreams (9 page)

He suspected his employer was testing him—and not for the first time. Pushing him to see just how far he would go.

Walsh's continual baiting was beginning to anger Tierney. He was not one to shirk an assignment, and the man knew it. The element of risk was no deterrent—it merely added a bit more spice to the stew. Nor was he
particularly put off by the illegal nature of his employer's varied “enterprises.” While he suspected that much of Walsh's vast wealth had been accumulated on the wrong side of the law, his own part in things was that of a mere messenger boy or a go-between. He was a paid employee—nothing more.

Besides, as he saw things, Patrick Walsh was no more a criminal than a number of politicians and policemen on the city's payroll—only a bit more clever and a good deal more successful. One thing was irrefutable: Walsh paid his employees well. Tierney earned more money in a month working for Walsh than he could have made in an entire year in any of the other mean, paltry jobs available to an Irish boy in New York.

He had his limits, however. It was no secret among Walsh's other boys that Tierney Burke would have nothing to do with any shady dealings involving the city's immigrants—in part, because bis own da had come across years ago. He was the son of an immigrant, and he thought of the thousands of Irish now flooding the streets of New York as his own people. He would do nothing to add to their already considerable wretchedness.

Tonight's work, however, came uncomfortably close to violating that resolve. Tierney was repulsed by the despicable runners who infested the harbor like rats. To him they represented the lowest sort of humanity, predators who fed themselves on the misery of others, many of whom were their own countrymen.

He knew how they worked well enough. The contemptible swindlers would ingratiate themselves with the immigrants before they ever got off the ship. A recent law requiring the scoundrels to be licensed had merely given them “credentials” to flash around the docks, affording them a kind of respectability.

By appealing to the foreigners' natural confusion and fear, the runners easily took charge, offering the frightened newcomers the benefit of their experience, as well as their “protection,” as they herded their victims down the gangplank. Within hours, they usually managed to bilk their prey of what money and meager worldly goods they had brought with them.

Runners were known to have no scruples, no sense whatever of morality or decency. They would even go so far as to board ships in quarantine, mindless of the danger of typhus and other diseases. It wasn't unusual for them to have some hired thugs close-by to guarantee their own protection,
as well as to make sure none of their victims escaped on the way out of the harbor.

Patrick Walsh and others of his ilk had refined this corrupt practice to a new level of efficiency. Using a middleman as a broker, Walsh would purchase complete lists of steerage passengers, usually from mercenary captains who sold out to the highest bribe. Upon arrival, entire groups of frightened, bewildered immigrants were herded off the ships, then led to boardinghouses owned by Walsh. Outlandish rents were demanded, and those who might dare to raise questions were threatened with the
law.

To the already oppressed Irish, the
law
was synonymous with unfairness and brutality. Tierney's father, a policeman himself, maintained that the Irish immigrant's fear and hatred of the law was to be expected. Their experience with the police was limited to the toadying constables back in Ireland who, carrying out the demands of English landlords, tumbled the cottages of the poor and drove them out, half naked and starving, onto the road, where they would die of the hunger and the cold.

In Ireland, the
law
meant harsh judgment, swift punishment, and no mercy. Only God knew what the
law
might do to them in this strange new land!

The two runners Tierney was tailing tonight were little more than professional pirates who had been particularly successful during their short time in Patrick Walsh's employ. Too successful, perhaps. Apparently, Walsh was convinced that Monk Ferguson and Sweet Bailey were up to a bit of other business on the side.

The ship Tierney had been watching for the past half hour was a big one, an English coffin that had put in at South Street just this evening, after clearing the quarantine station at Staten Island. Steerage passengers were milling about on deck, the fretful cries of children and worried murmurs of their parents adding to the clamor on the docks.

Nighttime made little difference in the harbor. Even now, going on eleven, sailors and runners pressed through the noisy crush of disembarking immigrants. Cursing and shouting rose above the babel of foreign tongues. What laughter could be heard sounded shrill and uncertain. Women keened and strong men wept, and Tierney suddenly felt himself engulfed by a thousand dreams and as many sorrows.

How many of those dreams would be washed out to sea before this night ends? How many new sorrows would rise with the dawn of their first day in New York City?

A foghorn bleated in the distance. Shivering, Tierney pulled the collar of his seaman's jacket snug about his throat. The night wind blowing in off the water stung his face, and he ducked his head against the cold.

Next time, he vowed sourly, he would not be so quick to rise to Walsh's challenge.

In the candlelit dining room of the mansion on Fifth Avenue, Sara Farmington and her father lingered over dessert.

“I can scarcely believe I have you all to myself this evening,” Sara said, toying with her spoon. “That's rather a rare occurrence these days.”

Lewis Farmington lifted one dark eyebrow. “Have I neglected you, dear? I'm sorry. I'm afraid it's been a somewhat hectic week for me.”

“So it would seem,” Sara agreed. “You've dined out, what, three times, with Winifred this week?”

If she'd expected to fluster him, she should have known better. Scooping up a spoonful of lemon pudding, he merely beamed a cheerful smile, saying, “Why, yes, I believe I have. I've been trying to help her make some order of her financial affairs.”

At Sara's questioning look, he nodded. “Winifred hasn't much head for business, I'm afraid. Obviously, it's going to take a great deal of work to get her straightened around. But it seems the Christian thing to do, don't you agree?”

Sara kept her expression carefully bland. “Of course. And I'm sure Winifred is most appreciative.”

His reply was another bright smile and a quick nod as he pushed his empty bowl aside.

“I must admit, I was rather surprised when Winifred decided to stay on after Evan's father went back to England,” Sara said, returning her spoon to its place. “Naturally, we're all pleased. She's a delightful woman.”

Lewis Farmington gave his mouth a hasty swipe with his napkin. “Yes,” he said, “she is, isn't she?”

“Still, I should think the hotel would be awfully confining. Has she given any thought to more permanent lodgings?”

Her father leaned back in his chair. “As a matter of fact,” he replied, “I believe I've found just the place for her. Pleasant little apartment over on West Thirty-fourth. One of Tomlinson's brownstones.”

Sara lifted her gaze to his. “My, you
are
looking after her, aren't you?”

Her father narrowed his eyes. “I haven't done all that much, really. She
is
a woman alone, and in a strange city at that.”

Amused, Sara thought Winifred had scarcely been alone since she arrived from England. Obviously, her father was quite taken with the attractive widow. And understandably so. Winifred Whittaker Coates was youthful, enviably pretty, clever—and great fun to be with. It would take an utterly dull man to resist her charm.

The truth was, Sara found herself pleased by her father's developing interest in Evan's aunt. Despite his furiously busy schedule, she knew him to be lonely, at least on occasion. Sara's mother had been dead for more than twenty years now, but he made no secret of the fact that he still missed her.

Certainly, he need not have lacked for female attention. Women—even much younger women—had been flirting openly with him ever since Sara could remember. While his wealth might have been the attraction for some, there was no denying the fact that Lewis Farmington was still a compelling, interesting man. Nearing sixty, his silver hair was thick and full-bodied, his skin bronzed from all the time spent outdoors at the shipyards. He carried himself with the bounce and vigor of a much younger man. Moreover, he was also a wonderful human being, a prince of a man and an extraordinary father to both her and her brother, Gordie.

Winifred Coates was the first woman, at least the first in Sara's memory, in whom her father had shown even a passing interest in all these years. While cheering him on, Sara could not help but be secretly amused by the idea that Winifred had “no head for business.” Her own observation of the attractive widow led her to suspect that somewhere behind all that beguiling femininity and somewhat flighty demeanor lay a lively intelligence and an indomitable will.

Her father's voice roused Sara from her thoughts, and she turned her attention back to him.

“My schedule hasn't been entirely taken up with Winnie—Winifred—this week” he said. “I've also spent some time with the mayor. I've agreed to chair the new subcommission. Since it was my idea to begin with, I felt obligated to accept the appointment.”

“Oh, Father, I'm so glad! You're perfect for the position. You've always said it will require someone who really cares about the immigrants.”

Sara knew all about the new subcommission. For weeks, her father had been urging its formation as a means of investigating the city's escalating crime wave and its effect on the immigrants, now arriving by the thousands.

Crime was out of control in New York, and the largest group of victims seemed to be the immigrant population. Before they ever left the ships in the harbor, they were caught up in the vicious trafficking of the runners who haunted the docks in search of new victims. Once settled in the slum districts, they then found themselves the victims of unscrupulous landlords and street gangs.

It seemed there was no escaping those who preyed on the less fortunate; in the New World, as in the Old, violence and injustice shadowed the poor.

It incensed Sara that New York's immigrants, the majority of whom had already endured shameful oppression in their native countries, found still more of the same upon reaching America. Arriving with dreams of liberty and opportunity, too often they were greeted by only more misery.

The various immigrant associations were only now beginning to be effective. While helpful in a number of areas, they still functioned primarily as mutual aid and fraternal societies, with no real voice or power in government.

Recently, though, a new body, the Commissioners of Emigration, had been appointed by the state. In addition to the mayors of New York and Brooklyn—as well as agents of the Irish and German societies—private citizens like Lewis Farmington had been appointed to serve as commissioners and committee heads.

“Dillon and Verplanck have both agreed that a variety of occupations should be represented,” her father was saying. “Jess Dalton has agreed to serve, as have two of the Catholic priests. We've appointed an attorney, and hope to have two or three policemen as well. Which reminds me,” he said, after taking a sip of water, “we've approached Michael about serving.”

Sara's cheeks grew warm under his scrutiny. Annoyed with herself, she forced a casual tone. “Michael? Well…certainly, he should be…an ideal choice.”

“I thought so, too,” he replied, smiling. Obviously, he enjoyed flustering her. And just as obviously, he knew the mention of Michael never failed to do so.

“What with Michael being an immigrant himself,” he went on, “and a policeman—he'll prove invaluable to us, I'm sure. Will he accept, do you think?”

“Why…yes…at least, I should hope he would. But, of course,” Sara added quickly, “I can't speak for Michael.”

One eyebrow lifted in a look of wry amusement. “You will, soon enough,” he said. “Wives seem to take on this uncanny ability to predict their husbands' reactions, I've noticed.”

“I can't imagine anybody predicting Michael. Or
you
,” Sara shot back.