Sons of an Ancient Glory (17 page)

For some reason, the ungainly giant had appointed himself Quinn's protector aboard ship. Whether it was due to her small size and tender years, or the fact that she had treated him kindly, poor Bobby had become her constant shadow.

Suddenly, her own loss of personal belongings seemed less important. Feeling a surge of pity for the man, Quinn put a hand to his thickly corded arm. “You just pay them no heed, Bobby. Their kind can't be telling a fool from a fig, and that's the truth.”

As they approached the entrance doors, she lowered her voice. “What did you mean, Bobby, about not staying in this place too very long?”

His reply was delayed by the arrival of the tall, thin official who had preceded them up from the beach and who now began to herd them through the doors. Inside, the place seemed but an extension of the misery Quinn had seen aboard ship. Every bit of available space had been plugged with beds and cots, all of which were occupied by moaning, shrieking immigrants. The very walls reeked with the smell of disease and death, and echoed with more keening than Quinn had ever heard in any one place, even on the
Norville
.

At the far end of the narrow room, Quinn saw a line of women and children. Most were crying—some aloud, others weeping softly. Sensing that she and Bobby would soon be separated, Quinn turned to him. “I asked you, what did you mean about getting away from here, Bobby? I'll be going with you!”

Bobby glanced about them with a furtive look. “Aye, 'tis no fitting place for a wee lass like yourself. This be a bad place—a very bad place—I'm thinking.”

Suddenly impatient with him, Quinn pressed. “But how will you manage to get away, Bobby? You didn't say
how
!”

Glancing toward two other rough-looking men in the next line, Bobby lowered his voice to a whisper. “Jack Roche and Owney Boyle—and their women—we plan to take one of the skiffs what brought us over and get us away to the city. To New York.”

When Quinn would have probed for more information, the big man hushed her, saying, “Just do what I say, lass, when I tell you. Can you be faking a swoon, then?”

Quinn bristled. “Well, I'd
have
to be faking it, I expect!” she shot back. “Sure, I'm no silly hen myself, to be swooning and taking on so.”

Bobby blinked, then grinned at her. “Aye…well, then, when I snaps me fingers, you swoon big. Make a grand show of it, mind. I'll be catching you, so never fear, you'll not hit the floor.”

“But—”

Behind her, a gruff voice interrupted Quinn's protest. “Women to this line, men over there!”

Quinn whipped around, about to make an acid retort.

Something in the narrow-faced official's eyes stopped her. “You must be inspected for lice,” he said, his nostrils flaring as if he could actually see them crawling along Quinn's face.

“Lice?
I don't have bugs! I have but a bit of a cough, not
bugs
!” Nervously, Quinn glanced again toward the end of the line, at the door through which the women and children continued to disappear.

Other worried voices now raised in protest. In truth, Quinn knew a number of them were indeed infested with bugs. It had become almost an obsession with her aboard ship, to avoid the filthy vermin that rode so many heads but hers.

“If they find bugs on us,” moaned a woman just down the line, “they will cut off all our hair!”

Quinn's blood chilled. Not
her
hair, they wouldn't! Nobody would be cutting off Quinn O'Shea's hair! Indeed, not! And sure, not for bugs she did not have!

“I do not have lice!” Quinn renewed her defense, raising her voice still more.

“Don't be too sure, lassie,” said Bobby Dempsey, still standing behind her.

Quinn whirled around, her eyes blazing. But Bobby only gave her a clumsy wink. “Don't I just see one, right there?” He pointed to the brush part of Quinn's long braid and winked again, an exaggerated grimace.

Quinn stared at him, then caught on. She gave a fierce, loud wail, then buckled to a swoon that would have done the Queen herself proud. Bobby caught her in his powerful arms just before she hit the floor.

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach my hand,
For I am drowning in a stormier sea
Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee.

O
SCAR
W
ILDE
(1856-1900)

M
r. Whittaker?”

Evan Whittaker glanced up from his accounts receivable ledger. Harry J., one of the office boys, stood in front of his desk. The youth was bright-eyed and fidgety, obviously excited about something.

“They say you're wanted at home, Mr. Whittaker! Right away! Your stepson sent word by one of the neighbor boys!”

For a moment, Evan could only stare blankly at Harry J., whose large dark eyes looked even wider than usual with the importance of his message. At last the words penetrated his consciousness. Springing to his feet, he grabbed his jacket from the corner coat tree. “What exactly d-did he say?”

Harry J. came round to help Evan with his jacket. “Why, that's all, sir. He just came at a run, saying you're needed at home. Would you like me to take you in the buggy, Mr. Whittaker?”

Evan was already on the way out the door. His heart pounding, he nodded. “I'll just tell Mr. Farmington and then m-meet you outside.”

“But Mr. Farmington went across to the attorney's with Mr. Donaldson,” Harry J. called after him. He followed Evan out into the corridor. “Said he wouldn't be back till late afternoon.”

Evan tried to think. “Very well. When you return with the carriage, b-be sure to tell him where I am.”

The carriage ride took only moments, but it seemed like hours. The last time Evan had been summoned home with such urgency was the afternoon of Little Tom's death. Since that woeful day, now more than a month past, every hour he spent away from home he lived in tension, half-expecting another panicky call, this one from Nora.

It was still some weeks before her time, but she had been so distraught since Tom's tragic accident—distraught and unwell—that Dr. Grafton had cautioned Evan to be prepared for any emergency. Since the quiet-spoken physician did not seem given to alarm, Evan had heeded his admonition with an anxious heart.

He had seen for himself Nora's failing, of course. It would have been impossible
not
to notice. She slept fitfully when she slept at all, moaning, often weeping softly, at other times crying out as if from a nightmare. Her appetite, never robust, had waned to nothing. She ate only at Evan's or Aunt Winnie's coaxing—and then, Evan was certain, only for the sake of the child she was carrying.

She was listless, uncharacteristically nervous, and distracted. So intense was Evan's anxiety for her that his own appetite and sleeping habits suffered. He was never quite at peace, and it was taking its toll.

With a sigh, he stared out the carriage window at the river, which glistened in the fading afternoon sun. Ordinarily, he loved this view and never tired of it. The river itself seemed alive, with hundreds of tall-masted ships, their sails furled and flags flying. Ferries scurried back and forth, carrying people and cargo from Brooklyn to Manhattan's shore, lined with countless warehouses and wharfs.

But today the bustling scene he usually found so stirring was all but obscured by a thickening fog of fear. He found particularly terrifying the thought that the baby might be born prematurely. Dr. Grafton had stressed the fact that Nora should be hospitalized for the birth, that he felt the risks of having the baby at home far too great for her frail condition.

What if the baby came early and there was no time to move her to the hospital?

Choking down another wave of apprehension, Evan tried to pray. He prayed that this baby, which Nora wanted so desperately, would be born healthy and strong, and would somehow restore Nora's joy, her sense of purpose and enthusiasm for life.

With gnawing guilt, he again contemplated the fact that from the beginning, it had been
Nora
who wanted this baby, Nora who had fashioned all the dreams and hopes for the child, not he. The truth was that at times he almost dreaded the new life that was growing inside her, perhaps even resented it, for fear it would somehow bring harm to Nora or…
please, God, no…
even take her from him.

Suddenly, he found himself praying even more fervently, from the depths of a guilt-ridden heart, that God would help him love this child. It was
his
baby, too, after all, not Nora's alone. It would devastate her if she were ever to suspect that he loved their child any less than she did.

Evan shuddered at the significance of his own silent prayer.
What kind of a man was he that he found it necessary to pray for the capacity to love his own child?

“Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered. “It's just that I fear I love her more…I can't imagine loving anything or anyone as much as I love Nora.…

Daniel stood at the front door, looking anxiously out on the gathering dusk, in hopes of some glimpse of the doctor or Evan.

Although he had gained considerable experience as Dr. Grafton's assistant, he had never witnessed firsthand an actual birth. Expectant mothers were sorely embarrassed even to have a male physician in attendance during delivery, much less a boy with no training.

In spite of his lack of experience, however, he had read enough in the medical books to know his mother's situation could be grave.

Turning away from the door, he began to pace the parlor. His mother had said the baby was coming. If she was right, that meant the baby was coming
early
—weeks before her time. The prospect frightened him more than he cared to consider.

She seemed so fragile these days, so visibly weak and unwell, that he could not bring himself to think what a premature birth might mean for her. Or for the baby.

Had it not been for the constant, plaguing fear, he thought he would have found the idea of a new brother or sister pleasing. He also thought it might be a good thing for Johanna, who was obviously still sorrowing over the loss of Little Tom.

Certainly, he understood that this baby was important to his mother. He knew she was determined to give Evan a child of his own. But he suspected that she was far more concerned for the baby's condition than she wanted anyone to know. He found himself praying daily that God would give her the strength she needed when the time came.

And now it seemed the time
had
come.

Still engulfed by uneasiness, Daniel turned from the door and started down the hallway to the bedroom. When he entered, he found both his mother and Johanna just as they had been when he left. Johanna, her eyes huge with undisguised fear, stood beside the bed, hovering close to Daniel's mother, who was awake but obviously in the throes of great pain.

Crossing the room, he stopped on the opposite side of the bed from Johanna. “Sure, Evan and Dr. Grafton will be here any moment now, Mother,” he said, taking her hand. “Is there anything I can be getting for you while we wait? Anything I can do?”

Her skin was ashen, her eyes smudged with dark shadows. Pain sharpened her features as she gripped his hand. But she merely shook her head, tugging at him to urge him closer. When she spoke, her voice was so low he could scarcely make out her words. “I want you to go now, Daniel John. Leave Johanna with me until the doctor comes. You should not—”