Land of a Thousand Dreams (47 page)

“No doubt you're right,” said Farmington. “But you may take my word for it, Simon: Michael Burke is a thoroughly honest man. I would say, even, a
noble
man. As to his ‘ambitions,' however, I wouldn't know, although I believe maintaining his integrity would rate high on the list.”

“He's Catholic, I suppose?” Dabney inquired nonchalantly.

“No, as a matter of fact, Michael is Protestant.”

“Interesting.”

“He's an interesting man.” Farmington's dark eyes, always dagger-sharp, now probed even more intently than ever. “Why so curious about my son-in-law, Simon? As you may have deduced by now, Michael's chief interest lies in the area of immigrant problems: their abominable living conditions, and the crimes being perpetrated against them. I don't recall your being particularly fired with social conscience in the past.”

“Actually, Lewis, I've heard some intriguing things about Captain Burke. Most intriguing. He seems to have earned quite a reputation for himself among the more
common
elements of the city. Sterling police record, compassionate cop—that sort of thing. An exception, you must admit.”

“No doubt.”

“As it happens, the party's looking for a likely candidate for assistant alderman—as well as a man worth grooming for better things.” Dabney turned an engaging smile on the other man. “I don't suppose you'd know if Captain Burke has any political aspirations?”

Farmington again hiked a dark eyebrow. “I thought I mentioned that Michael is an honest man.”

“Exactly what we're looking for.”

“A new movement in politics, surely?”

“Lewis, Lewis…you can be the most dreadful cynic at times. Though I won't deny the present board of aldermen might be a bit overloaded with a few, ah, questionable individuals.”

“Thieves' Row, I would say.”

“Perhaps.” Dabney sighed. “Seriously, we're not looking for just another crafty politician. We have an ample crop of those already. We're hoping to find someone a cut above the rest. An intelligent man with integrity, a man to help clean things up a bit in the city before moving on to state government—or even higher. As you know, we like to have our own man in Washington. Considering the captain's reputation, and after watching him charm the carriage trade this afternoon, I'm more than a little interested in having a talk with him. You'll introduce me, I hope?”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, Simon, but I don't believe the position of assistant alderman includes a salary, does it?”

“That's true, but I'm sure we could arrange a paying position for the captain somewhere else while he's serving his constituents. As you know, Lewis, this would be just the first step. Alderman, next, then—Congress, perhaps? First, however, we have to find a loyal man whom we can support all the way.”

“Quite frankly, Simon, I'm not at all sure I'd want to see a member of my family involved in the political scene. The whole business tends to leave a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Nonsense, Lewis! That's just your blue blood interfering with the rascal in you. Why, even the best of families have a politician or two among them these days.”

Even before he finished speaking, Simon Dabney turned his attention back to the Irish police captain. His imagination was already measuring that dashing figure for a tall silk hat and an ivory cane.

Michael had no time to take stock of how he was doing, but he did register a note of surprise at the sheer volume—and variety—of questions that had been coming from the audience.

Even more surprising was the ease with which he found himself answering those questions. Until today, he hadn't realized just how engrossed he had become in the immigrant settlements and their problems, and it was a bit of a revelation to find out that he knew more than he thought he did.

Not that he was comfortable with what he was doing, standing up here in front of these pillars of society as if he belonged. Yet, his years on the force served him well; if there was one thing a policeman learned almost from the start, it was how to take the measure of a crowd. Another was how to control it.

This particular gathering, of course, could not be compared with any of his previous experiences. Nevertheless, he had discovered early in the day that there were some very decent, genuine people in attendance. There were also, he reminded himself, a number of fools.

Such as the long-nosed aristocrat near the front of the gathering, just to Michael's right. A youth with smooth yellow hair and an elaborate waistcoat, he seemed bent on proving his ignorance each time he opened his mouth.

“You would have us to believe, then…ah,
Captain
—” he said, making Michael's rank sound like an ethnic slur, “that the Irish populace of Five Points has been…victimized by the city's more fortunate classes? But surely that's an exaggeration! It's a well-known fact that the Irish have
always
lived in squalor, even before they came to America! Why, from what I've read, the entire country of Ireland is just another Five Points slum!”

Yellow-Hair turned a look of utter contempt on Michael, who resisted the urge to grind him to powder. Baring his teeth in the semblance of a good-natured smile, he replied, “Well, sir, it would seem that you've been reading the British press. That being the case, no doubt you've also discovered that the Irish rose directly from the bogs, having circumvented the Creator's divine plan.”

Michael caught a breath, and was surprised to hear a few discreet chuckles among the crowd. “No matter,” he went on with equanimity. “The sad truth is that Ireland
is
a wretched, devastated island these days, a condition for which the English can take, if not full credit, at least a healthy share of it. That would be the same English, by the bye, which we Americans licked a few years back when we'd had quite enough of their exorbitant taxes and decadent laws.”

Ignoring a smattering of applause, Michael went on. “The Irish came across expecting a bit better from these United States, you see. They'd heard tell that the Americans value their freedom every bit as much as the Irish themselves, and that the country was being built upon the principle of liberty for all.

“Perhaps,” Michael added, his tone a bit more harsh than he'd intended, “you can imagine their surprise to learn that that principle apparently applies to everyone else but the Irish.”

Suddenly impatient with the lot of them—even those fashionably dressed matrons beaming in his direction—Michael gave a short word of encouragement that they continue their efforts on behalf of the immigrant slum dwellers. Then, with a curt nod and a forced smile, he left the podium.

More than half an hour later, Sara was still waiting for Michael to tear himself away from her father and Simon Dabney. Overwhelmed with curiosity, she had occupied herself by making the rounds of the refreshment tables, sampling a variety of desserts.

“Mrs. Burke?”

Sara turned toward the opposite end of the cake table. At first she didn't recognize the woman with the shy smile standing there, alone. Dressed to the nines in a violet silk dress and tulle-trimmed bonnet, Alice Walsh looked younger and more sophisticated than Sara remembered her.

Although she vaguely recalled that her first meeting with the woman had been at another mission bazaar, she was still surprised to see her here today. Somehow, the idea of Patrick Walsh's wife displaying an interest in the plight of New York's immigrants seemed incredibly ironic.

Sara managed a small smile and a civil greeting. Only then did Alice Walsh approach, her expression uncertain, her movements hesitant.

Even knowing how much Michael detested Walsh himself, Sara could not bring herself to treat this sweet-faced woman with anything less than courtesy. As she watched her draw near, she felt an inexplicable softening toward the woman, a feeling bordering on sympathy. It was the same response Alice Walsh had evoked in her that day on Staten Island when Sara had gone to visit Tierney.

After a moment, they began to make polite—and utterly trivial—conversation about the bazaar. The entire time, Sara sensed that Alice Walsh had more than small talk on her mind. It seemed, however, to be taking considerable effort for her to get to the point.

“Mrs. Burke…I wonder…I wanted to inquire…”

She had an aura of uncertainty about her—a shyness, coupled with a kind of urgency. Sara warmed to this lack of confidence almost in spite of herself. Again, she found herself puzzling how such a woman had come to marry a scoundrel like Patrick Walsh.

“I've been thinking…that I might be of help in your work…your mission work in the slum districts, that is.” Now that the woman had finally gotten the words out, she seemed almost desperate to explain herself. “I have a great deal of free time these days, you see, and I should really like to put it to better use. I'd do anything that needs to be done.” Abruptly, she put a hand to her mouth as if taken unawares by her own boldness.

Sara was surprised, but interested. They were in dire need of help for the slum missions, the kind of help most difficult to find. Donations of money and material goods were steadily increasing, but it was another story altogether finding workers—workers with the time and willingness…and courage…to venture among the “untouchables” of the city.

“I'm afraid what we really need, Mrs. Walsh,” Sara said directly, “are people with strong hearts—and strong constitutions. People who are willing to go into places like the Five Points and work among the people. However,” she was quick to add, “the conditions there are offensive—indeed, they're downright revolting. To be perfectly frank, some of us who have been working in the Five Points for years still have all we can do not to scream and run every time we go in.”

Alice Walsh blanched but, to her credit, didn't shrink. “Still, Mrs. Burke, I should like to try. I believe I can manage.”

Sara wasn't overly tall, but she had to look down to meet the woman's eyes. “Did you have any particular kind of work in mind, Mrs. Walsh? Are you, ah, skilled in anything specific?”

An expression of embarrassment pinched the other woman's features. “Skilled? Oh…no…I'm afraid not,” she stammered, red-faced. After a moment, though, she straightened her shoulders a little and said, “The truth is, I can't do much of anything at all but play the piano. But I'd be willing to do whatever is needed.” She paused, then added, “And I…I don't swoon easily.”

She gave a small, uncertain smile. Searching that clear blue gaze, Sara saw an unexpected glint of determination and strength. She smiled back, saying, “Perhaps you could call at my home next week, Mrs. Walsh. Tuesday would be good. I have two other ladies coming to discuss work projects that day.”

A look of gratitude broke over Alice Walsh's face, and it occurred to Sara that she might grow to like this woman very much.