Land of a Thousand Dreams (48 page)

“Well?” Sara tapped her foot impatiently as she watched Michael scoop a huge piece of Esther Parrish's apple cake onto his plate.

Intent on his dessert, he waited until he sampled the first bite to answer her. “Well, what?”

“What did Simon Dabney want?”

He took another bite. “Your father was just introducing us. You know him, I imagine?”

“Of course, I know him! Everybody knows Simon. He's one of the most ruthless lawyers in the state.” She paused. “And one of the most successful. He's also very influential in politics.”

“Indeed,” he said without much interest, looking idly around the room as he continued to savor his cake.

“You were with him for more than half an hour.”

Finally, he looked at her, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. “For such a well-bred young lady, Sara
a gra,
you can be unfashionably—direct.”

“And impatient.”

He grinned. “There's that. Ah, well, I expect I shall have no peace at all if I don't tell you. Mr. Dabney's curiosity,” he said, eyeing the last bite of cake with regret, “would seem almost as dogged as yours.”

Sara gave her most severe frown, watching him lift his fork to his mouth and slowly down the last of the cake.

“For example,” he finally said, touching the napkin to his mouth, “he seems unduly interested in my plans for the future.”

“What
plans for the future?”

He nodded. “Exactly. I tried to explain that I haven't formulated any plans for the future just yet, but he insisted that I
must
have higher aspirations than the police force.”

“He actually
said
that?” Sara knew Simon Dabney could be outrageously rude at times, but he ordinarily confined it to fellow politicians.

“Not exactly,” Michael replied, his mouth tightening somewhat. “But he implied it.”

“What was he getting at, do you know?”

He regarded her as if he wasn't quite sure how to answer. “According to your father,” he said with a slight edge in his voice, “Mr. Dabney is sniffing about for a, ah…‘a man with prospects.' For some reason,” he said dryly, “he seems to think I might be such a man.”

Sara stood staring at him for a moment. Finally, understanding dawned. “He wants you to consider
politics?
Good heavens, Michael, what did you say?”

He shrugged, and again the eyes twinkled. “Didn't I explain to the man,” he said in exaggerated brogue, “that I might be a bit too busy at present for such matters?” He turned back to the cake table with renewed interest. “Mr. Dabney did indicate, however, that he would be in touch.”

Abruptly, his expression sobered. “Was that Patrick Walsh's wife I saw you talking with?”

Realizing that he was not about to tell her anything more at the moment, Sara nodded. “Yes. She's really quite a surprise, you know. I'm not sure but what—”

“What's she doing here?” he said shortly.

“Why…she belongs to one of the member congregations, I believe. She also wanted to inquire about helping out in the Five Points, and—”

He surprised her with a sharp utterance of disgust. “The gall of the woman!”

“No, Michael, I think she's completely sincere! She said she'd do anything at all, that she has a great deal of free time on her hands and wants to put it to good use.”

“So she means to salve her conscience by turning her hand to some of the misery her husband has helped to create?” he countered, scowling.

This was a new thought to Sara, and a disturbing one. “I can't believe that. In fact, I'm convinced Alice Walsh is completely in the dark about her husband's…activities.”

He looked at her, his expression openly skeptical.

“I mean it, Michael. As a matter of fact, I…like Alice Walsh. And what's more, there's something about her I respect.” Wanting to break the tension, Sara tucked her arm through his, saying, “Besides, we're almost desperate for workers.
My
conscience would bother me if I didn't at least give her a chance.”

He was silent for a time as they strolled about the room, taking in the various exhibits and displays. When he finally spoke, he sounded a little less skeptical. “I suppose it's possible that Mrs. Walsh might not know the truth about her husband. God help the woman if that's so.”

Sara felt a stirring of uneasiness when she saw the grim set of his mouth.

Meeting her eyes, he said, “She's sure to find out eventually, Sara. It's inevitable. And if she's as much the innocent as you believe, it will be a bitter thing entirely when she learns the truth.”

When Jess Dalton strode briskly into the room, he brought a draft of cold air with him. A number of hard looks and, in some cases, openly hostile stares were directed toward the big pastor, who appeared oblivious to it all.

Chester Pauling and the insufferable Charles Street, along with a few others, huddled closely together like a gaggle of cold geese, eyeing Dalton with undisguised animosity.

Sara watched them, feeling a sudden surge of anger at the chain of events this group of prosperous, influential…bigots…had set in motion.

They weren't alone, of course. Successful businessmen all over the city opposed abolition, as did most journalists. Even the majority of the clergy sided with pro-slavery—after all, their salaries were paid, their churches built, their pews rented by the city's wealthy.

Because of this, the members of the abolitionist movement were often seen as crackpots or foolish visionaries. There was some truth in that charge, Sara knew; with so many of the ministers, merchants, and members of the press opposed to the entire movement, fanatics and undesirables soon filled the ranks.

Ever since 1831, when the radical William Lloyd Garrison first published his Boston periodical, the
Liberator,
the antislavery movement had been fraught with upheaval and dissension. The militant blocs antagonized the more moderate element, and those who clamored for a variety of humanitarian causes, such as equal rights for women and prison reform, managed to alienate those who would restrict their efforts to freeing the slaves.

There was an indisputable lunatic fringe that advocated outright disregard of the nation's laws and even violence to achieve their ends. But Northerners, for the most part, revered the Constitution, and when extremists—like Garrison himself—resorted to burning copies of it, or urging slaves to murder their masters in their beds, they tended to view the abolition movement as no better than an organization of madmen.

Now, years later, the hysterical antics of Garrison and his extremist following still overshadowed the efforts of the more moderate abolitionists. Nevertheless, men and women who believed in the essential cause—freedom of the slaves—continued to work for a peaceable, reasonable solution by educating the public and influencing the government.

Jess Dalton was one such man, and it was the very worst sort of unfairness to relegate him to the category of a fanatic. As a minister and a champion of the rights of the oppressed, he labored as a rational, compassionate man of God. What a small group of petty Pharisees were attempting to do to him was nothing short of sinful.

He was aware, of course, of the scheming against him. Already there had been an informal reprimand regarding his activity with the abolitionist movement, and his taking the black boy, Arthur Jackson, into his home.

Watching him now, Sara thought that, at first glance, the big pastor seemed himself: relaxed, cheerful, and confident. A closer look, however, revealed a deepening of the lines webbing out from his eyes, and an uncharacteristic air of distraction.

“I wonder why he's so late,” Michael said, beside her. “And where's his wife?”

“She's not feeling well,” Sara said. “I talked with him this morning, when we were setting up the exhibits, and he told me that Kerry had taken cold and wouldn't be able to come.” She caught her lip between her teeth for a moment. “He seemed worried about her.”

“I'd like to throttle that bunch in the corner,” Michael said harshly.

“Oh, Michael—it's so unfair!” Sara said. “Jess Dalton is such a
good
man—he works so hard for the church and for the missions—for the entire city! There must be a way to stop what they're trying to do!”

“There is no stopping that kind, Sara, short of a total change of heart.” He turned to look at her, his eyes hard. “And no one but the good Lord can bring about such a—”

He broke off, turning toward the doors as the crowd stirred and murmured. The instant Sara saw what was coming, she caught her breath.

Nervously, she scanned the incredulous faces among the crowd as Evan Whittaker and his Five Points Celebration Singers trooped solemnly into the ballroom.

31

Songs of the City

How sad!—to hear a song of mirth
Sung in the homeless street,
By one in melancholy dearth
Of clothes, and food to eat.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1824–1899)

T
he two journalists in attendance began to scribble furiously when the choir of black and Irish boys from Five Points marched into the ballroom.

The older of the two reporters, Jerry Tanner, could scarcely believe what he was seeing, even as he wrote. He couldn't wait to get back downtown and file his story.

They were sharp-looking lads, for the most part: scrubbed and neat, though in some cases their clothing was tattered. Tanner noted that despite the cold March day, some were barefooted.

From the appearance of things, the one-armed director had the lot of them well under control.
Whittaker
was the Englishman's name, Tanner recalled from the information given to him by Mr. Farmington:
Evan Whittaker.
No doubt about it, the discipline of the youngsters seemed impressive. They filed in like a group of little soldiers, turning toward the crowd as one, then standing ramrod straight with all eyes on their slender, bespectacled director.

Griggs, a rookie from
the Journal,
shot Tanner a bug-eyed look. “You believe this? How do you suppose they wangled their way in here?”

Tanner shrugged, his eyes scanning the crowd to gauge their reaction. “Dunno. But I doubt anybody's going to question Lewis Farmington on his choice of house guests.”

Tanner could have almost predicted the response of some among the crowd. Old Chester Pauling, for example, looked about to strangle on his own Adam's apple, and his sidekick, Charles Street—the senior partner of Street, Storey, and Black—was wagging his jowls like a flustered turkey. Some of the women thinned their noses as if they smelled something bad, and two or three actually turned and led their husbands out of the room.

“They're
black!”
he heard one observant matron choke out to her stricken companion.
“Black
and
Irish.”
The friend, whose jaw seemed locked half open, could do nothing but gape and nod.

For the most part, however, people simply stood quietly, staring back at the frightened black and freckled faces. Some folks even smiled—but not many. Lewis Farmington's daughter and her Irish policeman husband were beaming, as was the thin-faced little red-headed girl standing close to the two of them.