Land of a Thousand Dreams (63 page)

“The others like us,” she persisted. “The ones what was caught—the black ones. They'll sell 'em, they will—sure, and, they told us so right out.”

The others like us…the black ones
….

Tierney tried to swallow down the sour taste in his mouth. “Go on,” he said grudgingly, “get away! I'll see what I can do.”

As the girls scattered into the darkness, Tierney turned and stared back toward the warehouse. The girl doesn't know any better, he thought, she doesn't know the difference between the blacks and the Irish….

But maybe he was the one who didn't know any better. He had seen for himself what Patrick Walsh was capable of, after all. Had he really thought a snake like that would differentiate between Negro and Irish—him, who disavowed his own Irish blood?

His own blind spot made it worse. That after all this time, he could have been naive enough to expect anything but consummate evil from a man like Walsh was nothing short of foolishness on his part.

Da had been right about Walsh all along
….

He had sensed Walsh's wickedness, his depravity, right from the start. That's why he had been so set on exposing him and putting an end to his rotten dealings. Da wouldn't have been the least surprised to learn the extent of Walsh's corruption.

The thought of his father only served to deepen his anguish. It would destroy him to know his only son had been a party to tonight's bad business. It would break his heart entirely. Da, who made no distinctions between Negro or Irish, black or white, rich or poor…who would give his life just as quickly for a black person as a white…who would believe anything of a man like Walsh…but not of his son.

Da…oh, Da!

Sick with shame, Tierney squeezed his eyes shut. He was unable to think of anything else but his father, yet the thought made him want to weep.

Finally opening his eyes, he stood staring at the warehouse. After a moment, his heart pounding, he took off at a dead run.

40

Trial by Fire

It seemed life held
No future and no past but this.

LOLA RIDGE (1883–1941)

A
rthur Jackson, still dazed and stinging from the slave catcher's blow, heard everything the man called
Rossiter
said to the tall boy with the scar above his eye.

Burke,
the bald-headed man had called him. Tierney Burke. Arthur knew the name. Tierney Burke was the captain's son, wasn't he?

But what was he doing
here?
He couldn't be one of the slave catchers, could he—with his daddy a policeman?

Still, Captain Burke was an Irishman. And those people did hate the colored folk something fierce.

Arthur wondered if anybody in this city liked anybody else. Or were they mostly all like the people at the big church, fussing and feuding and making trouble for the few really good folks, like Mr. Jess?

Nothing was fair in the city, it seemed. Captain Burke, he seemed like a pretty good man, yet he had a son working for the slave catchers.

And Mr. Jess—well, they didn't come any better than that man, and just look at all the trouble he was in!

For that matter, how about himself? He'd run away to help Mr. Jess, and because of that, he had a rope around his neck and was going to get sold—maybe even sent back to Mississippi.

A shivery chill, like the kind that came with a sickness, trickled down the back of Arthur's neck, all the way down his spine.

Any boy with a lick of sense knew that Mississippi was one of the worst places for a slave to end up. Mississippi and Alabama were as close to hell on earth as a slave boy could get.

Oh, Lord…please, Lord, don't let me end up back in Mississippi! If I got to go back to the South, couldn't I maybe just go to Virginia, or somewhere else, somewhere that's not quite so bad for colored boys?

A sudden movement in the back of the warehouse caught Arthur's eye. He looked over the bald man's shoulder, into the shadows. There was something shiny back there. Something like a flash of light. A flash of light from a badge. A policeman's badge.

Locking his eyes on the badge shaped like a star, Arthur began to smile.

Hubert Rossiter glared down his nose at the arrogant young buck in the center of the torches. He was a feisty one, all right. The kind who would have brought top dollar at a regular auction. Too bad the price had already been set at so much a head. Quantity, not quality, was what counted tonight.

Already, he regretted letting Tierney Burke make off with the Irish girls. His first thought was that the high and mighty boy wonder would get in trouble with Mr. Walsh—would finally hang himself, and good riddance! But the more he mulled it over, the more he began to question his judgment. Walsh seemed to favor the young pup, in spite of his cheek. There was never any telling how he'd react to the boy's insolence. More than likely, Burke would walk away from this episode smelling like a rose, as usual.

Rossiter turned his anger on the black boy, wondering how it would feel to slap that defiant face. Then he saw the dark eyes lock on something behind him. At the same time, a faint smile began to creep over the Negro boy's features.

The skin on Rossiter's forearms tightened. In the split second it took for him to realize something was wrong, one of Walsh's men charged forward with a curse, only to be stopped by a low voice.

“Drop your weapons, boyos. It's all over.”

Tierney reached the warehouse, heaving from the exertion of his run, only to find the main door bolted from within. He sagged against the door for a moment, then turned and made his way around the building, pulling on every door he passed.

In the back alley, he tried the last door in vain. Leaning his head against the splintered wood, he choked down an oath of frustration.

“Over here!” a voice whispered.

Tierney lifted his head, looked around, but saw no one.

“Here!”
hissed the voice, louder.

Tierney glanced down. Coming toward him out of the darkness was a dark-haired, dark-eyed…something…on a wooden cart.

He squinted, then realized what he was seeing. The legless “Turtle Boy” from the dime museum. He had seen him on stage a couple of times, had passed him on routine trips to the Bowery, riding about the streets on his little cart.

“What are you doing here?” he said, forcing back a shudder of revulsion as he eyed the boy.

The Turtle Boy stared up at him, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “We thought Captain Burke might need some help,” he said matter-of-factly, raising one hand to gesture over his shoulder. Two shadowed forms entered the alley from the other side: one, a huge, muscular youth, almost grotesque in size, and the other, a mean-looking dwarf.

“I'm his son,” Tierney said, studying the three of them. He shifted uneasily, realizing how differently he responded to these people than his father would. What Da would call their “differences” made him feel uncomfortable, almost fearful.

“Yes,” the Turtle Boy replied shortly, “I know. I heard part of your conversation with Walsh's man inside.”

Perched on his cart, he regarded Tierney with an unsettling mixture of what looked to be pity and suspicion. “Have you perhaps changed your mind about your employer tonight?”

Immediately defensive, Tierney frowned. “What do
you
know about my—employer?”

“Being without legs doesn't mean I can't see and hear,” said the Turtle Boy curtly. “Patrick Walsh is well known in the Bowery.” He paused. “At least, by reputation.”

Before Tierney could ask further questions, the boy went on. “There's no time for this now. Do you see that hole, there, in the side of the building?” He pointed to a large, gaping hole just above the foundation of the warehouse. “I'm going in and unlock the back door. You come in with them,” he said, motioning toward the dwarf and the big, heavy-shouldered youth.

Tierney nodded dumbly, standing aside as the legless boy nipped himself off his cart, then scooted easily through the hole in the wall.

After another moment, he heard the bolt slide free. Soon, the back door cracked open.

As soon as he returned to the alley, the Turtle Boy, using his hands and moving as swiftly as a young seal, hefted himself back onto the cart and started for the door. “We'll have to be very quiet,” he warned.

Tierney followed the others into the dark warehouse, stopping just inside. At the far end, toward the front door, he could see a circle of men holding torches.

His eyes went to Rossiter, who seemed frozen in place as he stared at—what?

Tierney squinted, then caught his breath. There, silhouetted against the torchlight, was the unmistakable form of his father, advancing on Hubert Rossiter with a gun.

Michael held the gun on Rossiter as he continued to move forward. Keeping his eyes on the bookkeeper, he jerked his head toward the children. “Stay back!” he told them, still closing in on Rossiter.

He glanced to see them backing up, eyes wide with fear. “Now,” he said to Rossiter, his voice low, “you'll just be giving the book to me—and very carefully.”

Extending his left hand toward the bookkeeper, he spied a movement by one of Walsh's henchmen. “HOLD IT!” he shouted, swinging his gun around.

But he was too late. With a mighty heave, the goon hurled his torch straight at Michael.