Song of the Silent Harp (44 page)

Evan blinked. “Snappy? Your mother said that?”

Daniel nodded, smiling. “We were going to try to convince you to leave it, once you felt more yourself.”

“Oh.” Evan blinked again. “Well, I—
snappy,
you say? Perhaps I'll wait a bit…just for a while, before I d-decide.”

“I'm truly glad you're feeling better,” Daniel said quietly. “I've missed our talks.”

Evan studied the boy's thin, strongly molded face, the fine, noble head, the genuine goodness in the deep blue eyes. “As have I, Daniel. I'll tell you what,” he said briskly, patting the opposite side of the bunk, “why don't you sit down right n-now and k-keep me company?”

The boy looked at him, then sank down onto the bunk beside him. After a second or two, he wet his lips and said, his tone hesitant, “Mr. Whittaker, are
you truly feeling stronger now? Strong enough that I could confide in you about something—something that's been a fierce worry to me? There's been no one else I could tell, and I need to know what you think about it.”

“Why, of course, Daniel.” Immediately curious and concerned, Evan twisted to prop himself up, finally waiting to allow Daniel to help by plumping a coat beneath his head like a pillow.

“All right, now,” he said, feeling more comfortable than he had since the surgery. “What seems to be bothering you? Tell me everything.”

As Daniel talked, he felt a wonderful sense of relief settle over him. He hadn't realized just how much he had come to depend on Whittaker's precise, matter-of-fact way of putting things in order. Being able to confide his suspicions and fears about Captain Schell and the ship went a long way in relieving the anxiety he'd been carrying around for days.

His relief was short-lived, however. Reaching the end of his tale, he caught his breath and sat, waiting. When Whittaker remained silent, Daniel could stand it no longer. “So, then, Mr. Whittaker, what can we do? How can we find out what's going on?”

Whittaker regarded him with a solemn, worried expression, still delaying his reply. After another long silence, he drew a deep sigh and began to rub his right temple as if his head ached. “Well…I d-don't know that there's anything we
can
do, Daniel, at least until we're off the ship.”

“But we
must!
If we wait until we leave the ship, it may be too late for—for whoever is in the cabins! Besides, what difference will it make, our leaving the ship? We'll be total strangers in New York—we won't know how to help ourselves, much less anyone else!”

Still massaging his head, Whittaker closed his eyes. Only when Daniel saw how weary and pale he looked did he realize he'd been talking far too long.

“I'm sorry, I've tired you out,” he murmured, sliding down from the bunk. “I'll go so you can rest.”

“Wait.” Whittaker opened his eyes, put his hand to Daniel's arm. “Before you go, there's something I think we should pray about. Here,” he said, indicating that Daniel should kneel beside his bunk.

“I want us to pray that God will p-put some p-people in the city for us.”

Daniel looked at him. “I don't understand.”

Propping himself up a bit more, Whittaker explained. “When the apostle Paul was in Corinth, the Lord appeared to him in a vision one night and told him to g-go right on doing what he'd been sent to do—proclaiming the
gospel—and not to be afraid, because God had many people in the city.”

Whittaker paused, sinking back onto the berth. “God does that for us, I believe. When we're in His will and facing the unknown, He puts some of His people in ‘our city.' In other words, He sends His own to help protect His own. Let us pray that He'll put some of His people in New York City for us, Daniel.”

Daniel sank down to his knees. Whittaker did the praying for both of them, but when he was done, Daniel added his own silent petition:
Lord, there are many of us, so if You have plenty to spare, would You please put a great number of people in the city, enough to go around?

It had already occurred to Evan that it might not be only the mysterious occupants of the cabins who were in jeopardy. The more he mulled things over—Schell's vicious explosion of temper the night Daniel had gone above in search of the doctor, the boy's suspicion that Leary was hiding something, either about the captain or the ship itself, and the recent confrontation between Schell and the sailor—the more apprehensive he became about the captain's character. Who could tell what kind of perfidy the man might be involved in, might have involved the entire ship in?

As to the unseen passengers in the cabins—he had read enough about white slavery during recent years to suspect the
Green Flag
was involved in something of that nature—perhaps in other illegal cargo as well. Where prostitution flourished, opium could often be found in partnership. Indeed, the drug was becoming as much a plague in American and European cities as it had been in the Orient for centuries. Thanks to the fast-sailing packet ships and the burgeoning populations in cities like New York and London, running opium and foreign prostitutes from one country to another had become a highly profitable activity.

Eyes closed, a hand to his head, Evan fretted over the fact that Daniel was disappointed in him. The boy was obviously hoping for some sort of plan as to how they might help whoever was hidden in the passenger cabins.

But as far as Evan could see, the best plan at the moment—the
safest
plan—was to pretend they knew nothing, had noticed nothing at all out of the ordinary, at least until he could attempt to find out more about the dark-natured Captain Schell and his drunken surgeon.

When the surgeon came to examine him and others in steerage later that night, Evan was ready for him.

He was somewhat relieved to see that the man was, as usual, in his cups. A drunken tongue wagged far more freely than a sober one.

Leary was putting the finishing touches on a fresh bandage. “You're looking feistier than I've seen you for a time,” he said thickly. “Must be feeling more yourself.”

“Yes, I b-believe I am. I'm actually beginning to get used to the idea of having…only one arm.”

“Might as well,” slurred the surgeon. “You'll not be changing things.”

Compassionate soul…

“That's true,” Evan agreed through clenched teeth. “There are artificial limbs, you know,” Leary said, straightening. “You might want to see about one later, after you're entirely healed.”

Evan swallowed, thinking of all the hook-handed pirates in his adventure novels. “Perhaps,” he managed to say. “I've heard rumors that we'll see N-New York soon. How much longer, do you think?”

Leary scratched his grizzled cheek, obviously groping for a lucid thought in the blur of his brain.

“A week, ten days, says the captain. If the weather holds.”

“That soon?” A mixture of relief and apprehension washed over Evan.

Leary fumbled with rewrapping a roll of bandages. Without looking up, he simply grunted a neutral reply.

“I say,” Evan ventured, watching the man closely, “what sort of cargo does this ship carry? I don't believe I remember hearing anything about cargo.”

The doctor paused in his fumbling to look at him. “I'm the surgeon, not a sailor. I wouldn't know about cargo.”

“I see.”
What accounted for the guilt plastered over the man's face?

“Well, perhaps you'd be willing to advise me of the procedures once we arrive in New York,” Evan continued, trying another tack. “What can we expect, once we're ready to leave the ship?”

The surgeon's eyes seemed glued on the roll of bandages. “There'll be people there to help you. The captain has seen to all the arrangements, I'm sure.”

Evan sensed the man was sidestepping. “Yes. Well, ah…what k-kind of…arrangements, exactly?”

The surgeon seemed to resent every syllable he uttered. “You'll need to pass through quarantine, have a medical examination.” He paused, then uttered a nasty laugh. “Which will be anything but thorough, you need not worry.”

“My…surgery? It won't prevent m-me from leaving the ship, will it?” Evan asked, his concern genuine.

Again the doctor laughed. “Nothing much prevents you from passing quarantine unless you are black with the typhus or already dead.”

Evan stared at the man. “Yes. And…where do we actually g-go, once we're permitted to leave the harbor?”

Averting his gaze, the surgeon closed his medical case. “I told you,” he said, half under his breath, “the captain has arranged for people to be there. Guides for the lot of you. You needn't worry.”

Something in the man's furtive demeanor—in spite of his drunken vagueness—sent a warning directly to Evan's brain.

He suddenly knew that they
did
have something to worry about, perhaps more than he'd first feared.

39

And the world went on between folly and reason
With gladness and sorrow by turns in season.

J
OHN
D
E
J
EAN
F
RAZER
(1809–1852)

I
n Bellevue Hospital late the following Tuesday afternoon, Sara Farmington sat by the bedside of the sleeping Sergeant Burke, thinking about how different the day was to have been.

Instead of venturing into Five Points with the Irish policeman as her escort, she had ended up in this dreary hospital ward, feeling unsettled and vaguely ill at ease.

A curtain had been drawn around the cubicle for privacy. The sergeant had been sleeping ever since she arrived—almost two hours ago, she realized with surprise. It was an oddly disturbing sensation, seeing such a big, vigorous man lying vulnerable and silent in a hospital bed. Shirtless, his entire chest was swathed in thick bandages, stained in two or three places with dried blood.

To Sara's eyes he looked gray and drawn and ill. As she watched, he stirred slightly, muttering something in his sleep Sara couldn't catch. Instantly, she tensed, perching forward on her chair. But after another second or two, he groaned, threw a hand up over his eyes, and quieted.

She sighed, leaning back as her mind reviewed the last few hours that had led her to Bellevue. She had arrived early at the Hall of Justice, expecting him to meet her there, only to be told by the desk officer that the sergeant had been shot just last week—the very day they had last been together!—and was now recuperating in the hospital from a serious chest wound.

Thank heaven she had asked Uriah to drive her carriage today, rather than depending on a hackney! The elderly Negro driver had frightened half a dozen other teams off the streets as he followed her bidding to take her to Bellevue at once.

Framing her face between her hands for a moment, she deliberately avoided thinking of the weakness that had seized her upon learning Sergeant Burke had been shot. Nor did she dwell on the overwhelming tide of relief that had swept through her the moment she heard he would be all right. For now, it was enough to sit here beside him, pretending that when he woke up he would be glad to see her.

Immediately, another discomforting thought thrust itself into her mind, forcing out her feelings of relief. Did she dare tell him of her father's response to her queries about the
Green Flag?

She glanced over at him, wondering just how much he really cared for his…Nora.

Stop it, you ninny!
she silently reprimanded herself.
The man is as good as engaged, with a sweetheart sailing the Atlantic to be with him. All you can hope for is to be his friend, to be of help to him if there's any way you can. Now, for heaven's sake, stop behaving like a giddy schoolgirl!

“They did not tell me I was dying, those rascally surgeons. But what else could it mean, finding an angel at my side?”

Sara shot bolt upright on the chair, her eyes snapping open. “Sergeant Burke! Oh—I must have dozed—”

He was lying with his head turned toward her, watching her with a mischievous, if feeble, grin.

Flustered, Sara stammered out an apology, feeling decidedly foolish to think he'd been lying there staring at her, even as she sat thinking of
him.
“Gracious, here I am, waiting for
you
to wake up, and
I'm
the one who falls asleep!”

“Well, I must say, Miss Farmington, it's grand to wake up to the sight of you instead of that prune-faced old Harrison.”

“Harrison?”

“‘Harrison the Harridan,' I affectionately call her,” he explained sourly. “She fancies herself a nurse, but between you and me I'm convinced she's actually a British spy they've turned loose in the States to get rid of all the Irish coppers.”

“I'm relieved to see that you're feeling better,” Sara remarked dryly. “I heard you very nearly died, but you seem to be making a remarkable recovery.” That was an exaggeration, of course, but the glint of amusement in his eyes was reassuring.

His smile turned to a scowl. “No, and I did not ‘very nearly die!'” he groused, waving one hand in exasperation. “I could have left this chamber of horrors long before now if I could only find somebody to give me my trousers!”

Immediately his face flamed. “Sorry, Miss Farmington. It's little time that I spend with proper young ladies—I'm afraid I tend to forget my manners.” Glancing down at himself, he gave the blanket a tug to cover his torso.

Suppressing a smile, Sara looked down at the floor, but not before noting that his hand trembled slightly on the bedding. Obviously, he was weaker than he wanted anyone to know.

“I
am
glad you're doing so well, Sergeant Burke. Your surgeon and the nurses seem delighted with your progress.”

“That's because they can't wait to be rid of me,” he muttered. “Harrison claims I am the most provoking patient she's ever encountered.”

“Somehow I'm inclined to believe her,” Sara said. “I can't imagine how this could have happened and I didn't hear of it. I'm certain there was nothing in the papers.”

One dark brow lifted cynically. “They'd not be advertising the fact that a policeman got shot by another city employee.”

“A city employee? But I thought the desk officer said it was a man shooting dogs in the street!”

“It was. Those boyos are paid by the city to do just that—rid the streets of wild dogs. This fellow, however, had fortified himself with a bit of the rye before he went on duty. Both his aim and his brain may have been somewhat unsteady,” he concluded with a grim smile.

Sara shuddered. “That's horrible.”

“My getting shot or the dogs?”

Her mouth twitched. “Both.”

His expression sobered. “Well, it's done, and I'm alive, for which I'm thankful. I mean to be gone from this place by the end of the week, though. I
must
—the ship may be in the harbor by then, and I intend to be there when she docks.”

Sara frowned as she considered him. “You can't be serious, Sergeant! You'll be in no condition to leave the hospital by then. Besides,” she added, “you don't actually have a specific arrival date for the ship, do you?”

He shook his head. “Not yet,” he admitted. “I don't suppose you remembered to ask your father if he knew anything of the
Green Flag?”

Sara swallowed, wishing she could avoid answering his question. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

The sergeant's eyes widened with interest. “Did you now?
And?”

Taking a deep breath, Sara turned on the chair to face him more fully. “Well, at first he wasn't able to tell me very much at all. The name of the ship wasn't familiar to him.”

Disappointment clouded his expression, and Sara quickly added, “He did get the name of the captain, however.”

“The captain?”

“Yes. Father had one of the men at the yards do some checking on the ships scheduled to arrive during the coming weeks. Apparently the
Green Flag
isn't listed, but it's commanded by a Captain Schell. Abidas Schell.”

“Peculiar name,” he commented. When Sara said nothing more, he rubbed a hand down the side of his face, frowning, and went on. “Will knowing the captain's name make it possible to find out when the ship is due to arrive?”

“Well…possibly,” Sara replied, wringing her hands in her lap. “Sergeant Burke, as it happens, this Captain Schell…is a familiar name to my father.” She hesitated, and caught a deep breath before going on. “Apparently, he's not a—a reputable person.”

The sergeant's eyes darkened. “What does that mean, exactly? What makes a ship captain disreputable?”

She sighed. “I suppose I might just as well tell you exactly what Father told me,” she said reluctantly. “It would seem that this…Abidas Schell…is nothing more than a common criminal. Most likely he's only managed to avoid prison by never staying in any one port long enough to be caught. He's a known smuggler—opium, munitions, and other…other illegal cargoes. Father said he's been involved in slaving and almost every other criminal act covered by maritime law.”

Michael pushed himself up on one arm, staring at her. Sara flinched when she saw the sharp flash of pain that crossed his face with the effort.

“That's not…quite all,” she said tersely.

His eyes narrowed.

“It seems that on a number of occasions Schell has also been known to sell his entire list of steerage passengers to some of the larger, more sophisticated runners.”

Sara shrank at the thunderous look that now settled over his face. Of course, a police sergeant would know only too well what that meant.

Until recently, it had been common practice for a certain despicable kind of thief to board a ship as soon as it appeared in the harbor with the sole purpose of bilking the bewildered, frightened immigrants out of their money and belongings, all to the profit of the runner's employer, usually a tavern owner or a company.

Preying on their fear and confusion, the runner could easily wheedle his way into their trust because he was of their own kind—Irish runners plundered the Irish, Italians the Italians, and so on. The poor aliens were completely ignorant of the practice. Within moments, the unscrupulous parasite would be on his way out of the harbor with an entire family, or families, in tow, leading them to a “respectable boardinghouse they could afford, where they would enjoy the companionship of other souls from the auld sod while planning for their future.”

The swindler would take the unsuspecting family to his employer's boardinghouse—most often a squalid tavern or tenement. There they would be charged an exorbitant rent for holing up with several other families in the same filthy, often unfurnished room. During their stay, their funds would swiftly disappear, along with most of their possessions.

These days, a new, more vicious practice was springing up, according to Lewis Farmington. Now unprincipled captains were selling their entire steerage lists to the runners of highly organized brokers. With this prepaid arrangement, all the steerage immigrants were turned over to one runner, who met the ship when it arrived and then proceeded to make a killing with a minimum of effort.

Apparently, the captain of the
Green Flag
was one of the innovators of this merciless brand of thievery.

“I must get out of here!”
Pushing himself up as far as he could, the sergeant turned white with the effort and immediately collapsed onto his pillows.

With a cry, Sara shot up off the chair. “Don't be foolish! You see how weak you still are—why, you'd fall on your face before you made it past the door! The surgeon said you'll have to stay here for at least another week, perhaps longer.”

“I will not!” he bit out, his voice shaking with rage and weakness. “I
can't!
I can't just lie here, knowing Nora and the others are at the mercy of that—
pirate!
” Even as he spoke, he balled one large hand into a fist, grinding his jaw against an obvious onslaught of pain.

“Sergeant, there is absolutely nothing you can do until the ship actually arrives.”

“But there's no knowing when that will
be.
” His face was pinched, his eyes burning with frustration at his own helplessness.

“I'll find out,” Sara assured him. “I promise you, I'll find out.”

“How?”

“Father will know a way, I'm sure. I'll talk with him the moment I get home.
But you
must promise
me
in the meantime you'll not try anything foolish. You're not nearly strong enough to be up, and you'll be of little help to—to your friend, Nora, if you injure yourself and have to lie abed for
weeks.”

He was furious. Furious and grieved. Sara knew instinctively that this man had never in his life had to depend upon anyone other than himself. And here he was, flat on his back, almost wholly dependent on a crotchety nurse and a lame society spinster.