Sons of an Ancient Glory (8 page)

On the fringes of his consciousness lurked a thought he knew to be irrational, yet sometimes it came to him in the midst of some horror he encountered in his role as a policeman. When he viewed some evil inflicted by one human being, or an entire group, upon another, he couldn't help wondering if perhaps in this life it was the
nightmare
that was the reality and peace only an elusive pretender. Was it madness to aspire to peace when human nature seemed so bent on turning on itself—destroying itself?

Again he glanced down at the note in his hand. Slowly, he shook his head. One thing was certain: There would be no peace this night. Not here, in the streets of the city, and not in the little frame house in Brooklyn.

God help them all, would there ever be peace again?

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

O
SCAR
W
ILDE
(1854-1900)

Dublin, Ireland

Mid-June

T
ierney Burke passed his seventeenth birthday in the cold, dark cell of a Dublin jail.

Had he been at home for the event, no doubt his da would have treated him to a corned beef dinner at the Wells Cafe and perhaps a boxing match afterward. As it was, he celebrated with bitter water and stale bread. The bread was always stale in this place, as was the air, thick with mildew and the smell of unwashed bodies.

It had been quiet for the most part tonight. The only sound was an occasional shout from one of the guards or a muffled moan from a prisoner. Once in a while a cell door clanked open, followed by scuffling noises that signaled a new arrival.

He had been here two weeks now. Two weeks and
three days
, he reminded himself, marking off another day on the wall with a small stone. He made the mark with an awkward jab of his left hand. His right arm had been broken and was suspended in a dirty sling.

Sinking down onto the hard slab that served as a bed, Tierney leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. He thought it might be nine o'clock or thereabouts, although he couldn't be sure. His watch was gone, as were all his other personal effects—confiscated for “purposes of security” by the prison officials.

Any question about the time, or anything else for that matter, brought only taunts from the guards. Especially the one called “Boiler Bill”—so named by the prisoners for the angry-looking boils in evidence on the back and sides of his thick neck.

“What's time to a prison rat?” he would say, his furry broken teeth bared in an ugly laugh. “Hah, I know! I bet you're impatient for your next fine meal, is that it?” Invariably, he and the other guards would goad the prisoners about the food, which was so foul even the rats turned up their noses at it.

The guards defied all belief. They were like caricatures created by some drunken madman in his dreams. They seemed happiest when hammering a prisoner against the wall or putting out their smokes on the poor man's hands. A few of them stopped short of being altogether vicious, taking only a mild satisfaction in degrading the prisoners in the cells. But most of them, like Boiler Bill, struck Tierney as altogether deranged.

He had a broken arm and a few cracked ribs to prove him right.

The scene of domestic tranquility in the great room at Nelson Hall should have brought contentment to Morgan Fitzgerald. His wife, Finola, and his newly adopted daughter, Annie, sat sewing for the coming babe, while Sister Louisa hovered near, inspecting their progress with a watchful eye.

No doubt he would have reveled in such a setting under different circumstances. But there seemed to be no serenity for his soul this night, no peace for his aching heart.

It had been three days since Evan Whittaker's letter had arrived with the dire tidings of Little Tom's death. Even now, the waves of shock and grief roared through Morgan with such force he could scarcely bear the pain. He had read the letter over and over again, as if he'd somehow missed a part of the story, some saving grace hidden amid the lines which, when deciphered, would reveal that it was all a mistake.

But it was no mistake. Little Tom was dead, and Morgan felt bruised and raw with the anguish of it. It almost seemed that each time he believed he had finally come to grips with the loss of his family—that he had at last been able to store the memories away where they would no longer wound him so—another tragedy would strike. Once again, the cumulative pain of the past would wash up, overwhelming him with regret and sorrow.

His gaze returned to the scene across the room for another moment, lingering on Finola's golden head and Annie's dark one, bent low over their sewing. The quiet pleasure he usually found in moments like these now eluded him. Tonight he craved only solitude. He needed to be alone with his memories.

With one last reluctant glance at Finola, he turned and wheeled himself out of the room.

Tierney opened his eyes as keys jangled outside in the corridor. Heavy, shuffling footsteps signaled the approach of Boiler Bill.

Tierney tensed, waiting. After a moment, the cell door opened, and the barrel-chested guard sent a new prisoner scrambling into the cell.

The new arrival let go a stream of invective that sounded like a foreign tongue. With one heavy-booted foot, the guard kicked the prisoner in the back and sent him sprawling against the wall.

“Got some company for you, Yankee-Boy!” the guard announced to Tierney. “You've had the royal suite to yourself long enough.”

Tierney glared at him, pulling in a long breath. The pain in his ribs reminded him that he was in no shape for a pounding from Boiler Bill, so he remained silent.

“The both of you should make a sterling pair,” sneered the guard. “A Gypsy horse thief and a Yankee dock rat.”

Deliberately, Tierney studied the disgusting boil that bulged just below the guard's left ear, then transferred his attention to what appeared to be a large gravy stain on the front of his shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the new prisoner slowly uncoil himself from the wall and stand, hands clenched, glaring at the slovenly guard.

Tierney straightened a little to get a better look at his new cellmate.
A Gypsy horse thief
, the guard had called him. He looked the part, right enough.

There had been some Gypsies in New York, mostly in and about Shantytown. In their strange-looking clothes and brightly painted wagons, they attracted attention and suspicious stares wherever they went.

This one was young, probably not much older than Tierney himself, and looked to be about the same height. Long-legged and lean, he wore stovepipe trousers with several rows of stitching around the bottom, a bright yellow shirt, and a blue-and-white printed scarf knotted loosely about his throat. Dark brown boots, apparently of fine quality, showed beneath his trousers. A small gold earring glinted in one ear. His hair was the color of pitch, as was his roguish mustache. He was dark-skinned, though not as dark as most of the Shantytown Gypsies Tierney remembered.

The door clanged shut, and Boiler Bill shuffled on down the corridor, taking the lamp with him. Only a faint trace of moonlight slipped in from the small barred window high on the outside wall.

The two prisoners stood appraising each other in the shadows for a moment. The Gypsy was the first to break the silence. “Did that happen in here?” he asked, motioning to Tierney's arm.

Tierney nodded but offered no explanation.

The Gypsy's black eyes took on a knowing look. “One of the guards?”

“No,” muttered Tierney. “
Two
of them.”

The other winced as if he, too, had felt the pain. “How long have you been here?”

Tierney's arm inside the grimy bandages itched, and he tried to work it back and forth in the sling to gain relief. “Close on three weeks,” he said, making no attempt to mask his frustration. “It seems like three years.”

The Gypsy nodded, studying him. “The guard called you ‘Yankee-Boy.' You are not Irish, then?”

“American.
Irish
American. My parents emigrated.”

“You have come from America recently?”

Tierney gave a bitter laugh. “So recently that I managed to get myself thrown into jail less than an hour after getting off the ship.” The disappointment of having his plans so rudely thwarted washed over him again, renewing the pain, reviving his anger.

The other's dark eyes glinted with interest. “I have never met an American.” He paused. “Have you come to visit family? I thought these days most ships sailed
away
from Ireland.”

Tierney remained silent. He was in no mood to relate his life history. Certainly not to a Gypsy.

“Forgive me. It is not my place to ask.” His new cellmate turned his eyes away, looking down at the floor. After another moment, he said quietly, “I am Jan Martova. And I am sorry for your pain.”

Tierney looked up, surprised. He was caught off guard by his cellmate's good manners. In New York, the Gypsies were viewed as little more than filthy, thieving savages. Ignorant beggars to be shunned.

Still, he'd had no one to talk with for weeks now, except for the brutish guards—and they seldom made a sound beyond a grunt or an oath. Though he admitted it grudgingly, even to himself, he was lonely. Lonely and homesick—for his da, for his pals and his old neighborhood.

“My name is Burke,” he finally offered. “Tierney Burke.” He paused, then asked, “So—why are you here? What did you do?”

The Gypsy sighed and shrugged. “I am accused of stealing a horse.” He looked at Tierney with a faint smile. “All Gypsies are horse thieves, no?”

As a matter of fact, that was pretty much what Tierney had always heard. Even Da, a man not given to bigotry, had had little use for the Gypsies and what he called their “thieving ways.”

Still smiling, Jan Martova crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened was that I came upon a British soldier caning his horse. A fine animal—the horse, that is—but far too spirited for the soldier's liking. And smarter, too, no doubt.”

Abruptly, his expression sobered. “I undertook to relieve the soldier of his cane and free the horse. As it happened, there were other soldiers on the street at the time.” Again he shrugged. “And so now I am in jail, for horse stealing.” He met Tierney's gaze straight on. “Not such an uncommon circumstance for a
Rom
.”