A Bright Tomorrow (12 page)

He was sick of working for Hearst, and knew that he was a fool for feeling that way. How many young men would give their left arm for a chance to work for the
Journal
, the most powerful newspaper in America? But every day since coming back from the War, Amos Stuart had been conscious of a nagging doubt about his place.

The sight of men dying suddenly—blotted out without a moment to make their peace with God—had scarred him. He thought every day about his friend Faye O'Dell and at nights had bad dreams about the young man. Often he woke up in a cold sweat, petrified with fear, thinking,
What if it had been me? I'd be in hell right now!

He glanced across the street, and the sight of his favorite restaurant reminded him that he was hungry. He turned and started to cross the street, wondering how to get his stories by Hearst. He was so deeply immersed in thought he scarcely noticed the woman who came out of the saloon next to the café. He did observe that she was drunk, a fact that never failed to disgust him. He had to pass within five feet of her and noticed that she had stopped and was watching him. The streets were thick with prostitutes, and Amos did not bother to look at her. “No!” he snapped, confident he knew what she wanted, and brushed past her.

He did not turn, but if he had, he would have seen the stricken face of the woman he'd asked to marry him. Instead he disappeared into the café, and Rose moved on down the street, swaying and mumbling to herself. A man came up to walk beside her, a smile on his face, and without even looking at him, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her, still stumbling, until they disappeared into one of the sleazy hotels on a side street.

C
aptain Hugh Pentecost wore the dark uniform of the Salvation Army with the same pride that he had worn the crimson-and-white uniform of His Royal Majesty's Coldstream Guards. Six feet three and slender as a rapier, he had left the British Army, sacrificing a brilliant career after having been converted in 1890, in a street meeting conducted by General William Booth, the founder of the Salvation Army.

After leaving the Coldstream Guards—to the everlasting chagrin of his socially prominent family—he joined the Salvation Army, throwing himself into the work of saving lost souls with all the ardor he'd exhibited in battle against the foes of the Empire.

“I'd rather win one soul to Jesus than win the Victoria Cross!” Pentecost would exclaim, his light blue eyes flashing. “God won't look us over for medals or diplomas, but for
scars!
God saves us from the guttermost to the uttermost!”

He had joined with Bramwell Booth, the son of the founder, in mounting an evangelistic assault on the Devil's strongholds in London and had so favorably impressed General Booth that in 1897, Pentecost was chosen to begin a work among the poor in New York City.

The captain hit the slums of the Fourth Ward—the most notorious section of all, filled with drunkards and prostitutes—and in a short time had become a familiar figure to the denizens of the skid rows and slums, his tall erect figure attracting attention wherever he went. Very few knew that if he had chosen to stay in England until the death of his father, he would have been “Sir Hugh” instead of “Captain Pentecost.”

The Fourth Ward, where the captain had chosen to set up his banner, was an old section of the city. Wave after wave of immigrants was pouring into New York, and the early settlers who had become the new rich and middle class were abandoning their neighborhoods and moving uptown. Their decaying homes were fast becoming slums or were being replaced by tenements—rookeries with scores of families crowded into what were designed to be single-family dwellings.

Much of the Fourth Ward was one street after another lined with grog shops, houses of ill repute, dance halls, billiard parlors, and saloons. Every night one could count on a murder every half mile, a robbery every one hundred sixty-five yards, and six outcasts at every door.

There had been many attempts to reclaim these derelicts, including the famous Water Street Mission begun by Jerry McAuley—a former prisoner of the infamous Sing Sing Prison. McAuley had died in 1884, but one of his converts, Sam Hadley, had been successful in expanding the work. Captain Pentecost had become good friends with Hadley, and on December 22, the two men were sitting in Hadley's office, discussing the work.

Hadley, a stout man with a heroic mustache that compensated for a receding hairline, was standing in front of a glowing coal stove, warming his backside, while Captain Pentecost was sitting in a chair, tilted back against the wall of the sparsely furnished office.

“Good service, Hugh.” Hadley nodded his approval. “But you always preach a good sermon.”

Captain Pentecost smiled wryly. “I've wondered how large the crowd would be if we didn't give them a free meal first, Sam.”

“Doesn't matter why they come. It's our duty to do what we can for them. Food and shelter for a night, and they hear the gospel.” Hadley grinned at his guest, adding, “You gave it to them red-hot and sizzling tonight, Captain.”

Pentecost frowned, and a dissatisfied look crossed his thin aristocratic face. “That was a mistake, I think. These people don't need to be convinced that they're sinners on the way to hell. They know
that
already, Sam. I wish I could preach a good old hellfire sermon to some of the rich people on Fifth Avenue.”

“Not much chance of that.” Hadley shrugged. “Not many wealthy people respond to the Gospel. They're like the rich man Jesus told about in the parable, building more barns to put their money in. No, we're seeing more souls saved in the Fourth Ward than the rest of the city ever thinks about seeing.”

Pentecost nodded, then got to his feet and stretched. “Well, I've got to go home. I'll see you next Thursday night. And I'll preach about the love of Jesus when I come.”

“Good night, Hugh. And I
still
say it was a fine sermon!”

Pentecost pulled on his heavy wool coat, wrapped a red muffler around his neck, then pulled his billed cap down over his face. When he stepped outside, the cold air struck him like a blow, but he liked cold weather. He suffered every summer, hating the sultry temperatures that turned New York into an oven. But now as the snow that had fallen during the service stuck to his boots, he looked up to see the flakes swirling madly as they fell. “Come on down, snow!” he grinned. “Cover this dirty old town!”

Strolling down the street, he knew that as much as he himself enjoyed the winter spectacle, it was a trial for the poor, many of them unable to afford the cost of coal.

The preacher's head was swarming with plans, as usual, as he made his way from Water Street, turning right on Dover and headed for the Army Headquarters. So completely was he engrossed in his thoughts that he was startled when a commotion across the street attracted his attention.

Two figures were barely visible by the yellow glare of the gaslight, so heavy was the snowfall now. A man was shouting something, and as Pentecost wheeled and crossed the deserted street, he heard the man curse, then saw him shove the other person, yelling, “I'll not be puttin' up with ye! Go sponge on somebody else, do ye hear me?”

Pentecost came up behind the speaker, the sound of his boots muffled by the soft four-inch blanket of snow, and touched him on the shoulder. “What's the trouble here?”

The burly fellow whirled around with his hands held up, fists clenched. “Do ye want a bit of it, then?” he grunted. “Come on, put up yer dukes! I'll teach ye to sneak up on a feller!”

Pentecost drew himself up, his frosty blue eyes piercing the other's gaze. “No need for that. I just want to help. What's the matter?”

The man peered at Pentecost and then suddenly lowered his hands. “Oh, it's the preacher.” He shrugged his beefy shoulders, adding, “I been at this one a week to pay up on her room, but she drinks it all up fast as it comes in. I can't afford to keep her, so it's out she goes!”

At that moment, the woman suddenly slumped, her legs giving way under her. As she sprawled on the snow, Pentecost sprang toward her, supporting her head. Leaning forward, he smelled the rank odor of raw gin, but when he touched her face, it was burning hot. “Why, this woman is sick!”

“Not a bit of it! Just drunk, that's all,” the man said in disgust. “She's always drunk.” He drew himself up defensively. “Now don't give me any sermons, ye hear me? I've kept her for five weeks, with nary a penny paid. Christmas or no, she can't stay here no more!”

Pentecost knelt in the snow, trying to think, and finally he put his arms under the woman's knees and lifted her, coming to his feet. “Merry Christmas, brother.” He nodded, then turned and walked into the dancing flakes.

The man stood there, flummoxed. He'd expected the preacher to try to shame him, and now he was angry and didn't know why. “Yes, and she'll do the same to you as she done to me!” he shouted at the disappearing form, even now almost swallowed by the whiteness. “She ain't nothin' but a drunk and a tramp…and she won't never be no better!” Then he wheeled about and stomped back inside, muttering about how things had gone to the dogs in the Fourth Ward.

Pentecost carried the unconscious woman as far as Pearl Street, where he found a cab at the curbside. “Salvation Army Headquarters,” he directed, then lifted the woman into the cab. He got in beside her and as the cab moved silently down the velvet-covered street, held her in his arms.

Now, what in the world will I do with her?

He was still pondering the answer to that question when the cabbie leaned over and announced, “Headquarters, sir.”

The tall man got out, paid the fare, then pulled the woman into his arms and walked with her toward the door of the brownstone building with the small sign—
Salvation Army
—painted on it. He was forced to juggle her around as he opened the door, but as soon as he was inside and had shut the door with his hip, he was relieved to see the familiar figure of one of his coworkers.

“Well, and what is it you've dragged up now, Captain?”

Maggie Flynn's voice was thick with the accent of old Ireland. She was a short woman, compactly made and suited for hard work. Her squarish face was not pretty, but comfortable, and her dark blue eyes and red hair made an attractive combination. She had been in the service of the Lord's Army in New York since its beginning, and Hugh Pentecost was the object of her special devotion. Not a romantic notion, no, for she had long ago decided that she was too plain to be a wife. She now admired one thing in a man—devotion to Jesus—and Hugh Pentecost had that quality in abundance.

“She got thrown out on the street, Maggie…and she's sick.” For once the ever competent Captain Hugh Pentecost was at a loss. There was no place for homeless women—a cause he and Maggie had been trying to launch for two years with no success. “I couldn't think of anything to do but bring her here.”

Maggie Flynn snorted. “Well, and should you have left her to die in the streets? Come on and put her in my bed.” She marched down the hall to her room, which contained a single cot on which Pentecost laid the unconscious woman. “Now, you get to bed,” Maggie commanded, beginning to roll up her sleeves.

“Shall I try to find a doctor?”

“You'd not be gettin' one to come here. There's no money in it.” Maggie moved to kneel beside the woman, felt her brow, then put her head on the woman's breast. She listened intently for a long time, then got slowly to her feet, a bleak expression on her face.

“What is it, Maggie?” Pentecost asked quickly.

The woman looked down at the still form, then shook her head doubtfully. “Pneumonia, I think.” She shook her head, adding, “From the looks of her, she's lived like the Devil himself. Thin as a stick and eat up with whiskey.”

“Well, the Lord our God is able,” Pentecost said slowly. “Nothing is too difficult for him.”

Maggie stared at him, then nodded. “It'll be God who does it if she lives, I'm thinkin'. Now, you go to bed.”

“Can't I help?”

“You can pray…and that's all anybody can do, Hugh.”

“Well…if it ain't Santa Claus!”

Nick Castellano flung open the door to find Amos Stuart standing on the stoop, his arms full of packages. His head was frosted with snow, and he was grinning sheepishly. “No reindeer, Nick, but lots of presents for everyone. I—”

A series of shrill cries drowned out whatever he had planned to say, and he was seized by a troop of young Castellanos and dragged into the parlor, where Anna grabbed him and kissed him noisily.

“Amos…you come-a back!” she cried, and tears began running down her cheeks.

“Don't cry, Anna!” Amos pleaded.

“Aw, she cries over cookbooks.” Nick grinned and pummeled him on the arm. “You sorry outfit! Why didn't you tell me you were in town?”

Amos surrendered his packages to Anna, who began slapping hands at once. “Got in two days ago…just in time for Christmas. I can't make it home to Arkansas, so I decided to force myself on you.”

“You come-a with me!” Anna spoke up. “I gonna feed your face! Nick, you keep-a the kids away from the presents.”

The next few hours were precious to Amos. He'd become fond of the Castellanos and felt like a brother to Nick. After a stupefying meal, they moved into the parlor. “I know it's the night before Christmas, but I'm leaving for a short trip home tomorrow, so you open my presents now, okay?”

“Yea!” The kids agreed enthusiastically, and soon the floor was littered with fancy wrapping paper. Anna was stunned by the beautiful pure silk dress he had chosen for her, and ran off at once to try it on. When she came back, she yelled, “It fits! How you find my size, Amos?”

“Had it special made, Mama Anna.”

Nick was pleased beyond words with his gift—a set of exquisitely carved chessmen. He loved the game, and he and Amos had fought many a battle over the old board and crudely carved wooden pieces.

“Hey, Amos, these things must have cost a mint! You shouldn't have done it!”

“Give 'em back if you don't like 'em.” Amos grinned, pleased that he'd wrestled the gifts all over China and on the long voyage home. He watched with pleasure as the youngsters shouted their delight.

“It's the
best
Christmas we ever had, Amos!” Eddie assured him.

But it was Mary Elizabeth who touched Amos most. She was only a few months older than when he had left, but in those brief weeks had ripened into a real beauty. Her gifts were a red blouse of pure silk and a delicate fan made of ivory. At his insistence she tried on the blouse, and when she came back, he whistled. “Why, Mary Elizabeth…you look
beautiful!”

The girl flushed and dropped her eyes, and when the children were all shooed out at last, Nick said, “Watch out, Amos. I think Mary's got her eye on you.”

“She's grown up, Nick,” Amos acknowledged, but to him she was still a child.

Anna glanced sharply at Amos, but said only, “Now, you sit down and tell us all about China.”

They drank coffee and talked until midnight, when Amos yawned and called it quits for the night. “I'm done in. Got to catch a train at eight in the morning. And as soon as I get back, Hearst is sending me to cover the war in the Philippines.”

“I thought the war was over,” Nick said in surprise.