Land of a Thousand Dreams (26 page)

15

Finbar

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

ANONYMOUS (E
IGHTH OR
E
ARLY
N
INTH
C
ENTURY
)

N
ow that the weather had turned colder, the new choral group had been granted permission to use one of the two rented mission rooms above the tavern for their weekly rehearsals.

Today, Evan Whittaker climbed the steps to the rehearsal room with unusual reluctance. Ordinarily, he would be eager to get started. The boys in the group were showing an increasing enthusiasm for the music and a growing unity of spirit—at least, most of the time. If he did say so himself, they were beginning to sound quite good.

Today, however, in spite of the hours of preparation he had put into the new music for rehearsal, he found himself too distracted to be genuinely enthusiastic. He could think of nothing but Nora as his mind searched for something—something special—that might serve to lift her spirits, to perk her up a bit, as Mr. Farmington would say.

It had been days since he'd seen a smile on her face—a
real
smile, that is, not the faint, uncertain curving of her lips she routinely managed just to reassure him. Evan knew that despite her efforts to be cheerful, the longing for a baby had never quite left her. Each day when he returned home from the shipyards, Nora was waiting in a fresh dress, her hair neatly done up and fragrant, the small, sad smile bravely in place. Later in the evening, if she happened to glance up from her sewing to see him studying her with concern, she would immediately urge the smile back into place.

Giving a deep sigh, he now entered the mission room. The boys were already seated, waiting for him, and at last his heart lifted a little. He stood at the front of the room, scanning the group for a moment. They actually appeared eager to begin.

There were at least fifteen boys in attendance, a mix of Irish and black youths. Today he noted two new faces among the regulars, one white and one black. Here, at least, the ongoing enmity between the races seemed to take a backseat to the combined efforts of the group.

Straightening his shoulders, Evan gave them a smile. If the Five Points Celebration Singers never accomplished anything else but to help break down the wall between races, it would make all their hard work worthwhile.

This was Billy Hogan's first time to attend a rehearsal of the Five Points singing group.

Twice before, when the boys were practicing in the Big Tent, he had stood outside, listening, yearning to be a part of it all, yet reluctant to take the first step inside.

Until today. His friend, Tom Breen, had finally coaxed him into coming along. And so he was here, his face scrubbed, his shirt clean and pressed, his hair slicked down. Mr. Whittaker insisted on cleanliness, said Tom. Cleanliness and obedience. He would stand for no shenanigans from his singers. He was strict, but a fair man, all the same.

Something in the Englishman's soft eyes and kind smile assured Billy that Tom was right. Still, he was as jumpy as a toad on hot bricks, and would be until the hour was safely over.

He wasn't worried about the singing. He had a voice, after all. Didn't Mum say he had a voice that could dig down low and scoop up the bottom notes of a tune—or fly high as a sparrow and sail right over the top of a building?

Sometimes the voice did things that surprised Billy. The truth was, it wasn't entirely predictable.

Billy liked to sing. He would choose a song over a pastry—not that he often had a choice, for pastries were dear in Five Points.

But it wasn't until Tom had mentioned that the new singing group sang what they
heard,
rather than what they
read,
that Billy had agreed to come to rehearsal. If he didn't have to read the music, why, then, he could sing just as good as the rest of them, he would warrant.

He was not eager for the other lads to know he couldn't read. He wasn't the only one, of course. In Five Points, there were more who could
not
read than those who could.

But they were not Hogans. They were not sons of educated men, like his da, taught by Grandfar Liam himself, who had once kept a hedge school in Sligo. Had the fever not claimed them both before Billy was old enough to learn his letters, no doubt they would have taught him as well.

Now there was nothing for him but to work; there was no time to go to school. He had his papers to sell, and coal to shovel onto the wagons, and on weekends he still went looking for additional odd jobs.

It was a matter of pride to Billy that this inability to read be kept secret. He would remedy it when he could. For today, he would not fret about the reading. He would do what he had been longing to do for weeks now: he would join this fine group of singers and lift his voice with the rest of them.

If only Finbar did not spoil it all.

Please, Lord Jesus, there was nothing else I could do but to bring him… please, please, let Finbar be good!

Halfway through rehearsal, as they stampeded toward the first chorus of “Yankee Doodle,” Evan's attention was caught by an unfamiliar sound. High-pitched and excruciatingly sharp, it was gone too soon to identify.

He continued on as if he had heard nothing. Although his ear seldom failed him, it was possible he had only imagined the dissonance. The acoustics in the drafty, high-ceilinged room were deplorable, after all, and—

Ah—there it was again! So, he had
not
imagined it! He rapped his baton, stopping the song on “Dan-dy.” Eyes narrowed, he scanned every face in the group, resting on each for an exaggerated length of time.

Unwilling to embarrass any one of the boys by singling him out, Evan decided to try once more. Most likely, one of the lads was simply indulging in a bit of mischief. Still, even the most incorrigible among them seldom misbehaved during one of their favorite numbers. And “Yankee Doodle” was indeed a favorite.

Evan had done a special arrangement of the tune, complete with endless verses. The boys had enjoyed a good laugh at his expense when he explained that the song, originally sung in derision by the English about the Colonists, had ended up being turned against them when the Minute Men of Concord adopted it as their own. Indeed, when Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, it was to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”

He sighed, thinking it altogether possible he had a boy with a pitch problem. A troubling thought, since he wasn't quite certain how he would handle things if one of the lads turned out to be sharp.

Bracing himself, Evan gave the upbeat and they started in again. All went well until the third verse when Captain Washington's Slapping Stallion turned into a Screeching Shrew.

Evan stiffened, stopping the music with a sharp rap of the baton and a resounding “ENOUGH!”

Laying his baton on the music stand, he straightened his shoulders and stretched to his full height. With a frown that he hoped would prove daunting, he silently and thoroughly studied each face now turned on him with guarded attention.

He thought one of the new boys—the small one with wheat-colored hair that stood askew and more freckles than Evan had ever seen on one small face—looked suspiciously ill at ease. Perhaps even frightened.

Evan found it difficult to imagine that one so young would prove troublesome his first time out. Yet, the freckled face now turned crimson under Evan's scrutiny, and the boy appeared unduly fidgety. As a matter of fact, the lad was practically writhing where he stood.

Evan knew he had his culprit when he closed the remaining distance between himself and the boy and the same high-pitched shriek erupted. The sound seemed to be coming from the youth's jacket, a loose brown garment that hung on the narrow shoulders like a sack.

Stopping directly in front of the boy, Evan gave a curt nod. “I d-don't believe we've met, young man. Your name?”

The boy's eyes bugged, and he opened his mouth. But before he could speak, something moved beneath his jacket.

Evan stared, first at the squirming jacket, then at the boy's wide-eyed expression of dismay.

As Evan watched, one side of the jacket opened and a small, furry face pushed out. Astonished, Evan stared at the creature in disbelief.

The kitten was an odd mottled color, gray and black with random spots of tan. It was obviously quite young—and hopelessly cross-eyed.

The kitten cocked its head and perked its ears, appraising Evan with some interest. At last it blinked, then gave a small mew.

Evan dragged his gaze away from the cross-eyed kitten to hush the snickering onlookers with a withering glare. Then he turned back to the boy.

Before he could say anything more, the red-faced offender burst out, “I'm sorry, sir—Mister Whittaker! He almost never makes a sound at home, and that's the truth!”

The boy's Irish brogue was thick. He was fairly new to the city, Evan was sure. The little fellow looked about to strangle.

“I, ah, I'm afraid we d-don't allow animals at rehearsal, Mr.—”

“Billy Hogan, sir! And, sure, I know it was wicked to sneak him upstairs! But I found a home for all the others—there's only wee Finbar left, you see…and—”

“Finbar?”

“Aye, that's his name—for Saint Finbar, you know.” The boy went on, his words spilling out like pebbles tossed over a waterfall. “Finbar is the one I hoped to keep, but Uncle Sorley says we can't be feeding another cat, in addition to Sally—that's Finbar's mother—for food is dear enough as it is for the five of us.”

“The five of you?” Evan repeated, bemused.

“Aye, we're five—there's Mum, Uncle Sorley, myself, and me two little brothers, Liam and Patrick. Uncle Sorley said I must find a home for the litter or else he'd
drowned
them. I found a place for the other three at some pubs what wanted mousers. But nothing yet for Finbar. And I was afraid to leave him for fear Uncle Sorley would be cross and drowned him anyway. I thought I'd just keep him with myself another hour or so, then speak to the owner downstairs. He's usually so quiet, Finbar is—I never thought he'd be a bother.”

As the boy finally came up for air, Evan puzzled as to how to handle the situation. The poor lad looked perfectly miserable, whether from apprehension of punishment or the certain loss of his kitten.

Evan glanced at the kitten, which seemed altogether content and even somewhat bored. The crossed eyes met his, and again came the inquisitive mew. The small head stretched cautiously up as if to sniff the air.

Evan eyed the small intruder for another moment. A faint smile rose inside him, finally spreading to his lips. “I say, Mr. Hogan, is it? Perhaps I can b-be of some help to you and, ah, Finbar.”