Land of a Thousand Dreams (49 page)

When the boys began to sing, Tanner just about forgot the crowd; he even had to remind himself to take notes! Oh, this was something, all right! First, a couple of traditional hymns, then some patriotic melodies before launching into what sounded like something entirely new. A mixture, Tanner thought, an appealing kind of blend of black music—spirituals—and songs from other countries, all wrapped around each other and packaged into something that sounded like—well, like
America.

The music had a rhythm that made it hard to stand still. Even the less lively numbers had a certain effervescence, a catchy rhythm, that made you want to at least clap your hands or tap your foot.

Glancing around the room, Tanner grinned at the sight of bluebloods like Lewis Farmington and Jason Milhorne nodding their heads and tapping their toes with the best of them. He dashed off a few more descriptions in his notes, then turned his attention back to the boys.

This was something, by gosh—something to write about! That Englishman stood up there, a baton in his one hand, his back as straight as a flagpole, doing little more than nodding his head every now and then or giving a short snap of his wrist. And those boys sang their hearts out for him!

And they sang
well!
No doubt about it, this was a story! Tanner grinned until he thought his face would crack, only vaguely aware as he scrawled his remarks that his own foot was tapping along with everybody else's.

From his place in the back row of the choir, Daniel looked out and winked at Johanna, who was standing with Miss Sara and Uncle Mike. She smiled back at him, and he winked again.

Immediately Evan caught his eye, and Daniel sobered as he went on singing.

Evan, Daniel decided, looked about to burst out of his stiff white collar. His eyes behind the spectacles were bright and glistening with approval.

The thought made Daniel smile and sing a bit louder. He was more than a little surprised when an elderly couple at the front of the crowd smiled back at him.

Sara stood watching Evan's choir with one hand on Johanna's shoulder, her free hand squeezing Michael's fingers.

Had she not been a lady—a lady in the midst of a public gathering—she thought she might have cheered.

It was sheer delight to see what Evan had accomplished with these boys! Nora had told her how some of them couldn't even read! Yet here they stood, their voices blending almost as one—like one triumphant instrument of an orchestra, for heaven's sake!—singing a mix of music the likes of which Sara had never heard before.

And Evan—why, you'd have thought the man had been doing this all his life!

For a moment, the image of Evan Whittaker as he'd looked when he first stepped off the ship, along with Nora and the others, slipped into Sara's thoughts. Not quite two years ago, the slight-framed Englishman had stood on the dock, gray and emaciated from a botched shipboard amputation. Yet in spite of his weakness and obvious ill health, he had clearly appointed himself Nora's protector.

And now—now they were married, with a child of their own on the way. To think of all that had happened in so brief a time.

“Can you believe this?” Michael said, grinning at her. “I can scarce take it in that that's Whittaker up there!”

“It's so exciting! And the music—Michael, Nora says Evan arranges most of it himself! He spends hours every week at the church piano, working on it. Who would have ever imagined it?”

Michael grinned even wider. “Aye, for an Englishman, he's a bit of a wonder, I must admit.”

“He's remarkable! But I do think we should find a way to provide shoes for those barefoot boys of his—and I must see about arranging a piano for him at home as soon as possible. Nora says he argues against leaving her now, except to go to the yards. He worries about—”

She stopped, watching as two youths stepped out from among the other singers and walked to the front. In a decidedly nervous tone of voice, the taller of the two boys began a recitation on how “The Star-Spangled Banner” came to be written by Francis Scott Key as he watched the British fleet's bombardment of Fort McHenry in Baltimore Harbor. The tune itself, the youth went on to explain, raising a few eyebrows, was actually that of a popular English drinking song, which the composer borrowed for his lyrics. Immediately after he finished his reading, the entire boys' choir burst into what had to be, Sara was convinced, the most enthusiastic rendering she had ever heard of that somewhat somber piece.

Halfway through, when the group gave way to a solo by the little freckle-faced boy at the front, an awed hush fell over the ballroom. Sara held her breath, and a chill skated all the way down her spine, as the youth's clear, glorious voice seemed to lift and soar above the group.

So true, so pure, were those high, echoing tones that the entire ballroom all at once seemed filled with the sound of bells.

The song ended. There was a moment of absolute silence. Then the room exploded with vigorous applause.

Sara looked around, thrilled to see that a number of familiar faces in the crowd—faces which ordinarily reflected little, if any emotion—were now creased with smiles—
enthusiastic
smiles. There were some frowns of disapproval, of course; she would have been astonished had that not been the case. But they were few, and, as best she could tell, seemed to be going entirely unnoticed.

Clearly, Evan Whittaker and his Five Points Celebration Singers were a success on Fifth Avenue. Just as clear was the evidence of what one caring heart and the power of God could accomplish in the face of almost impossible circumstances.

Within an hour after the performance of the boys' choir, Sara had managed to find Evan not one piano, but two.

Michael could only shake his head in wonder at his wife. It seemed that both Lydia Huntington and Margaret Smythe had pianos in their parlor “collecting dust.” Evan Whittaker could have either one for the price of hauling it away,

Hauling it away would be free—and quite easy, Sara quickly explained to the astonished Whittaker. Since Margaret Smythe lived in Brooklyn, they would simply have one of the men at the shipyards load the piano onto a wagon and deliver it to Evan's house.

She was in the process of offering the mission committee's help with one of his other projects—the reading lessons he'd initiated for some of the boys in the choir—when Jess Dalton joined their little group.

“Careful, Pastor,” Michael cracked as he walked up. “Sara's on the hunt. She's likely to talk you out of your office furniture if she catches you unawares. So far, she's collected only pianos and books, but there's no telling what she may set her sights on next.”

“Pastor Dalton already gives more than enough,” Sara said, her expression all seriousness, “with his time and efforts. He's one of the few who is quite safe from my meddling.”

“Never meddling, Sara,” said Jess Dalton. His voice was quiet, his smile tired and, Michael thought, a little forced. “Not you. If only we had more who cared as you do. Actually, though, I did come over to offer my help in another area.” He paused, then looked at Michael. “The boy you told me about in the Bowery—Bhima—and his friends at the dime museum? If you have time to show me where to go one day next week, I'll make the visit you requested.”

Michael moaned silently as Sara turned an inquisitive look on him. “What boy is that?”

When he didn't answer, but simply looked from her to Jess Dalton, she said again, “Michael? Who on earth do you know in a dime museum?”

“Ah…just a lad,” he muttered, shifting from one foot to another. “A lad who could use a bit of help.”

Before he could say more or Sara could press, Jess Dalton innocently offered further information. “More than a bit, from what you've told me,” he said, shaking his head. “What a bleak existence those people must live down there.”

“What people?”

One thing about Sara, Michael realized anew, she was nothing if not tenacious.

“The people at the dime museum,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You've probably heard them referred to as ‘Freak Shows,'” Jess Dalton added with a touch of bitterness in his tone. “Michael's met an unusual boy from one of them.
Most
unusual, right, Michael?”

Sara's smile was sweet, her gaze blade-sharp. “Is that so? Well, you'll have to tell me all about this…unusual boy, Michael.”

Knowing he would undoubtedly have to do just that before the day came to an end, Michael gave a small sigh and a reluctant nod.

He was relieved when Evan Whittaker brought about a change of subject. “M-Miss Sara—”

Sara turned to him, smiling.

“I—I want to thank you again for the piano. There's no expressing how grateful I am—”

Sara made a dismissing gesture with her hand. Michael understood her discomfort; the last thing Sara would want from this rather remarkable Englishman was gratitude.

“After everything you've already d-done,” he went on, “I'm…reluctant to ask, but there
is
one thing m-more that would be of im-immeasurable help to the boys and me.”

At Sara's encouraging nod, he went on to explain. “There's an old piano in the public house downstairs of the rehearsal room—it's not in b-bad shape, as a m-matter of fact—and the proprietor said we could use it for our practices if we like. I've been thinking that if we had someone who was willing to play for rehearsals, it m-might be m-much easier for the boys to learn the music.”

Michael watched, puzzled by the smile that broke slowly over Sara's face. “Evan,” she said, clasping both hands beneath her chin for an instant like an excited girl, “come with me, do! There's someone I'd like very much for you to meet!”