Land of a Thousand Dreams (62 page)

Walsh, of course, would not show his face or dirty his soft hands with such a mean job. He was too slick…too
respectable…
to risk his neck at a slave exchange. But his henchmen would be here, and once they were safely put away, Michael hoped to convince at least one of them to save his own skin by squealing on his elusive employer.

Yet, whatever else happened, the children must come first. He would not endanger them just to get Walsh, no matter how much he wanted to put the snake away.

In the silence of the warehouse, Michael's heart hammered against his chest as he went on waiting.

Somewhere in the distance a clock struck one. Michael jerked to attention. He had lost track of time. How long had they been inside the warehouse, waiting?

His legs ached from crouching down in the same position for so long. Shifting, he tried to straighten and stretch, then stopped, holding his breath.

From near the main doorway came a thump, then a shuffling sound. The door swung back with a creak and a groan, and the shuffling drew nearer.

Total darkness, total silence, except for the shuffling and an occasional soft sob. Then the door grated shut, and Michael heard the thud of a bolt being thrown. A muffled voice issued what sounded like a warning, and the sobbing stopped.

Peering around the stack of boxes that concealed him, he could see little of anything, except a huddle of small, dark shadows, surrounded by a circle of larger silhouettes.

He smelled the sulfur before he heard the match strike. Someone lit a torch, then two, then another, and in the eerie, flickering glow he saw a sight that chilled his blood.

Bhima had been wrong. These were not twenty black children, rounded up to be sold as slaves. Instead, there were close to a
hundred
lined up, grouped together, their eyes wide with terror in the torchlight, their small faces frozen in frear.

And not all the faces were black
….

Rage flared in Michael as he saw the frightened faces of four little white girls illuminated by the wavering light. After a moment, he scanned the men holding the torches, recognizing at least four of Walsh's men—thugs who might, to make things easier on themselves, spill what they knew about their employer's dirty business dealings.

Another man stepped into the light, this one smaller than the others.
Rossiter!
Michael's heart raced. Of course, the weaselly little bookkeeper would be here, no doubt to make sure no one double-crossed his boss!

In the darkness, Michael gave a grim smile and nodded. This was more than he'd hoped for! If he could take Rossiter…and his books…it should give him enough evidence to finish Walsh!

But his first job was to rescue those children.

As he watched, Rossiter balanced one end of a ledger against his chest and began to write. Just then, a knock sounded on the warehouse door: two raps…pause…three raps…pause…then one more.

A signal.

One of Walsh's men handed his torch off to another standing next to him, then slid the bolt. The door opened just a crack, enough for a man to enter, and a tall shadow eased into the flickering circle of light.

Michael stared. A sick heaviness settled over him, taking his breath. For an instant he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them.

There was no mistake. It was his son. It was Tierney.

Tierney Burke took the distance between the door and Rossiter in three long strides.

Looking around, he locked his gaze on the bookkeeper. “You can't do this, Rossiter!” he threatened.

“Now you just hold on one minute, Burke! You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to do the job. And you're being paid well—
too
well, in my estimation.”

As always, Rossiter's high, shrill voice grated on Tierney. Scowling, he took a step toward the bookkeeper, who stumbled backward.

“I knew about the
blacks
,” Tierney pointed out. “But nobody told me about
them
!” Without looking, he gestured over his shoulder to where a small group of white girls—some with red hair and freckles—stood huddled in unmistakable terror. They looked to be no more than twelve or thirteen years old; even clad in rags, with dirty faces, they held the first faint promise of budding Irish beauty.

Rossiter sneered. Out of the corner of his eye, Tierney saw two or three of Walsh's henchmen move in closer to him and the bookkeeper.

“Why, the market's just as good for your little Irish biddies as for the pickaninnies, Burke,” the dome-headed Rossiter said with an ugly smile.

“Maybe better. Their skin is white, but they're every bit as dumb as the darkies.”

Anger erupted into a furious rage inside Tierney. His teeth clenched until his jaw ached, and his hands trembled at his sides.

He pressed his face close to Rossiter's, close enough to catch the scent of the man's fear. “Walsh wouldn't
allow
this! He's Irish himself!”

Backing up, Rossiter forced a laugh. “Who do you think dreamed up the entire scheme?” He reached to straighten his spectacles. “That's right:
Walsh
,” he said with evident satisfaction. “Your boss and mine, boy. Walsh, who sets the runners onto the ships to swindle your dim-witted cousins from the…‘ould country' as soon as they dock. The same Walsh who owns those fine boardinghouses in the Five Points, where your countrymen live in high style.”

Fury blurred Tierney's vision, and for an instant Rossiter's detestable face receded. It was all he could do not to slam a fist into him, but he knew Walsh's men would jump him if he tried.

He dragged in a long breath and tried to think. Since the only thing Rossiter understood was money, he decided to meet him on his own ground. “I'll take care of the girls, then. How much?”

Rossiter stared at him, then snorted. “You're not serious?
All
of them?”

Tierney glanced at the girls, then back at the bookkeeper. “There are only four. I'm good for the money—you'll have it by midday tomorrow. Besides,” Tierney added with a shrug, “what do you care? My money's as good as the next man's. Just give me the paper, and I'll take them off your hands.”

The bookkeeper hesitated. “I don't know…they're already spoken for… Mr. Walsh wouldn't like it….”

Tierney lifted an eyebrow. “Come on now, Rossiter. We both know Mr. Walsh thinks I'm a fine fellow. He'd be the last to begrudge me a bit of fun.”

Hoagland, a big man who was missing one ear, gave a laugh. “Go on, Rossiter. The boy's right. Give him the girls.”

Rossiter looked from Hoagland to Tierney. With a grudging nod, he handed him a paper. “Get them out of here, then. Take them outside before the buyers get here. And you be sure to bring me the money no later than tomorrow!”

Banking his anger, Tierney snatched the paper out of Rossiter's hand and started toward the girls.

Michael was too far away to hear the exchange between Tierney and Rossiter, but when he saw Tierney herd the four white girls outside, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He watched as the men with torches now encircled the other children. Rossiter stood to one side, his books open, his glasses glinting in the reflected torch fires.

The men separated the children into groups one by one, pushing them roughly, as Rossiter stood making his notes. When the smaller ones had all been counted, Walsh's men began to herd the older boys forward.

“Got some big ones this time,” said the man with a missing ear. “Good for the field work, I expect.”

As Rossiter glanced at the next in line, Michael narrowed his eyes. The torchlight distorted the boy's face, but there was something familiar—

“You ain't gonna get away with this!” the boy said, his voice unsteady. “Mr. Jess and Captain Burke, they looking for me! Soon as they find out—”

Michael's head snapped up as one of Walsh's goons backhanded the boy across the face. The black boy fell, immediately pushing himself up on his hands, then rolling over to glare up at his captors.

With a sinking heart, Michael recognized Arthur Jackson.

All day, he and Dalton and Evan's boys had been searching for the missing lad, and had come up empty-handed. Now he knew why: Walsh's men had found Arthur first.

His breath shallow, his mind spinning like a fury, Michael tried to think. With Rossiter and his books, there should be enough evidence to convict them all—including Walsh. Tierney was outside, out of danger. Rossiter would be no problem, but there were at least ten of Walsh's thugs here—undoubtedly armed.

But
he
had twelve men and the element of surprise. If he acted now.

His decision made, Michael pushed himself up. Without a word, he moved out from behind the boxes, then lifted a hand to signal his men.

Tierney hurried the four girls away from the warehouse to the edge of the Bowery district, where he gave them a stern warning. “Go home, now—all of you! If you don't have a home, go to one of the police station lodging houses. You've seen what can happen to you on the streets!”

They were all crying by now, sobbing and nodding their heads as they huddled together. Finally, one of them—the tallest and the prettiest of the four—wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. “But what about the others?” she asked, her voice tremulous.

Tierney stared at her. “What others?”