Mission of Hope (7 page)

The moment Quinn finally let go of his hand, Sam scrambled across the street and up onto the cart to give Nora an enthusiastic hug. Her laugh at Sam's exuberant, nearly tackling welcome made Quinn smile. Those two were a pair from the first moment.

He stayed back while Nora went through her usual business with the mail, which was hampered by Sam for most of her visit. Sam had obviously declared himself her assistant, and Quinn couldn't help but laugh as Sam's “assistance” made Nora's tasks that much more complicated. Every once in a while she would look up, catching Quinn's eye. Even at this distance—as they had at the rally not so long ago—her eyes could dazzle him. He could tell she was disappointed at not being able to provide the items they'd listed. He admired how important helping out had become to her, mostly because he shared the same urgency.

When her mail was dutifully received and Sam had been thanked, rethanked and thanked again for his “invaluable assistance,” Nora tugged a small box from the back of the cart and then handed it to Sam while she
climbed down. Quinn wanted to sprint over there and help her down again, if only to buy himself the fraction of a second it gave him to hold her soft hand, but he decided restraint was the better choice. No one used to say restraint was a characteristic of Quinn Freeman, but maybe the stinging cut on his right forearm was sinking the virtues of discretion into his thick skull.

After producing a piece of licorice for Sam from her pocket, Nora waved Quinn over. He forced himself to walk casually to the cart.

“Here. It isn't much, I'm afraid.” She held out the box to him with a handful of bandage rolls and half a dozen dish towels inside. “I think the dish towels will make fine diapers if they're cut in half.”

“Don't say it's not much,” Quinn replied to the frustration in her voice. He took the box from her, resisting the urge to find a way to make sure their hands touched when he did. “Every bit helps out here. You're doing so much already. Josiah's ma will be thrilled.”

The wind stole a lock of hair out from underneath her hat, and she reached up to push it back off her face. “There's just so much to do.”

“Reverend Bauers says all we can really do is the bit God puts in front of us. With all he faces, I think he might know a thing or two about big problems.”

“The post has twice as many messages as yesterday,” she assessed, squinting across the street. “It was such a splendid idea. You really should be proud of yourself.”

Quinn shrugged, hiding his pleasure at how obviously she wanted to go over and inspect his creation. “I just copied the fountain. Anyone could have done it.”

Her eyes told him she thought otherwise, and he liked that very much.

She stared harder. “The post looks nearly full.”

“And I need to talk to you about that.” Quinn leaned in as close as propriety would allow. “I know someone. If we could write all these down, I could get the list to him and he might…help out.”

“Someone? Who can find these things?” Her eyes grew wide, and he feared he'd blurt out his secret any second.

“Could be. A bit early to tell, but it's worth trying.”

“Really? How wonderful.”

“We'll have to be quiet about it. Careful. Things might get out of hand otherwise, there being so much need and all. Will you help?”

He had expected her to hesitate, to worry about the clandestine nature of it all. She didn't. “Absolutely,” she said, taking in a breath. “How could I not?” Looking over her shoulder at her father, who was thankfully otherwise occupied, Nora asked, “But why do you need me?”

He hadn't thought about that. He'd just wanted to make sure she was involved. With clever moment's inspiration, he held up the bandaged right arm. “Hurts still. Besides, you've got more access to decent paper than I do.” He'd thank Major Simon at tomorrow's lesson. Maybe.

“Oh, of course. I should make two copies again, like we did with your mother. That way I can look while your…friend…does his own looking.” Resolutely, she brushed off her skirts and nodded back toward the mail cart. “I'll just go fetch another piece of Papa's ledger. I'm sure he won't mind.”

“You mind your pa, now. Don't give him any reason to decide it's not wise for you to be coming here anymore.” Quinn didn't even want to think about how he'd endure the days if two o'clock didn't mean seeing Miss Nora Longstreet anymore.

“I'll mind.” Her smile was as warm as sunshine. He had a partner. Actually, if Major Simon and Reverend Bauers counted, he had a tiny army. Quinn felt like he could take on the world if God asked him to do so.

Quinn felt himself grinning like a fool the entire time Nora ventured across the street and wrote down items from the post. She slipped him a conspiratorial smile as she climbed back aboard the mail cart and handed him his copy of the list. “Do you really think this will work?”

“No harm trying. Oh, by the way, I'm meeting with Revered Bauers to set up that tour you asked for.”

“That's wonderful. I think Mrs. Hastings could be a grand patroness if she chose. And I imagine Reverend Bauers can be most persuasive. I do hope it will be all right with them that I come along.”

Quinn wouldn't have it any other way.

A
s it turned out, Reverend Bauers was already familiar both with the Longstreets and the Hastingses, and it took little convincing to arrange a tour. The hardest part about it turned out to be accommodating Mrs. Hastings's packed social schedule and her limited visits to town. How anyone managed to do so much socializing in the wake of an earthquake, Quinn didn't know. That world was as foreign to him as the hatch-mark signs that used to hang in the Chinese quarter of town. And while Ma raised an eyebrow when Quinn asked if there was anything close to a clean, pressed shirt in the camp, she'd long learned to expect strange things from Quinn's association with Grace House. She'd only looked at him for a quizzical second when she handed him a surprisingly tidy shirt on the appointed day.

“There simply isn't enough space,” Reverend Bauers said as he pointed the tiny tour group down the hallway. “With the camp right next to us in Dolores Park, the needs have been enormous. The army is doing a commendable job with the official camp, of course, but I think we can all see how much more help is still
needed. He pointed to a row of long, narrow tables that now filled what used to be the front parlor. “We already feed sixty or so at a time at these standing tables. With a little help, we might be able to add benches, but that seems a long way off for now.”

“Gracious,” said Mrs. Hastings, gripping the hankie that had been her constant companion for the visit. “Eating standing?”

“When one is thankful to eat at all, sitting or standing hardly seems to matter,” replied Reverend Bauers.

“It is an amazing thing,” Nora said as they walked down the hallway. “You'd think feeding all those people would be chaos. But it seems quite orderly. People seem grateful and very kind.”

“I suppose,” Mrs. Hastings said, “that might depend on your definition of order. And they certainly ought to be grateful. Free hot meals.” Her phrases were kind, her tone was not. Quinn bit back the retort he would have liked to offer.

Surprisingly, Nora stepped in where he'd been silent. “I think they'd much rather be paying customers, earning their own keep,” she said. “They're no happier to be out of their homes and out of their jobs than Mama and Papa would be. They weren't even given tents like at the other camps. That's hardly their fault. Everyone has suffered.”

Quinn wondered if Nora was as aware of Mrs. Hastings's expression as he was. The woman bore a look Quinn had come to recognize over the time since the earthquake. The unspoken theory that folks had brought the earthquake down upon themselves. It made no sense, of course, for the Grace House kitchen fell down just as fast as a brothel kitchen half a mile away. Reverend
Bauers said those society types had “hoarded their grace and left none for anyone else,” and looking at the sharp angle of Mrs. Hastings's eyebrows as she surveyed the Grace House pantries, Quinn thought the description fit. He was trying not to judge, but it was mighty hard.

Reverend Bauers pointed to the near-empty pantry shelves. “Our need is great, as you can see. Even the staples are hard to come by.”

“But I hear food and goods are pouring in from all over the country. They tell us the camps are in fine shape. Money has been donated,” Mrs. Hastings argued.

“The official camps are indeed doing well, and it gladdens my heart to see it. But too many are struggling in places like Dolores Park, and we can't turn our backs on those souls. Distribution to those in need is still nowhere near fast enough.”

Yet, Quinn's mind silently added. He had Nora's second list from the message post, and he had an appointment with Major Simon late this afternoon.

“Things have been finding their way, Mrs. Hastings,” Nora offered. “Just this week I learned of some medical supplies finding their way into Dolores Park to help a little boy. Little miracles happen every day as people help each other out.” She turned her smile full force to the woman, and Quinn felt a twinge of ridiculous hope that her charming smile would one day be turned to him. “Can you see the good a woman of your compassion and influence might be able to achieve? I just know you could work wonders.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the piece of her father's ledger. “There's a post in Dolores Park. People have been tacking up requests on it, and I've copied them down.” She handed
Mrs. Hastings the list. “See? It's nothing so hard to get. Everyday things.”

“I'm flattered you hold me in such high regard, Miss Longstreet. And ladies have been shredding petticoats into bandages since the first day. I'm not at all convinced there's that much to go around. And Dolores Park is…” The woman stopped short of the remark she was obviously thinking.

Nora simply stood in front of the lady, hands folded, silent. Quinn, trying not to get his back up over Mrs. Hastings's judgmental attitude, would have handed Nora the shirt off that very back were she to turn that look on
him.

“But what kind of Christian woman would I be to turn down such a thoughtful request?” Mrs. Hastings took the list from Nora and tucked it into her fine silk handbag. “I shall see what I can do.”

“Splendid!” said Reverend Bauers, clasping his hands. “I've no doubt you will indeed work wonders. Praise God for bringing you across our threshold, my dear madam. God will smile kindly on your charity.”

 

Major Simon sheathed his sword with narrowed eyes. “The post was a brilliant idea. I'm not sure if I should be impressed or rather worried. You've too much a talent at deceit for my taste.”

“Deceit?” Quinn asked, trying not to pant as he spoke. The major had just taken him through an exhausting series of exercises and Quinn was certain his arm—and lots of other parts of him—would be hurting in the morning. “I'm not trying to trick anyone. I'm keeping quiet in order to do what I think needs doing. I needed a way for folks to make their needs known that wasn't
obviously attached to me. It's not like everyone can come tell me what they need.” He took the towel Simon offered and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Besides, I didn't even think it up on my own. I just copied what I saw happening on the fountain downtown.”

“Smart men don't bother rethinking good ideas. They just borrow them for their own use.” The major took a drink from one of the glasses of water that had been set on a table at the side of the room, gesturing with his hand to the bandage that still wrapped Quinn's right forearm. “I stole that move from a particularly successful, if rather nasty general in the southern states. And I noticed you were far more thoughtful with your attacks this afternoon.”

Quinn had to admit it had worked; the fact that his arm stung every time he thrust it forward made him more deliberate in his choice of offensive moves. Was it sheer pain or a learned lesson that had reined in his impulsive nature? Mostly, it seemed as if Major Simon wasn't out to get his goat today the way he'd been at first. Either Quinn was growing used to the major's larger-than-life persona, or Simon wasn't going out of his way to provoke him. It was for the best either way. “Lesson learned, Major. But I'd rather have done it without the blood, thanks.”

Simon put down the glass. “Nonsense. Blood's a necessary part of the thing. And I imagine a clever fellow like yourself could squeeze a little sympathy out of a kind lady with that bandage…
if
you were so inclined.”

Quinn might, under certain circumstances, have admitted to being pleased at the attention his wound seemed to garner from Nora, but neither here nor now.
“I manage,” he said with what he hoped was an enigmatic grin.

Simon grinned back. It was times like this that Quinn could almost muster an older brother kinship with the man. A tentative friendship was forming between them despite Quinn's first impressions. “I imagine you do,” Simon said with something almost like a wink. “And you've remembered more of your fencing than Reverend Bauers led me to believe. We may be able to start next week.”

 

And start the next week they did. Major Simon had come through with flying colors. His supplies, along with some of Quinn's old connections to dockworkers and the men in the rail yards, had produced half the list of items requested on the post. The deliveries began. It had taken most of the night to quietly ferry the items from the secret storage location to the shacks in question, but the next day Quinn knew.

It was worth every risk. The look on folks' faces, the way they chattered around the post the next morning, the jolt of it all, was worth a month of sleepless nights. And the look Nora shot him as Sam rattled on about “the most amazin' thing that happened”? Well, that would have kept him up a week straight with ease.

“…and Missus Barker, she got soap, and some other lady got things for her baby, and no one knows how.”

Unbidden, Quinn's memory brought back the morning he'd been sent to socialite Georgia Waterhouse's mansion by Reverend Bauers. He'd been assigned to fetch her back to Grace House the morning everyone discovered the Bandit's first delivery. The Bandit—whom Quinn would later learn was both the invention
of Miss Waterhouse and the surprising new alter ego of Matthew Covington (although neither knew the other's involvement at the time)—had nailed actual dollars to the top of Grace House's doorjamb. It was more money than anyone had seen in years in one place, and Reverend Bauers stretched those dollars as far as the eye could see. By his first gift of funds—and the many gifts of all kinds the Bandit gave after that—Quinn had watched one man spark a tidal wave of optimism and good deeds.

And now, it was Quinn's turn. This morning, standing among the folks' astonished buzz, Quinn felt the legend come full circle, as if he'd been there way back when just so he'd be ready to be here right now. As if God really had lined it all up in perfect harmony just the way Reverend Bauers always said He did. Quinn felt the power Matthew Covington had spoken of, the limitless energizing from knowing he'd ignited the rarest and most powerful resource known to man: hope. He knew now how Matthew Covington had forgone sleep, ignored pain, defied odds and sometimes even gravity to complete the Black Bandit's missions. He felt it himself.

“It is extraordinary, Sam. A wonderful thing indeed.” Nora smiled. “We should all be very happy and very grateful, don't you think?”

“Extra-extraordinary!” Sam's small mouth could barely make its way around the large word.

There was a second, a sun-gilt moment when Nora's eyes caught Quinn's overtop of Sam's continued chattering. She looked at Quinn as though he'd done something monumental. As though the world spun on his command. No one, not even his ma, had ever looked at him
like that. The look she'd given him when he returned the locket had near stopped his heart, but this, this was even more stunning. It fired through his chest like a lightning bolt. A very addictive lightning bolt.

He stared at her for a moment, feeling the weight of the moment drive him to memorize its details. She had a splash of freckles starting on her cheeks, as though she'd spent too much time without her hat. He knew proper ladies weren't supposed to sport freckles, but he found them hopelessly endearing. They lent a naturalness to her grace and breeding. He had the feeling he'd remember the slant of the sun and the particular scent on the breeze for years to come.

“Your post has done a world of good, Mr. Freeman,” she said. Her words were pleasant and ordinary, but Quinn felt the world tilt and whirl like a shiny top all around him. She smiled, inclining her head in the direction of his earlier contraption. “It's as clever as your teeter-totter, I think. Maybe more. You've a talent for simple things that accomplish great feats.”

Her compliment swelled in his chest. “I just see what needs doing. Maybe clearer than most, but not by much.”

“Seeing clearly is a great gift. Papa says if there's anything San Francisco needs right now, it's men with clear vision.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Things have been difficult for him at the post office lately. Everyone seems to argue about everything and nothing gets done. But you, you see clearly enough to make a post and put it in the ground and look at all that gets done.”

“No one is fencing me in with a load of rules or bickering about whether or not I can be trusted. Most men would have a time of it if they had to work the way your
papa has to. Everybody's breathing down everybody else's backs these days. It's a wonder anything gets done at all.”

Nora leaned in a bit. “Speaking of getting things done, I've managed a small bit myself.” She produced a small parcel from her pocket and held it out to him. “There's some tea in there. It's not much, but Mama was saying there are days when her only luxury in life is a cup of tea with sugar, and I thought maybe you know someone who might need the same.”

He'd almost grown used to choking down the concoction Ma liked to pretend was coffee each morning. And as for what passed for tea, well, it stretched the imagination, that's for sure. “Ma's birthday is this Friday,” he said, “and she's been missing a decent cup of tea something fierce. I'll tell her you sent it.”

“No, don't,” Nora said. “Give it to her from yourself, not from me. A son should be able to give his mother a present on her birthday. If I made that happen, then that's thanks enough for me. Unless you had a gift already planned.”

Quinn shrugged, trying to hide the surge of gratitude that was threatening to make him do something silly. “I haven't had a moment to sleep lately, much less scour up a birthday present for Ma. She'll feel like a queen having a real cup of tea with real sugar.” He unfolded the handkerchief to see the little cache of tea and sugar. “There's enough here for a regular tea party I suppose.”

She laughed. The sound of it fluttered through him like the flocks of birds that swirled around Union Square, perching somewhere just above his heart. “What's the world coming to when four spoonfuls of tea and two lumps of sugar constitute a tea party?”