Sons of an Ancient Glory (57 page)

He lifted a hand to make sure he could still see, for his right eye was almost swollen shut, and his left burned and watered all the time. He could just make out the outline of his fingers in the darkness. Relieved, he dropped his hand back to his side.

From a nearby corner came the familiar, dread rustling sounds.
The rats were waiting.…

Their noises were louder than Billy remembered. He thought he heard a squeal, but his ears rang so fiercely of late that he couldn't be sure.

He put a hand to his belly. He couldn't imagine why it was so big when he hadn't eaten for such a long time. He felt swollen and sore. For some reason, he found himself remembering the starving Hayes children back home, before they died in the snow. Their bellies had been swollen, every one of them, though their arms and legs had been nothing much but sticks.

Was he starving? It didn't seem likely, since he wasn't even hungry. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he had last eaten, but if he were starving, he would be hungry, wouldn't he?

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go back to sleep. He slept most of the time now, when the pain didn't keep him awake. He no longer listened for the door to open, no longer strained to hear Uncle Sorley's voice saying he could come out.

Uncle Sorley wasn't coming back for him this time.

Billy tried not to think of his uncle; instead, he turned his thoughts to his da. He thought about his da a lot lately. It was peculiar, how he could still remember Da's face, the sound of his voice, after so long a time. He had often awakened him on cold winter mornings by wrapping him up tight in the covers and lifting him out of the bed, blankets and all. Da would hold him on his lap then, the two of them perched on the side of the bed, until Billy came awake, still drowsy and warm in his father's arms.

Here in the cellar, when the cold gnawed at his bones and the pain wracked his body, Billy would pull himself up into a tight ball, pretending that he was back in his own bed at home, and Da was holding him, keeping him warm. Sometimes he even fell asleep that way, imagining the feel of his da's strong arms wrapped about him.

Billy's eyes came open as the scratching sounds grew closer. He shivered, gritting his teeth.

Staring into the darkness, Billy struggled to remember…something.

The song…he had to find the song…the song about the light…Mr. Evan said the Light would keep the things of darkness away.…

Someone whispered in the darkness. Billy smiled, thinking it might be his da, after all, come to let him out.

Sing, Billy…sing. Sing away the darkness…sing about the Light.…

Keep on singing, Billy…keep on singing.…

Inside the small dark entryway downstairs, Evan and Sergeant Price stood talking in hushed tones. Still sensing the same peculiar restraint he had felt in the apartment, Evan found himself deliberately putting off leaving the building.

“I don't quite know what to do n-next, Sergeant,” he said, “but I'm m-most grateful for your help. And your patience.”

The policeman waved away his thanks. “I want to find the little lad as much as you do, Mr. Whittaker. Billy's a fine boy. As for what to do next, I've already passed the word to the other men. We'll all be keeping an eye out for him, you can be sure.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Evan hesitated, weary beyond measure, yet unwilling to give up. “I don't suppose…we could walk around a bit m-more.”

“We can do that, if you like. But if you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Whittaker, you look as if you could do with a good night's rest. Are you all right, sir?”

“Oh…yes, I'm…”

Evan was totally unprepared for the sudden tightening of his throat, the stinging of his eyes. His voice caught, and, dismayed by his own weakness, he slumped against the wall, his body trembling. “I'm sorry…”

Sergeant Price moved to take the lantern. “Mr. Whittaker,” he said kindly, putting a hand to Evan's shoulder, “why don't I just see you to the ferry? My word on it, I'll not give up the search for the little fellow.”

Evan nodded, wiping his hand across his eyes. “Yes, perhaps you're right. I should g-go home. I don't want to worry N-Nora any more than—”

He broke off, holding his breath as he listened.
It couldn't be…yet, that voice…

He knew that voice!

The sergeant frowned, still holding on to him as if he feared Evan might fall where he stood. “What is it, sir?”

“D-did you hear something?” Evan asked him, moving away from the wall. For a moment, he'd thought he heard a child's voice. Billy's voice. But he must have imagined it.…

And then he heard it again. “There! Did you hear that?”

He strained to listen above the other muffled sounds echoing through the building—a baby crying, voices raised in an argument, children shouting at one another.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” he said uncertainly. “I thought…it sounded like someone…singing.”

They both stood, tensed and expectant. Scarcely breathing, Evan sorted out the sounds, one at a time, dismissing one, then going on to the next, much as he did when he was listening for a sour note among the boys in the choir.

There!
He put a hand to Sergeant Price's arm. “Do you hear?”

Slowly, the sergeant nodded, regarding Evan with a questioning expression. “Aye, there would seem to be someone singing, right enough.” His puzzled frown hinted at his unspoken question:
what of it?

Evan turned to stare at the narrow, boarded door in the shadows. He moved toward it, leaned and pressed his ear against the scaling wood.

“…Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art,
Thou my best thought by day and by night…”

“Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.”
Evan finished the words, barely able to choke out the last. “That's
him
! That's
Billy
!” He turned to the sergeant. “I'd know that voice anywhere!”

The policeman stared at him. Then, holding the lantern with one hand, he released the wooden bar across the door.

The door opened onto a dark, steep stairway. “Must go to the coal cellar,” said Sergeant Price. “Looks black as the pit down there.” Holding the lantern out, over the stairway, he started down. “Hold on tight, sir. These steps are in bad shape.”

The singing was still faint, but sounded closer now. Evan's heart hammered. It was Billy, all right! There was no mistaking that bell-like voice, though it sounded fearfully weak and tremulous.

He was singing the same words over and over again, words to the old Gaelic hymn “Be Thou My Vision.”

Evan thought his heart would explode as they descended the rickety stairway.

Sergeant Price ducked his head as they entered a dark, filthy cellar. Inside, he raised the lantern, passing it slowly from side to side. They could see nothing but a coal bin and some empty crates.

“Listen…” Evan whispered. In the eerie glow from the lantern, their eyes met. The singing had stopped.

Seized by a spasm of coughing as the coal dust filled his lungs, Evan fumbled for his handkerchief. When he could again catch his breath, he watched the sergeant explore each corner of the cellar, then shake his head.

“But he
must
be here somewhere!” Evan insisted. “We
heard
him!”

Suddenly, the policeman whipped around, raising a hand for Evan to listen. “There! It's coming from the other side!”

The sound was faint, like the whimper of a wounded animal.

Sergeant Price motioned for Evan to follow him. “Over here,” he said. He lowered the lantern, revealing another door in the shadows behind the steps.

“Blast! It's locked!” muttered the sergeant as he shook the handle. Handing the lantern to Evan, he threw his shoulder against the door, but it held.

“Stand back, sir.”

Evan stood aside while Sergeant Price took a step back from the door. One good kick was all it took; the shabby door broke free from its frame and slammed inward against the wall. Retrieving the lantern from Evan, the policeman drew his gun. As they entered, he tracked the sound of the soft moaning with the beam of the lantern.

Evan's heart hammered, and a wave of dizziness swept over him. He knew he was on the verge of passing out. He stopped for just an instant, willing his head to clear, forcing himself to breathe deeply.

Sergeant Price trained the lantern on the far corner of the closet, following its beam until he suddenly stopped.
“Lord, have mercy!”

A moan of horror ripped from Evan's throat as he stared at the nightmare scene before them. Billy Hogan lay, facing them, curled up like an infant. His face was a mass of bruises and cuts, his eyes swollen shut. Dried blood streaked his face. His knees were drawn up almost to his chin, but Evan could see that the child was emaciated. Despite his protruding abdomen—no doubt the effect of starvation—his arms looked pitifully thin.

The boy moaned, and Evan went weak with relief.
He was still alive!

Sergeant Price stepped forward, and gave a cry. Evan moved closer. His eyes followed the swaying light from the lantern—the sergeant's hand was trembling—and saw a sight that threatened to take his sanity.

A band of large brown rats hovered malevolently near the prostrate child's feet, as if poised in some macabre death watch.

Evan threw a hand over his mouth and gagged. The sergeant roared in rage and rushed at them, sending them squealing and scurrying back to their nest.

“
Devils!
” the policeman thundered as they ran. Pocketing his gun, he turned to Evan. “Why don't you let me take care of this, Mr. Whittaker?”

But Evan was already on his knees beside Billy. “I'm all right,” he insisted. For a moment he was afraid to touch the poor, bruised body, fearful of inflicting still more pain. Finally, he was able to bring himself to put his hand to the wheat-colored hair, now matted with dirt and blood. The boy was shaking, his entire body jerking violently, as if in the throes of a seizure.

“Poor lad is freezing,” muttered the sergeant, throwing off his coat and tucking it carefully around the small body.

“Oh, Billy…
Billy
!” The boy's name tore from Evan's throat like a sob. “What have they d-done to you?”

Billy moaned but didn't open his eyes. Evan went on stroking the boy's hair and calling his name, moving to make room for the sergeant when he knelt beside him.

“Let's have a look at the little fellow,” he said softly. The policeman's large square hands moved as gently and as confidently as those of a surgeon over Billy Hogan's small body. Evan could almost sense the man fighting to keep his anger under control as he appraised the evidence of such unthinkable cruelty.

“He's taken a terrible fierce beating, poor little lad. And he's half-starved as well.”

“Sergeant…” Hearing the tremor in his voice, Evan stopped to draw in a steadying breath. “The rats…”

“It wouldn't appear that the filthy creatures got a chance at him, Mr. Whittaker.” Putting his ear to the boy's chest, he listened. “But he's in a bad way, poor lad. It's the hospital for him, but I'd not want to move him yet.”

He got to his feet, saying, “If you'll stay with him for a bit, I'll go for Doc Hilman—he's just up the street. And I'll need to get one or two of my
boyos
down here to help out. We'll be locking Sorley Dolan up yet tonight.”

With the sergeant's help, Evan sat down on the floor, bracing his back against the wall so he could cradle the boy's head in his lap. The child mumbled something incoherent, his body still shaking. Evan tried as best he could to soothe him, stroking his hair, murmuring words of comfort. The sergeant stood, watching the boy with compassionate eyes.

Suddenly, Billy twisted, then gave a sharp moan as if the effort had sent fresh pain shooting through him. “Da?”

Evan bent lower over the boy. “Billy…Billy…can you hear m-me?”