Chapter 34

New York Daily

A couple of days had passed before Andrew granted Clare a visit to the New York Daily. He insisted she get her rest before going back outside, and she was too exhausted and emotionally wounded to fight his recommendation. Although she spent much of these days worrying about her brother and thought of searching for him. But where would she go and would her efforts to find him only lead his pursuers to his hideaway?

So when Andrew and Clare finally approached the building that housed the New York Daily, excitement was welling inside her. For a farm girl who loved books, the idea of being within the walls of a place where history was written and shared everyday was beyond fathom.

A massive stone structure, it was on what Andrew described as Newspaper Row. Once inside, although functionally plain, Clare was impressed with the grandeur of activity.

The mixture of shouts and conversations blended with the clanking of machinery. There was a buzz about them in the main floor of the facility, and people flashed by her in a frenzy.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, leaning into his sturdy frame.

“Yes,” he answered smugly. “They are on deadline.”

“Deadline?”

“The paper goes out every day, with or without our story. If a story isn’t ready, in most cases that means it will die on the floor and you’ll have an irate editor.”

Clare’s eyes widened. They had spent the entire day interviewing Irish passengers as they came staggering off the ships. Few even had the energy to talk, and it saddened her to realize her horrifying experience crossing the ocean was commonplace. The news back home was dismal as well. The Black Death had spread and few territories had been spared.

The thought of her family suffering from such hardship without her being there to comfort them was unbearable, but she needed to know more. What about Branlow? How bad was it there?

Clare had hoped to stay longer to track down someone closer to home, but Andrew did seem affected by being close to the water, and she relented when he asked her to leave.

“Don’t worry. Our story isn’t due until tomorrow. One of the benefits of being the owner’s son.” He pointed in the direction of the presses. “Shall we give the lady a tour?”

“I would thoroughly enjoy that.” Clare put her hand to the hat Cassie had found for her. Although she still felt naked without her wig, the bonnet provided some level of comfort and her hair had grown quickly, now several inches in length.

As they approached the churning presses, Clare embraced the joyful awe of a child, watching the paper rolls being cranked through the moving type. Several men worked the machine, applying oil, feeding in paper, and dragging the stacks away to be folded. Clare had grown accustomed to hearing the newsboys call out the headlines from the street corners, but seeing how it was wrought was fascinating.

“This room over there.” Andrew waved at one of the men who had looked up. “That is where they sell the ads. Quite uninteresting if you ask me. But there is something over there.”

They burrowed through the crowd and stopped to peer over the shoulders of the artists drawing various images and caricatures in ink on canvas.

Finally, they climbed up a winding wooden staircase that led to the second floor, which was more of an oversized loft.

“This is where the writers and editors roost, those enlightened souls who exploit and corrupt the freedom of the press.”

“You speak of it so favorably,” Clare said. “I think this is all wonderful. Perhaps Cassie is right and you are spoiled.”

“Who is this pretty one?” said a woman perched on a stool tucked under a clerk’s desk. She was dipping a pen into a well of ink.

“This is Clare. Our new writer.”

“Is that so?” The woman had a face so plain she almost looked like a man. “She doesn’t look the part.”

“Is my father in?”

“He’s with the mayor.”

There were muffled shouts coming through a closed door behind the woman.

Andrew turned to Clare. “It may surprise you, but not everyone appreciates our stories. Come, let me show you our desk.”

“You might as well give it to her,” the woman said wryly, “seeing as you aren’t fit to use it yourself.”

“One thing you’ll learn,” Andrew said to Clare but loud enough for the other woman’s benefit, “is that the fumes from the ink turn good people into crabby ogres.”

Clare’s face warmed. “Andrew!” she said as he whisked her away. “Perhaps Cassie is right. You might be terribly spoiled and impertinent as well.”

“That’s the spirit, Clare, but save your eloquent cynicism for print. That’s the gold we mine.” He stopped at a nearby table. “Wait a moment. I haven’t seen yesterday’s paper yet.” He pulled up a newspaper, and after he opened it, her eyes widened with the headline: MEXICO CALLS NEW YORK’S FINEST.

“What is that story about?” she said.

He turned the paper. “The ship sailed yesterday with the New York regiment.”

“Did they list names?”

“That’s inside.” He fumbled through the pages and then opened it up. “It’s right here.”

He laid it on the table and her fingers slid through the alphabetical listing, and there it was, beautiful to her eyes, the name “Seamus Hanley.” And again she looked and there was “Pierce Brady.”

“Thank You, Lord!” she said loudly. “They’re off to war.”

He seemed puzzled. “You must really not like somebody.”

“Oh.” She gave a half smile. “It’s rather complicated. My brother and his friend. Let’s just say they needed to leave town in a hurry.”

“That does sound complicated. Intriguing as well. I’ll pry it from you later. In the meanwhile, here it is.” He swept his hand to point to the small desk in the corner of the room. “Have a seat.”

She looked to see if anyone was watching. Convinced she was unnoticed, Clare seated herself and he pushed her in her chair under the desk as she beamed. The thought of people actually getting to write for their means of wages was invigorating.

“What a perfect fit you are Clare Hanley. As if you were meant to write of the heavens.”

“You haven’t even seen a word from me yet.”

“It’s unnecessary. My instincts are without blemish.” He pulled out the papers where they had drawn their notes and laid them on the desk before her. “Besides, if you can write my stories for me, I can do what God has called me to do.”

“God calls people?”

Andrew’s face brightened. “Why yes, of course He does. He calls each of us to serve Him in our own distinct ways.”

“You believe that?”

“I do. The problem is so few people are willing to listen to what He has to say.”

“I suppose He just speaks to you.”

He smiled at her. “He’s got a calling for you, Clare Hanley, of that I’m certain. And He’s got a calling for me.”

“Really?” She still wasn’t sure whether or not he was speaking in jest. What divine purpose could she have? It reminded her of conversations Grandma Ella would share with her in their walks down village roads. “And what would your calling be, Andrew?”

He spun her chair around to face him and knelt beside her, locking gazes with deep sincerity. “Let me show you.”

As the horse clapped against the street pavers, Clare peered out from the window of the carriage, her emotions surging. The buildings of the Five Points were rising around her and the memories of her last night here lapped up like flames.

Andrew, who was sitting beside her in the leather-studded seat, held on to her hand. “Was this a mistake in bringing you back here so soon?”

She turned and her nerves melted with the compassion in his eyes, peering at her through the round frames of his spectacles. “I’ll be fine.” She managed to smile.

The light of day was subsiding and the evening shuffling of laborers returning from work were being greeted by street merchants and peddlers. Having witnessed the grandeur of the neighborhood where the Royce home was located, the Five Points appeared more poverty stricken and dirty to her than ever.

So many times she had seen the carriages driving by with their wealthy passengers glaring at the occupants outside, and now she was on the inside looking out. What a strange turn of fate it was for her, and one in which she didn’t feel entirely comfortable.

“Driver ho!” Andrew shouted, and the carriage soon came to a halt. Shortly, the door opened and a hand reached up to Clare, and as she stepped to the ground, her boots sank into the mud of the streets. A pig nearly ran her over as it grunted past.

Andrew gave the driver some coins, who nodded in gratitude, climbed the perch, and with the sound of a whip was off and heading away through the traffic. Was she back in a place where she more suitably belonged?

He held her hand and she felt safer. Andrew drew her off of the street and away from the clattering of passing carts, wagons, and carriages. They worked their way up through the flow of pedestrians and turned into an alleyway alongside a dilapidated three-story stone building.

“We need to go in through the back entrance,” he said, excitement in his voice.

Clare felt unease as she feared seeing someone she knew, someone she had met through Patrick Feagles’s world. Although only a couple of days had passed, she felt as an intruder in his neighborhood.

Up ahead there was a group of men gathered in a half circle, shouting and clamoring about as they focused on something on the ground before them.

“Just keep your eyes down and we’ll pass them quietly,” Andrew said in her ear.

They were mostly unnoticed as they approached, but one man with a grizzled beard looked up and glared at Clare hungrily. He tilted up a bottle of drink and nodded at her as she went by him.

Clare pressed closer to Andrew and they walked past the men without incident. As she glanced back, she could see through a gap in the group that there were two roosters facing off, held back by their owners as the men shouted out wagers and flashed bills.

In a moment, the cocks screamed in battle and shouts lifted. Clare increased her pace to a trot.

“Right here,” Andrew said as he turned the corner and they came to stairs leading to the rear entranceway of the building. Glass was on the floor where windows had been busted out, and they crunched as they ground it with their boots.

Andrew halted abruptly and Clare realized there was a small shape visible in the encroaching darkness.

Letting go of Clare’s hand, Andrew knelt beside the child sitting on the first step.

The boy was no more than eight years of age, with knotted curly hair and a deep black face, skinny to the point of illness.

“What’s your name little man?” Andrew said.

The boy, whose hands were tucked in the sleeves of his jacket, glared back with distrust. Finally, he said, “Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

“Yes. My mammy done born me on Saturday.”

“I see.” Andrew smiled. “And where is your mammy?”

The boy shrugged.

Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. “Would you do me the kindness of seeing she gets this? It’s been owed to her and I’m grateful for your service.”

Saturday pulled one of his hands from his jacket and took the coins, examining them in the remaining light.

“Oh. And these have been heavy in my pocket.” Andrew pulled a biscuit from his pocket. “Would you be able to eat this for me, Saturday?”

The boy nodded and put it to his mouth.

Andrew nodded to Clare and they mounted the short steps leading up to the door. He pulled out a small tool and began to jimmy the lock. Shortly, a click sounded and the latch was freed.

“What are you doing?” Clare whispered, relieved to see that the boy had left.

Andrew didn’t answer but instead opened the heavy door and he disappeared inside, leaving her alone.

“Andrew?”

“Come inside and close the door behind you.”

Upon entering the building, the smell of mildew and decay overwhelmed her, and Clare was tempted to exit. It was complete darkness inside and she heard some scratching noises, followed by the flash of sulfur, and she could see Andrew holding a match to a lantern.

“I had this stashed away in a safe place.”

“Why are we here?” Clare asked. “What would the landlord say?”

“Oh, he’s thrilled with us being here. He’s hoping I’ll buy it from him.”

“Why didn’t he just give you a key?”

“I’m in negotiations,” Andrew said. “I can’t let on my enthusiasm, now can I? The windows are boarded up from the main street, so they can’t see our light.”

Clare heard a scuttling about on the floor and she backed up.

“Those are just the rats,” Andrew said nonchalantly. “I’ve already informed them their lodging arrangements are temporary.”

She saw the lantern moving toward the front of the building and Clare lurched forward and grabbed onto his arm. “I’d like to go now.”

“But I haven’t shown you anything yet,” he said with disappointment.

“All right then. Start showing.”

“How can I give you the tour if you’re so dour?”

“No. Please go ahead,” Clare said. “I’m anxiously awaiting the tour.”

He turned up the flame of the lantern and the light filled the room fairly well. The building was completely empty of furnishings, although it was clear it had been inhabited for a long time in its past.

Andrew cleared his throat. “This is the first floor,” he said, now speaking as if he were addressing a small audience. “In the far corner, will be the kitchen, where soup will be prepared and bread will be baked.”

Andrew held the light closer to her face as if he was reading her reaction. She gathered an expression of pleasant surprise and hoped it look genuine. It must have worked, as his voice grew in ardor. Clare worried she might have inadvertently delayed the moment when she might have been able to escape this mausoleum.

“On the first floor, we would put in benches and tables, where every night, anyone with hunger could find respite from the cold. A sanctuary from the cruelties of this life. No one would be turned away, and each would know their comfort would be provided by the grace of God and by no man or woman.

“And up here. Come up the steps.”

Clare lifted the hems of her dress with one hand and held onto his hand with the other. She could barely see the wooden steps below her feet, but she could clearly sense their instability. With each step, she worried the stairway would give and they would plunge to the ground. But Andrew pressed forward.

“And here on the second floor, this is the floor of second chances. We’ll teach them how to darn, how to seam, how to tailor, how to write. You see. The women. They can earn twenty dollars a week in the parlor houses. We have to provide them with a way to support their children. It’s why they do what they do.

“We can’t give them hope without a way out. What do you think? Won’t it be marvelous?”

“How will this all be paid for?” Clare asked.

“We’re still working through those details. Our Tract Fellowship ladies believe they can raise it. I’m afraid we won’t get a penny from my father as he prefers to write about depravity as opposed to actually solving it. And my mother? You know how she feels about my work.

“Onto the third floor. But mind your step. The stairs are unstable.”

Clare yearned to leave but didn’t want to muzzle his zeal. Step-by-step she climbed and was greatly relieved when her feet touched the surface of the third floor.

“Here we’ll have lodging. They always need a place to go when they make the change. Only for a short time, as we’ll fill up quickly. But long enough for them to have a respite.”

Andrew traveled across the room until he came to some shutters on the wall. He unlatched the handle and opened the windows and fresh air came in, which Clare saw as life itself.

She leaned out and could discern through the darkness of a moonless night the shapes and figures of the main street below.

“The light,” she said. “They’ll see the light.”

“Yes.” Andrew held the lantern out to the Five Points. “That’s exactly what I want them to see.”

There, in the midst of the mildew and the rat dung, Clare felt a sense of empowerment and contentment as she had never experienced before. As the evening activity sprung to life in the city, she looked down below at the sprawling populous neither with fear nor awe. Instead, her heart ached for a generation of the lost and restless.

In Andrew, she could see such peace and honesty in his countenance she found herself inexorably drawn to his being. He turned to see her gazing upon him, and even in the dim light she could see him blush.

“Andrew?”

“Yes?”

“Do you believe, as your mother does, that I was a prostitute before you met me?”

Andrew let out a deep breath slowly and seemed to struggle with his answer. “Would it bother you tremendously if I told you it didn’t matter?”

“It would,” she responded immediately.

“Then I don’t.”

Clare saw in the sincerity of his answer that not only did he believe her, but that it really didn’t matter to him either way. What a curious fellow!

His eyes softened with tears, and she reached out and touched his face.

He put his arm around Clare and drew her in, and she gazed out, far beyond the city horizon, to a place she never dreamed possible.