Madame Blavatsky's Bull

The bull shivered and took shelter beneath an evergreen, one of the few that dotted the Rhys property.  The wind would cease for minutes providing respite and then howl once again at full force.  Other younger deciduous trees had been uprooted or toppled in the storm and buried by the rising drifts.  The animal faced the tree letting its tail take the brunt of the storm.  The branches broke the wind and sifted the snow.  Victoria moved slowly through the drifts and tried frantically to keep up with the deep hoof tracks made by the bull.  When she saw the evergreen she nearly cried.  It seemed as if some divine presence made the tree appear for her just in the nick of time. The wind died down for a moment and she saw the animal’s tail protruding from the branches.  She decided it might be wise to enter the opposite side of the trunk.  As she parted the snow caked branches and moved to the center she could see the bull’s big brown eyes with frost laced lashes.  Its breath shown like a heavy fog in the silence.  She did not grow up near animals and so she had a healthy respect for them especially the larger ones.  She spoke gently as she approached thinking that perhaps the animal’s warmth might save her from freezing to death.

“Shhhh.  Shhh.  Easy now.  Easy…” She cooed.

The animal remained motionless and seemed oblivious to her presence.  She thought she might take a chance and touch its hide.  She placed her hands on it and the hide was only slightly warmer than hers.  She knelt down and let her hands float in its misty warm breath.  There she could feel a marked difference in temperature and though it may not keep her warm it just might stave off frostbite.  A wave of nausea engulfed her once again but she let the bovine’s steady heartbeat and breath calm her jangled nerves.  It was the only sound except for the wind and the natural ebb and flow acted like a tonic.  She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned against the trunk.  She bowed her head to keep her face from the elements and her mind began to wander.

Charles had been fascinated with Natural History and as a young man began aggressively collecting items and taxidermied animals, bones, hides, shells, petrified wood, lava rocks and fossils for which he amassed quite a collection.  He even went to Egypt to procure a dozen finely preserved mummies.  Victoria forbade him to keep any of these curios in their home except for a few mounted heads and some American Indian artifacts.  So Charles built a large cottage to house his treasure and in a meeting with his solicitor he stipulated in his last will and testament that the entire collection go to the Smithsonian in the United States.

1887 was Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee.  She had ruled on the throne for fifty years and the entire country rejoiced in her commemoration.  It was June and the weather agreeable.  Victoria had not yet met Richard and was happily content with her work and her charmed life with Charles and their close circle of friends including Beatrice Potter Webb, Annie Besant, George Bernard Shaw, Evangeline Booth and Vincent Morris.  Shaw’s brilliant play, Sargent Barbara was loosely based on his friendship with Evangeline and Victoria.  Charles had been at the office earlier in the day when a page brought in a flyer for Buffalo Bills’ Wild West.  Charles was so excited he left his desk early and went in search of tickets and show times.  Victoria was among the retinue that attended that afternoon.  It was exciting and fascinating to see real American Indians in their feather headdresses and US cavalrymen all astride horses reenacting the intense battle at Little Bighorn.  The crowd gasped and cheered and clapped and wept.  The exhibition had been part of the jubilee celebrations and the show was wrought with stunts and courageous horsemanship, shooting exhibitions and Native American dance.  After the show Charles and Victoria made their way to the tents where William Cody and his entourage dressed.  Victoria was taken with a long Buffalo robe hanging in Bill Cody’s area.  It was thick and lush and regal.

“You know I killed 4,860 bison in one year.”  Cody said.

“What did you do with them?”  Charles asked.

“I sold the meat to the railroad workers and some miners. The hides I sold to fur traders.” Cody replied.  Then he looked over his shoulder and saw Victoria enamored with the hide.

“Genuine Nebraska bison.”  He remarked.  “North Platte.”

She smiled and continued to touch the wiry hair.  Just then a small dark man entered the tent quietly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thornton.  I would like to introduce Chief Sitting Bull.”  Cody said.

The Indian was the victor of the Battle of Little Bighorn and his warriors led the raid that killed General Custer in 1876.  For ten years Sitting Bull was exiled to Saskatchewan, Canada where they lived off the cold land hunted by the U.S. Government at every turn.  Sick and tired of a nomadic existence the chief and his band of renegades turned themselves in and were relegated to the reservation in North Dakota.  After meeting the legend Bill Cody invited him to be a part of the show.  Once around on horseback and wave to the crowd earned the chief fifty dollars a week.

The Indian shook hands with Charles and gave a slight bow to Victoria.  He was noble and majestic and his spirit seemed to operate on a different plane while simultaneously carrying on pleasantries in the here and now.  She was keenly aware of his being.  She thought for a moment that perhaps she might communicate with him without words.  And so she focused her attention on what it is that she would like to know about him.  After a moment as the men conversed Sitting Bull’s gaze drifted from the conversation to Victoria.  It could not be mistaken for a leer or a glance but absolutely and positively an understanding and acknowledgement.  He stepped to her and said ”We use every part of the animal.  Nothing is left for waste.  It is our understanding of nature and our gratitude to Tatanka for his generosity.” He broke his stoic gaze and an almost imperceptible smile washed across his face then he stepped back into the circle of men and graciously listened.  Although Victoria did not know who or what ‘Tatanka’ was, she gathered that the deity was not unlike Brahma or Buddha or Jehovah.

“How much for the robe?”  Charles asked. “I simply must have it.” 

The short bristly hair of the bull reminded Victoria of that day.  Out of all the curios Charles collected the Bison robe was hers.  It somehow represented power and grace and the overwhelming presence of the ineffable.  It was the one thing that kept the indigenous peoples of the plains tribes warm in weather just like this storm.   How she wished she had it now.  Suddenly the bull huffed and grunted and Victoria quickly moved aside.  It turned itself one way and then another under the evergreen canopy.  The wind had died again and the snow fell furiously at a slight angle.  The animal lumbered out from under the tree and into the crisp whiteness.  Victoria watched as it plowed its way through the snow and she decided she must follow.  Knowing that its feet would be constantly buried and unable to kick she quickly grasped the animal’s long tail and let it pull her along.  The wind picked up again and she could only see the animal’s backside.  Everything was a blur.  It was strenuous trying to place her feet and legs into the deep tracks of the bull but they made better ground than if she braved the weather alone.  They passed a part of a stone column and Victoria recognized it as the extra pieces to the manor house left over from Stanford White’s design.  The workmen left it at the back part of the yard and intended on disposing of the material but winter came fast and so the chore would be left for spring.  She let go of the tail and the animal trudged on alone in the silence.  She knew she was within yards of the house now.  If she could get her bearings she could walk right into the back entrance.  She took a few labored steps and the faint grey outline of a massive stone structure appeared.  Again the wind abated for a moment and there was the great manor waiting silently for her.  Finally she found her direction and made her way.

It took twenty minutes to cover about thirty yards of ground.  Once inside she went directly to the wood burning stove.  The embers were still glowing faintly orange so she stuffed the kindling in and stoked it until it crackled in the frigid cold.  She put her hands so close to the flame her fingers seemed to be engulfed.  But the heat did not bring back sensation for many minutes.  She pulled a metal pan from the pantry, opened the door, scooped in some snow and placed it atop the stove.  She was dehydrated and weak.  The snow melted quickly and she drank almost half of it.  In the other half she placed her cold, numb fingers and waited until the sensation returned.  It was getting dark now.  She worried that no one would be able to find her.  Where was Mr. Jones?  Where was Richard?  Then her worry escalated into panic.  What if Richard had gotten caught in this terrible blizzard and he is stuck in the snow as she was only an hour ago.  What if he was stranded and freezing and dying on a road somewhere? Her panic drifted into grief and she sobbed.  She was tired and sick and frightened and cold and alone.  She wept until her eyes hurt and her cheeks ached.  She cried so much that the heaving made her weary and even sleepy and her chest throbbed.  She decided she must try to eat something so she fetched the picnic basket and all etiquette aside she plunged into the food as though it were a fresh kill.  In between bites of meat and bread she stuffed more kindling wood into the stove and then fetched the larger pieces in the cord by the window.  She lit a lantern and went about closing the great velvet curtains in the main room.  Then she sealed off the small kitchen by closing the pocket doors.  She resumed eating at a slower pace and the house, silent and stony, felt like a sepulcher.  Her mind began to wander.  Perhaps this is what Christ experienced in the wilderness.  Maybe it is the same sort of profound grace he felt in the garden at Gethsemane.  At this moment she had never felt so alone in her entire life.  Even when tumultuous family issues rose and fell or the marriages, births and deaths of extended family members occurred at regular intervals it seemed as though there was something holding her up.  There was always someone to distract her or something to take care of or her work with the less fortunate to make her aware of how insignificant her troubles were.  Sitting in the empty house with only her thoughts for company she realized that her faith was being tested.  If she lost everything would she be able to go on?  Would she still have the will to live?  If she walked outside a week from now knowing that she had lost Richard, her child and everyone she loved could she withstand that kind of loss?  She prided herself on being of sturdy constitution and stable mind, but the heartache that came with separation seemed like a death blow.  She might be able to recover from another miscarriage but she would not recover from the loss of her husband.  She would never recover as long as she lived and she knew that to be the truth.  The thought punctured her and she had been battered enough with the crisis at hand so she decided to expel any morbid thoughts from now until the snow stopped when she might be able to find help.    The small room was beginning to warm up a bit.  She shoved more wood from the cord into the small stove and the crackle and the firelight danced against the walls.  She felt like perhaps she was not alone.  The howling wind and the flames projecting odd shadows on the wall made her feel as if spirits were about.  She did not think the house was haunted.  She had completely redesigned and rebuilt the farmhouse from its original structure.  Parts of it had been moved from the original foundation to a more picturesque part of the property.  The only spirits about were connected to her specifically in this life.  She thought that maybe her mother was nearby.  There was a calming wave of sentimentality that seemed to crest and die away.  Her mother had passed so long ago that it seemed like another life but every once in a while her scent would appear on the air and when that happened she was keenly aware that the veil between realms was incredibly thin, not unlike the membrane that wrapped itself about her baby nestling safely within her.  She did not feel sick any longer but at times she would be overcome by fatigue.  And when she was still for too long the cold wrapped itself about her again.  Moving kept the chill at bay. She wanted desperately to close her eyes and sleep but she was afraid that she might die.  It was not that she was afraid of death itself, but her overwhelming concern for her unborn child and for Richard gave her the courage and fortitude to keep fighting.  The same month as the Golden Jubilee her friend Annie Besant wanted very much for Victoria to meet a most fascinating woman.  This lady’s reputation had preceded her from the United States and she was infamous among society’s inner circles.  Madam Blavatsky had settled into a friend’s London townhouse for what was meant to be a few weeks holiday.  But her health seemed to require months of recuperation.  When she was well enough to receive visitors Annie brought Victoria for tea.  Madame Blavatsky was the founder of the Theosophical society and the ever popular Spiritualist movement that had taken hold first in Upstate New York and spreading outward from there. She was a medium and psychic and the tenets of her beliefs were that there were seven root races and the current societal conditions proved that the world was engaged in the fifth root race reincarnated from the ancient people of Atlantis.  A popular myth attributed to her was that the cataclysm that sunk the island into the depths of the sea happened at 11 minutes before or after the hour.  When there is a lull in conversation the time will usually reflect one or the other because our souls become quiet in reverence to the lost people and their knowledge.  Some of the beliefs seemed a bit far fetched for Victoria but others seemed intuitively right.  She knew that levitation was possible.  That transcendence was possible, that the power of prayer and meditation is one the most effective ways of changing the world.  The one thing that intrigued Victoria was the idea of materialization.  It fit in with the other areas that seemed perfectly within the realm of possibility and at first she was a bit skeptical until she began to investigate her own experience with the natural world.  Materialization is the appearance of matter from unknown sources. It is the transformation of something abstract or virtual into something concrete and tangible.  And although she was not fully conscious of what she was doing because it came from her emotional, instinctual center rather than her intellectual being, the appearance of Richard on that snowy night in Whitechapel confirmed to her that her soul made something manifest from thin air.  He was the right being, the right soul, the right partner, the right lover, the right husband, the right father for her at that very moment and it changed the course of her history forever.  Madam Blavatsky only provided a framework for which to interpret the phenomenon.  And for that she was thankful to Annie and to Mrs. Blavatsky and for her entire life as she knew it.  She would not change one single minute if she were to live it all over again. 

Visiting the Tombs

Just four short blocks and Richard found himself in a complete whiteout.  At least three inches fell in that time and the wind blew snow and debris far and wide. An escaped bumbershoot slammed against him.  One of the spines scratched his cheek.  Through the blinding snow he noticed a woman sprawled out on the sidewalk, the likely owner of the rogue umbrella.  He dashed over trying to keep himself upright in the gale.  She was young and buxom and Irish.  He picked her up quickly.

“Tank ye, sir.” She said breathless and cold.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

“On me way home from my employer, sir.”  She replied. “Aw, now, ye’ve a got a nasty cut there.”

“I’ll help you to the church on the corner.”  Richard said as the snow stung his eyes and lashed his exposed face.

“Ye’re kind, sir.”  She added.

“Take refuge inside until the wind dies down.  This can’t last.”  He said.  He had his arm about her and guided her along the slick flagstones.  She leaned into him with the full weight of her body.  He helped her up the stone steps and into the great wooden doors.  Inside there were people praying and lighting votive candles.  A few whispers indicated that some believers thought that Armageddon was upon them this very hour.  They beseeched the Holy Mother and pleaded with Christ himself.  The jaws of hell yawned before them cloaked in white and void of heat.  The woman was pretty in the amber glow of candles. She crossed herself and genuflected near the entrance like a good Catholic.  Then she turned and said, “Bless ye’re kindness, sir.” And disappeared into the row of parishioners.  Richard blew on his hands.  His breath was not very effective in warming his chillbit fingers.  He stood there for a moment gazing out through the small rectangular window mustering his resolve to trudge back out into the storm.  He thought perhaps if he could make it to his studio he could warm himself by the stove, find another coat, change his shoes, have some tea and then make the twenty block walk down to Grove street and Victoria.  He looked at his pocket watch and it was close to tea time.  If he timed it right he could be home before supper and have Nell heat some water to warm his frozen feet.  As he stepped outside he leaned into the wind.  Another inch had accumulated and the cold stung like a nest of bees.  He moved carefully and as he reached the corner of Twentieth and Fifth Avenue he saw the shadowy apparition of a man in a bowler and a smaller object.  He thought perhaps the man was outside with his dog.  Perhaps they were seeking shelter from an illegal dog fighting ring.  As he moved closer he noticed the man making the dog move out into the snow instead of trying to protect his fighter by finding cover.  He thought he might intervene but the cold ran up his legs and began to settle as an ache at the small of his back.  His felt hat was not at all effective and he tried to pull the wool collar of his coat up over his ears.  Suddenly he heard a cry.  It was the unmistakable cry of a child not a dog.  He whipped around and although the man and boy had disappeared into the grey whiteout, he followed the whimpers and the pleading that echoed through the empty streets and between the buildings.  Carriages had been abandoned and drivers led their horses to the nearest stable to avoid getting stuck in the impending snowdrifts.  A few coachmen ran through the streets unharnessed horses in tow seeking alleys trying to escape the nor’easter.  Richard’s toes went numb and he knew he would be in trouble if he did not get to his studio quickly. He heard the cry of a child once again and he could not turn his back.  He walked in the direction of the sound and as he drew closer he saw the grey shape of a man swinging at the boy.  He tried to run through the snow but it impeded his speed.  The man had a belt and was whipping the child.  The boy wore only a beat-up moth eaten sweater, grimy shirt worn out trousers and woolen socks.  He held a violin in his hands and as the man swung at him.  The boy would play a few notes and set to crying again.  Richard suddenly caught the man’s arm in one graceful move snatched the belt from him and had it about his neck tight. A dark rage washed over him and he wanted to pull at the belt with everything he had.  He wanted to squeeze the very last breath out of this veritable slave driver, this padrone.  The man’s death throes paled to the noise in Richard’s mind.  This kind of rage would not cease until long after the spirit departed. The boy cried and pleaded in Italian for Richard to let the man go.  Richard only understood a few words.  The boy dropped his instrument and jumped on Richard hitting him with his tiny fists and trying to bite any appendage.  It was enough to shake Richard out of his bloodthirsty delirium. He dropped the belt.  The man slid to the ground unconscious.  The boy went to his master’s limp body and exclaimed in Italian, “Morte, Morte!”  Richard pulled out his pocket watch and held the silver back up to the man’s nose.  It fogged over and Richard pointed this out to the boy.  The man was alive.

“No Morte.”  He said amid the din of the gale.  “Come.”  And Richard motioned for the boy.  The child shook his head ‘no’ as he shivered next to the criminal sprawled out in the snow.

“You’ll freeze.”  He said matter of factly.  Then he started to move away.  Once again he leaned into the wind and made his way towards the Avenue of the Americas.  He looked back every few minutes and he could tell the child was following him.  So he stopped and adjusted his coat collar and blew into his hands, jammed his hat further down on his head and looked down to find the boy standing next to him shaking like the last leaf on a tree.  He picked him up and tried to pull his great coat around the both of them and leaned into the cold wind coming off the Hudson River.

He climbed the great wood stairs up to the third floor.  The boy was still shivering hanging onto his small fiddle and hiding his face in Richard’s shirt.  Once inside he set the boy down and began to stoke a fire in the woodburning stove.  The boy remained only a foot or two away from Richard.  He was underfoot like a shadow.

“Mangia?”  Richard asked.  The boy smiled and shook his head excitedly.  Richard moved a stool close to the stove and motioned for the boy to sit.  He pulled the soggy worn socks away to find the child’s feet pink and freezing.  He rubbed his toes in his hands hoping the friction would provide a bit of warmth while the fire started to warm the room.  The boy giggled and shivered.  He was dark with black hair and black eyes.  He was covered in grime and when Richard looked at his hands the boy’s filth had rubbed off.  Immediately he set a full kettle on the stove and went through his cupboards that mostly held art supplies.  He found tea biscuits and an apple and set them on a work table.  The boy leapt from his perch and descended on the stale scones and biscuits like a ravenous wolf.  Richard lit a few oil lanterns as the room slowly warmed.  He studied one of the most unluckiest boys in New York and he saw himself.  That dirty little six year old was him a lifetime ago.  The boy was a tiny mirror reminding Richard of his own history and awakening in him a profound compassion.  Unlike Richard this child could pull himself up.  He could overcome the odds and he could do it with his own inventiveness and skill starting at his very young age.  America was built on stories like this boy.  Mulberry Street or rather  Bandit’s Bend was still paved with gold compared to the desperate poverty of Southern Italy or the wicked streets of London.  The boy’s shivering eased.  Richard found an old blanket and a piece of soft canvas and draped it over him.  He stuck his finger in the kettle’s water to find it luke warm.  Not the best for a bath but better than nothing at all.  He took an old rag, dipped it in the water and then began to wipe away the dirt and filth from the boy’s feet and legs.  He moved from the legs to child’s hands cracked and swollen from the cold but able enough to procure food.  As he washed the boy he imagined his own child and how he would care for him.  How he would do everything he could to make sure his son would be happy and well.  How he might look a bit like Victoria and lot like himself.  It made his heart tumble further into fatherhood. The boy began to eat the apple and the sweet juice made his eyes bright.  Richard remembered his first apple and how the tart pithy fruit gave him a rush of taste and the sweetness seemed sublime to the gruel he was accustomed to.  A kindly fruit vendor in Liverpool saw him crying near the gutter.  He was so hungry he hardly had the strength to stand and the old woman slipped him an apple.

“Ye’ll say not a word or it’ll be the death of ye.”  She warned and then moved to the next corner.  

“What’s your name?”  Richard asked.  The boy was fully engaged in the fruit.  Richard held it from him.

“What’s your name?”

The boy gazed at him blankly. Richard pointed to himself. “Richard”. He said.

The boy laughed.  “Ricardo!”  He said gleefully.  “Ricardo”. And he pointed to Richard.

“Alright.  Ricardo.”  Richard said then he pointed to the boy.  The boy eyed him suspiciously and remained silent for a moment.

“Then I shall have to call you Friday.” Richard said and he got up and dumped the dirty water and commenced to making tea.

“No Friday!  No!...Pietro.”  The boy said softly.

“Ah.  Pietro.  How do you do.”  Richard said.  As the boy finished the apple, seeds, core  and all he wiped his sticky hands on his soiled sweater.  Then he wandered over to an easel holding a still life.  The boy studied it for a quite a few minutes.  It was an unfinished painting of a bouquet of flowers. The bouquet had been Victoria’s wedding flowers.  The more one viewed the painting the more it seemed to glow.  It was as if the flowers themselves were emitting light.  Layers and layers of varnish, linseed oil and brilliant saturated colors made it vibrant and uplifting.  The painting captured not only the beauty of the flowers but the subtle emotions that pervaded the entire life-changing event.  There was a linking of sorts.  A silent abiding infinite coupling that dances through time. The strokes at once suggestive and staccato yet fluid and undulating.  The texture rich and sensual as if the act itself had been designed just so by the absolute.  It was nature translated through the eyes of the beloved for his most loved.

Suddenly there was a ruckus on the staircase outside.  It sounded like several men running to the roof.  But the scuffle stopped at his door.  A startling knock and the boy sprang from his spot and hid behind the stretched canvases.

“Open up!  Police!”  A gruff, Irishman commanded.  Richard went to the door and as he swung it open two policemen and a few plain clothes men with a camera spilled in.

“What’s this about?”  Richard asked.

“A child was abducted earlier on the street.” The policeman said.

“A witness saw you carrying a boy into this building.” The other snapped.  Then he reached over to take a look at the gash on Richard’s cheek.  Richard pulled away and he instinctually readied himself for a fight.

“Did the witness happen to be a padrone?” Richard inquired.

“Doesn’t matter if he was or not, the child is missing.” The policeman replied.

“Did the witness tell you that he was beating this missing child in the street and treating the boy worse than a dog?”  Richard added.

“Makes no difference---the child ain’t yours. Now tell us where ye’ve got him hid.” The Paddy commanded.

“First, I would like to say that I did not kidnap the boy.  I rescued him from certain death in this storm.  Second, it would be my Christian duty to do what I can for the welfare of a child.” Richard explained.

“That why he scratched you?  Because of ye’re Christian duty?”  The officer said smugly.

The plain clothes man had set up his wooden camera in the corner and as the pistol flash went off and the plate exposed, the boy, startled by what sounded like a gunshot, jumped from his hiding place and scurried quickly into the hallway almost making a clean escape.  The second policeman caught the child by his shirt and the boy screeched and struggled like a skinned cat.

“Ye’re under arrest.”  The Irishman said and he clapped on a pair of irons before Richard could explain.  The blood drained from his face and he felt a little weak.  This situation if made public would not fair well with Victoria.  Her reputation would be marked and it would be his fault.  He should have kept walking.  He should have ignored the cries. However, Victoria would not condone ambivalence.  Surely, if she were in his place she would have done even more.  She would have strangled the padrone with her bare hands.  She would forgive him.  He hoped that he had not begun their days as pariahs in New York’s elite circles.

“What is that glass plate for?”  Richard asked nervously.

“Documenting the streets and the crime.”  The man replied.

“I did not commit a crime.”  Richard said emphatically.

“The court will decide that.”  The man said.

“Did you take a picture of the padrone?”  Richard huffed.  This time there was no answer.  “I’m an artist.  I have no interest in criminal activity.  My wife gives her time to the children’s aid society and the Orphans’ hospital.  I swear I was only giving the boy some food and shelter from the storm.”

The photographer just shook his head and did not look at Richard further. 

“I’ll need your full name.” The officer said.

“Richard Rhys.” He replied.

The photographer looked up this time.  A look of concern washed over his face.  He moved close to Richard. “Husband of…the former Mrs. Thornton?”

Richard nodded. “I ask you please, please do not print that glassplate.  All of her hard work will be for naught if you do.”  The officers escorted Richard to the horse drawn paddy wagon as the photographer folded up his tripod and warmed his hands by the stove.

 

Mrs. Hopkins sat at the kitchen table with Mr. Watkins.  She was on edge and every sound seemed to make her jump. 

“How long has Nell been out?” She asked.  Mr. Watkins pulled his watch from his vest pocket.

“An hour and a quarter.”  He said quietly.

“She should have returned by now.”  She said.  The wind howled and it sounded as though the glass panes might shatter from the force.  Mr. Watkins gently placed his hand atop hers.  He said not a word.  The firelight from the kitchen hearth danced across his face.  His eyes sparkled.  “You’ll worry yourself sick.”  He said. 

Mrs. Hopkins knew he was right but her thoughts continually moved to Victoria and her condition.  She could not bear witnessing another miscarriage and she knew that Victoria would not survive another.

“You need to be strong.  Nell should be along any moment.  She’s of hardy Irish stock.  You think a bit if snow will keep her from Margaret’s stew?”  Mr. Watkins said.  Mrs. Hopkins laughed.  Nell was a healthy eater.  She noticed something in Mr. Watkins eyes as he took her in and his concern seemed to grow.  She felt calm for the first time since the morning.

 

There was a reason New Yorkers called it the ‘Tombs".  Years ago it was the collect pond for lower Manhattan.  The human and animal waste that piled up as immigrants continued to settle there rendered it a swamp of the most offensive sorts.  It bred mosquitoes and disease.  The miasma that hung over it was a noxious cloud of filth and excrement.  Decades ago it was filled in but the bog had deep aquifers and the water seeped to the surface making the ground as stable as a sponge.  Nonetheless, the city built their police headquarters and detention center on the very spot. "What is this dismal fronted pile of bastard Egyptian, like an enchanter's palace in a melodrama?", wrote Charles Dickens upon one of his visits to New York.  The stone walls were cold and damp and wept with putrid water mixing with the urine of inmates.  Richard sat in his cell thinking that perhaps this place might actually be worse than the Tower of London.  Not that he had ever been to the Tower of London.  It certainly was just as bad, if not worse than the Irish workhouses he remembered when he was very young.  The place was horrid and he desperately needed to get a note to Victoria only to let her know where he was.  He would resign himself to a few days incarceration until she might be able to maneuver the snow and the cold to come for him.  He worried that this latest predicament might upset her so that she could lose their child.  The thought caught in his throat and he choked back a wave of tears.  Mrs. Hopkins warned him that she was advised not to conceive due to her delicate physical nature.  But he could not help but intertwine himself with his wife.  It was the most natural and intuitive act they could engage.  It was not in their lexicon to decline or restrict.  It would be like forcing a river not to flow or the ocean to cease high tide.  His unease began to grow and the emotions he had kept so carefully concealed began to spring forth.  He felt as though he was a small boat and he was taking on water.  The more he bailed the more he seemed to fill up.  But the intense feelings seemed to anchor him in his new life.  For that he was grateful.  He was grateful to her for showing him how to love---how to genuinely care and to foster a sense of empathy and stunning compassion.  He thought he was alone in his cell when he heard the distinct sound of shoe leather on stone as if someone shifted their weight.  He thought for a moment he might be in danger with no way out.  A man appeared slowly sliding under a gas lit torch that supposedly was a kind of archaic sconce on the wall.  Once the man was illuminated Richard realized it was the photographer.

“I paid your bail.”  The man said quietly.

“Who are you?” Richard asked not wanting to trust him.

“Jacob Riis.”  The man replied.  He had a funny accent.  Richard did not notice it when he first appeared in the studio.  He was European.

“Why?”  Richard pressed.

“I saw the Padrone.”  Riis answered.  Richard could hear the steel heeled clickety click tap tap of the jailer’s shoes walking down the long corridor. The large set of skeleton keys jangled like Jacob Marley in the darkness and Richard thought perhaps he might hallucinate of some Christmas past.  The lock turned.  The door sprung.  Richard stepped out.  The jailer handed Richard a paper and then stood for a moment waiting to escort the two gentleman out of the detention area.

“The little boy?”  Richard inquired.

“Taken to the orphans hospital.”  Riis said.  Relieved, Richard began his long walk to freedom.  He would have to walk home but he didn’t care.  He would walk across the entire world to get to Victoria.  To hold her and kiss her and tell her how grateful he was to be a part of this life, their life.  Her love for him was the most important and amazing adventure he could dare to undertake.