In New York's autumn, the sunlight struggled to penetrate the gray curtain of soot and poverty that hung over Five Points, always seeming to lack the strength.
Yet, in the heart of this land, a brand-new three-story building constructed of red brick and white granite stubbornly reflected the sparse light, like a lighthouse that had just risen from the mire.
This was the Argyle Orphanage.
Its exterior walls had no intricate carvings, only clean lines and large glass windows. Through the windows, one could see the spotless wooden floors and neatly arranged small beds with white sheets. The air lacked the sour smell of decay and despair that permeated Five Points, instead carrying a faint, fresh scent of new wood, lime, and soap.
Jones, the president of the Food Company, however, stood at the orphanage entrance dressed in the simplest work clothes.
He looked at the muddy street in front of him, which had just been leveled with gravel by the workers. Behind him stood Sister Margaret, a middle-aged woman in a black nun's habit, with a kind face but firm eyes.
"Sister Margaret," Jones began, a hint of undetectable tension in his voice, "Are you sure we are truly ready?"
Sister Margaret, the supervisor in charge of the orphanage's daily management, personally appointed by Archbishop Hughes, smiled and nodded. Her face held a calmness and strength that came from having experienced much in life.
"Mr. Jones, God's dwelling is always prepared for lost lambs. Furthermore, this place is cleaner and warmer than any archbishop's residence I have ever seen."
As she spoke, she looked at Jones, "But you, are you ready to face those... souls that need to be saved?"
Jones did not answer. He simply took a deep breath, then waved to the two Militech Operations Department members waiting nearby.
"Begin as planned."
...Half an hour later, in a dilapidated, cheap apartment building less than three blocks from the construction site.
Sister Margaret, carrying a basket filled with bread, milk, and some basic medicines, accompanied by an Operations Department member, knocked on the door of a third-floor room that was almost missing its door panel.
The door was opened by a woman, Keira O'Connor.
She looked to be no more than thirty, but her once beautiful blue eyes were now deeply sunken due to illness and sorrow. Her cough sounded like an old bellows, each one seemingly threatening to expel her life.
Her husband, a soldier in the 69th Infantry Regiment of the Federal Army, had appeared on the Gettysburg casualty list three months prior.
"Who are you looking for?"
Keira watched the strangers before her warily, instinctively pulling two raggedly dressed children, who were hiding behind her, closer.
They were a boy of about seven and a girl of five, both secretly eyeing the white bread in the nun's basket with a mix of fear and curiosity.
"Mrs. O'Connor," Sister Margaret's voice was gentle, "I am Sister Margaret, from St. Patrick's Cathedral. We heard that you are experiencing some difficulties."
"I don't need charity from the church."
Keira's reply was stiff, full of the Irish pride that refused to bow even in desperation.
"This is not charity, madam."
Sister Margaret shook her head, her gaze full of sympathy.
"This is the respect your husband earned with his life for his children."
She placed the basket at the door.
"I heard your cough is getting worse; what did the doctor say?"
Keira did not answer, only letting out another violent fit of coughing. The answer was self-evident. Tuberculosis, in this era, was a slow-acting death sentence for the poor.
"Have you thought about your children, madam?" Sister Margaret asked, "When you... when you can no longer care for them, where will they go? To the municipal poorhouse? You know what kind of place that is."
The word "poorhouse" was like a needle, sharply piercing Keira's heart.
Of course she knew; it was a place more terrifying than hell. Children there would not learn prayers and literacy, but rather theft, lies, and how to survive like wild dogs in hunger.
Her body trembled violently from agitation and despair.
"Then... then what can I do?"
She finally broke down, tears streaming from her sunken eyes, "Am I to send them away with my own hands? They are my everything!"
"No, you are not sending them away."
Sister Margaret stepped forward and gently took her cold hand, "You are choosing a better future for them."
"Argyle is our countryman. He built not a poorhouse, but a home. A place where children can eat their fill and dress warmly, and can go to the new school across the street to learn to read and write."
"He promised Archbishop Hughes," Sister Margaret's voice was sincere, "that the children who emerge from that school will become doctors, become engineers. They will earn a decent living with their own hands, and no longer repeat our fate."
Keira listened blankly. She looked at the nun's eyes, full of compassion, then looked back at her two children behind her, their faces sallow from hunger.
Her inner pride was slowly crushed before the weighty burden of maternal love.
After a long time, she slowly knelt to the ground, burying her head in the nun's embrace, letting out a long-suppressed cry of pain... On the other side, Jones personally led another small team to "Paradise Square," the most chaotic area of Five Points.
He did not visit any families. His target was the street children who no longer had homes.
In a dead-end alley filled with garbage and emitting a foul stench, he found his target.
A boy of about twelve, Finn, was clutching a stolen, hardened piece of bread tightly to his chest, like a wolf cub guarding its food. Behind him was his eight-year-old sister, Bridget, watching the tall men who had suddenly appeared with wide, terrified eyes.
"Don't come any closer!"
Finn picked up a broken half of a wine bottle from the ground, pointing the sharp glass tip at Jones, "Otherwise I'll..."
Jones ignored his threat. He simply took off his coat, walked closer, and gently draped it over the small girl who was only wearing a thin, tattered cloth dress and shivering in the autumn wind.
"It's getting cold, child." His voice was calm.
This simple yet kind gesture caused Finn's tense body to relax for a moment.
"What do you want?" he still asked warily.
"Little man, my name is Jones."
Jones squatted in front of him, making himself seem less threatening.
"I used to live around here too. Like you, I once fought tooth and nail for half a piece of bread."
He looked at Finn's eyes, which, unbefitting his age, were full of stubbornness and distrust.
"I'm not here to catch you, nor am I here to give you charity. I'm here to give you a choice, Finn."
"A choice that will allow your sister to sleep in a warm bed every night and drink hot milk every morning."
"A choice that will allow you to enter a room called 'school,' to learn to read and write, and to learn a real trade."
"I must say, you're a good brother." Jones looked at him, "You protect her with your fists and teeth. But how long can you protect her? A year? Two years? When she grows up, what kind of future can you give her? Will you let her live in this alley her whole life, like you?"
Finn's hand, holding the broken wine bottle, began to tremble slightly. Every word of Jones's struck at the softest part of his heart.
"You're lying!" he growled, "There's no such good thing in the world! You'll separate us! You'll sell her!"
"Oh, buddy, we are countrymen; we wouldn't do such a thing." Jones shook his head, "I promise you. You will live together, go to the same school. When you grow up and learn a skill, you can leave with her anytime. Go live the life you want."
He held out his hand, that large hand that had once wielded a hammer and signed millions of dollars in orders, now open before Finn.
"Now, make your choice, child."
"Will you stay here?"
"Or will you come with me and see a world you've never seen before?"
Finn looked at Jones's sincere face. Then he looked back at his sister behind him, who was shivering from cold and hunger.
After a long time, he threw away the broken wine bottle in his hand.
He reached out his dirty little hand and tightly grasped Jones's large hand... In the evening, when the first group of thirty-five children in total were brought to the entrance of the new orphanage, they all stopped, looking with timid eyes at the building before them, which was cleaner and brighter than any house they had imagined.
Greeting them were Sister Margaret and several equally kind nuns.
There were no reprimands, no cold rules.
What awaited them was a warm bath, brand-new, soft cotton clothes, and steaming bowls of richly fragrant stewed beef, specially supplied by Argyle & Co. Foods.
When the little girl named Bridget, for the first time, sat on her own small bed with clean sheets, slowly eating the most delicious food she had ever tasted in her life, she looked up and gazed out the window at Five Points, which was being enveloped by the night.
She suddenly felt that this world, it seemed... was a little different from what she had known before.
It was the first morning at Argyle Orphanage.
There were no cold flagstones sending shivers through the body, no curses from drunkards or barking of stray dogs from the alley.
Instead, there was soft morning light streaming through the large glass windows, and the sweet scent of oatmeal and hot milk wafting up from the kitchen downstairs.
Bridget, the eight-year-old girl, woke up in the softest bed she had ever slept in.
She was wearing a clean, white cotton nightgown with the fresh scent of soap. She walked barefoot on the smooth, warm wooden floor to the window, looking down at the familiar, yet somewhat strange, Five Points below.
Her brother, Finn, was sleeping in a bed in the boys' dormitory next door. Last night, he didn't guard her with his usual half-asleep vigilance. After Sister Margaret assured him that no one here would harm his sister, the boy, who had armed himself with fists and teeth on the streets for years, finally slept soundly like a true child for the first time.
In the dining hall downstairs, thirty-five children sat upright. Most of them were not yet accustomed to using knives and forks, clumsily imitating the nuns' movements, eating small mouthfuls of the steaming oatmeal in their bowls. For them, a breakfast that didn't need to be stolen or snatched, and could be eaten in peace, was a luxury in itself.
Sister Margaret stood in the center of the dining hall, looking at the children whose faces still showed a trace of timidity and unease. Her eyes were filled with love. She knew that healing their physical hunger was easy, but filling their inner fear and distrust would require a long time and endless patience.
"Children," she began, her voice soft yet firm, "After breakfast, we will have our first activity of the day. Mr. Jones will take you to visit a place where you will study in the future."
...At nine o'clock in the morning, when Jones and Sister Margaret posted an enrollment notice, written in beautiful calligraphic script, on the bulletin board in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, it immediately attracted a crowd.
"Argyle School... open to all age-appropriate Irish children in Five Points and surrounding Irish communities... free admission?"
A dockworker who had just finished mass read the contents of the notice word by word, his voice filled with disbelief.
"Tuition, books, lunch... all covered by the Argyle Charitable Foundation?"
"Is this true?" A buzzing of discussion immediately rose from the crowd.
"There's no such good thing in the world! This must be another trick by those Yankees!"
A cynical-looking old man spat, "They want to turn all our children into new slaves in the factories!"
"Shut your stinking mouth, Murphy!"
Another worker from a construction site immediately retorted, "Mr. Argyle is our compatriot! He has brought us jobs and safety! The school he built will only bring a future to our children!"
The same scene was also playing out in Paddy O'Malley's "Shamrock" pub. Jones personally posted another notice in the most conspicuous spot in the pub.
In the pub, the workers who had just received their weekly wages and were enjoying their first pint of stout immediately erupted.
"A free school? And it even includes lunch?" A dockworker named Seamus put down his glass and pushed his way to the notice, repeatedly confirming every word on it. His son was exactly seven years old this year, and followed him every day to pick up scrap metal at the docks.
"Uncle Paddy," he turned his head, looking at the respected old man behind the bar, "You say, is this... reliable?"
"Jones personally delivered it," Paddy O'Malley said slowly, wiping a glass. "He is now the president of Argyle & Co. Foods. Do you think a big shot who manages thousands of workers and handles millions of dollars in business every year needs to bother fabricating a lie for a few poor children?"
The pub fell silent.
Seamus looked at the notice, his heart like a pot of boiling water.
He yearned more than anyone for his son to escape the fate of the docks. But his soul, repeatedly battered by life, instinctively harbored the deepest suspicion towards all things "too good to be true."
"But... but what do they teach?" he asked again. "I heard that those Protestant charity schools in the city, they don't teach anything else, they just force the children to read their Bible all day long!"
This question voiced the greatest concern in the hearts of all the Irish Catholics present... On the first day of enrollment, the situation was not optimistic.
The temporary registration desk, set up in the ground floor hall of the orphanage, was deserted. Only a few desperate single mothers, after much hesitation, timidly walked in and registered their children.
Jones sat behind the registration desk, looking at the residents outside the window who were pointing from a distance but never dared to approach, his brows tightly furrowed. He hadn't expected that building trust would be even more difficult than digging foundations.
"Mr. Jones," Sister Margaret placed a cup of hot tea in front of him, her face showing no hint of dejection, "Give them some time. Fear and suspicion are instincts for survival in this land. We cannot expect to eliminate them with just a notice."
"Then what should we do?"
"Let them see for themselves." A glimmer of wisdom shone in Sister Margaret's eyes. "They believe their own eyes more than promises."
...The next morning, the gates of Argyle Orphanage opened to the entire community.
Jones adopted Sister Margaret's suggestion and held a "School Open Day."
After a night of internal struggle, Seamus finally pulled his scrawny son, along with dozens of other fathers who also harbored doubts, and walked into this "forbidden zone" they had never dared to tread.
As they passed through the clean and tidy orphanage courtyard and entered the newly built school building, which smelled of fresh wood and lime, everyone was stunned by the sight before them.
There was no darkness or oppression as they had imagined.
Bright sunlight streamed through the spotless large glass windows into the spacious classrooms. In each classroom, dozens of brand-new, oak-crafted small desks and chairs were neatly arranged.
The walls were painted a warm off-white, adorned with alphabet charts, number charts, and a beautifully drawn world map they had never seen before.
In one corner of the classroom, there was even a small bookshelf filled with fairy tale books and basic arithmetic textbooks that still smelled of fresh ink.
"My... God..."
Seamus instinctively let out a low gasp.
He stretched out his large hand, calloused from years of pulling ropes, and gently touched a smooth desk. He couldn't imagine his son sitting in such a clean, bright place, learning knowledge he would never understand in his lifetime.
A female teacher sent by the church stood at the podium, introducing the future curriculum to these uneasy fathers in a gentle voice.
"...In the morning, we will teach the children basic English literacy and arithmetic. We use the standard textbooks most recently approved by the New York State Board of Education."
"In the afternoon," she continued, "we will offer introductory courses in history, geography, and natural science. We hope that children will not only learn the alphabet but also come to know the vast world they live in."
"Of course," she added with a smile, delivering the most crucial sentence, "Every week, we will have two religious classes. Sister Margaret herself will explain the stories of the Bible to help the children develop devout faith."
These words completely dispelled the last doubts in all the fathers' hearts.
Seamus looked at the globe on the podium, depicting the five continents and three oceans, and then at his son beside him, who was looking at everything with an expression full of curiosity and longing.
He no longer hesitated.
He pushed through the crowd and was the first to rush to the registration desk in the hall.
"I want to register!" he shouted to the nun responsible for registration, his voice trembling slightly with excitement, "Register my son, Liam Seamus!"
His action was like a signal.
All the fathers who were still hesitating, after witnessing this tangible, weighty hope with their own eyes, surged towards the registration desk in a frenzy.
"Me too! My daughter, Kate!"
"Sign up my two boys as well!"
The previously deserted hall was instantly filled with a torrent of hope and joy... That evening, Jones was writing his weekly work report to Alan in his office.
He described the scene that had unfolded at the registration desk that afternoon in the simplest language.
"...Boss," he wrote at the end of the letter, "Today, I saw the eyes of hundreds of fathers. In that moment, I think I understood what you are truly building."
"It's not just a school."
"It is a lighthouse that allows everyone, like I once was, to see the future."