Clockwork Fairy Tales: A Collection of Steampunk Fables (28 page)

By the time the engine arrived, the conflagration was well advanced, with flames licking from the fourth-floor windows. Horseshoe Harry hopped off the engine to check the front of the building as its tenants hurried out of the burning structure with
what few possessions they owned. On the lintel of the door was a rectangular pressed-tin fire mark that said C
ONTINENTAL
N
EW
Y
ORK
in raised gold lettering over a black background.

The gang leader grinned and turned to wave to his men. “Start pumpin’, boys!” he shouted. “They’re insured!”

But just as the Bowery Boys began to hook up their hoses, a second fire engine, this one flying a flayed rabbit skin like a flag, arrived, pulled by a dozen young men. The leader of the Dead Rabbits jumped down off the pumper, pushing back the sleeves of his shirt in anticipation of a brawl.

“Sod off, you lot!” he shouted. “This is our fire!”

“Oh, is it, now?” Horseshoe Harry replied, pushing his stovepipe hat forward like a rooster raising its comb. “Seems rattlin’ them worry beads has shook the sense outta ya Paddies. Anyone with one eye in their head can see we got here first, Bourke.”

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, eh, ye Yankee shite?” Black Dog Bourke spat the stub of his cigar onto the sidewalk as he brought up his fists.

The rival gangs set on one another with fists, boots, and whatever else they could get their hands on, swearing and shouting at the top of their lungs. Meanwhile, as they fought for the right to claim tribute from the Continental Insurance Company, the building continued to burn and its hapless residents continued to dash in and out of the smoking tenement, trying to rescue what little they had.

Suddenly there was a great bellow, like that of a gored bull, as Mose jumped into the fray, a wagon tongue clutched in one hand, and a paving stone in the other, inflicting dreadful damage with every swing of his powerful arms.

“Mother Mary, help us!” Black Dog Bourke wailed in despair. “They shaved an ape and set it loose amongst us!”

Shaken by the ferocity of Mose’s attack, the Dead Rabbits turned and fled. Upon seeing the rival gang surrender the field, Mose grabbed the brake on the Bowery Boys’ engine and began pumping it like a fiend, doing the work of twelve men. Mighty geysers of water erupted from the canvas fire hoses manned by the
other gang members, shooting forth with such force and volume that the blaze was extinguished as easily as spitting on a match.

A huzzah went up from the Boys, cheering their newest and bravest member: “All hail Mose! The leader of the gang!”

Upon hearing himself deposed, Horseshoe Harry took off his hat and hurled it to the ground in disgust. The leader of the Bowery Boys was
always
the biggest and strongest of the gang. And they didn’t make them any bigger or stronger than Mose.

I
t wasn’t long before stories of Mose’s prowess began to spread throughout the city. Some said he could lift a horse-drawn omnibus, passengers and all, above his head and walk it from Chatham Square to Astor Place without breaking a sweat. Others claimed that they’d seen him take a dip in the East River, diving off the Battery and surfacing on the beach at Staten Island three minutes later. There were also rumors he amused himself by rowing out into the bay and blowing ships away from shore by puffing on foot-long cigars, that he wore a beaver hat that measured two feet tall from crown to brim, and replaced his boots every month, not because he had worn them out, but because they had become too small.

Hearing fanciful tales about the Bowery Boys’ new leader in a local bar, a reporter for
The National Police Gazette
decided to investigate for himself. Upon arriving at the Green Dragon Saloon, he was astonished to find an eight-foot-tall Mose, now dressed in a custom-tailored suit designed to accommodate his prodigious frame, flexing his biceps like a sideshow strongman while lifting six giggling young ladies—three to each arm, while smoking foot-long cigars and downing growlers of beer the way other men knock back shots of whiskey. Recognizing the story of a lifetime, the reporter hurriedly fished his notepad and pencil from his breast pocket.

“Excuse me, sir. But could you tell me the reason for such
unusual footwear?” the reporter asked, gesturing to the copper plates welded to the bottom of Mose’s brogans.

“These be my stompin’ boots,” the gang leader explained with a grin. “When me and the Boys get in a brawl with the Dead Rabbits or the like, I come leapin’ in, kickin’ and stampin’ like they was roaches under my feet. When I do that, they run off and hide themselves in Paradise Square, like the vermin they are. Ain’t that right, lads?”

The other Bowery Boys shouted their agreement in unison, hoisting their drinks to the ceiling in tribute to Mose and his stompin’ boots, while the reporter scribbled as fast as he could, visions of headlines swimming in his mind’s eye.

Within days, thousands of
National Police Gazette
readers were introduced to “the Colossus of the Bowery,” a one hundred percent American-born-and-bred living embodiment of the ancient hero Hercules, complete with an artist’s rendering of Mose holding a bull elephant over his head with one hand while puffing on a cigar the size of a walking stick.

One of the many who read of Mose’s exploits was none other than P. T. Barnum, the King of the Humbugs, who made a special trip to the Bowery Boys’ clubhouse to see if just a tenth of it was true. The showman was so impressed by the young giant he offered to make him the main attraction at his museum on Broadway, right on the spot. But Mose simply shook his head no and said people were welcome to come down to the Bowery and look at him for free, if they dared.

One day, while Mose and the rest of the gang were busy polishing the pump engine in anticipation of an upcoming parade, a messenger boy arrived carrying a letter addressed to “Mose the Fireboy.” As Mose had never learned to read, he handed the envelope to his second-in-command.

“‘My Dearest Mr. Humphries,’” Sykesky read aloud. “‘Please allow me to introduce myself: My name is Professor Erasmus Tolliver. I lecture at Columbia College, where I lecture on numerous scientific subjects….’”

“I know who he is,” Mose said excitedly. “He invented the Automatic Man. But why is he writing me?”

Sykesky scanned the neatly penned letter, skipping over the longer words he didn’t know. “He says he wants to study you. Take your measurements, look down your gullet—that kind of thing.”

Mose thought about it for a long moment, then handed the messenger boy a silver half dime. “Tell Professor Tolliver I’d be honored.”

“Yes, sir!” the young boy said, touching his cap in thanks before he scurried off.

Sykesky scowled, perplexed by his friend’s decision. “You turn your nose up at Barnum offering you good coin, but you’ll let some quack feel the bumps on your head for free?”

“Barnum ain’t nothin’ but a jumped-up carny barker,” Mose replied. “I ain’t about t’ be gawked at by some flash swells takin’ their gals out for a cheap lark, I don’t care how many dollars get thrown in my lap. But Professor Tolliver is different,” he insisted. “He’s a man of
science
. My ma thought very highly of him, and it would have made her proud to know a man of his position was interested in studyin’ her boy.”

“I don’t trust fellows that think too much,” his second-in-command said sullenly. “All these fancy inventor fellows and their machines—all it done was force my people off their farm and into the mills.”

“This is 1849, not the Dark Ages, Sykesky!” Mose chided. “If everyone thought like you, there wouldn’t be gas lamps on every street corner and steamboats on the Hudson!”

“I
still
don’t trust ’em,” his friend grumbled. “And neither should you.”

W
hen Professor Tolliver arrived at the Green Dragon Saloon, he proved to be an older gentleman with outsized muttonchops and bushy eyebrows, dressed in a black frock coat with a high, stiff collar and ascot, and a pair of pince-nez glasses balanced on the
bridge of his nose. Upon seeing Mose, he raised his impressive eyebrows in surprise and his glasses dropped from their perch and swung back and forth on the end of a satin ribbon tether.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Humphries,” Professor Tolliver said, once he recovered from his initial surprise. “I have been reading about your exploits in the daily papers with great interest.”

“The same here, Professor,” Mose replied, his huge hand swallowing the scientist’s far smaller one. “It’s an honor to meet the inventor of the Automatic Man.”

“Ah, yes.” Professor Tolliver smiled. “He was what we call ‘a prototype.’ Granted, all he could do was waltz and play chess, but he was a beginning. A guidepost to grander things, if you will.”

“What has me puzzled, sir,” Mose admitted, “is why would a man like you be interested in a fellow such as myself?”

“Because I believe that you are the ultimate, living example of the perfect fireman,” the Professor explained. “Since you have arrived on the scene, your volunteer fire brigade has broken every record in regards to response time. You’ve saved five times the number of unfortunate souls than your closest rival, with a fraction of the injuries normally associated with your profession. Mr. Humphries, I firmly believe that if every city in this great land of ours had a firefighter like you, America would be the safest country in the world. A study of your anatomy and physical stamina will help me immensely in realizing this goal.”

“Well, if there’s one thing that a Bowery Boy is above all else, it’s patriotic,” Mose said as he took off his coat and tossed it across the back of a chair, revealing a brocade vest adorned with a sterling silver watch fob with links as thick as a man’s finger. “If takin’ my measurements will help my country, then go ahead and break out the yardstick.”

Professor Tolliver proceeded to measure and weigh every aspect of Mose’s physical condition, from the circumference of his cranium to the length of his inseam. He also had him run up and down a flight of stairs over and over carrying a piano on his left
shoulder and a full barrel of beer under his right arm. Finally, having filled his notepad full of scribbles, he thanked Mose for his contribution to science and the betterment of his fellow man, and hurried back to the safety of his college classroom before the sun set on the Bowery.

F
ollowing the visit from Professor Tolliver, the Bowery Boys continued to do as they always had done: drink to excess, traffic in stolen goods, brawl, and put out fires. Given the conditions on the Lower East Side, rarely did a day go by when there wasn’t a need for their services. Thanks to Mose’s massive strength and extraordinarily long legs, the gang had an iron lock on everything from the Battery to the Flatiron Building, much to the resentment of their rivals.

The Bowery Boys responded to a fire one afternoon, only to find, instead of a burning building, a bonfire made from old crates and mattresses set in the middle of the street. Suddenly every window in the surrounding buildings flew open, revealing a gallery of jeering youths, all wearing the Chichesters’ trademark green jerseys. A storm of brickbats rained down on the firefighters’ heads, knocking more than one of them senseless. The bombardment ceased as the rival gang came pouring out onto the street—all of them boasting red battle stripes painted across their chests and shirtsleeves, each crimson line indicating a kill in hand-to-hand combat. As they surrounded the badly outnumbered Bowery Boys, beating them with shillelaghs and axe handles, Mose gave a mighty bellow that rattled windows all the way to Park Avenue and grabbed a nearby streetlamp, yanking it free of the sidewalk like a farmer yanking a turnip from the ground. A tongue of flame shot skyward, taller than the surrounding buildings, as the enraged giant used the iron lamp stand like a mace, bashing in the heads of his attackers. Within seconds of suffering Mose’s furious counterattack, the Chichesters retreated from the battleground, dragging their injured comrades back to their rookeries.