Heart of the Lonely Exile (9 page)

His most extensive holdings, however, were in the Five Points slum. The tenements were a veritable gold mine for landlords like him, far more profitable than respectable property. As many as five families could be crowded into one room. Whereas well-to-do tenants could demand repairs, the poor were afraid to demand anything of the landlords. If the
beggars got behind in their rent, they were evicted at once and immediately replaced.

Run-down taverns abounded in the miserable slum, and Patrick owned more than his share of them. But all of his holdings in the area were deeded and leased in names other than his own; not a hint of scandal or illegal activity could be allowed to smear his reputation or endanger his family.

In the past year he had discovered a new, highly lucrative enterprise. Using a middleman in England or in Ireland, he would purchase, under the name of a broker who did not exist, the entire list of steerage passengers for several of the immigrant ships coming over. When they arrived, two or three runners hired especially for the purpose quickly herded the bewildered immigrants off the ship, whisking them away to various tenements along the docks or in Five Points—all of which were owned by Patrick.

Once they arrived, the unsuspecting immigrants forfeited all their worldly goods—to be held as “security” until they found work—as well as their remaining funds, which went to pay the exorbitant rent for their lodgings. The entire venture was almost entirely free from the risk of exposure. Neither the middleman who arranged the purchase nor the runners had any idea of Patrick's identity.

Patrick could number on one hand the men who knew the truth about a single one of his vast business activities. To these few he paid a ridiculously extravagant salary in order to guarantee their silence.

To those who thought they knew him best, Patrick Walsh was a paragon of virtue, a family man, and a shrewd but honest, highly successful businessman. To the members of his church, he was known as a good-natured, generous Irishman who had made something of himself—a man who cared for the poor and the widow. To his in-laws, he was a prince. To his wife, he was a king. To his children, he was a sometimes stern but always cheerful papa who seldom expected more from them than that they do well in their studies and not annoy him.

In his own eyes, Patrick Walsh was a success, a self-made man whose luck had held and whose prospects looked brighter with every sunrise. It bothered him not in the least that a great deal of his wealth came at the expense of the downtrodden poor from his own homeland.

Hadn't Christ himself said they would always have the poor among them? To Patrick's way of thinking, he was actually doing the poor wretches
a service, providing them affordable lodging as well as drink in which to drown their troubles.

After all, somebody was always quick to turn a profit from the ignorant Irish. It might just as well be him.

9

We dreamt of a freedom akin to the wind's
For the skill of our hands, and the strength of our minds;
But we wake to a chain that confounds and controls,
With its amulet circle, our limbs and our souls—
To the cold chain of poverty—binding us all
In the fathomless depth of our national fall.

JOHN DE JEAN FRAZER (1809–1852)

M
ichael Burke and Denny Price stood in the middle of Anthony Street attempting to aid a cart driver, whose wagon full of manure had overturned.

The owner of the wagon, an aging Irishman Michael knew only as Pete, was one of the many small contractors in the city who made his living doing what nobody but the Irish were willing to do—clearing New York's streets of the waste of thousands of horses.

The city's manure problem had surpassed the garbage dilemma. By now, there were enough stables in New York to house at least fifty or sixty thousand horses, horses that furnished the power for all the city's public and private transportation: they hauled garbage, pulled carriages and omnibuses, towed milk wagons and fire wagons—they even hauled incoming railroad cars into the city.

The resulting tons of waste presented New York with what almost seemed an insurmountable task of disposal. Although the worst problem existed between the Battery and Canal Street, few districts were exempt. It had fallen mostly to the Irish, desperate for employment of any sort, to
load the waste from the stables into containers and haul it away by cart to the manure scows docked at either side of the city.

Overturned carts were a common occurrence. With the wagons precariously unbalanced by overloaded barrels and boxes, it took only a deep rut or a sudden turn to tip the wagon onto its side.

When this happened, it was the driver's responsibility to clean up the spilled load and get on his way as quickly as possible. That was easier said than done, however, for with the other wagons and carriages flying by, it was all the poor cartman could do to get his wagon back on its wheels and manage even a cursory cleanup.

If a policeman happened to be nearby, it was expected that he would help, the assumption being that a copper was long past having his sensibilities offended—besides, weren't the lot of them Irish, in fact? But even a policeman would shun the odious job if at all possible.

Michael Burke was no exception. Whenever he happened upon one of the overturned carts, he would actually moan aloud and do his best to think up a means of escape. Denny Price carried on even worse, spitting out his disgust in a terrible harangue before grudgingly conceding to help.

Presently, Michael and Price were both out of sorts. The aging driver's clumsy attempts to clean up his stinking spill had only created more of a mess. Grumbling, the policemen now put their own broad shoulders to the wagon, forcing it back onto its wheels.

Bracing himself to face the rest of the job, Price stood for a moment, scratching his chin. “You shovel it in, and I'll hoist the barrels,” he suggested, looking at an undetermined point past Michael's head.

“We'll
both
shovel it in, and we'll
both
hoist the barrels!” Michael countered, grabbing a shovel from the wagon bed and thrusting it at Price.

“What about your back, then?”

“What
about
my back?” Michael stopped to look at him.

“Why, wasn't it yourself just complaining last week about your back?” With a frown of concern that appeared almost genuine, Price leaned on the shovel and looked at Michael. “The day we moved the captain's household for him.”

“Aye, but that was last week, wasn't it now?” Michael grated, taking up the other shovel. “Let's just get on with it, why don't we? The sooner it's done, the sooner—”

At that instant a shout and the slap of running feet made them both whirl around to look.

Squire Teffon, a tavern keeper from Five Points, came barreling toward them as fast as his short little legs would carry him.
“Police! Police! There's a riot in Paradise Square!”

It took Michael and Price only an instant to react. Exchanging a relieved look and a guilty grin across the overturned barrel between them, the two policemen dropped their shovels and took off at a run, leaving the hapless Pete shouting curses in their wake.

As soon as they reached the open square in Five Points, they spied a band of angry, shouting men. Clubs were already waving and threats flying as Michael and Price muscled their way through a gathering crowd of observers, then charged into the midst of the melee.

For an instant it occurred to Michael that shoveling manure might have been the better choice—certainly the safer.

With amazement he saw the big curly headed preacher, Jess Dalton, right in the thick of the fracas. Michael thought the preacher must be either a fool or a very brave man indeed, for he stood like a wall in front of four young black boys who were obviously frightened out of their wits.

Even unarmed, the preacher posed a formidable barrier. With his suit coat hanging open and his dark mane of hair blowing wildly in the raw November wind, Dalton stood with both burly arms outflung in front of the frightened boys as if to shield them. He looked for all the world like an Old Testament prophet protecting the people of the Lord from an attacking pagan army.

Michael had grown to like and respect this big rock of a man, and the scene he now encountered was somehow no surprise. There was a steadiness, a quiet strength about the preacher that hinted of a backbone of iron behind the smooth, rich voice and the cheerful demeanor. No nambypamby Bible toter was this man, Michael sensed. It was already being said around Five Points that the preacher was no fool, that he was every bit as smart as he was big, and just as tough, too—no small accolade among the residents of the notorious slum.

The look Dalton now turned on Michael and Price held a glint of relief, but he made no move to relinquish his protection of the frightened boys. It was only Dalton and the terrified youths against at least a dozen Irish
laborers, but Michael somehow thought the preacher's presence might serve to even the odds.

Behind the menacing Irishmen, the crowd of onlookers was drawing closer. A quick glance told Michael this bunch would do more than cheer if violence broke out. Their eyes blazed with excitement and blood-lust, and some glared at him and Price with undisguised hatred.

“I don't like this a bit,” muttered Price. “The two of us won't be stopping this bunch of ruffians.”

“Perhaps our guns will,” Michael said, doing his best to ignore the fear churning in his stomach. “I'm going to the preacher. You stay here—and keep your gun at the ready.”

Roughly, he parted two scowling toughs, who spat on the ground as he slammed by them into the center of the square.

“What's happening here, Pastor? What's this about?” With his gun trained on the circle of angry men, Michael kept his voice low.

“It seems there's a strike at the pipe factory, and these boys were hired in place of the regular workers.” Dalton's voice was hoarse. “They accused them of having guns, but they don't. They're little more than children.”

Strikebreakers.
Michael sized up the situation at once. The boys were young, but not too young to trigger a bloody brawl, especially if the Irish strikers believed they were armed. Fights between the Irish and the blacks were all too common. Nothing set off a confrontation any faster than a black man taking a job an Irisher considered rightfully his.

Keeping his gun leveled on the mob, Michael eyed the cowering youths.
“Do
you have weapons—any of you? The truth, now!”

All four boys shook their heads vigorously.

One of the strikers—a big, hulking man with hostile eyes—now stepped forward. Michael immediately swung his gun toward the man. “Stop there! Stand where you are.”

“What's this, then?” sneered the brute. “You're as Irish as the lot of us. Sure, and you'd not fight for the likes of
them
?” He jerked his head toward the black boys.

“I've no mind to fight for the likes of
anybody
!” Michael snapped. “And I'd hate to use this,” he said, raising the gun a fraction, “to avoid such a fight. So why don't you and your boyos get away before I change my mind?”

For an instant his eyes went to Price, who was still standing just outside the band of men, his own gun at the ready.

“Those black monkeys are stealing work from your own people, man!” roared the big Irishman. “Would you have us starving here in America as we did in Ireland?”

The man's red eyes and slightly slurred speech told Michael the attacker had had a drop too much, which meant he was even more of a threat than he might have been otherwise.

“We'll settle no labor disputes in the streets! Now, get away, or the lot of you will spend the night in the Tombs.” Michael's voice was quiet, but his pulse was pounding in his ears. True, he and Price had the guns, but still there was no telling what they might try if their tempers were fired by the drink.

“You'll have to arrest us all then, copper!” shouted a new voice, a harsher one.

A small, pinched-faced man with black hair and black eyes stepped up beside the bigger tough. “Is that what you'd be thinking of doing—
Officer
?”

The challenging sneer of the little man's face made Michael's blood boil. “Why, I figure that's your choice,” he replied, voicing a note of calm he didn't feel. “Though it does seem a terrible waste of time.”

“If you value your thick neck, you'll back off—
copper
,” growled the small dark-haired man. “Captain Rynders will take care of us, well enough.”

“Rynders!”
Michael's face tightened. “I should have known you were a part of his riffraff.”

The muttering of the crowd swelled to an angry buzz. Michael would have given a month's pay just then for the sight of a Black Maria filled with policemen.

The man's narrow, pinched face contorted with anger. At the same time the big striker beside him took another step forward.

Michael's jaws locked, and his hand tightened on the gun. “Stay back—both of you!”

Unexpectedly, a shout went up from the onlookers as two or three of the other strikers moved in. Instinctively, Michael took a step backward, then stopped. If he let them intimidate him, he was done for. They'd take the black boys and likely him and Price as well.

“I said stay back!”
he roared, sweeping the front line of them with his gun.

Suddenly, Michael spied a small newsboy at the edge of the strikers.
Billy Hogan—a good, spunky little lad. Just last month Michael had rescued him from an assault by a bunch of gang members intent on emptying the boy's pockets and taking over his corner.

The lad now locked gazes with Michael, who nodded slightly toward Mulberry Street. The boy understood. Edging backward a step at a time, he quickly slipped out of the mob and took off at a great run.

Michael prayed the lad would bring help and bring it soon!

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the preacher shift his weight. Instinctively, he stiffened. His instincts told him this was no ordinary street row. These men wanted blood. Even a man of the cloth was at risk among thugs like these.

“You men,” Dalton said suddenly, stretching up on the balls of his feet to the full extent of his considerable height, “drop those clubs before someone gets hurt! These boys have done nothing wrong! They want to work, that's all. There's no sin in that!”

At once, a shout went up from one of the men brandishing a club. “They want
our
work!”

The crowd roared encouragement, screaming, “Get rid of the blacks! Teach them a lesson!”

The preacher looked at Michael. Michael looked at Price.

Suddenly, the big laborer and his smaller companion leaped forward, clubs raised to strike. Aiming his gun in the air, Michael fired. It stopped them for only an instant. The heavy-shouldered Irishman now lunged toward the preacher, while the smaller one came at Michael. Michael had time to fire the gun only once more before he was hit by the dark-haired striker.

A roar exploded from the mob as Michael was knocked to the ground. Dust filled his eyes and burned his nostrils. His gun went flying.

With a half moan, Michael kicked upward, plowing both feet into the striker's stomach with as much strength as he could muster. The man cried out, then sprawled backward.

The crowd went wild, like beasts on a rampage. Still on the ground, Michael saw the preacher swat the hulking Irisher away as if he were only an annoying bee.

His eyes stinging, Michael clambered to his feet, looking wildly over the ground for his gun.

Denny Price came charging into the center of the fray, firing his gun into
the air. “I'll not aim high again, boyos!” he yelled, taking a defiant stance close to Michael. “'Tis your heads next time, you spawn of the devil!”