Moriarty The Life and Times of a Criminal Genius

by Michael Charton

  I was asked by many Irish émigrés in London why did I not emigrate to America? My mother and I now had more than enough money to do so. I had built what I had in London. I thought I could work with Irishmen in America and still be a thorn in the paw of the British Lion. My mother was a highly competent and tough woman. She ran my London enterprises for me with my mates to help. My mother was the major intellect behind the enterprise. Sean, Cathal, Brian, and Liam kept an eye on the many roughs we had working for us. The organization was in our heads. I wanted to go abroad alone to build my Empire. I wanted local talent in these places, and I realized this way no one knew the entire organization. If a Judas appeared, in say New York, he could only do damage there.

  • Part II. My American Sojourn

  • Chapter Seven

  • My Time in Boston

  •

  In March 1856, now a man of 21, I made my first foray to the United States. It was to Boston. Cousin David always thought scum such as I belonged in Boston. Well, I bloody belonged anywhere there were Irishmen and women, especially those in need. Oh Cousin David, if you only knew how much your hatred of me only served to drive me that much harder. I traveled on an immigrant ship, the Lady Jane. I provided better food for the poor souls on the ship. I helped them, but I also helped myself. These would be my willing accomplices in their new home.

  I arrived in Boston and immediately found cheap lodgings in the North End. I wanted to blend in with my people and learn the ways of the town. I had letters of introduction to the right Irishmen in Boston, to start organizing for them. These letters were from Molly Maguire leaders in London. They were sewn in the lining of my coat so they could not be detected until they were supposed to be seen.

  No place in the United States was harder than Boston for Irish immigrants. Irish immigrants faced anti-Irish and anti-Catholic hatred in other places; however, Boston was by far the worst. The founders of Boston in 1630 were an intolerant lot. The Church of England mistreated them; but they wanted to create a state where they were the masters, not where all were equal. After all, they were the spawn of bloody Cromwell. Their kind did enough damage in Ireland at places such as Drogheda in 1641. Their hatred of us crossed the Atlantic with them and was handed down by them. They killed the Indians and built their economic empire. That carried on through the following two centuries. The leading citizens of Boston resented the Irish coming into their city. Well, we would not have been going if we were not being ill-treated in our homeland. Boston became an extension of how we were treated in Britain.

  I wanted to build a vibrant, confident Irish community in Boston. The events I am discussing here lead to 1860. I spent four hard years organizing in the Irish slums in Boston.

  The leader of my roughs in Boston was a big brawny dockworker from Galway named William Joyce. He ruled with muscle, and I had to rein him in, but he brought people he knew in under me. I found William one day in a local pub. He was a masterful storyteller and more intelligent than others I met. He was unlettered, however that could be worked on. I had to show him in my schemes that brain could be more useful than brawn, and it took him a long time to understand that.

  Just to show the two faced leaders for what they were, they would happily help Negroes flee slavery in the American South, yet they maltreated the needy Irish in their midst. I was going to be happy in throwing it back in their pious faces. It would make them more miserable in their blasphemous Congregational churches on Sunday. The four years leading up to confronting the wealthy of Boston were hard work, however; it was important to lay the groundwork so it could not become undone.

  I want to bring this up now. People ask me often if I hate Negroes. I was not against the Negro, having never dealt with him until I arrived in America. I was not against him as long as he didn't interfere with Irish interests. I knew that freed Negro workingmen would undercut the Irish working man in the Northern cities. Boston was the center of the abolition movement.

  Some Irish did support the Abolition movement. They tended to be Catholics who were lucky enough to be educated in Ireland.

  One speaker who came over was a disciple of the beloved Liberator, Daniel O'Connell. I went with some of my people to a lecture held at an old theater on the edge of the North End. He was sharing the same stage with the escaped slave and, abolitionist Frederick Douglass.

  Many of the crowd booed Douglass. The other man, Edward O'Rourke, called for silence. "I will not speak if Mr. Douglass is not shown respect. You did not learn this hatred in Ireland. Those who lead the drive for Irish freedom do not condone, but condemn such behavior. This will be your only warning."

  Douglass gave his speech on freeing the Negroes and rights for Ireland. The crowd clapped at the end, some more enthusiastically than others. It was O'Rourke's speech that stirred the crowd. That is what they came for.

  I still thought the speech was lacking. He said nothing about Irish independence, only speaking vaguely about a better Ireland. I wanted to go backstage and learn more what the man was really like and how he felt.

  I spoke with O'Rourke after the talks. He had Frederick Douglass with him. I found them just offstage. They did not know who I was or what I really did. I am not sure they would have spoken with me otherwise.

  "Mr. Douglass, your speeches are grand, but for the Irish here, the end of slavery may well prove a disaster for Irish American interests."

  Douglass exploded. "Sir, you have no right to say such things! You would keep a people who have been enslaved here for centuries in bondage so you can work and not have competition? Outrageous!" With that, Douglass stormed from the stage.

  O'Rourke and I had a lively debate.

  "Sir, what you said to Mr. Douglass was intolerable."

  "It might have been intolerable to you, but be practical, man. The Irish who have come here have suffered enough. You know they have come through hellfire in the Famine. To come here and starve again? Never!"

  "But sir, you really would see Negroes continue to be enslaved just so Irishmen can work in Boston?"

  "Maybe not enslaved, but with a guarantee that they will not seek work in Northern cities."

  "Good God, man, are you mad? You cannot broach such terms. Who are you to think such a thing? Oh, what made you so hard you would wish the cruelty that is happening to the Irish on fellow human beings?"

  "Let me ask you a question, O'Rourke. Did you eat well in the famine? Where were you during it?"

  "I was in Dublin, sir, as a lad, receiving my education."

  "Well, I was educated by my literate parents at home in County Kerry. Funny thing, when you grow up well off in Dublin you can afford luxuries. Do you speak Gaelic, O'Rourke?"

  "No I do not."

  "Why not?"

  "I just don't, I have always been able to express myself in English. It is a good language."

  "It is not the native language of Ireland!" I thundered. "Can it be you have forgotten your roots? What sort of Ireland are you really pushing for, an independent Ireland or an Ireland that is still a part of Her Majesty's Empire?

  He became exasperated. "Sir, I want equal rights for Irish people."

  I was enjoying the thrust of the debate. "Do you want these equal rights for all Irish people or just Catholics who are fortunate enough to have money? Mr. O'Connell was a great man. I do not see you carrying on in that tradition. You are a theorist Mr. O'Rourke. You are not a practical man."

  O'Rourke conceded defeat by turning on his well shod heel and storming off.

  I didn't think I would get far with the upper echelons of Boston, but thought I would try. I was going to have to try to further Irish interests in Boston eventually. I found out through some of the delivery boys in the North End where a prominent Bostonian (or Brahmin as they called themselves), had his club on Beacon Hill. I wrote Mr. Edward Lowell a letter.

  Dear Sir,

  I am working to help the many Irish refugees in Boston and would like to form a mutual alliance with you toward this end, as w
ell as unite in various business enterprises I can invest in. I work out of an Irish immigrant agency on Hanover Street and look forward to your reply.

  The response was quick, and I received the following most unpleasant letter.

  Dear Moriarty,

  I shall not use the term sir to you, for you are no gentleman. Who do you think you are? We have our own group that does proper business in this city. You can never hope to be a part of that. Since you will not stay in your place, it is our pleasure that you leave Boston at once. We cannot force you to leave, but hope and pray you have enough intelligence to understand there is no possible future for you in the Athens of America, our hub of civilization.

  The letter was just signed, "Lowell."

  Right, so be it! The insult I really expected. I was building rackets in the North End and Fort Hill slums for gambling and vice. Therefore, I was enriching myself but also helping my people at the same time. I had to live somehow.

  Well, I started getting Irish political leaders organized by convincing them the upper class in Boston was no different from the overlords in Ireland. We were going to hit the Brahmins where it hurt and work on their arrogance. I started an Irish newspaper, the Flying Geese, with sections in English and Gaelic. I did not have my own name on it, but had people writing articles I suggested.

  One article was about the abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison. He was another phony who would help Negroes but not the suffering Irish in his midst. We had scathing articles about this. We delivered copies of our paper to the Liberator offices. I have to chuckle at the memory, because Mr. Garrison didn't enjoy our writing as much as we did. He stormed into our offices. Garrison was a weak looking, undistinguished man. The men in my office looked as though they might eat him. By the look on Garrison's face, he did not want to be anywhere near Hanover Street. We thought we should try to make him comfortable.

  He furiously waved a rolled up copy of our newspaper looking to hit something with it. "Who is the author of this outrage?" I greeted him gleefully, playing up my accent to sound like the comical Irishman. My way of showing some sarcasm toward our guest. "Good day, sir, and how may we be assistin' ya?"

  "Your name, sir," he shouted.

  "I didn't think you Brahmins got so angry and hot under the collar. No need for raised voices, sir. We are all gentlemen here. Who might I have the pleasure of addressin' sir?"

  Garrison waved the newspaper and pulled a copy of the liberator out of his pocket. He flung it on a table. "This is who I am!" He shouted.

  "Ah, the famous Mr. Garrison. What brings you off Beacon Hill and to the North End, sir?"

  "You know damn well what brings me here!"

  "Sir, let us get your some water or some tea. You will have a heart attack behaving like that."

  "Your name, sir!" Garrison screamed.

  "My name is of no concern to you," I replied with my voice now changing to a lower colder octave. "Your newspaper is of concern to me. You want to bring Negroes here to displace Irish workers."

  "The Negroes have been enslaved on American soil for two centuries, sir! They are more deserving of recompense than your wretched Irish refuse."

  Some of my men started to inch forward, but I raised my hand to stop them.

  "So, you have power over ruffians. I have been attacked before. Your ruffians do not scare me."

  "Mr. Garrison, I do not care whether you advocate for freedom of Southern slaves. I do care when they cross my interests. You can write about abolition, but those slaves must stay in the South. Any more attempts to bring Negro laborers here will result in measures."

  "Oh, and what will those measures be, you disgusting bogtrotter."

  Inwardly, I seethed. I wanted to kill him. My brain got the better of my brawn. "Try me, Mr. Garrison and find out."

  "I'll see you in hell sir," Garrison shouted as he stormed out."

  "You shall be there before I will," I said with a smile. The others in the office laughed as he stormed out the door.

  Mr. Garrison was dealt with in the next few weeks. A few years earlier, on September 18, 1850, the United States passed the Fugitive Slave Act. A slave captured in the free North could be returned to the South. Lawmen faced a fine if they didn't capture a runaway. I had my men track down runaways and turn them over for a fee. I had no great love for Southern planters who were like English nobility. I had in mind keeping Negroes out of Boston and New York. This became another part of my rackets. People frantically posted signs warning Negroes about potential capture. I had to remind my boys not to be too rough on the Negroes. After all, they were property and worth a lot of money, although I did make an exception. One night, I was brought one particularly arrogant light-skinned slave with an arrogant attitude. I strangled him and in the dead of night, we left him on the doorstep of Mr. Garrison's paper, The Liberator. No money would be earned for this man being returned to slavery, but I enjoyed making an unpleasant statement to Mr. Garrison. He did not cease his publishing but stepped his attacks up. I did not kill William Lloyd Garrison. I wanted him always looking over his shoulder. He would come to learn I was no respecter of Boston neighborhood and territory. He was not comfortable in my neighborhood. Irish people always had to work in his. We would be the evil Celtic spirit he could not be rid of. We would be for him and other Brahmins as Lady Macbeth, who cried "Will all the perfumes of Arabia never sweeten this hand?" As you will see shortly, many of his supporters would not be as lucky. My boys also attacked free Negroes living on the North Slope of Beacon Hill. I went on these raids sometimes and would scare them with grabbing them and sending them South to slavery. It was common for us to grab Negroes in the street and demand proof they were free.

  I enjoyed watching Mr. Garrison squirm. He could not prove we killed the man on his doorstep, nor could he approve the Beacon Hill attacks. I knew of his suffering for I had some of the young boys in my employ watching the Liberator offices constantly. We were proud of returning slaves, because we were upholding the law of the land. There was no need to murder Mr. Garrison anyway. This was now a case where in this instance; we were holding the best cards.

  We had another advantage. The Boston police were now mostly Irish. I had the force on my payroll, and attacks on Negroes were not investigated. I had Irish ward leaders on the payroll. I was now the unofficial gang leader in Boston. Any members of the Know Nothing Party had long since fled. The Know Nothing Party was a political party of English Americans who attacked Irish immigrants. They were called the Know Nothings, because if caught for their deeds their response was "I know nothing." They were no longer safe in Boston. With our numbers, they knew when to take a hint and clear the field of battle. I wish I could say that for Mr. Holmes later on. Oh, if only he had done as the Know Nothings did, but alas, it was not to be. I made the Brahmins miserable with my waterfront schemes. Boston was built on shipping. We received our cut of their massive profits. As time went on, the Brahmins more and more withdrew with their savings, wanting as little to do with day-to-day commerce as possible. The Brahmins still would not do business with us, so I went to the next step, which was a general strike. In Boston, this meant no police and fire protection, no trash collection, no maids, nothing moving on the docks. I made sure limited help went on in the Irish neighborhoods. We also horrified Beacon Hill by marching through when they were out and about in their finery. We even invaded their churches after we had been to our own services on Sunday and said they were the Anti-Christ. We just would not go away. We could act as ancient Celtic apparitions when needed. We gave no quarter physically and intellectually. We jostled them in the streets, sometimes throwing them in the mud and garbage and ruining those same fine clothes. There were loud screams all over Back Bay and Beacon Hill as people would be pushed down. We broke their fancy windows and painted slogans on their walls. The slogans were against Brahmin feeling toward the Irish and threats against them and Negroes. Then the Brahmins tried to have Negro workmen to repair the damage and we beat the workmen right in fr
ont of their Brahmin employers, who gasped in horror but also did not lift one collective finger to stop it. I had led a rally of laborers a few days ago. I was speaking to a group of hard famine survivors who wanted to eat. I made it clear to them the Negro was taking food out of their mouths. Say that to someone surviving the famine and he will fight because he sees it as he is fighting for his life. I now had tremendous power over Boston Negroes, because I could determine if and when they would be harmed.

  The Governor called out the Massachusetts Militia, sturdy Yankee boys from Massachusetts farms, who also held no love for us Irish.

  They shot some of our lads down like wild dogs and bayoneted others. We sent a few of the bastards to hell in return in pitched street battles. Street battles had become a way of life in Boston. Now, we also attacked Abolitionist. We were now breaking up Abolitionist rallies, capturing more Negroes, and sending them South. We also murdered some Underground Railroad captains. We spared nothing in torturing Abolitionists to give them up.

  After two weeks of violence, I received a note from Mr. Lowell. The Brahmin leaders wanted to meet. Not in their sacred clubs of course, but at the Boston Public Library. I acted as the Irish spokesman. My boys did not go in the meeting with me. There was no need to show muscle with these gentlemen.