Divide the Dawn- Fight

by Eamon Loingsigh

  A roar of approval comes from behind us.

  “Some, in the oldest part o’ Irishtown say he was reborn.”

  “Bollix!” Petey Behan calls out, then stares across the circle and blows a kiss at me. I own you, he mouths in my direction while pointing into his own chest. I own you.

  Chisel twirls his blackthorn cane in the air to continue, “An’ that he was summoned to help the needy! To heal the horrible wounds an’ honor the agin’ settlers through the winter o’ their lives. He has put himself at great risk by raidin’ the local shoe fact’ry and passin’ out boots to one an’ all. An’ there ain’t a-one person here t’day who has not been touched by his generosity—”

  “Don’ start cryin’ over here,” Connors growls.

  A voice behind me responds, “Undefeated! Our champion has never lost—”

  “I think we had enough, Chisel,” The Swede says.

  “Challenger and Champion, please step back to ya respected areas,” Chisel calls out as both little Whyo Mullen and Will Sutton struggle through the crowd with a gigantic bronze bell. A hammer is handed to Chisel and he looks longingly into the crowd. The bell is then thwacked with the hammer and a shrill and trebly reverberation scares Whyo, who falls back on his duff until he recovers and drags the bell away through the reeds and clumps of rotted wood that has been swallowed by wild grass.

  Dinny and Bill circle each other.

  “Ya don’ wanna do this, Bill,” I hear Dinny say.

  “Yet here I am.”

  “I told ya that ya’re not my enemy.”

  “But ya’re mine.”

  “No,” Dinny says.

  “Yes,” Bill responds and steps forward with the threat of a straight right.

  Dinny jogs to the right, unfazed. The slew of revelers become unsettled and push from behind me. In the fighting circle, Dinny’s hands are held loosely under his chin and his head is on a swivel, waving back and forth in confidence. Without even a single punch thrown, Bill is becoming winded. His cheeks redden and he is breathing out of his mouth.

  “What’s Dinny’s plan? He just gonna wear him out?” Vincent asks.

  “He didn’t tell me anything,” I yell back.

  Suddenly, like two wild dogs that break into a vicious dance, Dinny and Bill bump chests and let fists fly. It goes so quickly that it’s hard to tell who came out with the best of it, but most are surprised Bill is still standing. Then a right cross from Dinny sails over Bill’s head and again the two exchange thudding punches.

  Bill now has a lump on his forehead and steps back to rip off his shirt and tie. With an undershirt and a belt that keeps his pants high, he enters the fray again and moves toward Dinny who also sports an undershirt, but suspenders hold his pants up.

  With all of the shoving, the ringwall of the inner circle clenches and palpitates like an arsehole, and the rain has softened the ground even further as we slosh round the brown mud.

  “Get back!” The Swede yells behind us. “Dockbosses an’ righthands! Keep the slew back!”

  There are dozens of people on rooftops behind us and even across the cobblestoned street and every window has four heads peering out now. Beyond the fighting circle there are low hills strewn with rusted nails poking out of decayed two-by-fours from tumbledown tenements where onlookers jostle for position. Bill’s hounds are wriggling to free themselves from their chain-collars and it takes six men to keep the three of them at bay, for they long to brawl for their master in his time of need.

  Again Bill and Dinny come together and snap upper cuts and long-armed jabs into each other. Dinny’s ear has reddened from a blow, but it’s become evident that Bill’s lip is swollen as he wipes blood on his forearm.

  “Kill! Kill! Kill!” Bill’s side calls out in unison.

  “This is gettin’ outta hand,” Vincent screams across to me, though I can barely hear him.

  Then Dinny has Bill backed up against his own men and thrashes him with a left cross that comes from below. Then two quick rights that stagger him.

  “It’s almost over,” The Swede calls.

  But Bill spits blood at Dinny and fights him off with wild lefts and rights that miss their mark. Bill is out of breath but steps forward when Dinny makes his move to the inside of him. Three body blows and a right upper cut stun Bill, and as he moves to turn away, Dinny grabs hold of his trousers by the belt and pulls him close again, where he can inflict more damage. Dinny’s fists land square and full force into Bill’s chest and ribs. The impact of each blow heard twenty feet away. Then he moves up to the head, blasting knuckles off Bill’s forehead and temple and then on the top of his head when he ducks. Dinny is now only bleeding from his hands, while Bill takes punch after punch.

  “He has a gun,” Someone yells from among Bill’s men. “He had a gun the whole time!”

  Caw-caw, One-arm Flynn quarks in laughter and points to the ground by Dinny’s feet where a pistol lay in the mud. It’s an old German model and has a round hole in the bottom of the handle and a narrow barrel.

  “No, that’s not his,” I yell. “He would never—”

  “Meehan breaks his own code o’ honor,” Non Connors stands forth. “He came to kill our leader wit’ that pistol.”

  Richie Lonergan then steps forward behind Dinny and crashes a right hook under his jaw. Dinny drops to his knees in front of us all. He never saw it coming. But before we can even respond, the Shit Hounds are let loose to sprint across the fighter’s circle past Dinny and all three dive into The Swede, Vincent and myself in unison.

  As the mist turns to heavy drops of rain, then a deluge that soaks the earth, a bugle sounds off in the distance.

  “Charge!” Connors and Flynn stand over Dinny and thrust arms across the circle to point the way.

  A phalanx of men swarm past Dinny and crash into our lines, trampling me while a yellow dog yanks with a frenzy on my trousers at the ankle.

  “Dinny!” I yell out.

  Through the crowd Bill’s lieutenants kick and punch down into Dinny. Bill then crawls through the mud to search for the German model pistol.

  I grind my boot against the yellow dog’s eyes, but it just tears back and forth, its neck muscles flexing at each turn.

  “They’re gonna kill him,” Burke yells at me.

  “Don’t let that dog bite my cock,” Vincent screams.

  Through the slew I see a punch that jolts Dinny, blood and spittle fly from his mouth. He is on his knees taking punch after punch, but I cannot get up. A wall of men has formed in front of us by the Trench Rabbits and others that block our path to Dinny. Though we have the numbers, we are outmaneuvered and outflanked. A boot takes me by the back of the head, but when I look up Big Dick has torn the dog from my trouser leg and tosses the rabid animal twenty feet into the distance. But he is then kicked from behind by three others and is blocked from the area.

  Across the way Richie and Connors take turns on Dinny until Flynn and Byrne get their shots in. Bill has found the German pistol and struggles to stand. Through the melee I see him raise his arm and point it at Dinny’s face.

  “Bill’s got the pistol!” I yell, but I am useless to help, blocked in by ravenous dogs and a wall of trained soldiers.

  I try to jump through their line but I am thrown back and booted. Beyond the wall Dinny’s hands are held behind him and he is made to kneel. He moves his eyes up to meet the barrel.

  “No!”

  A tiny smile appears on Dinny’s face, but just as the pistol claps Bill is tackled from the side. Dinny jolts backward in response and his head whips behind. On his knees his body flops to one side, but Bill is now on the ground again.

  Someone tackled him, I realize. Someone is beating Bill with fists.

  Suddenly the pistol is ripped out of Bill’s hand and tossed thirty feet away.

  “Who the fuck’s that?” I hear.

  The unknown man then swoops into the lieutenants so fast that there is no time to react. He lands a shoulder into Richie’s back, dou
bling him over. An elbow explodes under the jaw of Connors, dropping him. Before Byrne can react he is sent tumbling back onto his rear and receives a Hanan boot across the side of his head. The stranger then simply stares one-arm Flynn away.

  “Harry!” Whyo Mullen’s screeching voice calls out from somewhere. “It’s Harry Reynolds! Harry fookin’ Reynolds! It’s him! It’s really him!”

  Behind the wall another dog is kicked in the hind area and limps off, yelping at the air. A punch sails over my shoulder as I get up. Before I realize it, another lands on my temple and yet more on the top of my head. Big Dick picks up the yellow Shit Hound for the second time and slings it over our heads again.

  Seventy of their men stand in our way, three lines deep. The nearest line attacks, throwing punches and kicking at us. Then a voice calls out a signal and that line steps back. The second line steps forward and again kicks and punches to keep us back. After a time, the next line comes to the front, fresh and ready to fight.

  In the chaos, I am tackled again. As I lay on my back, a fist continually pounds down on me until I catch the arm. When I look at who owns the arm, Petey Behan’s box head stares back at me. He gnashes his teeth to pull his arm back as I kick up under his face with a boot. I struggle to stand and take another punch to the head before I have my balance. He swings again and connects but I am at his throat and have grabbed hold of his right wrist with my left hand to stop the beating. I throw him back at the neck and yank him back at the wrist to slam an elbow across his face. As he steps back from the blow I am plowed into by The Swede who has been tackled. When I can’t find Petey, I turn to look behind me twice, then three times.

  Behind me Vincent screams as a Shit Hound ravages at his cock, “Get it off me! Get it off me,” he howls.

  Some of our men have have run off screaming, including Burke. And even a few gang members loyal to both sides stumble away holding their sides and their heads. For the rest of us it is blood and fighting. The Lark takes a man by the back of the neck, flooring him into the mud. I believe it is the younger Quilty brother. Dance is in the air, his knees almost touching his own shoulders. As he stomps on face and gullet simultaneously, he struggles to keep his balance. Squat, short-armed Philip Large wrestles a man and catapults him up and behind, a pair of legs trailing afterward. Vincent Maher bleeds from the grommet but has gathered his wits and swings down on a man who can’t stand from his knees.

  At the next signal, the refreshed wall of men breaks formation and attacks with a ferocity not yet seen. Eddie and Freddie tackle Jidge Seaman, Sean Healy and old man John Lonergan and pummel them. Five Trench Rabbits take turns booting Ragtime Howard, Henry Browne and Dago Tom Montague. The older brothers Behan and Quilty take Philip Large to the ground and don’t allow him to get up. The younger Quilty, Timothy, has regained himself and hurls upper cuts and straight-lefts into Red Donnelly’s bloodied face like a true boxer while Matty Martin circles behind and kicks him. Cinders Connolly attempts to help but is taken down from behind.

  Dago Tom is flung and lands next to me on his back as a mud puddle splashes across my face. He kicks up at his attackers and looks over to me, “He’s dead, Liam. Dinny’s dead. We should fall back.”

  “No he is not!” I cry. “No!”

  “Yes he is,” Red’s voice sounds almost sad. “They shot him in the face.”

  As I come to one knee, bantam Petey Behan stands over me with a glinting weapon in his hand, “There’s nothin’ to fight for. Quit an’ I might let ya live.”

  The wall of Bill’s followers stand over us, supported by two other lines. The violence comes to a sudden halt and a silence pervades old Jackson Hollow. Beyond the wall Harry falls to his knees, exhausted after fighting against Bill and his four lieutenants while Dinny is face down in the mud, motionless. Up in tenement windows and on top of the hills of reeds and trash and the ruin of toppled buildings, the remaining viewers watch and listen, shocked by the events.

  Chisel, my sister Abby, Whyo and Will, the Mullen family and the many families of Irishtown await a decision. Even Biddy Hoolihan and The Bard stand among a small group of elders to hear a decision.

  A black smile comes across Petey’s half-muddied face, “It’s over, Liam.”

  “It’s never over,” I yell out to all who would listen. “They let us starve! Yet still we endure! Dishonor has always defeated us in battle, yet still we stand and fight, and in so doing, we command honor in order to create. That does not die with Dinny Meehan. That must go on to live forever. White Hand men, come to your feet, now!”

  Petey Behan steps forward with a shiv in his hand, “Now it’s time to die.”

  “No!” Abby yells out in the distance.

  “You can kill me, but you can never kill our ways,” I raise my arms.

  “Weapon!” The Swede yells from the ground, holding his clavicle. “He has a weapon!”

  “So what,” Petey talks through gritted teeth. “Ya boss came wit’ a pistol.”

  “Lies!” I yell. “Lies, lies, lies. Drop your weapon and fight me, one-on-one.”

  Petey nods and looks round him, “This is the real world. Ya gotta death wish? Wanna be a martyr? I’ll make ya one.”

  He rushes me and swings the shiv, which opens up my shirt at the shoulder with a red wound. Then kicks to the back of my leg. Quick as a badger he is on my back grappling for my neck. Piggybacking me. The sharp cold of the metal shiv slides along my throat to gently open the thin skin.

  Ya better survive, Dinny’s words come back to me. Otherwise ya will be trapped in this story forever.

  I splash through the mud fighting for position so that he cannot get his hooks in. The shiv wavers over my throat while my hand holds his wrist precariously.

  “Kill him, Petey,” Joey Behan cheers his little brother.

  A rage gathers inside me. I gain my bearings, then make a quick move to peal him off. I take both of his arms by the wrist and jump backward to push all of my weight into him and wrench myself free at the same moment.

  “Yes,” The Swede calls from the ground. “Don’ give up, Liam.”

  At impact I wriggle and scrape free. I do not want to wrestle with him so I grab at his coat and pull him backward where he cannot hit me. But with the shiv he swings up and behind him and it scrapes across my arm, opening a sleeve with a gash.

  My boots jolt at his lower back as I pull, then kick, then pull again with a fistful of his coat. When he swings behind him again, I catch his arm with both hands at the wrist. Then I wrap my legs round his neck and fall to the ground, shaking his arm to let loose of the shiv. I dig my thumbs into soft spot of his wrist and pull his fingers open until finally it drops in the wet dirt at my side.

  Then I jump to my feet and grab the shiv. With blood and mud mingled in my mouth, something terrible yearns to escape from the prison inside me.

  Murder him, the words bubble in my ear. You have him, now kill him. Kill him.

  “Kill! Kill!” The chant of the onlookers takes up the charge.

  “Kill him!” Dance yells from our side of the wall that Bill Lovett’s men hold.

  My heart hurts. It aches to take his life. To have it for myself, always. And I want to give in to it.

  How could the heart lie? How could it lie to me?

  Kill him, my heart answers.

  “Cut him open!” The Swede screams from the ground.

  “Slash at his face,” Vincent says.

  “Kill, kill, kill!” My friends chant.

  I look at the shiv through muddy fingers. It glints a cold gray into my eyes. Then I close my fist round it, turn away and throw it as far as I can. Through the air it tumbles as all watch it disappear over a roof.

  I let loose of Petey’s coat to let him stand. When he is upright and raises his fist over his face, I tag him with lefts. When I swing with a right his forehead bangs against my wounded knuckles and a shimmer of pain slices up through my arm again and into my brain. The old wound reopened, my fists turns a bright red. But pain I d
on’t react to. Not now. I lean into another right hand and he is flung backward, but before he can gather his balance I pepper him with lefts and rights. He then raises up and throws a left jab, but I move to the right, and when he throws a left cross afterward, I see it coming and pull back. The punch whizzes in front of my nose. I flash a quick smile at Dance, then move in on Petey. The empty swing leaves his body unbalanced and unready for my attack. It’s his jaw I aim for, but he hides his face between his thick shoulders. Only an upper cut from my left hand will serve now. The impact jars Petey’s head back, and it leaves me enough time to land a cross under his jaw that drops him to the mud.

  I stand over him between the wall of Bill’s men and my White Hand brothers. Four fingernails are missing and the opened scar leaves a blue vein visible through the wound so that enough red liquid soaks my arm to leave the appearance that I had thrust it elbow-deep into a vat of blood.

  “And in winning, I give you mercy,” Says I. “The ultimate power.”

  But no answer comes from him. He is unconscious and wordless.

  “Swede!” I yell. “Where are ya, lead a charge.”

  But The Swede is still on the ground holding his clavicle.

  Through the wall I see Harry stumble to defend himself against Bill and his lieutenants. Punches rain down on him as he grasps for one of their legs. Richie Lonergan lands punches on the top of Harry’s head as Non Connors moves round behind him to boot at his ribs.

  “Dockbosses and righthands,” I scream. “Fight through the fray. To our leader we go! Fight to our leader, Patrick Kelly!”

  Behind me boots begin to stomp in a great push of men that collapses over me in fierce fighting. Our lines form again to challenge the blockade.

  “Push!”

  As Dance Gillen brings me to my feet, he looks at me with wild eyes, “Can ya still fight?”

  “I can,” I yell back, though my right hand is in no shape to land punches.

  “White Hand!” I yell out. “We are the Soldiers of the Dawn! In a dark world people are drawn to the light and will forever fight against the enveloping black,” I point through the wall of men toward Harry. “Onward!”