Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  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-shoul
dered 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!”

  The crowd roared even louder. Spectators milling about behind the strikers shouted out encouragement, some cheering the policemen and the preacher, others egging on the strikers to attack.

  Suddenly a gun exploded. Michael whirled. The dark-haired striker was holding his gun, aimed right at his head!

  The striker’s mouth twisted in an ugly smile. “Either your partner gets rid of his gun, copper, or I get rid of you.”

  Beside him, Price muttered under his breath. “Sure, and we’re in the soup this time.” Then he turned his gun on the striker. “Take it from me, rat-face!”

  Suddenly, one of the black boys behind the preacher broke and started to run in the opposite direction, as if to escape.

  Dalton shouted and whipped around, trying to stop the boy, but he was too late. The dark-haired striker with Michael’s gun fired at the boy, hitting him high in the middle of his back.

  With a sickening thud and a terrible scream, the boy hit the ground. The preacher ran and fell to his knees beside him.

  Now the mob went berserk with blood-lust, cheering and roaring like savages.

  Without warning, Michael saw Price move to charge the dark-haired striker with the gun. The hoodlum fired when he saw the policeman coming, but Price dropped low, his gun steady. One well-placed bullet in the striker’s gun arm took him down, sending the pistol skating over the ground.

  Michael lurched forward to retrieve his gun. At the same time, the big red-faced Irisher who had started it all hurled himself at the preacher, who was still on his knees beside the injured black boy.

  Dalton whipped around just in time, rolling sideways to escape the striker’s charge, then lunging to his feet. With formidable strength, the preacher flung the big Irishman into the crowd.

  Stunned, the striker crumbled, landing in a dazed heap amidst his cronies.

  When another angry striker lunged out of the crowd toward the preacher, Dalton easily shoved him aside. The striker lost his balance and went sprawling onto the ground.

  His gun now in hand, Michael whipped around and fired into the air. Price, too, got off a warning shot, but the crowd had turned savage. The two policemen were no match for their rage.

  Suddenly a shout went up from Mulberry Street. Some in the crowd turned to see where it came from. Another angry cry sounded, and two more policemen, both carrying nightsticks and guns, shoved their way through to the center of the square.

  The taller of the two fired his gun in the air as he came. His partner, a burly bald man, roared like an injured bear, “Move back—move back right now, or you’ll be shot where you stand! Spread out and disband immediately!”

  The din gradually ebbed and died away. There was some grumbling, a few angry protests, but little by little the crowd began to back off. At last they broke apart and dispersed, muttering and casting resentful looks back over their shoulders as they went.

  The other two policemen helped to herd them out of the area while Michael and Price went to Dalton. The preacher was again on his knees beside the fallen black boy, the rest of the youths huddled close by.

  “Is he dead?”

  Dalton shook his head, raising his face to look at Michael. “No, but he’s bad. We need to get help for him right away.”

  “Doc Hilman’s probably in,” offered Price. “He’s just a few doors up, on Mulberry.”

  “Go for him, why don’t you,” said Michael.

  Cradling the unconscious boy’s head in his lap, the preacher’s eyes never left the youth’s face. “You’d best tell the doctor to hurry,” he said quietly.

  10

  The Cry of the Victim

  The pharisee’s cant goes up for peace,

  But the cries of his victims never cease.

  JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY (1844–1890)

  Michael and Jess Dalton stood in the dingy hallway that served as a waiting room while Dr. Hilman worked on the injured black boy. Two chairs on the wall across from them were occupied by an elderly man and his frail, crippled wife.

  Outside, the last of the late afternoon sunlight was ebbing, the shadows growing long and deep. The waiting room had taken on the damp chill of evening.

  “Who is this Captain Rynders ?” the preacher asked. “I keep hearing his name mentioned around Five Points.”

  “Isaiah Rynders,” Michael said, scowling. “He’s a gang boss. A gambler and a knife-fighter, too. He owns a number of dives in Paradise Square.” He paused, looking at the preacher. “He’s also a Tammany politician.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Mean as a snake—and more deadly,” Michael replied without hesitating.

  They remained silent for a time. “The boy will need hospital care,” Dalton finally said, his voice low.

  Michael looked at him wearily. “He’s a penniless Negro, Pastor. It’s not likely he’ll get hospital attention.”

  “He’s only a child!” Dalton protested. “They certainly wouldn’t turn him away—”

  “Of course they’ll turn him away! The Negroes have no rights in New York—things are as bad for them as the Irish, if not worse.”

  Leaning against a decaying wall, the preacher hugged his big arms to himself and studied Michael for a moment. “If that’s so, Sergeant, what accounts for the enmity between the two?”

  Michael frowned. He would not have thought Dalton naive, but perhaps he was.

  “Oh, I’m aware of how things are,” the preacher put in quickly. “Half of the brawls that go on down here seem to be between the Negroes and the Irish. But it’s still difficult for me to understand why, especially knowing the history of both. Why do two persecuted peoples insist on persecuting each other?”

  Michael considered the big preacher’s words. It was a matter he himself had given much thought to, having been forced to put down countless battles between the two factions over the years.

  “I understand what you’re saying, Pastor—it would make more sense that our troubles bring us together, not divide us.”

  Dalton nodded.

  Michael drew a deep sigh. “Aye, so one would think. Yet any policeman in the city will tell you that persecution only breeds more persecution, just as crime seems to breed still more crime.”

  The pastor studied him, saying nothing.

  “I imagine part of the problem, at least for the Irish,” Michael went on, “is that the blacks compete with us for the jobs we’re so desperate for—and for the same kinds of jobs, at that. There’s little available to the Irish in the way of work except for the lowest, meanest jobs in the city: laborers, manure-cart drivers, housemaids, washerwomen. And it’s the same for the Negro, don’t you see? Both groups vie for the same jobs, but the Negro will work for even less than will the Irish. And they’ll do anything at all—anything—to earn their bit of pay!”

  “Breaking strikes, for example.”

  Michael nodded. “And worse.”

  The preacher raked a hand down his beard and looked toward the doorway. “I suppose it’s difficult not to resent a man who seems to be taking food out o
f your family’s mouths.”

  “Exactly,” Michael agreed. “Oh, that’s not the only reason the two are always at odds, of course. I sometimes think we Irish are our own worst enemies.”

  Dalton turned back, frowning. “How so?”

  “Well, Pastor, we’re a clannish bunch, it seems to me. Perhaps all the years England has kept our faces in the dirt accounts for some of what we are.” Michael shrugged and smiled grimly. “There was no improving our lot, don’t you see? We were denied all the things we might have used to better ourselves: education, political involvement, job opportunities—why, we were even forced to suppress our language, and the Catholics their religion! I expect all that time of being treated like mindless savages has bred a kind of natural distrust in many of us, made us suspicious and even resentful of those outside our own circle.”

  The preacher gave a slow nod. “Caused you to turn inward, you mean. Center on yourselves.”

  “Aye, I should think so. Ourselves and our country—Ireland. Perhaps that accounts in part for our fierce patriotism, our secret societies, and the like. That being the case, we turn on anyone else who might seem to pose a threat.”

  “The persecuted become the persecutors.”

  “Aye, exactly. I’m not saying it’s right, mind, but merely trying to explain things as I see them.”

  The pained, sorrowful expression on Dalton’s face piqued Michael’s curiosity. The man truly seemed to care about people—about the Irish, the blacks, the people who couldn’t defend themselves. And Michael couldn’t help but wonder where Dalton’s interest came from.

  He already knew a bit about the pastor’s father, of course. A lawyer and a labor reformer, Andrew Dalton had also been known throughout the East as a scrapper—a crusader for the rights of the working man. Apparently, championing the underprivileged was a tradition in the preacher’s family.

  Of course, with his wife being an immigrant herself, that might account for Dalton’s concern. Yet there was the matter of his name. “Begging your pardon, Pastor,” Michael said, “but I can’t help wondering: With the feeling you seem to have for the Irish—and with your name being Dalton—is it possible you have some family roots in the old country yourself?”