Chapter I
Manhattan, New York, 1894
Under the dim lights of the street lamps, the lanky shadows of four newspaper boys trudged up the steps of the Duane Street Lodging House just as the chimes atop the nearby bell tower at St. Andrew's Holy Roman Church rang the hour, half-past eleven o'clock in the evening. Murmuring under their breath and loudly shushing the other, they entered into the darkened, enormous room, quietly closing the door behind them. They nearly jumped a foot in the air when they heard a man's voice behind them. "Cutting it a bit close, aren't we boys? That's the third time this week."
All four boys turned shakily toward the voice and found the silhouette of a man sitting by himself behind a large desk, as if he had been waiting for them. The desk was elevated on a platform and lined with a railing gate on both sides, with a now empty cup of tea atop a stack of paperwork. A green lamp was the only light illuminating the first floor of the boarding house, casting a soft glow upon the man's wrinkled features. The old Superintendent Flint Kloppman wore a composed expression, a contrast to the boys who now appeared nervous and fidgety.
It was clear to all parties involved that the boys had been out later than they should have. All those living in the house knew each door of the place was opened no earlier than six in the morning and closed no later than half-past 10 at night. This rule applied to the staff as much as it did to the boys, which only consisted of Grace, the live-in cook, and Kloppman himself. Even the windows leading to the fire escapes were strictly forbidden to be used as points of entry and were for emergency exit use only, discouraging anyone from sneaking in or out at all hours.
Between the hours of half-past 10 and midnight, the doors were locked, and any boy entering had to have a late pass with them, which they were not required to show Kloppman so long as they signed the ledger and quietly went upstairs. In the past, other superintendents had been harder about who came in late and checking for passes. But Kloppman was a fair-minded man who trusted his boys enough for them to be responsible about coming and going. He was also rather lenient if non-residents or friends of the boys spent time there well into the evening, so long as they were accompanied with a resident who had a late pass.
Kloppman, however, drew the line from midnight to six in the morning, and only those who lived at the lodging house were allowed in, and only through the front door at that. This ensured that the boys would have to walk by his desk, give him their passes, and sign the ledger. If a boy didn't have his pass this late into the night, he would not be allowed in. Any guests, male or female, were not permitted to come in at this point, unless he or she was accompanied by a boy with a late pass.
It was all very black-and-white on paper, but old Kloppman had been the Superintendent long enough to know that such strict regulations stood in contrast to reality. He had let many of broken rules slide in his day, against his own better judgement, and he had yet to turn a homeless boy away for the sake of being a little late.
"How are you boys?" Kloppman asked evenly. "You well? You seem a bit on edge."
Sighs of relief were let out quietly by each boy upon seeing who the speaker was. Their tensed muscles relaxed and their hearts regained steady rhythms. If had been Grace who had caught them, they'd have all received swats to the side of the head with her slipper.
"Ah Christ, Kloppman, ya had us going there for a moment," the green-eyed boy who was Cards Campbell muttered with a nervous laugh. He had obviously been holding his breath.
"We ain't late, are we'se?" Rails Sakowitz asked with a lazy smile, already knowing the truth.
"'Course we ain't. Still got a sweet half hour 'fore the doors lock for good," Shakespeare Bacci chuckled in a low tone to himself, shoving the boys aside in good humor, picking up the ink pen that rested on the desk and proceeded to sign his name in the ledger. The book was meant to keep track of the names of the boys were staying the night in the house, their birthdays, their occupation, and other such questions. Most importantly, it was a way for Kloppman to know if anything had happened to any of his boys if one didn't turn up for long periods of time, which was known to happen. Unfortunately, some were never heard from again.
"Third time ain't no charm, boys," Kloppman shook his head. "Once or twice by accident is one thing, but a third time in one week? And you have all been here long enough to know the rules."
The other three boys signed the book, giving Kloppman thankful looks. "You ain't gonna snitch on us, right?" Rails asked the man, still a glimmer of worry in his eyes.
"I don't know boys. There's only so many times I can look the other way," Kloppman shook his head, taking the book back from them and stowing it away under the desk for the night. "I have half a mind to ask where you've been, since I know it wasn't papers you were out late selling."
The boys were quiet, looking at the floor but maintaining their poker faces.
"However," Kloppman said, crossing his arms and looking each boy in the eyes. "That would mean I would have to report whatever it is to Mr. McLain." He paused and noted the expressions of disbelief and betrayal the boys wore at the mention of the uppity agent from the Children's Aid Society who dropped by every once and a while for an inspection. "And I could get in trouble for letting it slide three times in a row already. So, I'll keep mum just this last time. After this, I'll have to suggest that Mr. McLain set curfew three hours earlier. Let's try to clean it up, eh?"
"Yes, sir," the boys mumbled in unison.
Kloppman looked directly at Shakespeare this time, whom he knew was the unspoken leader of the House, according to the boys. The nineteen-year-old smirked and then gave the man a look of sincerity.
The boys knew they were supposed to have passes with them for coming in so late. A fine was usually issued, but Kloppman was forgiving. Maybe a little too forgiving for the boys' own good.
"Don't be asking me for any dinner now," Kloppman continued. "Should've thought of that earlier."
The boys wordlessly began for the stairs to the bunk room, thanking Kloppman for his leniency as they passed him on their way up. Kloppman watched them go, shaking his head, knowing if it wasn't for him, the Children's Aid Society would've had them kicked out long before.
Jack Kelly crouched on the stairs, watching the exchange between the older boys and Kloppman. He wondered where they'd disappeared to for the past two nights, as well as this night, but he didn't want to seem like a snoop. Only little snotty-nosed younger boys were snoops, and Jack was twelve-years-old, hardly a child in his mind. He, along with the other boys his age, was often left out from doing the things the older boys did. It made him feel like he was a baby, which angered him to no end.
"Hey fellas, looks like one got lost on the way to bed," Cards teased, sending a playful jab to Jack's shoulder when they caught him on the stairs. "Bunks is that-a-way, kid," he said, pointing up the stairs.
Rails and Shakespeare laughed along with him, each giving their own respective ruffle to the younger kid's hair as they trudged by him. Jack gave them a weak smile in return. As much as he resented the fact that they excluded him, he looked up to them and wanted so desperately to measure up. Jack felt he had to prove to them that he was old enough, tough enough. He hardly cried in his sleep anymore like those younger boys did when they got nightmares. He got into his fair share of fights defending Manhattan's turf against the occasional trespasser. And he certainly was no stranger to vices, as he'd gotten into the older boys' whiskey and cigars plenty of times.
And yet, Jack was still lumped into the same category as the other younger kids. Right along with Boots, an eight-year-old who still wet the bed on occasion, and seven-year-old Snipeshooter who called out for his mother in the midst of sleep. It wasn't fair. Jack was not a baby, and he hated being treated like one.
The majority of the babying came from the fourth boy who followed the other three up the stairs. He was tall and ducked down to join Jack on the steps, sitting beside him for a moment and slinging his arm around the boy's neck. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes as he pretended to strangle the younger, inciting unamused laughter from said boy. Nearly everything about the two boys was identical, from their dark caramel eyes to their easy-sounding laugh to the way they flinched at the mention of the House of Refuge.
Michael Kelly loosened his grip around his brother and chuckled. "Ya didn't have to wait up for me, kid. I ain't goin' no where's."
Jack watched as Kloppman turned out the green lamp on the front desk. He leaned on the railing, looking up at the brothers. "Do I have to go up there and tuck you both in for crying out loud? Come on, let's go, get a move on!"
"Alright, keep your shirt on old man, we're goin'," Michael smirked, pulling his brother behind him. He slung his arm around him again as they got to the washroom where the other three boys were cleaning up for bed.
As Jack leaned into his brother, he wrinkled his nose as a strong bitter scent seemed to be radiating from his shirt and arms. It was unlike anything Jack had ever smelled, and the scent gave him a headache. "What is that?" He asked, sniffing the air.
Michael began to shed his daytime clothes, leaving him in his dingy undergarments, which the boy slept in. "What's what?"
"That smell," Jack continued, still repulsed by the heavy aroma. "Like vinegar."
The odd snicker that came from the other three boys made him curious as to what was so funny, and he looked up at his brother expectantly.
"Nothin'," Michael murmured, suddenly realizing what Jack was talking about. He ran some water from the sink and splashed it over his face and bare upper body, skipping out on a bath and opting for a quick clean.
"Come on, Mikey. Tell the kid," Cards smirked, his eyes a bit hazy as he came out of one of the stalls. "It ain't like we killed someone."
Rails wiped his own dampened face with a rather dirty towel and then tossed it to Michael to use. Jack kept waiting for his brother to let him in on whatever it was, but the older boy stayed quiet. "How the hell did Kloppman not say anything to us?" Rails punched Michael in the arm and then roughly grabbed Michael's shirt off the floor and inhaled. "The kid's right. Ya reek of incense."
Michael smacked him with the towel, shoving the other boy away. "Oh, like you don't."
Jack, who wasn't as innocent as his older brother thought he was, was able to piece together enough to figure it out. His eyes narrowed. "You was with whores?" He asked, the word rolling so uncomfortably naturally off the young boy's tongue.
Michael gave his brother an astonished look that included a raised eyebrow and a half-smirk. "Did you just say whores?" He sounded surprised, and then a bit worried that his little brother might be hearing too much from the older boys.
"Yeah," Jack crossed his arms, glaring up at the older boy who seemed twice his height. The other three boys were looking, too.
Shakespeare leaned against the sink next to Michael, an easy smile on his face. "Better not let Kloppman hear ya say that."
"That ain't an answer," Jack pressed impatiently, upset no one was telling him the truth again.
Michael frowned, smacking the boy lightly upside the head. "No, Jack. We weren't with…prostitutes," he said, trying to use a better word to no avail.
"Then why won't you tell me—" Jack was cut off as Rails appeared beside him, shushing the younger boy.
"Promise you ain't gonna tell on us?" Michael asked, looking down at the boy. "We might get in trouble for that. You have to be really grown-up about this."
Jack frowned. "I promise."
"Really, Kelly?" Shakespeare looked over at the older brother.
Michael ignored him and bent down to be at his brother's height. "Okay, we like to smoke opium every once and while," Sighing, he added, "It's a downer kind of drug. It makes you feel good and see funny things sometimes."
Jack still looked confused. "Where do you smoke it?"
"Just forget it, Jack," Michael sighed.
The younger boy shrugged. "Can I try it?"
Michael gave him a stern look. "Fuck no," he said, nudging him in the direction toward the bunk beds where the majority of boys had fallen asleep.
A few were still awake, whispering quietly to one another, trying not to be obvious in their listening to the washroom conversation. Jack slumped down onto his bunk, pouting slightly and giving his brother angry glares which went ignored.
A boy around Jack's age turned over in the bunk next to him, his dirty blonde hair flopping over the patch on his left eye. Jack had known him for as the year that he and his brother had lived at the Lodging House. Louis Balletti, known better as Kid Blink, leaned over so he could speak more quietly to Jack. "Ya found out where they've been goin'?"
Jack shook his head, still glaring at the four bigger boys in the washroom, keeping their secret.
Another boy with big brown eyes peeked over the side of the bed above Kid Blink's. "Hey, fellas, guess what?" He whispered, a sleepy grin on his face.
"What is it, Mush?" Kid Blink asked while Jack stared off.
"I was just thinking, maybe we should do something tomorrow for Racetrack's birthday," the doe-eyed child, Nicholas 'Mush' Meyers continued lazily, nodding his head over to the sleeping dark-haired boy a few bunks over. "How much money you each got?"
Kid Blink looked up at him. "Same as I had yesterday. Why?"
"Well what if we all pitched in a little to buy him somethin'?" Mush whispered. "A deck of cards? New cigars? Pay for his lunch?"
Jack nodded absently. He liked Racetrack okay, at least so far. Anthony Higgins, who got his nickname from frequenting Sheepshead Bay to sell papers, was new to the Lodging House, having only been there for about six months.
He showed up at the House one night after the evening edition, said he was running from his place in Brooklyn where he lived with his father and grandmother, and he needed a place to stay. His father had gotten into trouble with some bookie whom he owed money to, having been dragged out of their apartment by two men. Fearing they'd come after him, too, Racetrack fled.
"Race told me he ain't staying here tomorrow," Jack murmured, still sitting up and watching as his brother flicked shaving cream at Shakespeare's face who retaliated by throwing the entire bottle of shaving cream back at him.
"What? Why not?" Kid Blink asked.
Jack turned to him and shrugged. "Somethin' 'bout his granny ain't doing so well. And he wants to go to Brooklyn to see her. Thinks it might be the last birthday he spends with her."
"'Least he's got a grandma," Blink mumbled.
Mush was thoughtful for a moment. He leaned back on his bed, his hands folded across his chest. "We'll just have to plan something later, then."
"Night, boyo," Michael appeared by Jack's bed, giving him a playful punch before climbing up the ladder to the bunk above. "Go to bed, boys," he said to a still awake Mush and Blink. "I ain't draggin' your asses outta bed tomorrow mornin', too."
Lights out at the Duane Street Lodging House meant something different each night. The large dormitory was dark, and the noises of carriages and police whistles from outside were a muted lullaby. It was always late into the night when restlessness began.
The occasional movement or groan came from a bed, brought on by a nightmare. An hour later, Jack cracked one eye open, awakened by a soft wail. Snipeshooter was crying again for his mother, sniffling and whimpering, soaking his pillow with tears. A low voice was whispering to him, and Jack squinted into the darkness. Shakespeare was sitting by the little boy's bed, rubbing the kid's back, saying that he didn't have a mama either but he'd bet that both their mothers were watching over them at that very moment.
As he stared at the dark ceiling, Jack recalled a time, not long after arriving at the Lodging House, when he slept in his brother's bunk almost every night for two months, crying himself to sleep and clinging to Michael's tear-stained shirt in the darkness, scared to death that Warden Snyder would find them again.
Every newsie had experienced loneliness or abandonment at one point or another, usually the younger ones when they first came to stay there. Lion McCarthy, the Manhattan leader before Shakespeare, had been there when Michael and Jack arrived nearly a year and a half ago. Lion had been the one to pay for the Kelly boys' rent for the first week they were there.
It was a duty that came with being leader to look after the other boys, which wasn't always an easy task by no means. When Lion left to get another job, the boys were lucky to have a good replacement in Shakespeare who, despite how intimidating, was there for his boys when they needed him.
Jack heard Snipeshooter's sobs subside finally, and he closed his eyes to feign sleep as Shakespeare stood up and walked back to his bunk along the creaking floorboards. It made him think about what would happen after Shakespeare left. After all, he was nineteen. Typically, the older boys stayed until about twenty-one, and then they left. Who would replace him? Jack hoped whoever it was could live up to Lion and Shakespeare.
A leader who looked out for boys. Who knew how to keep everyone in check, was an example for the younger kids and respected by older boys. One who could delegate but fight when needed. Someone who would be willing to go to jail for his newsies.
This particular thought made him think of the House of Refuge, which was a miserable jail out on Randall's Island for juveniles of the city, and was where Jack and Michael stayed for half of a year. Michael was caught stealing food, and the two brothers were additionally charged with vagrancy — that's what the cop said anyway as he whisked them off the street and into the precinct. Jack remembered his brother bargaining with the officer to let Jack come with him to the Refuge, rather than the alternative which would've seen Jack thrown on a westbound train for a new family. The look of absolute pain and desperation on his brother's face as he pleaded with Warden Snyder not to separate them was still ingrained in Jack's memory. Michael would never forgive himself for that. As is turned out, Jack might've been better off with a new family than in the hell of the Refuge.
Just as he did when he first came to the Lodging House, Jack felt hot tears sting his eyes and slip down his cheeks as he laid there in the darkness, thinking of the Refuge—the incessant crying at night, the rat-infested dormitories, the bite of Snyder's cane. He tried to be quiet, but his heart sank and his throat closed up as he thought about Snyder searching the city for them, knowing they'd escaped.
The mattress above him squeaked and then there was a thump in the darkness beside him as two feet hit the floor. The thin, scratchy sheets next to him were parted back and weight shifted itself beside him, strong arms wrapping themselves around the younger boy, pulling him close. Jack felt his brother rest his chin on top of his head. Somehow, even though he'd been quiet, Michael had heard his soft cries. Like he always did.
Jack sniffled, closing his eyes and relaxing at the familiarity of his older brother's scent.
The last thing Jack wanted to feel like was a baby. He wasn't weak. He was twelve-years-old, and he wasn't a child anymore. But something about his brother's presence made him feel like he could let his guard down without feeling vulnerable.
"It's okay," Michael mumbled into the younger boy's hair. "Snyder won't hurt ya. I won't let him."
It was like Michael could read Jack's mind. He always knew. Somehow, he always knew.
The room was quiet as Jack began to sob a bit harder, letting the tears flow without shame, desperately trying to muffle them in his pillow. Michael propped himself up on his elbows, staring down at his brother as he quietly wept, a bit surprised that Jack was this upset. He hadn't seen him like this in months, and now it was like their first night in the lodging house all over again.
"Did you have a nightmare?" Michael whispered. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
Jack just shook his head. "What if he finds us? What if Kloppman tells him where we are?"
"Kloppman wouldn't tell him nothing, you know that," Michael said, smoothing back the sweat-soaked hair from Jack's forehead. "None of the boys would. Besides, our names are under Ma's name in the ledger, not Sullivan."
"He knows our faces," Jack cried into the pillow. "What if he finds me when you leave this place?"
Michael felt a pang of guilt wash over him. He pulled Jack over gently so the teary-eyed boy was looking up at him. "Francis, I'll be dead before he lays a hand on you again."
"Is that a bet?" Jack asked, jolted by his brother's use of his real name.
"No," Michael said, tapping the kid on the nose. "That's a promise. I won't ever leave ya."
Jack grew quiet for a moment. "That's what Dad said."
"I ain't Dad."
Cocooned in the warmth of the only family he had left and lulled by the steady beat of carriage horse hooves on cobblestone outside, Jack drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the past and having little hope for the future.
Earlier in the day, less than a mile away at the police precinct on Mulberry Street, a small girl tried to hide her growing fear as she waited in a line with other adult female criminals.
At the head of the line, prisoners were being processed by a mustached police chief and a handful of roundsmen. She listened as each prisoner was asked a series of questions, then told to sit for a photograph. Each one of the women were scarred or battered in some way.
The girl neared the front of the line, swallowing back her nerves and recounting the events that had led up to this moment. The woman just ahead of her stared defiantly back at her as the cameraman took her photograph. Her left eye was bruised, and her hair was a ratted mess that was piled atop her head.
"Ain't her first arrest," One of the roundsmen next to the girl whispered loud enough for her to hear.
The young girl stepped up to the desk. The police chief hardly took notice of her. "What do they call you?" He asked without looking up from his paperwork.
"Ellie," she replied shakily.
The chief looked her over, taking in her dirty calico dress and bare feet. "Your full name."
"Eliana Rogowski."
The chief wrote this down with a scratchy pen. "Middle name?"
"I don't have one, sir."
He looked at her skeptically for a second and then resigned, shaking his head as he continued. "Address?"
"Don't live nowhere."
"I'll just put New York City," the chief sighed, growing impatient. "How old are you?"
The girl, Ellie, shrugged. "Eleven, I think?"
"Got folks?"
"They're dead, sir," Ellie said quietly.
The chief ran a hand over his tired eyes, clearly frustrated. "Where were they from?"
Ellie thought for a moment. "Never knew mama. Papa and I lived in Buffalo before we came to the city."
Nodding, the chief finished writing and without looking up said, "Stand over there for your mug shot."
As Ellie stood in front of the photographer, the chief turned to the roundsman in the helmet standing beside him. "What's the charge, McGee?"
"Loitering. Vagrancy. Consorting with…" The cop's voice faded out as Ellie focused a ladybug crawling along the cracks in the floor. The chief set down his pen as she stood there, her arms hugging herself.
"Through that door there," the chief said, pointing to a small reception room off to the side. He leaned forward over the desk, looking directly at Ellie and lowering his voice. "And if you try to run, you won't like where you'll be sent."
By the time evening rolled around, an officer had shoved Ellie into a single holding cell. The few cells in the precinct were noisy and cold, but this one was empty.
"Because of your age, you get some solitude until they come from the Refuge," the officer explained before sliding the door closed and leaving her alone.
There was nothing in the cell but a board for a bed, and a window through which Ellie could see the late autumn moonlight. She searched for any constellations in the sky, but found none. There were hardly any stars in the city, not at all like it had been in her country home in Buffalo.
Hours later, Ellie lay wide awake and staring up at the ceiling in her cot in the middle of a long dormitory crowded with other girls her age in the House of Refuge. This place was a step or two up from the streets, at least it was four walls and a roof. Her wide eyes were grave, ignoring the stifled cries of lonesomeness and dread the came from some of the beds surrounding her.
Another girl her age huddled close to her on the cot in the dark corner of the huge space. Because there weren't enough beds for each girl, two or three shared one. The girl, Maggie, had been kind enough to share her bed with Ellie and ease her fears about the place.
Maggie opened her hand to show Ellie a glimpse of what she was clutching: a wrapped candy peppermint.
"Let me have half! I don't believe it," Ellie said, her blue eyes widening.
Maggie put her finger to her lips, hiding the peppermint again and hushing her. "No! The others will try to take it."
"Please? We'll eat it in secret," Ellie begged, but Maggie only shook her head. "Where did you get that anyway?"
Maggie grinned a dimpled smile. "From Warden Snyder."
"Really? Why?"
"He brought me into his office. Said he only wanted to do something to me quick," Maggie said as Ellie scrunched up her nose in confusion.
"What?" Ellie asked.
Maggie shrugged. "Ain't much sense to it."
Ellie bit her lip, her stomach rumbling. "Do you think he'd do it to me, too?"
Maggie clutched her candy tightly. "I think so. Most of us in this dormitory have gotten peppermints before."
"That's lucky," Ellie sighed. "When did you come here anyway?"
Maggie frowned. "What year is it?"
"'94."
Maggie thought for a second. "About two years ago now. My brother left me here. What did you do?"
Ellie stared at the ceiling again. "Cop found me sleeping in a doorway by the docks."
"You ain't from the city, are ya?" Maggie asked, staring at Ellie in the darkness.
Ellie shook her head. "Papa and I came here last year. I don't know what kind of job he had, but whatever it was, we had to leave Buffalo because he got in trouble by it."
"Does he know you're in here?" Maggie wondered aloud.
"He's dead," Ellie replied with a hitch in her voice. "I guess he got too drunk one night. They found his body in the Hudson."
"I'm sorry," Maggie whispered, reaching over to grab Ellie's hand comfortingly. "What did you do after he died?"
Ellie blinked away some stray tears at the memory of her father whom she missed more than anything. "After Papa died," Ellie continued with a small whine, "I tried to find work for a long time. I sold newspapers down in the Bowery. Had my own corner and everything."
"Honest work, huh?" Maggie said with a small smile. "Not that sellin' papes is easy. My big brother is a newsie. He used to get real tired and fed up walking without no shoes on the streets all day and night, shouting out headlines, barely making enough money to eat. Probably didn't like dragging me around all day like a ragdoll anyhow," she added quietly.
Ellie squeezed her hand reassuringly in hers, and the two girls were quiet for a few passing moments at their shared misfortune. Ellie heard Maggie sniffle but she didn't cry. "I'm sorry," Ellie echoed weakly.
"What's your name again?" Maggie asked as distant footsteps clamored down the hall and the dormitory door creaked open.
"Ellie," she whispered. "Ellie Rogowski."
"Maggie Conlon."