Author's Note
.｡｡*ﾟi hope you're staying safe and being kind to yourself! .｡｡*ﾟ
Love youuu 💗
𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚 ️
Chapter Text
HOUSE OF REFUGE - JANUARY 1898
As for as Jack was concerned, Kloppman was the only adult worth trusting. Medda was a close second – whenever she was sober. But old Mr. Kloppman was the best newsboys' lodging house superintendent in all of New York. And Jack would die on that hill.
From the stories the other boys told him, most of the CAS lodging houses were borderline unlivable. They were treated more like flophouses, criminal hideouts, brothels, and other seedy headquarters – leaving the boarders as feral as a pack of dogs.
For other superintendents, the title was simply a source of money and held little meaning in terms of duty.
The midtown Oak Knoll lodging house – as reported by Cards, Lion, Shakespeare, and Marquette – was two steps down from the St. Vincent's lodging house in Brooklyn, and another 10 steps down from the Duane Street lodging house in Lower Manhattan.
Cards told Jack he couldn't remember the last time he paid to stay there, as the landlord had given up on charging rent at some point. There weren't any employees to do the washing or cook or clean, and the house itself was rotting from the inside.
The landlord's bedroom door was always locked. He'd disappear during the day, go to the bars at night, and come back late. His appearances were rare, and he'd left the boys to fend for themselves.
When Jack mentioned Kloppman's wife had cooked for them almost every night, the four Midtown newsies had looked stunned, like they hadn't quite heard him correctly.
"Our superintendent thought too much indulgence was bad for us. Whatever we could scrounge was our dinner," Lion had said one night in the Refuge dormitory, back in Ward 11. "I eat better in here than I ever did on the streets."
Crazy and Rails had similar stories about the Flint lodging house in Queens. The filth, the griminess, the disease. They hadn't stayed there longer than a week when they decided the alleyways were probably cleaner.
Staten Island's DeMun lodging house was decent at least, thanks to the efforts of the recently deceased Reverend Charles Loring Brace. River, Z, and Atlas had each slept there on occasion. It was more sanitary than other places, but somehow more intolerable. The clergy who ran the house were too strict on rules and religion for the boys' liking. And when River had been cruelly singled out and bullied by the staff for his refusal to convert, he and Atlas and Z packed up and left.
"Why, what was your place like?" Atlas had asked Jack. "Warm grub and bedtime stories?"
Jack didn't want to answer. He was afraid the others would look at him differently if they knew how good he'd had it. He felt guilty for whatever reason.
But now, as he sat in his cell in solitary, Jack realized it didn't matter anymore. He'd suffered alongside all of them. No one had it better than anyone else. It wasn't a competition. There was nothing to compete for. What was the point in doing that?
Once news of the Refuge riot hit circulation, visitors and journalists and police were flocking to Randall's Island like vultures.
Grim and Tide's trial ahead looked bleak for the two. Polite society had already decided on their guilt. Amongst the street waifs, they had turned into something of a legend – a myth. Tales and rumors spread. Excitement for their case built.
As Snyder turned a blind eye, guards charged outsiders to visit the cells in solitary confinement to catch a glimpse of the young men the papers were talking about. For a moment, they were more infamous than the late Barnum's museum of oddities. Snyder took a percentage of the profit, of course.
Before the evening edition covering the riot was dropped on Kloppman's desk, someone else had arrived.
From the end of the corridor, Jack could hear a girl screaming at Snyder in a way he'd never heard anyone do before.
Jack looked across his cell at Marquette. The Frenchman didn't seem to be cognizant of the voice. He stared off into space with a blank expression – his eyes lowered to the floor.
Jack rose from his bench and walked to the bars, listening to the voices at the top of the steps.
"Why can't I see him? I just want to talk to him!" Sophie sounded hysterical, and Jack could hear the impending meltdown in her shaky voice. "Please!"
Oh God, Soph, Jack thought. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Snyder.
"Four more months, and he's all yours," Snyder said with a cruel laugh, referring to Jack's extended sentence. "If I get rid of him now, well… I lose a lot of money."
"How much?" Sophie asked, feeling angry tears spring to her eyes. "How much is my brother worth to you?"
Snyder was quiet for a moment, considering this, and looking her over. "Twenty dollars."
Sophie's face fell. "That's impossible," she said, knowing she barely had enough money to feed herself.
Snyder shrugged. "Not if you want him enough, it ain't."
Sighing, Sophie fished around in her pockets, then down her chemise, and then in her sock. She shakily counted the coins, offering them to Snyder. "Please, it's all I have," she begged.
Snyder looked down at the coins and scoffed, not even bothering to count. "Oh, save your breath, girly."
"Please," Sophie whispered. "Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it. I can't be without him any longer. I'll die."
Mulling it over, Snyder did what he'd taught his charges how to do – he offered her a wager. "How old are you?"
"Thirteen," Sophie said. "I'll be fourteen in three months."
Snyder nodded. "I could have you arrested for vagrancy, agitation, and prostitution. Then you could see your brother all you want."
"But I'm not a prostitute—"
Snyder cut her off with a hard stare. It didn't matter if it were true or not. Snyder could make the judge believe anything.
"I don't understand," Sophie said, furrowing her eyebrows. "Would I leave with Jack?"
"Well, vagrancy gets your three months, and agitation gets you another three. Prostitution, my dear young lady…that gets you a year."
Sophie glared at him, unblinking.
Snyder folded his arms with a smirk. "So, are you staying or going?"
Clamping her mouth shut, Sophie took one last look down the dark corridor and followed Snyder up the stairs, entirely defeated. If she wanted Jack out, she needed help. She needed Kloppman.
The old man showed up the day after Sophie. January 4th, 1898 – the day before Jack's escape.
He had dealt with corrupt types like Snyder for years, and he knew how to handle him. He went about it a little differently than Sophie. Kloppman paid his way in. Snyder assumed he was just another curious spectator and didn't pay much attention his visit. Instead, he sent a guard to give him a "tour of the maniacs."
Kloppman felt sick to his stomach as he walked down the squeaky steps to the isolation block. The guard escorting Kloppman had no idea he was a lodging house superintendent, nor that he knew Jack. Like he said to all the guests, the guard simply reassured Kloppman that he was perfectly safe in his company.
"The boys know me, and they'll know I'll crack the heads of any that cause trouble," the guard said.
"What age separates the younger children from the older ones?" Kloppman asked as the guard fumbled with his keys before the large door. Kloppman thought it resembled a dungeon chamber.
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, how are they grouped? Surely, you don't want to the younger inmates influenced by the older inmates."
The guard looked confused. "We ain't got nothing like that here. A kid is deemed a problem, and they're sent here like all the rest."
"You mean to say you put young vagrants with violent teenage offenders?" Kloppman asked, drawing the guard up short.
"Huh? Well, no. They have separate dormitories. They're together during mealtimes. Save for the nursery, of course," the guard answered, slowly understanding Kloppman's question. "It was those violent offenders you're talking about what started the riot. That's all you'll find down here. Took up all the cells."
"I see," Kloppman mumbled, watching the guard turn the key in the lock. The door opened. "What about males and females?"
The guard turned to face the old superintendent, his hand on the door. "If you're referring to immoral conduct, I'm pleased to report our Dr. Sayers will soon fix our boys to ensure nothing unwanted can come out of it. We've had a few problems in the past."
Kloppman held his breath, struggling to suppress the grimace on his face. Fix?
The guard pushed the door open wider. "This is where we've been keeping the insurrectionists for the time being. We find it takes a little more…persuading until they learn their lesson."
Upon entering the solitary confinement block, Kloppman felt a wave of horror hit him. It was like something out of a nightmare.
The cell block was long and dimly lit by oil lamps. Kloppman, with already poor eyesight, had to squint to make out the outlines of figures looming behind cells.
The block was freezing, and Kloppman could see his breath as he walked. January was a bitterly cold month, and it was dangerous for anyone not to have a fireplace in their residence for warmth. These boys, it seemed, had been left to the mercy of the staff.
Kloppman followed the guard as he continued his rambling. "Keep 'em in here for most of the day. They work in our factory on occasion," he went on. "Fed a good meal – that's dinner when they behave, of course. Rest assured they will have their meal privileges revoked for breaking rules. We find they don't cause trouble on that kind of diet."
Kloppman grit his teeth. Meals shouldn't be a privilege.
The superintendent was shocked as he looked at the inmates during his walk. Some stared at Kloppman in desperation and hopelessness, while others looked dazed. Each bench was tiny and didn't fit their long limbs. All had been shackled to a long chain, connected to the bench, so they could move around. But if the cell door were open, they couldn't get out.
Their faces were drained from illness, or fear, or just lack of sunlight, Kloppman didn't know. Their eyes, empty and hollow, were bruised. Scarred arms and cut knuckles. Split lips, battered faces, blood-stained uniforms. Half-starved.
It was a terrifying sight. Kloppman thought he might be sick all over again.
Some of the prisoners were stone silent, while others began yelling once they saw the guard. They pulled at their restraints, screaming curses.
The guard ignored them.
"Where do they all come from?" Kloppman asked quietly, trying to identify if Jack was down there.
"Some of 'em come from the orphanage if they've caused trouble there. Or else we find 'em wandering the streets like dogs. Many are runaways. Not all are orphans, as they would have you believe. Usually, foreign-born..."
Looking away, Kloppman tuned out the guard. He gazed upon the boys' uncaring and deadened expressions. They shrunk back when the guard banged his club on the bars of their cells, which he did on occasion as he walked.
"You said some have families. Do parents ever come to visit?" Kloppman asked.
"Believe me, sir. Ain't nobody wants these castoffs, not even their own flesh and blood," the guard chuckled. "Most of their fathers have left. Some are dead. And their mothers are just as depraved. Ain't that right?" He asked a boy who continued staring into space, saying nothing.
Kloppman couldn't believe how the guard was talking about these inmates. Almost as if they weren't there.
"And that's it?" Kloppman asked, shaking his head. "They have no one left in the world to care for them. To visit?"
The guard shrugged and then looked amused for a moment. "One of 'em has a little sister who comes 'round every now and again, the stray cat. She was just here yesterday, demanding the warden free her degenerate brother."
Kloppman raised an eyebrow. "Which one is her brother?"
The guard chuckled, pointing to a particular boy in the next cell over with his club. "Sullivan. The one right there. Laudanum addict."
Kloppman turned his attention to the boy in the cell. He was sitting on the bench, staring at the ceiling, digging the heel of his foot into the ground as he shivered.
The guard was smirking, as if he liked sharing that bit off information. As if he said it to humiliate the boy.
"Sullivan," Kloppman echoed under his breath, standing right in front of his cell. He barely recognized Jack.
Jack lowered his head and kept his eyes from meeting Kloppman's. "My actions have been uncivilized and based in nature, and for that, I'm sorry. I pray that God has mercy upon my soul," Jack said to the ground, his voice broken, the sentence mechanical and practiced.
Kloppman had no doubt it was Snyder's rhetoric.
The guard checked his timepiece. "My shift is about to end, Mr. Kloppman. I must take you back upstairs before I go to lunch."
"Oh, I'll be fine. I can find my way out," Kloppman said, seeing his chance to speak to Jack in private.
"I'm sorry, I can't let you do that," the guard laughed, shaking his head. "I am paid to uphold the rules of this institution. And what kind of man would I be if I—"
"Twenty minutes to speak with him," Kloppman said, nodding to Jack. He handed the guard some coins and a dollar out of his pocket. "That's all."
The guard looked down at the money and then at Kloppman. Grumbling with a nod, the guard snatched it and began to leave the cell block. "For your own safety, keep away from the bars!" The guard shouted over his shoulder. "But don't worry, they're locked up nice and tight! They ain't going nowhere's!"
Kloppman turned back at Jack, giving him a knowing look. "So I gathered," he muttered.