Brooklyn. Home. Spot breathed a deep sigh of relief. Though he wouldn't ever have admitted it to anybody, he always felt slightly uneasy outside of Brooklyn. Brooklyn was his fortress, and he was its king. Outside Brooklyn, though, to any adult, he was just another street rat. Just another street rat. Another nobody.
"Oi, Spot," came from his left. His eyes flicked over to the side. A tallish newsie in a faded red shirt with short blond hair and a club clutched in one hand smiled slightly at him.
"Oi, Crumbs," he returned. "Pulled guard duty tonight, eh?"
"Yeah." Crumbs smiled. "'s not so bad. It gives me time ta think, an' soak someone if they look at me bad."
"Any soakin' tonight?"
"Naw. Though there was one guy got close. What a bum."
Spot's senses sharpened. "What guy?"
"He was wearin'... Well, it looked like a suit, like a scab'd wear, but it was all raggy. Had a big scar just here—" Crumbs traced a line from the outside of his right eye all the way down to his chin, "—and he really wanted to get through."
"A scar," Spot said, hiding his wariness. "He say what he wanted?"
"When he finally got it that I wasn't lettin' him in, he said, 'You tell Spotty that I'se back. Tell him that Blue's back, and I'se tired of livin' in the shadows.'" Crumbs shrugged.
"That's exactly what he said?" Spot asked sharply. "Swear you got it right. You sure it was Blue?" Crumbs nodded, looking slightly nervous. No one liked to see Spot in a temper. Spot wrapped his hand around his cane. "We'se gonna have a meetin', Crumbs," he said tightly. "Tell 'em all."
"A meetin', Spot? Where? When? Who?"
"Here. Now. All the Brooklyn newsies."
"Now? But it's the middle of the night!"
"So wake 'em," Spot said furiously. "You don't question me, got that, Crumbs? Wake 'em, get 'em to get the rest of the Brooklyn boys, and get 'em all here. Now."
Looking embarrassed, Crumbs nodded and dropped his club. He turned and ran. Spot's newsies in the immediate vicinity covered several blocks, so it would take at least ten minutes before enough of them were sufficiently awake to go get all the rest in the extended area.
Disdaining the dropped club (I'll have to speak to him about that – Never drop your weapon), Spot angrily turned around, taking up guard duty for the time being. He grasped his cane like a club. It had given quite a few people a sound thrashing in its time, and he had no doubt it would continue to.
Patrick was eight or nine. It was beginning to become abundantly clear that he was always going to be small: a small boy, a small man. His father looked at him strangely every time he saw Patrick now. His parents were beginning to fight a lot more, mostly about him...or at least, that was how the fights would start.
"There's never been a male O'Connell under 5'10", woman!" his father roared.
"Are you accusing me of something?" his mother shrieked back. "Because if you are, Thomas, just come out and say it!"
"Accusing you, Ashleigh? Of course I am! How could it not be your fault that the boy looks more like a girl? No son of mine, Ashleigh!"
"He is your son, Thomas, whether you like it or not, so you'd better learn to accept it. He's the same baby you rocked and the same little boy you held. He is your son!"
"The boy looks nothing like me. Nothing. Though he does bear a striking resemblance to the man who brings your family the newspaper every morning and afternoon, my dear."
"How dare you!" she screeched. Patrick could hear the sound of her slapping his father across the face from the next room where he cowered under his covers. "How dare you, Thomas Seamus O'Connell! I came to you a virgin, and you know that perfectly well."
"Oh, aye, I took your virginity, but how do I know what you've been up to since then? You've disdained my bed since then, haven't you, woman?"
"I was with child after the first time, you great fool, and after Patrick was born, I had no wish to have any more children. We've been over this a million times."
"The boy is not mine!"
"He has a name, you bloody ox! His name is Patrick, and he certainly is yours. How dare you doubt me?!"
"I suppose it's true that you may be cold enough to keep other men away," his father said nastily. "You certainly have no great love for your wifely duties, do you, wife?"
"The Holy Church says that the procreative act is not meant to be enjoyable," she said primly. "Any such pleasure is unholy and of the devil. If that is what you're wanting, you can go to a loose woman and sully your own soul, husband."
"And your precious church didn't teach you to be fruitful, woman?" There were sounds of a struggle. Patrick clapped his hands over his ears, but even that didn't block out the noises, the small cry of pain from his mother. "You'll bear... me many more... children, woman," his father panted from the next room. "You're still young...enough. And any... brats you whelp...will be mine!"
After that, nothing that was said was coherent. Patrick lay paralyzed, wanting to cry out, but knowing that no one would come and comfort him if he did. Everyone had always told him how much his parents loved each other, how their faces had shone on their wedding day, how Thomas O'Connell and Ashleigh O'Brian were a match made in heaven. To be sure, it had been an arranged marriage, a business merger. O'Connell Cloths was to combine with O'Brian Sewing to form a place where clothes were sewn, then sold. It was a new idea, that of selling pre-made outfits to customers, but they had all been certain that it would be a success, and it had. While the rich did not shop with them, the middle class was quite happy to buy pre-made clothes and save themselves the trouble and non-existent time it would take to sew. "But it was a happy arranged marriage," Patrick's Grandma O'Connell would assure him. "You could just look at them and see how much they were in love." Even if there had ever been any love between his parents, there was none now.
"Patrick?" He glanced out from under his blanket. His mother stood in the doorway, looking disheveled and clothed in a dressing robe. "You heard it all, didn't you?" He nodded. "Oh, my son..." She came, sat down on his bed, and held him. Though his eyes were red with tears, he did not cry. He could almost hear his father's voice whispering in his ear, " Sadness is weakness. Weakness is failure." Weakness is failure. I will not fail. I am his son. I am. I'll be strong, and I'll make him see that.
Newsies were starting to trickle in now: a few here, a few there. All nodded to him and murmured his name in greeting. Spot nodded back, but didn't say anything back to them. He didn't show any signs of recognition or weakness. I have to be strong now.
It seemed like hours till the last of the newsies arrived, and probably was. Spot grabbed the last one he saw and instructed him to be on guard duty for the duration of the meeting.
"But I won't hear the meetin'," the boy protested.
Spot shrugged. "Don't be late no more."
He left the sullen boy there and walked down the street, through a teeming crowd of newsies, most tired, some grumpy, all curious as to why they had been called there so urgently. Striding through the crowd, questions bombarded him from all sides, but he did not deign to answer them.
However, neither did he waste time. In the middle of the street, he jumped onto a lamppost and wedged his feet into the curlicues of steel, so he was now standing head, shoulders, chest and stomach above everyone else. At the sight of him, they slowly quieted until the street was nearly silent but for some stray whispering.
"You'se all know me, right?" Spot yelled. An answering roar greeted his question. "For five years now, I've taken responsibility for all of you'se!" Another roar. "I live with you'se, I work with you'se, I celebrate with you'se, and I suffer with you'se!" They were his now, applauding to nearly his every word. "We'se free, we'se makin' money, but tell me, boys, is we happy?!" The yelling and whistling were overwhelming. If there were a few in the crowd who did not agree with their friends, they were smart enough to keep it quiet. Spot made his voice a little softer. "You guys is my family, and I'se yours. Newsies ain't rich no matter where you go, but we look out for each other."
There was a long moment of silence, which didn't bother Spot. Though it was unwritten and unnamed, it was practically a solemn law that newsies take care of each other. The boys were merely taking a moment to reflect upon that.
He held his scepter up. "So tell me, boys, how many of you'se all remember how it used to be? Before I came to Brooklyn?" There was no answer, exactly as he'd intended. "I'll tell you, boys, how it used to be. Newsies didn't look out for each other! We was lost, just trying to keep from getting' mugged long enough to get some food! Some o'you'se was sleepin' in sewers 'cause you didn't have no place else where you could get outta the snow." Some of the older boys were looking grim, clearly remembering this sad state of affairs, and many of the smaller boys were listening intently, this having been before their time. "Newsies was startin' to turn up dead 'cause they didn't have no one looking out for them. How many of you'se remember Nose O'Neill?"
A significant number of hands went up as an equal number of hats were swept off of bowed and tousled heads. "Who was he?" a small newsie near the front whispered to his neighbor.
Spot's sharp ears caught the comment. "I'll tell ya who he was, Stovetop!" he spoke to the boy, pitching his voice to carry to the crowd. "Nose O'Neill was a newsie, one of our own. Moved at least five hundred papes a week. One night he went to visit some of all'o'you'se on the other side of Brooklyn. He never made it there, never came back. We found him three days later, lyin' in that alley with a knife in his heart and his wallet cleaned out!" Gasps greeted Spot's exclamation as he gestured with his cane to exactly where the stabbing had taken place. Boys standing near the alley in question subtly crowded away from it.
"'s right," Spot said with a grim satisfaction. "We was in a sorry state. Who was our 'leader' then, boys? Who was s'pposed to be lookin' out for us? Who?"
"Blue!" a voice from the crowd rang out. "It was Blue!"
"Tha's right," Spot said. "It was Blue. He did quite a job of takin' care of his newsies, didn't he, boys?" An angry grumbling came back at him. "Look what I done for us, boys! Look how we are now! Any of you'se would be happy if he came back?"
A resounding, "No!" was the answer.
Spot nodded. "We protect our own, huh, boys? Now, tell me, what would all of you'se say if I told you that Blue tried to get into our territory yesterday?" There were several audible gasps. "Get up here, Crumbs. Tell 'em all what you told me."
After a crowd-shy and shaking Crumbs had related the story to the crowd, Spot knew that he had won. He could smell the mood in the air, and it was anger.
"So what do you say, boys?" he yelled as loud as he could. "We gonna just let Blue come back and take over? Or are we gonna stop him and let him know that you don't mess around with Spot Conlon and the Brooklyn newsies?!"
A great cheer came at him from all sides. Spot stood there, exulting in it, in the presence of his newsies. In the excitement of the moment, thoughts of the woman searching high and low for her Patrick were completely forgotten.