The Five Points, 1846

Wretched, ephemeral race, children of chance and tribulation, why do you force me to tell you the very thing which it would be most profitable for you not to hear? The very best thing is utterly beyond your reach: not to have been born, not to be, to be nothing. However, the second best thing for you is: to die soon.

-Aristotle

He watched the small cart go past him, averting his gaze from those that followed in its wake. Blood was spattered across his clothing, skin, and hair.

Monk had admired the man who now lay lifeless on the cart, even seen him as a brother. And like all brothers, he did not fully know if he loved or hated the man, even in death.

Happy Jack Mulraney and Hell-Cat Maggie led the procession, each with a hand on Vallon's chest. Neither of them so much as looked at him, and he pointedly kept his own eyes upon the cart. Monk had heard that they'd tried to persuade Priest to ignore Monk and forget about winning him to the Dead Rabbits' cause.

That man was Priest Vallon, former leader of the Dead Rabbits, and formerly the most powerful gang leader in the Five Points. But now his reign had ended, and his killer stood triumphant, surrounded by the survivors of his gang as he ordered the name of the Dead Rabbits to be expunged, banished, forgotten.

"Let no-one even speak their name from this time on!"

He sounded so smug, so triumphant, so exultant. Monk contemplated attack him now, striking that smirk from his face, killing the breath in his throat. 'It would easily be done,' he thought to himself. 'All it would take would be one good swing and I could break his jaw for good. He would take a week to die from the pain. Be damned what happens to me.'

It was an empty threat; he would never reach Bill before his cronies overwhelmed him. And what good would it do to kill him now? The Nativists had won, by the ancient laws of combat. The thought alone made Monk's teeth grind in his mouth. 'Bloody stupid laws of combat. That's what's keeping us down on our knees.'

Monk gave a low sigh; even this grousing and resentful ill-wishing was pointless. Who was he to judge anyone? He had fought as fiercely as any man, and more successfully than most. By his count, he had slain nine men today. Nine new notches for his club. He should have been paid ninety dollars for that. Good money for a bloodbath like this. He had even been granted a chance to take his pay from Priest's corpse. The boy had tried to stop him, and the other Irish fighters refused to look at him as they carried Vallon to his proper rest. Monk did not care what they murmured about him; he could endure scorn and hateful words. He'd long ago learned the terrible cost of blood, and if he was going to risk his own, it wouldn't be over something as trivial as words.

The truth of his action - known to none but himself - was that he had not taken any money at all. Vallon had never been stupid enough to take his money with him into battle. Monk had taken Vallon's most precious belonging, so that one day his son would be able to inherit it. He had not thought of this before. Not even when the horn rang, signifying the death of the leader. He had made his mind up when he had seen Amsterdam run across a battlefield to kneel beside his dying father and weep when Vallon gave up the ghost. Monk's suspicions were confirmed when he'd seen the boy pick up a knife and defend himself from three grown men. 'Priest Vallon's son, to be sure,' Monk thought to himself. But he couldn't help but think, 'if he's smart, he'll leave New York behind and never return.'

Even as he dwelt on these thoughts, Monk realised that the cart had passed him by, heading down Mulberry Street. He turned and began walking up Paradise Square, away from where the five streets met. Vallon was not the only corpse being taken from the battlefield; dozens of men and women had died or been laid low in the struggle. One of the men Monk had killed was still lying where he'd fallen. He was a Bowery Boy, from the look of his clothing, but his face was nigh unrecognisable after Monk's shillelagh had caved his face in.

It was not a traditional shillelagh, for it could never double as a walking stick, but it was a finely crafted cudgel all the same. Monk still remembered the day that his DadaĆ­ had brought home the thick branch of blackthorn wood. He had spent hours smearing it with a layer of thick butter, only to hang it in the chimney for months to cure and fire-harden. When he'd finally taken it out again, the club had acquired a thick layer of soot, giving it a shiny appearance and darkening the wood beneath. For good measure, his DadaĆ­ had also hollowed out the larger end, filled it with lead, and then dipped the end in tar to further ensure its durability. This had made for a club which was strong enough to break a man's skull with one deft swing.

It was a weapon which was made to endure, to outlast any one man's life. It had certainly outlasted his father's. Would it outlast him too? It was a grim question to ask while he was trudging through pink snow, past men who were crawling away with missing limbs or shattered bones. They whimpered or cried for help, until they saw his grim face and the club which was casually swinging through the air, like some strange extension to his arm.

Putting the thought of broken men out of his mind, Monk wondered what he would do under the regime of Bill the Butcher. Much as he had respect for Priest Vallon, Bill would not be kind to any Irishman who'd fought for the Dead Rabbits, least of all a man who'd only done it for pay.

As he made his first steps, he noticed a Dead Rabbit who was, rather than following the procession, standing solemnly to the side like Monk had been. It was Angus McGloin, an expression of stunned dismay on his bloodied face. Yet as Monk walked past him, their eyes met for the briefest of moments. McGloin blinked and turned away, but not before Monk sensed some other emotion in the older man's expression. He could not make it out, and in that moment, he did not care. He was too busy wondering what his own fate would be now that the Dead Rabbits were finished for good.

A smart man would flee, but where? Was there any place on this godforsaken earth which welcomed the Irish? He would face this battle again wherever he thought to go. And besides, Amsterdam Vallon might return one day.

Much as he wished that Amsterdam would take his chance and start anew someplace else, Monk also knew that he relished the idea of Amsterdam coming back. The old argument in his mind was starting up again, and he felt God and the Devil once again, grappling with each other as they always did in the most important moments of his life.

He had been in hell for years; that much was true, and he knew it. God was not often a presence that he felt or even welcomed half the time. He had prayed for God's mercy more times than he could count, begged for God's forgiveness, beseeched God for his blessings. All of it for nought, it seemed.

And yet, perhaps there was a sign before him; Priest Vallon was dead, but Amsterdam still lived. Was that not a glimmer of hope that Bill's Nativists might be undone? Monk tried to banish this wicked thought from his mind, but he might as well have tried to cast the Devil out of Hell. He was only a mortal man, with a man's weaknesses, which was why he had allowed himself to be lured, time and time again, to join Vallon's hopeless cause.

It was a stupid notion, but it would not leave his mind. He doubted that Priest would have expected it from him, nor would he have ever even asked Monk to shoulder responsibility for his son. And yet, Monk could not forget the past. He could not forget his ties to Priest, or his debt to the dead man. Really, it was ironic that he should consider himself indebted to a man who would never pay him for his services.

'Ah well,' he thought, 'nobody ever got rich fighting for the losing side. Would that we Irish were not so efficient at being on the losing side.'