New York City, 1832

The sea spray got into his eyes as he craned forward to look at the incoming harbour.

He stood on the edge, balanced so delicately that the merest change in wind could make him slip; it was only by his strong grip on a length of rope which kept him in place.

It was a sight worth the risk; he had never before imagined that such a large city could exist, even when he was growing up in the city of Dublin. That city seemed so humble compared to what loomed up before him now. Buildings of brick, stone, wood, towering up past the height of the ship's mast. The crowds of men, women, and children seemed like countless crawling ants.

"Watch yourself, Monk! You want to drown before you get there?"

Grinning, Walter glanced over his shoulder at Vallon, who was standing not too far away. The young man was tall, dark-haired, and looked at least five years older than his twenty years. He normally had a solemn air about him, as might befit some studious scholar, but now his face was nigh split in two from the grin he wore.

All the same, Walter was irritated. Vallon never stopped calling him by his nickname. He had told him time and again that he was starting anew in America; he wanted to earn a real living, the kind that a man could do with his head held high, and the kind which he could relate to St. Peter without shame when his spirit stood before the Kingdom of Heaven.

"Ach, you're better off being a monk," was all that he got in reply. The joke never failed to irritate him, but if he ever pressed Vallon on the matter, Vallon would simply answer, "If you believed that, why did you bring the shillelagh with you?"

It was a question for which there was no satisfactory answer. The simple yet incomplete truth was that this weapon was the last thing he had from his father, Tadgh McGinn. Tadgh had been a street fighter, and a fierce one at that before the drink slowed him down.

Walter was only six years old when he realized what his father did and he had discovered it in a shocking fashion.

The little boy had not been able to sleep unless his thirst could be quenched. And so, whilst his younger siblings snored around him, Walter got up and crept out to make his way to the kitchen, where he hoped to find some water left over.

On his way there, Walter noticed that there was a light still lit in the kitchen, and it made him anxious. Fires were a common danger in the Dublin slums, especially for the Catholic families who lived in squalor.

When Walter set foot in the small kitchen area, he saw with a jolt that he was not alone. His Mam was standing over the narrow counter, her arms plunging in and out of the big bucket. She was holding a rag that was a dark red in colour. Her hands too were reddened, and it contrasted with her pale face as she beheld her eldest son.

Dropping the rag with a soft splash, she whispered in horror, "Walter! Away with you and back to bed this instant!"

Walter didn't understand the fear in his Mam's voice, but it frightened him too. He was also confused; had seen her with blood on her hands before, when she was preparing food, but something was wrong this time. Why should she be so alarmed to see him? Walter opened his mouth to explain that he'd been thirsty, to apologise for still being awake, to ask why she was still awake... he could not make up his mind over what he would say first.

Then he noticed his Dadai.

Tadgh was seated in a chair, leaning so awkwardly that he looked ready to tip over. The big man's shirt was off, and several bandages were bound over his ribs. The bandages were red on the right side. That wasn't the most disturbing part of it, though. What got Walter's attention was the deep cut in Tadgh' forearm that still oozed blood.

As far back as Walter could recall, his Dadaí had always had a terrifying face to look upon. Pockmarks and scars adorned his visage, he was missing several teeth, while the ones which remained were a dull yellow colour. He rarely smiled, and laughed less. He was a man of foul moods, dark grimaces, and brooding silences.

Tadgh made a gesture, as if to rise from the chair and chastise his son, but instead he winced and remained where he was with a muttered curse. This, more than the wounds he bore, filled Walter with alarm that something was terribly amiss.

Walter started to cry, "What's the matter with Da?"

Mam wrapped her bloody arms around him, "Calm down now, Walter, it's alright." But Walter could hear the fear in her own voice.

"Let him speak his mind, Sorcha," Dadaí suddenly grunted through gritted jaw, "God knows it was only a matter of time."

"And whose fault is that, then?" Sorcha snapped, glaring as she retrieved the rag from the bucket and dabbed at his forearm. She was a stout woman, taller than any other woman that Walter had seen, with light brown hair that reminded Walter of the church's copper roof. She always kept her hair tied into a single long braid which either hung down her neck and back, or was otherwise draped over one shoulder. Her nose was crooked, her eyes were a pale blue, and she too seemed to have forgotten how to laugh.

"What happened?" Walter asked. He no longer wanted to know the answer, but his father had told him to speak, and he feared his father's wroth almost much as God's.

"A fight," Tadgh answered curtly, as was his way.

Walter's eyes widened. Mam would have been furious with him if he'd gotten into a fight. Was this why? Is this how fights always ended?

Tadgh sighed as he held the wet rag to his wounded forearm, "I know it looks bad, boyo, but you should know this much. I won."

Walter wished that he had not left his bed. But nor did he have the nerve to slink back now. Tadgh and Sorcha both regarded him with strange expressions. Walter was unsettled to see fear in his Mam's face and something he could not recognise in his Dadai's face. It was not wrathful for once, but nor was it fully cheerful either.

Walter found it in him to ask another question; "What was the fight about?"

Tadgh mouth threatened to break into a smile, but the threat did not last long, "A man called me a bad name, and we had a little fight. I made him apologise to me. Do you understand that, son?"

Walter nodded hesitantly, cuffing at the tears in his eyes and face. He knew Dadai hated it when he wept, but he could not stop himself. All he could do was keep as quiet as possible, hoping that the tears would stop soon.

"Good. Now go to bed and leave it be. It'll be over soon, just another bad dream like."

Walter said nothing more; he was simply relieved that he was allowed to leave the kitchen. He turned around and walked out, but not before hearing his father mutter to Mam, "Don't fret, Sorcha, it's about time he learns anyway."

"And what else will he learn now?" Sorcha's voice was quivering, and with a jolt, Walter realised that she was weeping like he'd done, "You cannot mean to have him follow you down this wretched path, can you?"

Tadgh's reply was another gritted snarl, "Enough! The boy's got to grow up and be a man, for God's bloody sake!"

Walter heard his mother gasp, and he too was shocked. He'd never heard anyone speak that way about God before. Was Dadai going to hell now?

"*"*"* "*"*" *"*"*

By the time Walter and Vallon got off the boat, some jolly man had pulled out a fiddle and was playing a jig, as if to serenade the new city which was to be his home.

It was a tune which Walter recognised, and he was sorely tempted to sing along with the man's enthusiastic playing. He had more important concerns, however; he was eager to finally be off the boat and set foot in New York.

Beside him, Vallon had curbed his glee so that he was grinning in that reserved way which was his wont; his mouth barely seemed to curl, and his voice had no real sense of mirth or joy. And yet, the hand which gripped Walter's shoulder was fierce, betraying his genuine excitement, "This is it, Walter. We've made it at last! Our new home!"

But they could not see their new home anymore. The ship was wedged tightly between two larger ones on either side. The city was blocked from view, especially now that they were making their way down the gangplank to the dock. The fiddle player, who'd somehow made it in front of the two young men, continued playing on in front of Monk.

'Dear Lord,' Monk silently prayed, 'is this the miracle that thou promised me would be mine?'

The fiddle player began strolling down the plank, still focused completely on his music. Walter half expected the jubilant fool to trip over his own two feet and plunge into the murky water.

On a sudden inspiration, Walter grabbed the small bundle slung to his back, where he knew his shillelagh was hidden. He didn't want to carry it so boldly here. This was not some downtown alleyway in Dublin. This was America.

The fiddle player suddenly faltered in his music as he stepped off the plank and onto the dock. Walter wondered what was going on, but he soon found out.

A thud suddenly sounded and halted the music instantly. The fiddle player screamed after another thud sounded the air. Laughter erupted from some distance away as the tall fiddle player bent forward and collapsed, landing badly on his knees. He writhed in agony as more stones struck him.

"How's that for a music lesson?"

The scornful question was answered with peals of mirth, and cries of dismay from the disembarking Irish. A few cursed aloud in Gaelic or English, but Walter was too stunned to reply properly.

His first instinct was to rush forward and help the fiddle player. He lay in a crumpled heap, sobbing as he held the broken fingers of his right hand, where the first stone had struck him. Blood seeped from the wound on his forehead and from his neck, where other rocks had made contact. Beside him was the remains of his fiddle, broken almost in two from the rocks and the drop onto the hard dock.

A group of voices continued to call out contemptuously; they called the man names which Monk had heard many times on the streets of Dublin, along with some that he'd never heard before. But whether he recognised them or not, none of the words were meant to be complimentary.

Three youths stood by, seemingly his own age, wearing top hats that would seem absurd if it wasn't for their relentless and cruel harassment of the Irish passengers.

Walter was equal parts astounded, dismayed, and infuriated. Was this the Good Lord's blessing? The promised land for any man who wished to toil in a land of opportunity? This was the welcoming party which such a bountiful land saw fit to assemble? It made him want to pull his shillelagh free and lay about all three of those youths. He was seventeen, he had spent almost half his life in scraps and brawls, and he had killed his first foe when he was thirteen. The familiar wrath coursed through his veins as he thought of what his Dadai would have done to these three.

'Would have,' a little voice reminded him, 'but he's no longer around for a reason.'

Instead, Walter stayed his anger, helped the fiddler back to his feet, and walked past the three bullies without so much as a second glance at them. Not even when he sensed that they were mocking him did he pay them further heed. 'If they start chucking stones at me, though, by God...'

Fortunately, they did not see fit to provoke him further than mere words, and Walter could endure that up to a point. But all the same, he was consumed by a quiet and seething anger. Of course America wouldn't be the perfect land of opportunity that the men had said it was. Of course he should have expected the worst. Of course his Da had been right about the world, and what sort of men were fit to live in it.

Beside him, Vallon was more baffled than angry. His face was ashen in colour, even as he glanced back at the now-crippled fiddler, "Holy Jesus... What fresh hell is this?"

Walter spat over the dock into the water, "Can't you tell, Vallon? This is home. Just like I remember it."