New York, 1832

After almost a month on the cold Atlantic, New York City felt like some kind of Elysium to Monk and Priest as they drank in the sights around them.

When they'd left Dublin, they had worn thick woolen coats which proved useful on the voyage. Whether it was because Dublin had a cooler climate than New York, or they had become so adjusted to the Atlantic weather, their coats were soon draped over their arms.

'I thought Dublin was big enough for any man,' Monk thought foolishly to himself as they left the water behind and disappeared into a veritable forest of buildings. Pathways cut through the urban jungle, wide and narrow alike. It seemed as though the city went on forever, whatever direction they chose.

All day, the two of them were lost in the sights as their feet took them onward. Carriages sped past them on the main roads, and countless others strode along on foot.

Despite his admiration of the sights, Monk kept a firm grip on the bag that held his shillelagh. After the encounter on the dock, he no longer trusted his dreams of New York. For his part, Priest kept several daggers hidden in his coat, which was dangling from one arm. Although the young Irishman strolled about with a casual sort of grace, Monk could tell that Priest was holding one of those daggers ready in his concealed hand.

They spied a small pub that looked remarkably Irish. They shouldered their way through the streets to get to it. Monk's mouth watered as he smelled food from inside. He was glad that it was not Lent; he was hungry enough to eat a whole cow.

A girl stood behind the bar. She was a short and lithe figure, with a mess of black hair which tumbled down to her shoulders.

"Can I help you two gentlemen today?" Despite her sweet-sounding voice, honeyed by an Irish accent, it was clear that she was not as dainty as she seemed. Monk reckoned that any girl who worked in a place like this would need to defend herself, and he had no wish to provoke her.

He kept his voice low and polite as he bobbed his head. "Good evening. We're looking for something to eat."

"You found something, alright," the lass answered, "but it takes more than wishing."

Priest spoke up, "Never you mind about that, now. We'll have two bowls of Irish stew, and a good round of coddle."

Monk's mouth began to water at the mere thought of coddle. It was his favourite dish, made up of pork sausage and potato, with a good helping of sliced onions and herbs.

The girl narrowed her eyes mischievously at the mention of coddle, "Ah, two Dubliners fresh from the harbour, is it?"

Monk grinned, "Aye, lass. Just so."

The girl jerked her head towards an empty table by the window, "Take a seat, lads."

They sat down with a collective sigh and gazed out of the window, watching the people go by. Neither spoke for a while, each lost in their thoughts.

Monk suddenly leaned forward towards Priest, "By the way, how much money do we really have?"

Vallon shrugged, "I was wondering that myself."

Monk sighed, "Well, we'll have to make do with the farthings and ha'pennies we got, I suppose, but I don't know how much that amounts to in American. What do you even call their money here?"

"Dollars," Vallon answered. Monk felt like laughing at the odd word.

It was then that he noticed a group of men in top hats walking down the street. One was an older man, paunchy and morose-looking. Despite that, he walked in a way that signified power and influence. Behind him were several men who flanked him or else walked behind him. Their ages were varied, but Monk could tell that they deferred to the old man.

Monk's eye caught on to a young man not too far from his leader's side. Based on features, Monk thought the youth was his own age. His face was turned away from the window, but there was a malevolent ferocity to his being. Monk's hand strayed towards his shillelagh, as though expecting the teenager to pull his knife from his belt and fight Monk here and now. 'He can't even see you, you bloody idiot,' he thought to himself.

Vallon noticed Monk's movement, "What's going on with you?"

Monk grimaced, "I don't like that one there. See him?"

Vallon followed his friend's gaze and nodded after a pause, "You're right. I have a bad feeling about that boyo."

The young man turned to laugh at something one of the others said, and for the first time, his face was fully exposed to the two Irishmen watching him from the window.

Monk suddenly clasped a hand to his forehead, "My God! He was at the dock! He struck the fiddler on his fingers."

Vallon did a double-take and stared balefully out the window, "The slimy little bastard!"

Monk was ready to add more curses, but suddenly the girl appeared beside him, balancing bowls of coddle and Irish stew. The serving girl smiled at the young men as she placed their food on the table, "There we are!"

Monk looked up hesitantly, "Begging your pardon, lass, but can we pay in farthings?"

The girl adopted a look of mock exasperation, "Oh? And how could I trust ye not to cheat me, sirs?"

Monk hastily put a hand in his pocket, "Ach, look you tell us how many farthings go into a dollar, and the like."

The girl suddenly smiled mischievously, "So you'd trust a pretty face to give you the honest answer?"

Monk smiled back, "The Good Lord wouldn't be so unkind to a pair of poor bastards such as us in America."

The girl laughed, then held out a hand. "Give me ten farthings and I'll let you keep the rest. I can see you're going to need it."

Monk's mirth suddenly faltered as he remembered the dangerous-looking men who'd just walked by, "Aye. I think we will."

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

It was the best meal that Monk had eaten since he'd left home. Mixed among the sausage were strips of bacon. The meat and potatoes were soft and abundant with flavour, like his mother had made them. He felt a tear in his eye when he ate the last bite.

Priest sat across from Monk, doing all he could to eat every morsel of food just shy of licking the plate. Neither man said a word to each other, for there was nothing that needed to be said.

The girl came back to collect their empty plates. If she noticed their heightened sentiments, she pretended otherwise.

Monk looked up at her as she was about to leave. "Tell me, lass, do you know-"

"Will ye stop callin' me that? I've got a name for feck's sake!"

Monk flinched in surprise at the interruption and the cursing, even as the serving girl shook her head in contempt.

Priest, meanwhile, was smiling. "What might we call you, then?"

The girl turned to look at him. "Name's Maggie Farrell. Do either of you have a name?"

Monk inclined his head, "Walter McGinn, and this here is Liam Vallon."

Priest also nodded his head respectfully before leaning forward. Such was his height that he could almost look Maggie in the eye when he straightened his back. "Where would you say is a good place for us to make our own luck in this new country?"

Maggie shrugged. "Well, if you want to start from the bottom up, there's the Five Points."

"And where's that?"

She pointed northwards. "You'll get to Cross Street as you go that way, and then you'll find the Five Points. Can't miss it from there."

Priest collected his coat, draped it back over his arm, and got up. "Our thanks, Maggie. We'll not forget this."

The two headed off towards the Five Points. As they went on, they could tell that things seemed to get worse the closer they got to the Five Points. The streets and buildings became less well-kept. Cobblestones turned into mud, and the people became more ragged-looking, with hungrier eyes that flashed at them. Much

Monk looked at Priest, "Weapons out, you reckon?" Priest gave a curt nod.

Monk pulled out his shillelagh, putting his hand through the loop and gripping the handle in his strong fingers. He also glanced down at the seven notches he'd cut into it. They were lined up in a row like soldiers on a parade ground, right along the center of the club. Monk made the sign of the cross instinctively as he thought of his father.

Tadgh would have been livid if he'd lived to see his son cut notches into the shillelagh which he'd spent so long crafting. He would also have laughed at the reason why Monk did it.

The two Irishmen walked into the Five Points after another passage of time, wading through crowds and looking for street names. The sight they beheld was beyond even their low expectations.

Animals were almost as common as people in the area. The houses were rickety for the most part, and while some lucky ones were made of stone, they were scarce indeed. The great square was full of people and fenced off in different places.

It was the people that made it the most unappealing. Their eyes were sunken, their bodies malnourished for the most part. Their presence brought back images of the Dublin streets to Monk. He shuddered; had he left the stew pot and fallen into the fire?

One thing he also noticed was the fact that the people were a mix of white, black, and more besides. True, they often seemed to be keeping to themselves, but Monk still hadn't seen such diverse assembly before.

He held his shillelagh ready as he walked down the street. Alleyways leaned out, daring any foolish lad to enter where thieves and cutthroats lurked. Priest and Monk were both well accustomed to such suspicious places. Trying not to breathe through their noses, they walked around, looking for an opportunity.

Suddenly Priest bumped into a group of men. Like the men in top hats, they appeared to be a gang of sorts. They wore similar looking clothes, with blue bandanas tied over their foreheads.

They turned around aggressively, staring at the tall, strong Irishman with a drawn dagger in his hand.

One of the men, older than the others, glared at Priest, "Watch where you're going, you godless mick!"

Priest straightened his back and smiled dangerously, "No need for that language, sir."

The Americans paused; clearly nobody ever had the sand to talk back to their leader. Priest, Monk knew, never treated anyone different unless he had seen for himself that they were worthy of respect. It had often gotten him in trouble.

Monk was glad he had pulled out his shillelagh. He hefted it daringly, prepared to help his friend.

The older man shook his head contemptuously. "Piece of work, the two of you. Must be right off the boat."

One of his lackeys stepped forward and spat. "More fresh beggars."

Monk growled, even as Priest stiffened beside him. They were angry, but also outnumbered in a strange place. So they did nothing in response to the insults. Monk did not even wipe the spittle from his shoe.

The older man smirked, "Here's some advice for you two. Get out of the Five Points and go back to your filthy country. We don't like the vermin crawling around in the open."

Monk knew they had been given a reprieve and they should take it while they could.

Monk led Priest away but not before Priest uttered a threat. "The rats can rise up and overwhelm the pig, so they can." With that, he turned to follow Monk as they went deeper into the Points.