The Five Points, 1832

As they walked away from the blue-clad gang members, Monk turned to look at Priest. "Feck's going on around here?"

Priest's face was still tense, but he put his arm around Monk's broad shoulder. "Put your trust in God, Monk. We'll get through yet."

Monk shook his head. "Leave God out of this. God didn't make New York City, that's clear enough to me!"

Priest gave a short laugh. "That sounds perilously close to blasphemy, old friend."

"Oy! Who are you two?"

A scruffy man around Monk's age was leaning against an iron rail discoloured with rust, watching them as he held a crudely carved wooden pipe to his lips.

"Who's asking?" Monk frowned at the man, still holding his shillelagh in hand.

Monk had always been husky, but now, at seventeen, he stood over six feet tall, taller than his own father had ever achieved. His strength was clearly to be seen through his broad shoulders, his brawny arms, and his hard-set jaw. His nose had been broken in fights and reset, while his shillelagh was more dangerous-looking than any ordinary club.

Beside him, Priest was slimmer, but stood even taller than Monk. If Monk was a barrel, then Priest was a pillar. Even when it was just the two of them, their stance was enough to cause most men to hesitate crossing them.

The man who had called out to them was neither tall nor strapping. Nor was he intimidated by Monk's glare. As he drew breath through his pipe, he lifted up his other hand to show a pale palm outward in token of peace.

"Connor Boyle's asking," he answered through a mouthful of smoke. "So you'll be fresh off the boat, then? Ain't nobody else would challenge half a dozen Empire Guards like you just did."

The fact that he was so quick to identify them as newcomers, in such an amused voice, made Monk feel an immediate dislike for the scruffy man.

As his hackles rose, he spoke up in a challenging tone. "Aye, from Dublin. That means we ain't a pair of bogtrotters." Bogtrotter was slang for a country bumpkin, and Monk was baiting Boyle intentionally, for the young man's tongue and behaviour clearly showed he was from the countryside of Ireland.

If Boyle was offended, he didn't show it. Instead, he smiled at Monk, "A fine slagger you are, sir." A slagger was a man who made jokes good-naturedly. Both Monk and Priest could hear the sarcasm in Boyle's voice.

"Pay him no mind," Priest interjected with his curt smile. "He's had a long day."

Boyle knocked the ashes of his pipe on the wooden railing before stepping towards them. "Before you tell a culchie like me to feck off, would you consider shaking me hand and giving your names?"

Bemused, Monk and Priest exchanged a glance. Monk was of no mind to be generous, but Priest was already turning back to Boyle.

He gripped Boyle's outstretched hand and shook it. "Start by calling me Priest. And call that one Monk."

Boyle's grin widened, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. "Well well! Even men of the cloth carry weapons in the Five Points!"

"Bold words for a man who walks unarmed," Priest retorted good-naturedly as he released Boyle's hand.

"Who says I'm unarmed?" Boyle tipped Priest a wink as he put his pipe into his pocket. "But allow me to congratulate you fellow. It ain't every day that those boyos leave two uppity Irishman standing."

Priest smirked. "Do you know anybody that would hire two uppity Irishmen?"

Connor grinned. "I was beginning to wonder when we got to that. Follow me."

He turned and headed off into the crowd. Monk wasn't surprised; he had guessed that the young man wouldn't have come to them had he not been looking for recruits.

Priest struck him suddenly on the shoulder, prompting him to lumber after Boyle.

As they walked, Priest shot Monk a stern glance. "Let that lad be, Monk! He's done you no harm."

Monk shrugged sourly, "Sure enough, but he's a proper little culchie. A damn near savage by the looks of him. And I really don't like this whole thing about the gangs, Vallon." He disliked using the name that Priest had earned on the streets of Dublin.

Priest stared at him. "What? Come now, Monk, this isn't a gang he's taking us to."

Monk grimaced, "Want to wager the last of your ha'pennies on that?" Priest rolled his eyes, but gave no answer.

Monk and Priest followed Boyle into a large building made of old red bricks. Everywhere Monk looked, there were Irish people involved in some kind of activity. Monk almost felt homesick listening to the men, women, and children speaking in thick Irish brogue.

It was clear that Priest felt the same way; in a choked voice, he asked Boyle, "How many are here?"

Boyle shrugged, "I couldnae tell you, Priest."

They went into a small room which, unlike every other room they had passed by, was not crowded with people. Instead, a group of three men were seated around a small table, counting up coins that glinted in the candlelight.

Jack spoke to them swiftly in Gaeilge. "Two new lads, Priest and Monk, off the boat looking for jobs."

The biggest of the men looked up, and Monk almost stepped backward in shock. The man's rugged features and scraggly beard reminded Monk of his father, Tadgh. It was not so much a resemblance of appearance, but rather his spirit. This man was at least ten or fifteen years older than Tadgh had ever been.

The man spoke in an accent that suggested he was from the Ulster region up in the north of Ireland, "So? Boyle here has a high opinion of you lads. What's this about employment?"

Priest nodded, "We're wondering if there's anything we could do in your establishment."

The man smiled at the nicknames, "Establishment? Is that what they're calling it back home?" His two friends snickered.

Monk grimaced, but said nothing.

After his moment of amusement, the man introduced himself, "Well, Priest, you can call me the Captain. But what can two holy brothers such as yourselves do for the Roach Guards?"

Monk felt disgusted. It was just like this back in Dublin; an initiation that you had to do in order to secure their trust before taking you on. Service in exchange for protection.

Priest smiled. "I'll make you fifty dollars by tomorrow."

Boyle did a double take, staring wide-eyed at Priest. The Captain folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "You get no credit for being cocksure here."

"It ain't cocksure if it's true," Priest retorted.

The Captain gave a humourless laugh. "Oh aye? And how're you going to do that?"

"That's my business. All you need to know is that Monk and I will do it."

Monk looked at Priest blankly. Partly he was thinking of their old business in Dublin, and how they had always made a surefire profit, but on the other hand, he wasn't sure if he wanted to do this. He had come to America to escape this life; isn't that why men and women risked their lives to travel across the see to this place? Why else would they have come?

The Captain spoke again. "Fifty dollars then, gents. Tomorrow. But I'm raising the stakes here now. I want three ears from each of you."

Monk shuddered. Brutal fucking system down here. Even the hardiest of Dublin gangs never asked for ears. They treated their dead with a tad more goddamn respect that cutting off their fucking ears.

Priest looked astonished too, but hid it immediately, "One for each man?"

The three men laughed, and Connor Boyle, standing by the door, added, "Aye. One per man."

Priest nodded. "I assume we're taking one of your men along as a witness?"

The Captain smirked, "You saying I can't trust your word?"

"I just figured you trusted your own men more than me," Priest replied. "And I'm going to see to it that your trust in me is earned."

Monk sighed. Priest might be a man who saw no qualms with fighting, but he had always stood apart from ordinary men. He'd seen it in Priest ever since the day they'd met, when he'd attacked his friend for bullying Monk. He'd taken Monk under his wing all those years, as had his father…

He was still ruminating on his past when the Captain spoke up again. "Boyle's vouching for you both, so he'll come with you. I'll also send another lad with him."

Monk spoke up, the first time he had done so. "In that case, send your lads to meet us at sunset. We'll be at Finnegan's Pub on Pearl Street."

The Captain nodded, "Very well."

Priest had looked at Monk in surprise, and when they were back outside, he muttered, "What was that all about?"

Monk spoke up, "I don't trust them, Vallon. This is bloody worse than what we left behind. Cutting off ears? Feck's sake!"

Priest sighed. "Such is the way of the world."

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

Maggie was still there when they got back. She cocked her head to the side as they approached her. "Any luck?"

Monk nodded to her in a wordless greeting as Priest explained what had happened.

"You spoke with the Captain?" Maggie's eyes were wide as she interrupted Priest during his account.

"Just so," Priest answered patiently. "If I may ask, what do you know about the Captain?"

"I know his right name is Ted Roach," Maggie answered. "He started the Roach Guards about ten years ago when I was a bairn. I don't know much about his business, but my Da was a member of the Roach Guards."

"Is that so?" Priest raised an eyebrow. "What happened to him, if I may ask?"

"The Empire Guards happened," Maggie replied tersely.

Priest sighed. "Aye, you and Monk have that in common. His Da was killed by Protestant sentimentalists too."

Maggie glanced at Monk, who simply felt uncomfortable at this attention. He didn't know what to say, or even how to react.

Thankfully, Maggie did not linger on the subject any longer than Monk wished. She turned back to Priest. "The Captain doesn't see just anyone. How'd you manage that?"

"Someone named Connor Boyle," Priest answered. He spoke of their showdown with the Empire Guards, and how Connor had witnessed it and approached them soon afterwards.

Maggie gave a short laugh, but her words were spoken in admiration rather than ridicule. "You lads are lucky that you've got all that brawn to make up for no brains. Is every man in Dublin as mad as you?"

"Maybe they are," Monk retorted, "else why did we lose our home to the Brits in the first place?"

His remark was a bitter one, and it served to sour Maggie's mirth as well. She got them a table outside the pub, where they sat and waited for sunset.

As they waited, Maggie stopped by their table with a few curious questions. "So, you're going to go raid ships?"

Priest grinned. "Aye, that was our specialty in Dublin."

Maggie sighed, "Just so you lads know, this aint the bloody Liffey, this is the New York harbour. It's different here."

"Sure, we've been figuring that out for ourselves," Monk growled resentfully.

Maggie folded her arms. "You been here for less than a day, you think there isn't anything more to learn?"

"He never said that," Priest intervened once again. "Take no offense of his demeanour, Maggie. What is it that we need to know about the waterfront?"

"First off, there's the Swamp Angels," Maggie answered. "Second off, there's the Daybreak Boys. They both claim the harbour for their own, and they got no problem milling over their claim."

"Milling?" Monk hadn't heard that term before.

"Fighting, scrapping, killing," Maggie snapped, flashing him an unfriendly glance. "Back to the land of the living, are we?"

Monk bit back his own temper; he recognised far too much of his own father in this anger, and he was determined to keep it at bay.

"Forgive me," he said humbly. "I wasn't listening before, but I'm listening now."

Maggie did not soften her stance, but nor did she lash out at him a second time. Instead, she returned to the topic at hand. "Point is, you'll be walking into a battlefield and stealing from both sides. Don't treat it like some jaunty rig, else you'll get your throats cut soon enough."

"Wise words," Priest reflected sagely. He gave Maggie a nod of his head. "Whatever we earn for ourselves, mayhaps we can give you a piece of it with our gratitude?"

Maggie smirked. "Come back in one piece, first, then we'll talk further."

She turned and went away to deal with some other customers. Monk nodded to her out of politeness, but she did not so much as meet his eyes. Monk silently fumed over how badly this interaction had gone, nursing his injured pride.

As she sauntered off, he saw Priest giving him an exasperated look. "What am I going to do with you, eh? You going to pick a fight with everyone in New York?"

"Piss thy britches," Monk snapped bad-temperedly.

Priest rubbed his forehead with two fingers. "Monk, you really need to brush that damn chip off your shoulder! This ain't what we wanted, I grant you, but moaning over it won't do you any good!"

"I don't have to stay here, do I?" Monk couldn't resist continuing the fight, even though he hated clashing with Priest. Without his friend, Monk would be utterly alone in a city which disgusted him, but which also terrified him.

Priest frowned. "What are you suggesting?"

"We could find passage on another ship," Monk insisted. "We can go somewhere else."

"Where?" Priest held out his hands. "Where can we possibly go that we won't face this same trouble? America was the promised land, you said so yourself."

"They lied to us," Monk retorted defensively. "They lied to our faces, just look all around you?"

"Aye, I won't dispute that," Priest agreed. "But I'm not ready to walk away yet."

Monk sighed, but he said no more on the matter. Nor did Priest. The two young men sat ill at ease on their chairs, going over their plan whilst watching others walk past them on foot, as well as the carriages which were pulled along by large horses.

When the sun's trajectory took it beneath the buildings around them, Connor Boyle strolled towards Finnegan's as if he was meeting a friend for supper. He was also accompanied by a short, powerfully built man that looked to be older than Priest by a few years. His hair was cropped close to his skull, and he was closely clean-shaven.

Monk looked at the second man with a wary gaze. There was no friendliness in that ugly face; he wondered if the Captain had sent him along to be an assassin if Priest and Monk proved treacherous. 'No matter, even if he did. We can take this little bastard between us if it comes to that.'

Boyle was chipper as ever when he saw them sitting at their table. He took their hands, pumping them up and down cheerfully. "Fancy seeing you boyos here again!" He grinned and pointed at his companion. "This here's McGloin. He'll be joining us tonight."

McGloin did not offer his hand to shake, nor did he lighten his disposition. His dark eyes looked suspicious as they flicked from Monk to Priest and back.

Priest, as usual, was far more open to introductions. He personally got up and pushed two chairs to their table. Once McGloin and Boyle were seated, Priest began to explain the plan that he and Monk were concocting. Boyle was happy to provide extra information on the nature of New York's waterfront, offering suggestions to improve their plan.

Monk kept his own counsel as Priest spoke. He had never possessed Priest's natural charisma, and it served him to keep quiet if he had nothing to contribute. Boyle was another such man as Priest, whilst McGloin appeared to be more in line with Monk. 'Is that what the Captain was thinking? Sending Boyle to deal with Priest and McGloin to match me?'

When Priest was finished outlining his plan, he asked them if they had questions. McGloin chose that moment to speak for the first time.

"You promised fifty dollars to the Captain. You promised to do it yourselves." His accent was even thicker than Jack's and Monk wondered if any non-Irishers could understand him.

"Aye, and fifty dollars he shall have. The Captain never said we couldn't make use of you two. Or were you just going to stand about watch?" Priest spoke amiably, just like Boyle would have done, but Monk couldn't help but place one hand on his shillelagh in case McGloin took offense.

Although he remained seated, McGloin frowned darkly. "You speak as if we're gonna help you. Why don't we just do this ourselves, then?"

Priest smiled. "Oh, I think you'll appreciate working with us on this. We've got some tricks up our sleeve."