New York City, 1832
That night, two Daybreak Boys stood watch over the view of the harbour.
A cargo ship was coming into the harbour. It was smaller than most, possibly a private ship for one rich family. It was these kinds of ships that were most especially preyed upon by the gangs on the docks. For it was these boats, owned by rich men who never spent an hour on deck, that insulted the gangs most of all. They were men who fought and bled for what they earned, they didn't hire other men to do it for them.
One of the watchers drew heavily on a cheap cigar as he glanced at his companion. "When are the rest of the boys coming with the boat?"
"I dunno. Shoulda been here already, but-"
The man suddenly stopped mid-speech as Monk's shillelagh struck him over the head. He collapsed without another sound.
"Jesus fucking-" The first Daybreak Boy had no time to utter anything else, nor had he even finished drawing a knife from his sleeve. The Irish club thudded into his stomach, knocking all the wind from his body.
After that, there was no trouble from either man. Monk bound and gagged both, stopping only to make sure the unconscious man was still breathing. He dragged them into the shadows. Someone would find them eventually, but Monk would be long gone by then.
With that job done, he proceeded further down the harbour, stopping at a dingy little dock which Boyle had told him about.
Priest and the others had already dealt with the raiders. Five of them lay dead, whilst the sixth was held at gunpoint by a jubilant Boyle.
Monk looked at Priest, who held two oars in hand, ready to begin rowing. "Where's McGloin?"
"Off to prepare the decoy," Priest replied. "He told me ten minutes and then the signal would be out. You took care of the watchers?"
"Aye," Monk affirmed. He did not fail to note that the corpses were already shorn of ears. Five of them were dangling from a thread around Priest's neck. The sight of them made him feel sick.
Priest grinned; by his own will or by the will of nightfall, he was ignorant to Monk's antipathy. "Right. Let's get going then."
""* ""**** " " *****" "" "** "*
As McGloin slipped back into the shadows, a warehouse owned by the Swamp Angels was blazing merrily. It wasn't long before dozens of men came running up, abandoning their raid to save merchandise. They started to douse the flames with water and dirt as another went to signal for a fire brigade.
One fire brigade arrived, but could not find the fire hydrant because a representative of another fire brigade on the way had hidden it. Even as the second brigade arrived, the first one was seething with fury and began to start a fight next to the burning building.
Even while all this was going on, one of the Swamp Angels suggested the Daybreak Boys were responsible. Within ten minutes, roars of rage sounded as over a dozen men seized weapons to avenge their lost loot.
Meanwhile, the Daybreak Boys had discovered five of their comrades lying dead with a boat missing. As they went to grab other boats, they found the two watchers who told them what had happened.
With all haste, three boatloads of men were organised to go after the cargo ship. Only one boat managed to set out before the furious Swamp Angels attacked the rest.
As battle was joined on the harbour, the remaining Daybreak Boys paddled with all haste to the cargo ship, but they were far too late. Other men had been aboard and taken the best pickings for themselves.
Just as they were discovering this, Priest leapt from the ship onto their boat. They'd left one man on the boat to keep it in place beside the ship. His cry of alarm never left his throat before it was cut by the young Irishman.
Instead, the men heard a gunshot, which drew them back to their boat. Much to their astonishment, they found their comrade, lying in a pool of his own blood, even as a hole in the boat allowed water to spill into it. The Daybreak Boys were trapped on the cargo ship, utterly baffled by what had just occurred.
"" "" " " " "" " " "" """" """
Monk, Boyle, and McGloin rowed as fast as their muscles allowed. They had moved quickly to loot as much as they could off the ship, anything light that could be carried.
"When do we go back for Priest?" Boyle gasped as he pulled on his oar with both hands.
"We don't," Monk declared through gritted teeth.
"You got a high regard for your boyo," McGloin rasped. "Irish hide don't stop bullets."
"Just keep rowing, you idiots!" Monk was utterly sick of them both, especially McGloin. He'd done nothing but grumble and question everything they'd done.
Boyle was unable to keep his trap shut either. "You two did this in Dublin, then?"
Monk ignored him as he suddenly put down his oars and lit the lamp which they'd stolen from the cargo ship. He held it up just a hand's breadth from the water surface.
McGloin stopped rowing as well. "What're you looking for, Monk?"
"I'm going fishing," Monk answered sarcastically. "What's it fecking look like I'm doing?"
After a moment which seemed like hours to Monk, he could see movement just under the water's surface. 'That better be what I think it is…'
Priest's head burst from the surface, gasping for air like some mad bullock.
Boyle and McGloin jumped in shock, swearing foully and staring at Priest as though he was a ghost.
Monk grinned at their shock. Not that he could blame them; who else in New York could swim so well as Priest?
Soaked and shaking, Priest crawled into the boat. He quickly began undressing, even as Monk threw him several blankets from the ship.
"**"* "* "* "* "*"*" *"* "*"*"*"*" *"*"*"*" *"*"*"* "*""*"* "*"*"
Back on land, far away from the battling Swamp Angels and Daybreak Boys, the four men counted their loot up properly.
"Things are starting to go our way, no?" Priest grinned at Monk as they divided up the spoils. He was wearing fresh clothes that a man on the ship had been wearing, but his damned necklace of ears was back around his neck.
Feeling bitter once again, Monk sat back with a sigh. "Aye, well done to us."
McGloin gave Monk a level look. "Something the matter boyo?"
"Mind your own business," Monk snapped. His hand went down to the handle of his shillelagh.
"Hey now, lads," Boyle protested. "No need for that tone between friends."
"Friends, is it?" McGloin rolled his eyes. "I call no man a friend if he ain't got sand or stomach."
"Stomach for what, exactly?" Monk challenged.
"I still ain't seen you kill," McGloin answered. "Your man's got enough ears for both of you. Is that the way of it, now?"
"Maybe your mother didn't raise you right," Monk retorted, "But my Ma taught me to honour mine enemy. I was taught that I'm being judged by superior beings."
McGloin's face became flushed with rage and hatred. He prepared to stand up, but Boyle stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
The cheerful rogue was more solemn than he'd ever appeared before. "Monk, there's things that we need to do to survive. God can forgive that, surely."
Monk turned his head to the left and spat contemptuously. "I don't need to deface fellow men to survive. My existence doesn't depend on it."
"Take care in saying that later," McGloin replied darkly.
Monk almost laughed in contempt, but checked himself. They were all staring at him now, bereft of any good cheer. And much as Monk disliked these two Roach Guards, he could not make them an enemy. He already had enough enemies in New York City by virtue of his heritage.
Monk made his expression stony and spoke humbly. "I haven't threatened you at all, McGloin. Nor have I insulted the Roach Guards."
McGloin acknowledged that with a dismissive shrug. "So?"
Monk stood up, shillelagh looped in his hand but pointed at the ground, "If deforming a person is the way to show loyalty here then I won't have any part of it."
Priest did a double take, and stood up with him. "What are you saying?"
Monk looked at Priest. "I'm saying that I didn't come all this way just to jump right into the same shit pit that drove me out of Ireland in the first place."
Priest's implacable face softened with surprise and hurt before quickly giving way to rage. "You'd abandon me, then? After everything?"
"I said no such thing, Priest. In fact, seems more like you're the one abandoning me for these Roach Guards."
Boyle's eyes flickered back and forth between the two men, still apprehensive. McGloin was smiling for the first time, and it was even less pleasant than his scowl.
"I'm not the one turning me back," Priest observed grimly.
Monk shook his head. "I'll always remain your friend, Vallon. You'll be welcome to stay with me wherever I stay if I have a say in it, but I'll not follow you down this path. You can tear heads off and destruct the world if you want, but I'm not going to join in."
McGloin and Boyle stood up too, standing beside Priest.
Monk wondered if he was going to be attacked, but he did not raise his shillelagh; he knew Priest would kill these before he killed Monk, even now.
Priest spoke again; his voice was muted with resignation. "So what will you do?"
Monk paused; he had an idea of what he might do, but he did not want to reveal it here. The less that the Roach Guards knew of his plans, the better. "Something else."
Priest didn't press the matter; he knew Monk well enough to know when he was being purposefully reticent. "Right, then."
Monk nodded and bent forward to collect his share.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Monk stopped and looked at McGloin. He straightened up again so that he towered over the belligerent Roach Guard. "You tell me, boyo."
McGloin's jaw was set, and his eyes blazed with mockery. "Not a saint after all, eh? You still taking the money?"
"Money ain't made of ears," Monk pointed out. "I made myself clear." McGloin was unconvinced; he still smirked and folded his arms.
Boyle was another matter. "Fair play, Monk. I'll not say nothing against you, to be sure; you're a staunch man to have in a close spot. Man's still got to make a living in the city. Whatever you decide to do, would you ever consider working with us on another job? Not as one of us, like, but still with us, if you know what I mean."
Monk did know. He wanted to refuse, but he needed the bridge more than he wanted to burn it down. "There's two things that drive men in this world, Boyle. God and money. You can't offer me God."
McGloin spat on the ground. "Just feck off and get on with it. I can only take so much guff from a man."
Monk nodded, "Ay well, I'll let you continue acting the maggot on someone else's time." McGloin, who did not believe he'd been behaving foolishly at all, darkened with anger. Nevertheless, he let Monk go as the young man walked away.
Monk headed back into the Five Points, but he could not take his mind off the look on Priest's face when he'd left. Inwardly, Monk felt torn. Priest had been as good as a brother to him, and whatever they'd said to each other, Monk still felt as though their friendship would never be the same again.
Feeling a tear in his eye, Monk tried to push aside his misery and focus on what he might do instead. He was seventeen, strong, stubborn, and bound by nothing. He did not wish to leave New York yet, not even with the loot he'd earned.
"*"*" *"* "* "* "* " * "* "* " *" *" " * *" * "* " *"*" *"*" *
The sun had already risen when Monk awoke.
He'd walked all the way to a place called Battery Park and climbed into a tree to find somewhere safe from coppers and ruffians. He'd remained hidden from sight, but his body felt utterly sore as he hopped down again. 'Dear God, grant me some kind of sign. I could bloody well use one about now.'
His ragged appearance drew glances aplenty, but none dared to challenge him. His face was contorted with ill-feeling, and his brawny hand gripped the handle of his shillelagh.
As he walked through the city, he found himself drifting back to the Five Points, where nobody looked twice at him. He thought of offering his services to the pub where Maggie worked, but he recalled how Maggie had looked at him when they'd last parted ways. He also recalled what she'd said about her father. 'She's for the Roach Guards, she is.'
Instead, he walked on until he was back in that most sordid corner of the great city. His nose wrinkled at the smells, and the sight of gangs strolling about filled him with loathing.
That was when he saw his salvation.
The building was no less cluttered-looking than all the rest, but it had been built on what appeared to be some sort of rocky outcrop. The structure was no taller than the others; it had one solitary storey which just happened to reach in line with other buildings' second storeys. In front was a freshly painted sign which read "Barber."