But it turns out that nobody goes nowhere, for from the far end of Crane’s Wharf comes the cry, A ship! A big one! Coming in!
I rush out to look . . . Oh, Glory! It’s the Lorelei Lee!
The onshore wind that had helped fan the flames that spelled destruction for poor Mr. Woolsey’s warehouse, also helps the Lee warp straight into her berth at Long Wharf. Lines are tossed over, and neat as you please, she is tied up and the gangway comes down.
“Hooray!” I shout as I pound down the wharf to the gangway. Oh, there’s my lovely figurehead and there’s Liam Delaney as Captain on the quarterdeck, and . . . Oh yes! Ian McConnaughey is lookin’ all straight and strong and grinnin’ at me for all he’s worth as I run up the gangway and see . . . Yes! A mop of red hair! Mairead! And then I throw myself on Liam’s chest and cry, “Oh, Father, I am so glad you are here,” and he hugs me to him and then he pushes me away.
Wot?
“We got trouble, Jacky,” is what he says, and from behind me I hear . . .
“You Sons and Daughters of Boston!”
I turn to see Captain Warren standing atop his fire wagon, his speaking trumpet to his lips, exhorting the crowd.
“Here is yet another boatload of the Irish scum! At least six hundred pigs and sows of the lowest order of humanity! Shall we show them just how welcome they are here in our fine city?”
There is a roar from the mob on the pier, and stones are picked up and thrown as the first passenger, a young woman with a shawl about her head and shoulders and holding an infant to her chest, comes down the gangway. She smiles hopefully, in joyful anticipation of seeing her husband and the father of her child, but instead she takes a stone on the side of her face and falls to her knees, curling into a ball to shelter her baby from any more rocks.
The second woman down the gangway is Mairead Delaney McConnaughey, with a curse on her lips and a belaying pin in her right hand.
“Get off, you miserable bastards,” she cries as she brings her pin down on a nearby head. “Or you’ll find what messin’ with the Irish is like!” The man falls and she whips around to strike at another.
The third woman down the gangway is me, and I have picked up my own belaying pin and am flailing around in a state of blind rage. Through my anger, I have sense enough to call out to Arthur McBride, “Arthur! Gather the lads! All of them!”
But I needn’t have said that as I see Molly Malone astride the Shamrock Pump clanging the bell for all she is worth—clang, clang, clang, clang! There are sets of four rings, repeated over and over, the signal for the Irish to gather.
And gather they do.
From every millpond, from every gravel pit, from every ropewalk, from every workplace and common yard they come, swarming over Beacon Hill, over the Common, and down to the docks, some still carrying their pickaxes and hammers, some with their shillelaghs. And when they get to the wharf and hear the cries of their women, they wade right into the fight with grim determination.
It is plain that Captain Warren and the Sons of Boston have their own signals, and soon masses of men come from other sections of the city and the battle rages for real. Heads are cracked, blood is spilled, and men lie motionless on the ground.
I pull out my shiv and look about for a target worthy of its steel, as I am beyond all rational thought and only seek to destroy my enemies and grind them beneath my heel. The blood lust is up in me and what I want is blood, and the blood I want is that of Pigger O’Toole, and I want it so bad I can taste it.
Of course, that cowardly bastard is nowhere to be seen, leaving the fight to his minions, and so I go to look for lesser prey. I spy Captain Warren standing on his pump, calling encouragement to his troops through his speaking trumpet, and I crawl up behind him.
“For the purity of our race! For future generations of true Americans!” he is shouting. “For those yet unborn—”
That’s as far as he gets as I leap upon him and place my forefinger in his right nostril and my middle finger in his left nostril, pull back his head, wrap my legs around his middle, put my shiv across his throat and hiss, “Call off your dogs, man, or you’ll be whistling ‘Yankee Doodle’ through the stump of your neck.”
He stiffens, considers his position, then calls out, “That’s enough for now, Sons of Boston. We’ll fight again another day!”
As the battle subsides, I whisper in his ear, “Stay out of my turf, Warren, or you will regret it!”
With that, I draw my shiv across his throat—he gasps—but I do not go deep, merely a thin line of blood is what appears. Then I release him and jump down off the wagon.
I note when I hit the ground that the danger of the day is not yet over. The breeze is still kicking up and embers from the fire are blowing over the Lorelei Lee.
Alarmed I call out, “Liam! Man the pumps. Watch out for fires!”
But I do not have to order that, for it has already been done. Arthur McBride, too, has taken his fire pump to the side of the Lee and is dousing any glowing sparks that might appear.
In spite of Warren’s call for the withdrawal of his forces, fights still rage on the wharf, mainly between the outraged Irish and Pigger’s minions . . . and one minion in particular is still out for mischief . . .
It is Pyro Johnny. Not satisfied with the spectacle of the burning warehouse, he has picked up a torch from the mass of glowing embers that were once a building and is advancing on the Lee, his face glowing with a demonic light and his intention being to throw that burning log into the now slack, and very dry, after sail. If he succeeds, it could get down to the powder magazine. Oh, Lord, no!
But I needn’t have worried. As Pyro Johnny pulls back his arm and prepares to throw the torch, the Hunchback steps out of the shadows and brings his staff across the back of Johnny’s head. The little man pitches to the ground, dropping his clutch of burning sticks. He groans and attempts to get up, but the Hunchback puts his heel on Johnny’s neck and holds him face-down on the ground.
He then reaches over and pulls down Pyro Johnny’s pants and then picks up the torch and shoves it down the back of his pants. Then, very deliberately, he pulls the trousers back up and removes his foot from Johnny’s neck.
Johnny screams and lurches up. He swats at the awful load in his pants and then takes the best way out. He runs to the side of the pier and launches himself over into the cooling waters. I believe I hear a faint hisssssing.
Before he can be thanked for his action, the Hunchback has disappeared.
Seeing a path open to the gangway, I once again climb onto the deck of the Lorelei Lee and who do I see standing there but . . .
Higgins!
I go up and leap upon him, crying, “Oh, Higgins, I have missed you so much! I am in such trouble and everything is going wrong! Joannie and Ravi are in the chokey, and I’ve messed everything up. Amy hates me and I’ve blown all my money and, and . . . Jaimy’s supposed to meet me here, but he hasn’t shown up. No, he hasn’t! And I’ve been called an unfit mother and worse! And, and oh, just hold me, Higgins, and make everything better!”
“There, there, Miss,” he says, patting my shaking shoulders. “We shall see what can be done . . .”
Chapter 32
The day after the big riot, we hold a council of war in the main cabin of the Lorelei Lee. Seven of us are there: Captain Liam Delaney, Mairead and Ian McConnaughey, Arthur McBride, John Higgins, Ezra Pickering, and myself. It being a breakfast meeting, coffee and cakes are served all around.
The passengers, a great many of them women and children, had been debarked after the great battle, and the reunion of families, when finally accomplished, was a joy to witness. McBride’s Irish warriors formed a gauntlet leading off the ship and into the town to protect the girls, women, and boys from any of the mob that might still have some meanness and fight left in them. Eventually, all made it to the lodgings that were waiting for them. Many a poor workman’s lonely bed was made much warmer last night.
“As Clerk and Chief Counsel of Faber Shipping, I must advise that, for their own safety, we cease the further importation of Irish immigrants,” Mr. Pickering says. “This town is on the verge of major anarchy, as you plainly saw yesterday.”
I see heads nodding in agreement, John Higgins’s being one of them, but First Mate Ian McConnaughey demurs. “We’ve already signed up another four hundred for the next trip. Most have paid and will be very disappointed, not to say angry, if we do not hold up our end of the bargain.” His wife, Mairead, dear friend to me and daughter to Liam Delaney, nods at that. She is the Matron of Women on the Lorelei and knows well the anguish of wives, sweethearts, and families torn apart by poverty and desperation.
“I’ve got two hundred brave Irish lads, each with his own cudgel,” announces the hotheaded Arthur McBride, arms crossed and looking resolute. “We can protect our own.”
“You can protect them from low-born thugs and scoundrels as you amply demonstrated yesterday,” says Ezra. “But you cannot protect them from the Law, which is currently in the corrupt hands of Constable Wiggins and the unfriendly court of Judge Hiram Thwackham, who is definitely not known to be a lover of the Irish.”
I heave a great sigh and say, “’Tis true. You saw yesterday how that lunatic Pyro Johnny tried to set afire the Lee with over four hundred people aboard, and that pig Wiggins just stood by and let it happen. And is Pyro now in jail, waiting to be hanged? No, he is not.”
“Aye,” says Liam. “I shudder to think what could have happened if a fire had started up on the fo’c’s’le.”
“If I might make a suggestion,” ventures Faber Shipping’s First Vice President John Higgins, my great friend and protector, and all eyes turn to him. “Perhaps the Lorelei Lee could carry the next load of passengers to New York instead of Boston? They might be more welcome there.”
Ezra puts his hand to his chin and considers. “A good thought, John. I have read recently that the city is draining a swamp at a place called Five Points and that workers are needed. Our people might be received more warmly there.”
“But what of the wives and sweethearts who have come over to join their loved ones in Boston?” asks Mairead. “What will happen when those poor souls land all alone in New York?”
I think on this and say, “To those wanting to come on to Boston, we’ll issue them enough money for coach and lodging, the cost of which will be borne by Faber Shipping. Nothing shall be added to the terms of their indenture. That way they will come into Boston gradually and not be noticed.”
Nods all around on that.
“So it’s decided,” I announce. “The Lee will go back to Waterford to pick up the passengers for which she is contracted. She will proceed to New York City, debark them, and then she will set sail for Burma and load a cargo of spices, silks, and whatever else the Orient has to offer. I will give you a letter to the House of Chen and I am sure Chopstick Charlie will provide us with everything we need in the way of commerce.”
And, maybe I will find out just where in hell you are, James Fletcher!