“We love ya!” A lone woman’s voice echoes from an unseen tenement window and falls all round Dinny, who leads the way.
“Clouts for touts!” A boy yells out. “Give that begrudgin’ Lovett what he deserves!”
“Fist to fist, no one can beat the King o’ Irishtown!”
The voices gather as we turn on Myrtle Avenue under the elevated train, but every time I hear how unbeatable Dinny Meehan is, my stomach churns.
“They’ll never rid the world o’ our like,” another voice yells, but that turns my stomach too.
“What is right can never be forgotten! Remember!” Someone yells.
To the right is Fort Greene Park. In the 1840s it was Walter Whitman’s doing. He had argued for more parks in Brooklyn to break the oncoming industrial revolution. The great monument to the Prison Ship Martyrs towers high above the park’s treeline and over the crypt of some 12,000 Americans who died during the Revolutionary War in America. The prisoners were put on ships out in Wallabout Bay by British command and left in horrific conditions to die of starvation and disease on board.
“They let them starve too,” The Lark mumbles.
Red takes up the claim, “They sent the Irish to the roads. Evicted us durin’ winter where we died in the hundreds o’ thousands.”
The chants become dense and boom out as the rain thickens and the clouds bend low down into our midst. The streets are cleared for our coming and every window is open with three heads sticking out of each to see the old Irish clans take Brooklyn again through the fog.
In one window I see myself again. Rather, the old man I am to become. He smiles again, proudly.
I must be psychopathic. There must be something terribly wrong with me. How could Biddy call that a gift? I don’t want to crossover to that world. I’ll never make it back whole.
“He’s never lost a fight in his life!” The Swede raises his lone strong arm, and yet again my stomach flips in anticipation.
Nothing is never.
The Swede then bends to kiss the top of Helen Finnigan’s blond head, who holds hands with their child. A tear falls from his eye as he focuses attention on the little dote. Soon enough the child is on his shoulders with a bird’s eye view of the current of people striding the streets. On this day no one seems to shame the Finnigan family. On this day we are one family, even when it means the notion of family is stretched so wide that it spans into the forbidden.
From the north the crowd turns right on Irving Place. Up ahead a collection of empty lots appear where three buildings had collapsed, though they were only partially cleared as nature has worked her will upon the area to turn the wreckage into a misshapen clearing. It is the only open area in what was once the empty farmland of the Jackson family. The dirt is soft and lumpy and a growth of weeds have overtaken the ruin of rotted wood frames and joists and roof trusses and rafters that linger just below the patchy grass. An old barn door lies flat against a thicket of grass with its rusted handle still intact and the impression of motorcar tires leave circular holes in the overgrowth.
With handfuls of cash, Chisel McGuire breaks out into song, his voice strong and supple.
’Tis many long years since I saw the moon beamin’
On strong manly forms, on eyes with hope gleamin’
I see them again, sure, in all my sad dreamin’
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men.
Soon the crowd takes it up and away, and the dewey morning air is celebrated as a blessing and a reminder of the old world.
Some died by the glen side, some died near a stranger
And wise men have told us their cause was a failure
But they fought for ol’ Ireland an’ never feared danger
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men
The brave Johanna, wife of Cinders Connolly and their four children have joined him now too. Her mission was a dangerous one and she only escaped by the black of her nail. More dangerous than we imagined, but she came out true and gave us the facts of Patrolman Daniel Culkin and escaped unharmed.
Dago Tom’s family as well is here. And Dance Gillen has a wife and child too that I meet for the first time, as well as Beat McGarry’s grandchildren and many more. Even the silently devout whiskey drunk Ragtime Howard is here alongside his personal priest, the tender at the Dock Loaders’ Club, Paddy Keenan. But Sadie and L’il Dinny are missing, which leaves a great void in the morning’s fight.
I passed on my way, God be praised that I met her
Be life long or short, sure I'll never forget her
We may have brave men, but we'll never have better
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men
From the east we see a gang of men walk toward us of about forty. Henry Browne walks ahead to meet them. The man who Henry shakes a hand with first is the pock-marked Thos Carmody. The ILA union recruiter who hired my uncle Joseph to bring Brooklyn under their banner no longer hides his face under a collar. Instead his posture is proper and proud and his health seems to have improved, his confidence returned. By his side are fifty or so other ILA men including the dog-faced King Joe Ryan.
“There he is, the fookin’ coward,” Cinders says with a nod toward Quick Thos. “Won’t walk wit’ us, but sidles in afterward. They won’t pick a side, either. They said they’d make their appearance, then go so as not show favoritism. When Dinny wins, we should keep their earnin’s, don’ ya think Chisel?”
“Nah, the big money’s on Bill, if. . .” Chisel doesn’t bother to finish that sentence.
Coming up behind that group from the south is a gaggle of swarthy Italians togged in colorful raiments. Though some are dressed as laborers. Sixto Stabile leads that group and is surrounded by Lucy Buttacavoli, he of the aquiline nose. Sixto’s father, Stick’em Jack and the two big men that drove the motor cars up to the Dock Loaders’ Club a month ago shadow them. Then there is another group of Italians surrounding the Prince o’ Pals, Frankie Yale, who could not find it in himself to put boots on and instead tiptoes through the uneven field in slippers, hands bedecked with rows of rings.
Paul Vaccarelli crosses from the Italian group to the ILA and shakes hands with King Joe as a courtesy, the both of them being vice presidents, but only nods at Quick Thos.
Behind us, up on a mound of swollen trash and reeds and underneath a five story tenement are three young women. One of the girls is ahead of the others, her fox-colored hair streams like a cloak in the wind behind her. She wears a peasant blouse that clings to her lithe build with a separate skirt that is high enough over her ankles to show the stolen Hanan boots she sports.
“Anna fookin’ Lonergan?” Vincent bites his lip. “Damn that’s a nice ride.”
“Can’t she afford hair pins?” Someone voices a complaint.
“Nah, she’s free as a filly gallopin’ through the purple heather,” Vincent smiles. “That tomato’s ripe an’ ready. Hot-blooded I tell ya, wit’ that fookin’ fierce stance on her.”
Behind her is the buxom Grace White and Kit Carroll who are gaudily tinseled with fluffy dresses. Grace is festooned with fake gold necklaces like some top-heavy gypsy queen while Kit drags from a smoldering paper cigarette with a disinterested, cat-like glare.
“Grace & Pretty Kitty,” a mischievous smile forms on Vincent’s face.
“Jesus on a stick,” The Swede mumbles his displeasure, then yells up at them. “Go find ya’selves some good Irish-American men to take care o’ yaz!”
“God knows we won’t find none here t’day,” Anna howls back, her crown of hair flaring like tentacles in the strong currents. “Especially you, ya fookin’ limp-limbed tomfool.”
Some of the men can’t help but laugh at those words, but the jape is cut short when from the south comes a large band of labormen walking in unison and flayed out like a phalanx with Wild Bill himself at the tip of the spear of men. The two war counselors on his right are the contrarian Non Connors and One-arm Joey Flynn. On his left is the limping Richie Lonergan and
Frankie Byrne too.
“What if they come wit’ weapons?” Burke whispers into my ear.
I am of the same mind.
This could end quickly.
My eyes search their waistcoats and trousers for the impression of pistols or bail hooks or cudgels, but I don’t see any.
“Whoever wins today must do it honorably,” I answer him.
Burke’s mouth wiggles as he stares at Bill’s approach, “I want to believe that too. I heard Bill killt one o’ his own men yesterday an’ it wasn’t just to send a message. He says it makes him stronger, killin’. An’ he wanted a boost before the fight.”
The Lonergan Crew, who have melded into the Trench Rabbits, march behind Bill’s lieutenants through the low hilly ground and overgrown weeds.
“Their numbers have grown,” Cinders takes notice. “Looks more like eighty than fifty. An’ over there’s, it’s Needles and James Hart, the teamster.”
“We still got them outnumbered more than two to one. We’re up to about one-seventy t’day,” The Lark murmurs as the enemy approaches and takes up a position along the eastern part of the lots.
“Make a half-circle,” Bill commands his men, some of which have to stand on the gable of a crumbled rooftop amidst the reeds.
Dinny nods at both sides of his force to do the same when the gray mist thickens and clings to our clothes and skin. Enemies meet on both sides of the ringwall and the fighter’s circle closes in a low-lying area. The women and children, as well as the aged stand outside of it, behind us, up on the mounds of sunken garbage and overgrowth. All then turn to watch the middle where the two melee fighters meet and shake hands and return to their respective sides.
All goes quiet as Lovett surveys the lots and spits without breaking his stare on Dinny Meehan.
Chisel McGuire breaks the silence to announce in his carnival barker’s best, “We meet here t’day as men met in the ol’ days. The old ways remain here. On these grounds seventy years past came our forebears who first survived a famine, then the cold heart of the English in an attempt to break our spirit and turn our people against each other. Man versus woman, young versus old, North against South. If that weren’t enough, those who could flee Ireland entered ships that would become their coffins. When the survivors came here, there were no homes to be had. No jobs to earn food. Nothin’ for our like but the words, ‘No Irish Need Apply! We are honored by their presence,” Chisel yells out and turns with a bow. Standing upon another weedy hill are the last of the aged survivors of those dark days. The eight haggard faces, five women and three men. In response they nod graciously in Chisel’s direction at his respectful words.
“Let’s get this thing started,” Bill suddenly says, dismissing the pageantry.
“Don’ ever forget the past,” The Swede yells across the fighting circle. “Ya’re own grandparents squatted in this self same field we stand in t’day!”
Bill smirks and mumbles something behind him until Darby Leighton comes to his ear. He points up to Anna Lonergan on the hill and says something until the little curly-haired Abe Harms whispers something in support. At that, Anna and her followers disappear on the other side of the hill. Darby and Abe then withdraw behind Bill’s gang as well.
Dinny nods at Chisel, whose voice carries across the empty lot and beyond, “We’re here t’day to decide who will lead the White Hand an’ take his rightful place above the Dock Loaders’ Club at Twenny-Five Bridge Street. The loser will be gone wit’ himself!”
“Yeah!” Bill’s men explode in celebration at the words and begin chanting, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”
“We aren’t here to kill,” I yell across.
“Yes we are!” Bill yells in a raspy voice once, then twice until his own followers quieten.
He steps forward to the middle of the circle and addresses all.
“Loser will not be gone,” he extends his arm straight out and turns it to Dinny Meehan. “I declare a Blood Feud here and now!”
“Yeah!” His men explode again.
“The loser will die!” Bill groans. “T’day.”
“That’s right!”
“Kill! Kill! Kill!” His men call out
Chisel is taken aback, as we all are. He turns to Dinny and speaks in a lowered tone, “Do ya accept these terms?”
“Say his name,” Bill demands. “Say his name so we know who accepts the challenge!”
Chisel speaks over the chant of Bill’s men to ensure all understand, “A Blood Feud is an ancient passage. Between two men, one will own death. The other will own the soul and the spirit of the dead he defeats,” Chisel turns to Dinny, who nods back at him in acceptance. “Dinny Meehan, do ya accept the challenge?”
Unless you had known the man, you would never know that the face Dinny makes upon that challenge is a sad one. It’s the saddest I have ever seen him, for he has already lost. We all have already lost, as he tells it. His goal has never been to beat Bill Lovett in a fight. He only sought to outsmart him and weaken Bill until he could convince him that working together made us all stronger.
“How can he refuse?” Red Donnelly mumbles.
“Dirty trick to pull this here at the last second,” The Lark says as Big Dick stands behind him.
Dinny raises his eyes to Bill, “I do,” he says. “I accept.”
The crowd gasps as I look back to find my sister Abby.
She’s not ready to see a dead body. When finally I find her on the hill above, she has pushed her shoulders back proudly as if to say, I am ready. I am ready for everything that you have seen, brother.
Chisel calls out to the gods and anyone who can hear, “One man will die t’day, one man will live!”
Only Bill’s side celebrates, the rest behind us; the mothers and children, the longshoremen and laborers who watched Dinny rise up. Who saw him defend their honor. The people of Irishtown who love him for his generosity and humility, hang their heads.
“Have the aged taken back to Irishtown,” Dinny requests. “The children too. There’s no need to have them watch this.”
A few men run back, but the old Irish-born, original settlers refuse to move. Quite a few of the parents decide against staying, however. They take their children and walk away to Bill Lovett’s delight.
“We say right makes might,” the Bard calls down to Dinny with a face of pallid and fragile constitution. “An’ that we brought ye back for good reason. An’ as the timeless universe o’ symbols has not collapsed in us, at least,” he sweeps his hand among the stooped augurs. “Yer risin’ is not yet accomplished. We say ye won’t die this day. We say, fight!”
The Swede’s horse head nods his agreement.
“How does Bill even think he can win?” Cinders whispers in my ear. “I don’ trust him. I don’t.”
I look over to Dinny where his profile is against the backdrop of tenements that are shrouded in mist. He has removed his coat now. He has unbuttoned his shirt. Now he is more beast than man. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms pulse in and out as if he is inhabited with some spirit. When he sees me, he whips a shock of hair from over one eye and grabs me by the back of the neck, “I have loved ya wit’ all my heart, Liam,” he says. “All o’ it, since the day ya showed up at McGowan’s Wake. Don’ ever think that was a accident. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“It’s not enough they want to remove us from power so we can’t help the people in these neighborhoods. No, they want to take our name too. To remove us entirely from hist’ry. No one’ll ever know about this day, ya know that? It’ll just be a memory, unsung. An’ when everybody here dies, it’ll be gone an’ people’ll just go on believin’ we were animals who drank an’ stole things because we were bored or stupit. But ya can change that, ya know. Ya can. Go to the Bard, Liam. Go to him with the excitement o’ a boy runnin’ through the slanted fields o’ the Otherworld. Go back. Tell me ya will.”
Dinny pulls my head closer and our foreheads meet.
“I will,” say
s I. “I will if you want it.”
He turns away and lets me loose from a fierce grip, “Good. Make us human.”
“The stakes have changed!” Chisel breaks into a singsong voice as he removes his top hat and his dusty coat tails wag in the wind. “We will need a few minutes, for the odds will be settled. Who believes Wild Bill’s odds have improved?”
“No ya don’t,” The Swede pushes Chisel. “This ain’t no carnival show. Dead or lost, makes no difference—”
“Why not let the man do his job,” Non Connors calls out from Bill’s side and nods to Chisel.
“Ya shut ya gob. Challengers make no terms,” The Swede answers him.
“I’ll put ya down myself, ya sister-fookin’ mongrel,” Connors points. “Some say ya’re haunted, Swede. Is that why ya hover over ya sister all the time?”
One-arm Flynn caws out a laugh as Non starts in with more talk until Bill mumbles something over his shoulder that quietens him.
Dinny steps forward and The Swede, Vincent and myself come together with the rest of the dockbosses and righthands behind us. Across the circle Bill comes forth to meet his opponent.
Chisel has two fingers in his green and yellow checked waistcoat and nods back at Connors in thanks, then wheels on his heel and extends an arm in the direction of Bill Lovett, “The challenger! is the grandson of a Kerryman, son of a sanitation worker an’ a decorated veteran o’ the Great War! He has many war wounds from his time in France, but even more from the battles here in Brooklyn. To his own kind he is known as Wild Bill. To the Black Hand he is known as Pulcinella, but t’day he supports the notion o’ change. Is he the light o’ the future? The man o’ fate what he so proudly claims? Or is he no more than a begrudger as his opponent asserts? T’day. . . we will know.”
“A little faster Chisel, there’s a lotta people here waitin’ for some action,” The Swede cups his mouth with his one good hand.
Chisel offers a sham smile and continues, “The Champion! an’ current leader o’ the White Hand since 1913.” He spreads his arm toward Dinny. “Some simply call him ‘the man,’ some dare to use his real name, but all know that to the soul o’ him, he is Patrick Kelly!”
Divide the Dawn- Fight Page 61
