That was when she realized that pride of his was stronger than ever. Though, she really wasn’t worried about his pride anymore. She was more worried as to whether he’d live to see the first printing of his paper, knowing he was heading out with the marshals that night to Kill Hill to ensure Dunmore saw justice.
Kill Hill. She swallowed. Clasping both hands together, she silently sent up a prayer that the name did not reflect the night ahead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In an age of corruption that has seized our nation, rise.
Rise and become the soul you know yourself to be before everything you believe in is vilely effaced.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
Kill Hill
NOTHING BUT ROYCE’S LANTERN lit their way through the dilapidated house filled with endless debris of broken glass and frayed ropes. Everything whispered of past transgressions. Dead bodies and beaten souls were always dumped into this house by local scum. Hence the name Kill Hill.
No one appeared to be waiting in the darkness.
Not even rats. Not even roaches.
Matthew could feel his muscled arm growing heavy from the saber Royce had given him. He was used to butcher knives, razors and cleavers. Switching the saber into his other hand, he gripped the hilt hard, moving alongside Royce, deeper into the abandoned house.
They eventually paused before a half-open cellar door, where a light wavered from below. A warning chimed. Aside from the light, it had been quiet for far too long and it was only a matter of time before the silence broke. It was called the rule of inevitability.
Fully creaking open the door, Matthew moved toward the narrow stairs leading down.
Royce grabbed his arm. “Let me go in first.”
Matthew shook his head. “I know this house better than you. There’s a cellar and a storeroom downstairs. Keep holding out your light.” Matthew went down.
The stairs were faintly lit by a lone glass lantern hanging from a hook bolted into the rotting timber of the wall. Matthew placed the hand that wasn’t holding the saber against the wall and followed the wall downward.
He paused when he reached the bottom step and looked around the narrow, dank cellar.
Royce held up the lantern.
It felt like a trap. And even with five marshals probing the rest of the house, it didn’t feel right. It felt like someone was waiting to set fire to the place. “We should leave.”
“We aren’t leaving until we rope Dunmore.”
“It’s too quiet. And the rule of the ward is if it’s too quiet, get out whilst you can still hear yourself breathing.”
Royce stepped past him, holding out the flickering light of the lantern toward the darkness. He pointed the saber toward a narrow wood door at the far end of it. “If nothing is past that door, we leave.”
“Fair enough.”
The smell of dank, rotting wood and urine grew strong, drugging his senses with its overpowering odor.
They paused before the narrow timbered door. Matthew grabbed the wrought-iron handle and pushed. It squealed in protest, but the latch clicked open. Pushing the door open wider, Matthew peered into the blinding, thick darkness.
Silence greeted them.
“There,” Royce said in a low tone. “What is that? Over there.”
Matthew grabbed the lantern from Royce and held it above his head, moving into the room. His boots crunched and crushed hay that had been strewn across a dirt-stamped floor. The waving edges of the lantern light illuminated the small storeroom. Overturned barrels lay against an uneven stone wall as he turned the light over to another direction and froze, his breath hissing out of his chest in disbelief.
Amongst piles of wool sacks was a youth’s motionless, half-naked body facing the stone wall. Oh, God. Matthew darted over and skidded to a halt beside the youth. He shakily lowered himself, setting both the saber and lantern beside that still form. Grabbing up the boy’s limp, cool limbs, he slowly turned him in his arms.
He gasped as he stared down at Ronan’s swollen face, which was practically unrecognizable from the amount of blackened blood, swelling and bruising.
Tears blinded him. “Ronan—” he choked. “Jesus Christ.”
Royce fell onto his knees beside them. “Is he alive?”
Matthew’s hands tightened on the boy as he leaned down and pressed his ear against that chest. The faint thud of Ronan’s heart swept a numbing relief through him. He blinked back the remaining tears that stung his eyes.
It was a message from Dunmore. This was his revenge. He had no doubt Cassidy had told that son of a bitch this boy was the closest thing he had to a son.
Matthew glanced toward Royce. “He’s alive. Though, who knows for how much longer. We need to get him out of here. Grab the saber and follow me.”
Matthew quickly lifted Ronan off the dirt-stamped ground and carefully rolled him into his arms, forcing his own legs to rise, which felt weak from having to see Ronan in such a state. He couldn’t have this boy’s blood on his hands. He couldn’t. He was too young. And his mother, damn her, never gave him the childhood he deserved. Matthew swore to himself that if Ronan lived, Matthew would ensure the woman give him full custody of the boy. Because Ronan deserved a real home, real protection and real guidance. The sort he wasn’t getting.
Matthew hurried out of the storeroom, Ronan hanging limply in his arms. He focused on every breath and every step, praying that Ronan was going to pull through.
Royce sheathed his sabers, squeezed between Matthew and the wall and jogged up the narrow stairwell, calling out to the other marshals. He disappeared up the stairs and out of the cellar.
Breathing hard in an effort to remain calm, Matthew kept his eyes on getting to those stairs.
Ronan groaned, rolling his head toward him.
Matthew’s pulse raced. He tightened his hold. “Shh. Don’t move. We’re taking you to the hospital.”
“Milton,” Ronan rasped. “He’s...going back to...London. Tomorrow. He didn’t know I...heard.”
“We’ll hang the son of a bitch before he gets on that boat. Don’t you worry in that.”
New York Hospital
MATTHEW LET OUT AN EXASPERATED breath and adjusted his great coat, shifting toward the rest of the boys, who were all gathered alongside him like carp in a bucket within the small office as they awaited the verdict of Ronan’s condition. Matthew glanced impatiently toward the surgeon, who appeared to be far more occupied with tasks involving his desk. “And? How is he?”
Dr. Carter finished scribing his notes pertaining to Ronan’s condition. Setting aside the quill, he casually reached out and gripped the porcelain cup beside him. Lifting the rim to his mustached lip, Dr. Carter took a long swallow of murky coffee before setting it back onto the saucer beside him with a chink. “He will more than live, gentlemen. Aside from some threading on his face, he is doing remarkably well. In fact, you will be able to take him home in a day or two.”
A whooshing breath escaped him.
Dr. Carter rose and rounded the desk. “I should check on him one last time. Before I retire for the night.”
Matthew strode toward the man, grabbed his hand and shook it, squeezing it hard. “Thank you, Dr. Carter. It means a lot to me knowing you stayed on to take care of him.”
The man nodded and eyed him. “Are you his father?”
Matthew’s throat tightened. It was inevitable that Ronan was going to be permanently living with him. “No. But I hope to prevent anything like this from happening to him again.”
“Good. Because no boy should have endured that.” Dr. Carter nodded, released his hand and left.
Matthew swiped his face and lingered in silence, knowing the Forty Thieves had officially met its death. Dunmore aside, too many people kept getting hurt and too many had already died. And this is where he got everyone the hell out before the Forty Thieves ended everything he sought to protect. It was time to make a grab for a new life being given to hi
m by an incredible woman he vowed never to fail again. And he intended to include all of his men who had gallantly stood beside him to the end.
Matthew swung toward Kerrigan, Plunkett, Smock, Dobson, Herring and Lamb. “We’re calling a meeting on the morrow and gathering the last of the group. I’m putting in a vote that we end the Forty Thieves before it ends us. We’re not contributing to the violence ever again. We’re done with this.”
All of their eyes widened.
Kerrigan and the rest veered in, their expressions tight. “You can’t do this to us, Milton. This here be the one thing giving us purpose. It’s the only thing that—”
“I know.” Matthew held up a hand. “But we can’t keep doing this. Your families need you more than the street does. There are other ways of giving ourselves purpose, whilst making a difference. We can become a voice for those that have none and it won’t take a pistol or blood. I’ve a new offer for you boys. An offer that will enable each of you to become your own men. Men who’d finally be good enough in the eyes of the city and the land. And the best part? You’d always have money in your pocket. Good, honest money. Not swiped money or measly money that will never be enough to feed you and your families. Are you interested?”
They glanced toward each other and then back at him.
Smock stepped toward him. “I’m in. For Mary an’ the girls. What be it?”
One man in, and the rest to go. “I’m opening a business and plan to be out of Five Points by the end of this week. I’m looking to hire fifty people, which means everyone standing here has a job, including Ronan and every last man in the group who stayed true. I’ll start each of you at two and a half dollars a week, to be raised to three and a half after a month, and I’ll put you all in new clothes and boots merely for saying yes.”
Kerrigan squinted, his bearded face doubtful. “What sort of business are we talking here?”
“I’m reopening the doors of The Truth Teller.”
Almost every last bushy brow went up.
Dobson bellowed, “Your da’s old newspaper? You don’t say.”
Herring drawled, “Oh, now, that there be pride and history. And you’re saying we’d actually be a part of it? Us?”
Matthew nodded and swept a forefinger toward them. “Every last one of you. Because I need good men to help me do it. And aside from printing commentaries about Ireland and New York, we’d also be printing what hasn’t been put to print yet—the story of our struggles to survive back in the day when we were Five Pointers. That alone will sell papers.”
McCabe let out a low whistle. “New York will never be the same once they hear what we have to say.”
Lamb chimed in, “Right in that. I remember me uncle always boasting that your da’s paper had what all the others didn’t—the goddamn truth. It broke his heart when it went under. And I know without me even asking, he’d work there right along with me. He’s been in need of a job for a while. Would you be willing to hire him?”
Matthew leaned toward him. “Your uncle is one of the finest men I know. So, yes. He’s hired.”
Kerrigan eyed him. “This’ll be costing you a pretty pile of nickels and dimes we all know you don’t have. Where are you getting the money?”
Matthew rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand. “A wealthy patron, the beautiful lady we saved last night, graciously stepped forth and offered me a loan. It’s been approved and I get the money by the end of the week.”
Plunkett snorted. “These rich lend out money to anyone these days, don’t they?” He paused and added, “Fortunately for us.”
Sensing they were in, Matthew held out both hands. “At the cost of the Forty Thieves, are you all in for a chance to get the hell out of Five Points, right along with me?”
There was a moment of silence followed by a united, “Aye.”
Matthew bit back a grin. Much like his boys, he was damn well ready to rise. And he swore upon his very last breath that he was going to become the man that Bernadette not only deserved, but a man she would swoon to keep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A certain judge, (we forget his name) many, many years ago and in England, acquired the cognomen of Judge Thumb, from having decided in a trial rising out of a matrimonial squabble, that a man might beat his wife, provided he did it with a stick no thicker than his thumb. It must be very consoling to ladies who have men of a domineering spirit, and with thick thumbs, to know that a new luminary of the law, (Mr. Justice Park) in a recent trial said he would not admit that the law authorized a husband to even chastise his wife. Justice most certainly is fickle.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
Two months later
30 miles north of New York City—Sing Sing Prison
IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT he loved about her, damn Bernadette for possessing the heart he knew he didn’t have. In a letter she had scribed all but a few days ago—as it was the only interface he would allow—she had pleaded that he visit Lord Dunmore, given she had received a most alarming form of communication from the prison’s chaplain. Apparently Dunmore wanted Bernadette to know of his repentance. Should he die. She was concerned that the man was contemplating suicide. And because women were not allowed to visit Sing Sing, it was up to Matthew to ensure the man did no such thing. Even though Matthew was the last man who’d ever discourage the bastard from doing the world a favor.
Of course, this whole fuss came about after Dunmore had been dragged off the boat he’d tried to escape on and sentenced to eight months of labor and incarceration in Sing Sing. Despite protests from abroad that included scathing letters from countless British noblemen and British newspapers the State of New York dug in its heels.
The state wasn’t interested in instating justice. God, no. That wasn’t what it was about. They were merrily slapping England around, hoping to send them a message: You don’t step into our country and feck with our citizens. It was an unprecedented political stance Matthew wholeheartedly applauded.
The sweltering heat of the summer sun outside didn’t penetrate the bone-deep chill of the unending limestone walls surrounding him.
The smell of stagnant rot, rusting iron, urine and sewage penetrated Matthew’s nostrils as he passed each narrow iron-and-oak-latticed door lining those barren, sooty gray walls. Human shadows and occasional gruff faces of men with blank, inhuman expressions appeared beyond every one of those bolted iron-latticed doors.
The only audible sounds were those of his and the warden’s boots scuffing the uneven stones of the corridor. For a prison that housed over five hundred men, it was downright eerie. It was as though everyone was dead.
“There is but one rule every prisoner is set to abide by,” Warden Wiltse intoned. “Silence. Silence when they march in lock-step, silence when they eat, silence when they labor, silence when they read their bibles and silence even as they’re squatting over their chamber pots.” The warden paused before one of the doors and turned, his sharp gray eyes meeting Matthew’s. “It took time, but Dunmore here has at long last accepted his sins. And it’s only been two months. Another six ought to make him a saint.”
Holding Matthew’s gaze, Warden Wiltse retrieved a ring of iron keys from his coat pocket. He unbolted the iron latch. “You have fifteen minutes, Mr. Milton. Talk all you like, and know that he’ll answer your questions as best he can, considering he isn’t permitted to speak. This is the last visit he’ll be allowed by anyone. He’s going into solitary confinement due to his inability to take orders and will stay there until the end of his term.” The warden swung open the door and dangled the leather cat-o’-nine-tails he held. “I’ll be waiting outside with the cat if you need me.”
Matthew nodded and stooped to enter the narrow opening. He veered into the small, windowless cell that bore only a chamber pot and an unevenly stuffed straw bed covered with stained linen laid out on a slab of stone. Bloodstained linen that ran in spatters and streaks. An open leather-bound bible sat upon the bed.
&nbs
p; He paused, seeing Lord Dunmore sitting on that straw bed beside the open bible, his disheveled dark head in swollen and bruised hands. Matthew’s eyes widened, noting that the blood streaking the linen had come from Dunmore himself. The gray-striped linen uniform he wore was stained with uneven rows of blood that seeped and clung to the expanse of his broad back.
Matthew’s throat tightened. He rounded the man. Though pity was the last emotion he wanted to feel for Dunmore, seeing blood on a man had never been something he’d easily swallowed.
Drawing to a halt before Dunmore, Matthew squatted down to the man’s level to better see him. “I’m here on behalf of Bernadette. Not myself.”
The unshaven man lifted amber eyes solemnly to his, but otherwise did not move. He merely continued to hold his dark disheveled head with his hands as if he needed it for the strength to remain upright. His face looked gaunt, those high cheekbones and lean, square jaw were covered with fresh scrapes and bruises.
Matthew searched that face, utterly astounded. The man not only looked severely beaten but it appeared he hadn’t seen a half-decent meal since his sentencing. God help him. Why did he even care?
He shifted toward him. “What the hell did you do? Get yourself into more trouble? Are they not feeding you?”
Dunmore said nothing.
“Did you resist orders? Is that it?”
Dunmore slowly shook his head from side to side, his expression and amber eyes devoid of any emotion. There was no sadness or anger or fear. There was nothing. Nothing at all.
This was not the same man. This man was a bit too broken.
And in that moment, Matthew sensed that the message Dunmore had communicated with Bernadette had, in fact, been genuine.
Matthew leaned in, knowing he had a duty to Bernadette to set her mind at ease. “Bernadette is worried, given the chaplain’s letter to her. She wished to assure you that all is forgiven and that you needn’t punish yourself by contemplating suicide. Now. Is there any one message you want me to convey that can be done without the use of words? Perhaps proof of your penance?”
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