1863 Saratoga Summer Read online

  All eyes focused on the two newcomers.

  Connor turned to Egan and mumbled, “I don’t like the feel of this place.”

  “Neither do I, but I’m starved. Let’s just eat our stew and be gone from here,” Egan said, sitting down on a vacant stool. Connor sat down next to him.

  Men continued to rush into the bar and dash out again. Some of the men in the back were playing cards. One man kept offering toasts, but most just drank, cursed and quarreled. Connor could hear snippets of their conversations.

  A sailor rolled in on bowed sea legs and plopped down at one of the tables. He was the first to be heard when he shouted, “Low-browed, they said.”

  Another man added, “Bestial savages they called me.”

  One man who was there from the start vulgarly quipped, “Hell, to describe us Catholics, the bastards compare us to wild apes. I’ve heard it all and I’m sick of it.”

  An Irishman, well into his cups and leaning on scrawny elbows piped up, “Ye have only to show them different, I keep telling ye.”

  The barkeep returned, his hands filled with two wooden bowls. He toted two large crusts of bread, one shoved under each arm and held close to his body. “Here’s sustenance for ye both,” he said, placing first one bowl and a crust on the bar in front of Egan then the second bowl and bread in front of Connor. He plunked a fork and a cloth napkin down before each. “Eat hearty, lads.”

  The barkeep continued to stand there. “Would ye like a pint of lager with yer meal? To wash it down?”

  “Aye, that we would,” answered Egan, bringing his hand to his heart. “A lager would hit the spot after the long journey we’ve endured.”

  “Have ye just arrived from the old country?”

  The question seemed innocent, but Connor felt it was weighted with some unheard meaning he didn’t understand. The saloon was too quiet. “Aye.”

  The man continued. “By the way, I’m Clancy. The owner of this establishment.” Clancy held out his hand for Egan to shake.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Connor noticed several of the men from the back had crept soundlessly forward into the light of the bar where they stood quietly. They appeared to be listening to the conversation between his brother and Clancy. Their coming close to them in a group, practically surrounding them, was not to Connor’s liking.

  He turned slowly, stood up and faced them. He straightened to his full height, towering over all of them. “Gentlemen, is there something I can help ye with? Is there something about me brother and me that piques your curiosity?”

  Clancy called out. “Men, go back to yer tables. Let the lads eat a decent Irish meal, fer God’s sake. They’ve just arrived from the Green. I believe, they’ll be willing to answer all yer questions when they’ve finished.”

  With a great deal of grumbling, the men shuffled back to their original places. They pulled chairs from beneath the tables, turned them toward the bar and plopped down in them. They sat with their legs extended, waiting.

  Connor took a long swig of the lager and let it roll down his throat before swallowing. After the heat of the day, the lager was just what he needed and wanted. He dipped his crust of bread into the stew and savored the first taste of Irish cooking he’d eaten since he and Egan left their home.

  “’Tis good stew. Thank you, Mister Clancy. It hit the right place in my stomach and I’m hoping it sets there for a while.”

  “Just Clancy, son. ‘Mister’ in this city refers to no Irishman I know. At least not of late.”

  It was obvious to Connor the condition distressed the barkeep, but he decided not to say anything. He kept shoveling the stew to fill his belly and assuage his hunger.

  “Why is that?” Egan asked with a mouthful of food slurring his words.

  “The bastards who run this city have no respect for the Irish. They spit on us when we’re no’ even looking in their direction. Use derogatory names as well.”

  Connor continued to eat and listen to every word spoken. It was better to know what the situation was in a city this big, especially when you were trying to find your way around.

  “What do the people who govern you act like?” Egan questioned. “It certainly doesn’t seem the decent way to behave.” Connor elbowed him, but Egan continued. “Who runs this city then?”

  “The Republicans and the Protestant do,” an older, gray-haired man groused in a nasty tone, from the end of the bar.

  “And we are none of those,” a young man, with a pimply face and a long, lean body, shouted from one of the back tables. He leaped from his chair, adjusted his red shirt and came forward to join the man at the bar, the man who spoke first.

  He leaned an arm on the older man’s shoulder before he spoke with obvious pride. “Me name is Ryan, Jimmy Ryan at that. I’m a fireman. From the Black Joke Engine Company, number thirty-three. Tops in the city we are—and, an all Irish fire company to boot.”

  Friendly as ever, Egan volunteered, “Sounds like something I might like to do if we stay here for very long.”

  “What’s yer name, laddie? So we’ll be expecting ye.”

  “O’Malley, like me brother said. Egan’s me first. Call me that.”

  Ryan chuckled. “’Tis is right foine Irish moniker, to be sure.”

  All the men in the bar laughed, but Connor felt there was an edge to their good cheer. Connor put one booted foot on the floor, ready to stand up quickly if necessary. He leaned an elbow on the bar and cocked his head, listening to all the grumbling behind him.

  Something was afoot in this bar. It did not bode well for him or his brother. Yet, politeness was in order until he learned he might have to behave differently. He slowly stood, unfolding his large body.

  “I’m Connor, the oldest of his brothers,” he said, gesturing with his thumb at Egan. “We’ve three more just like us, still at home, with our da.”

  Another man from the back tables sidled up in back of the brothers. He laid a seemingly innocent hand on Connor’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the muscle as if trying to force Connor to sit. “I’m McCarthy, Jack to the two of you. I’m curious. How come ye left yer family and came to this bloody country? Going to start a new life are ye?”

  “Ye’ll not be doing that in this city, lads,” said the gray-haired man at the end of the bar. “I’m another Jack but call me Quinn. Everyone does. Why did you come here? Now, when there’s a war on?”

  “I married an Irish woman from here and came over to join her, before I bring her home to Ireland.” Connor replied, thinking it was none of the man’s business. Annoyed, he sat back down on one of the bar stools.

  “Aren’t there any women left in Ireland?” Quinn asked. He laughed louder than he did earlier, as if his joke were the finest one ever made. Seeing him laugh, both McCarthy and Ryan laughed with him. McCarthy removed his fingers from Connor’s shoulder and moved over a space or two.

  There was a distinct edge to Quinn’s laughter. Connor was embarrassed by the rude question and crude hilarity. He shrugged and caught a glimpse of Egan out of the corner of his eye. Och, he thought, me young brother is getting perturbed. His Irish temper was on the rise and beginning to show in the blushing red color of his face.

  Connor thought to deflect the situation he believed was approaching too fast. “Egan, maybe ‘tis better we leave,” he said in a low voice, hoping no one overheard him.

  He swiveled on his barstool to face McCarthy, who still stood nearby. “Let me ask all of you gentlemen a question.” At the expectant expressions on their faces, he smiled. “Where would two rather grimy and long haired fellows go to freshen up a bit?” he asked. “I don’t want to scare the wife out of future years.”

  “Why can’t ye go to yer own home to ‘freshen’ up a bit?”

  Clancy the barkeep interrupted, “You boys can clean up here in one of the back rooms, if you like.” He glared at the men who now crowded around Conner and Egan. “What are you men doing? These boyos are merely a couple of greenhorns. Let ‘em be. Go on
now. Move yourselves back some.”

  Quinn answered quickly. “Aw, now, Clancy, don’t be having a fit behind that there bar. These two are no boyos. They’re full grown men, capable of learning what’s right and what’s wrong. And they might as well learn right here.”

  Quinn seemed to be the leader of the group now encircling the two newcomers. Connor let the rest of his stew sit in its bowl and stood with his back to the bar. Egan stood as well and took a similar position. They both leaned back in a relaxed manner.

  “Och, two tall ones,” said McCarthy, the fireman.

  “Aye. That we are.”

  The fireman moved closer and shouted into their faces. “Do ye greenies have any idea of what’s going on in this country, in this city? Do ye know of the damned draft? The damned Conscription Act?”

  “No, we know none of it—none of it,” Connor answered. “We arrived in the harbor, this very day. It’ll take us some time to understand the way of life over here in this huge city. From the looks of it, ‘tis much different than in our village.”

  Quinn shrieked from his barstool, “Cities are all the same, religion and politics, politics and religion. The rich and the poor. Are there no longer cities in Ireland, boy?”

  Clancy began to move whiskey bottles from the high shelf above the bar to a lower one. He shouted out for all to hear. “Don’t ye men be starting trouble here in me tavern. I’ll be sending for the police if ye don’t mind yer manners and shut yer mouths.”

  A single glass, filled with lager, slid across the top of the waxed bar and hit Egan’s elbow. He looked around. The glass came from the vicinity of Quinn’s stool. Men hemmed both Connor and Egan against the bar.

  Within moments, the other men in the bar followed suit. Each man put his glass on the bar and slid it toward Connor and Egan.

  Clancy shouted again. “Och, be quitting the shenanigans, men.”

  As Clancy spoke, McCarthy took a swing at Egan. Egan ducked and plowed his fist into the man’s stomach. At the same time, Connor swung and caught the man by the side of his face. McCarthy fell to the floor in a heap.

  The fight was on.

  Clancy grabbed the remaining bottles standing at the back of the bar and put them on the floor. He covered the glasses with a large cloth and swept the ones left on the top in a cloth sack.

  In the time it took Clancy to clear the bar of breakables, another man, who didn’t bother to introduce himself, took a swing at Egan. Egan hopped on his feet, from one side to another, and managed to receive only a glancing blow to the side of his jaw.

  The comments, snickers and actions angered Connor. His body temperature rose. Again, he stood, this time with his back to the bar, his fists clenched at his sides.

  He’d be damned if anyone would start a fight with his wee brother when he was around. “If it’s a fight ye’re wanting, bring it on. This may be a new city but a fight’s the same regardless of country…”

  Connor swung a massive clenched fist at the man who tried to hurt Egan. “Ye’ll not be picking on any brother of mine.”

  The man went down like a puddle of lager. Then every man in the bar leaped into the fray. Quinn stood in the background, shouting orders to the rest of the men. Clancy cleared the bar and tried to break up the deadly battle for survival, to save his saloon from destruction. Someone hit him with a chair. He fell to the floor, holding his head in agony and groaning.

  Connor was furious and beginning to breathe hard. He was bound to protect Egan, who had done nothing. He raised his fists high in front of him, ready to strike the next man who approached. Men were coming at him from all angles. He wheeled around in each direction, daring men to come after him.

  Clancy struggled to his knees and crawled to the front door. Connor heard him screaming outside in the street but couldn’t hear what he was shouting. McCarthy ran outside and dragged Clancy back inside. He lifted the barkeep and threw him over the counter onto the floor in back of the bar. A crash of broken glass accompanied Clancy’s louder groan of agony.

  This was fast becoming an unfair fight. Connor and Egan were outnumbered. Someone smashed Connor in the eye. He knew it would shortly blacken and make a lovely picture for his new wife. Another caught him on the chin.

  He felt his knees give way, but Egan shouted to him. “Don’t give in now Con. We’ll win this thing yet. O’Malleys never give up.”

  With a whoop, Egan leaned against the bar and brought his knees and feet up in the air. Their very height gave Connor the time to recuperate. Ryan and another man raced toward his brother. Egan’s two feet sprung straight out and hit them square in the chest, knocking them both to the floor. He grabbed the bar stool from in back of him and swung it left and right, keeping others away from him.

  Ryan dragged himself from the floor, brought out a knife and came toward Connor, who rose to fight anew. Ryan threw a punch and connected with Connor’s lip, which began to bleed profusely.

  As Connor bent forward, Ryan tried to stab him. Connor grabbed his wrist, lifting it upward. He squeezed it until Ryan dropped it. Connor shoved him aside toward another of the gang who was directly in front of him. McCarthy came at Connor from the side and clipped his cheekbone, tearing the skin. Quinn shouted orders to all of them but refused join in the fight itself.

  A short man moved along the floor and tried to bite Connor’s leg. Connor kicked out, and the man went sprawling across the floor into the opposite wall at the bottom of the stage. Connor bent and lifted Ryan from the floor. He tossed him into McCarthy. They both went down.

  “Egan, laddie,” Connor shouted. “Are ye doing alright? Don’t let them separate us. Stay with yer back to the bar.”

  “Aye. I surely will.” He gave a laugh of excitement. “What a kind welcome this is to the city of New York, in America, no less! Da and the boyos will never believe this story.

  McCarthy stood up. He reached down to raise Ryan and seemed to whisper something in his ear.

  Connor lost sight of them and assumed they were fleeing the fight. He continued to punch those who came at him from the front or sides. Still, men were able to land blows, beating both lads for every blow that landed. There were too many for the brother to take them all down in one fell swoop.

  An arm snaked around Connor’s neck and squeezed. “Did ye think to have me down for the count, boyo?” It was McCarthy. His grip was firm, and he twisted his arm upward, trying to cut off Connor’s wind.

  “Egan’ be careful...They’re climbing on the bar—to get in back of us. Remember the old trick…we did once before.”

  “In the village…pub?” A breathless Egan asked, pummeling a man near him.

  “Aye.” Connor gurgled as McCarthy tightened his grip on Connor’s throat. “Okay…now…Egan…go…”

  The two O’Malley brothers reached over their heads and grabbed the men in back of them, raising them high. They continued to hold them aloft. Both men squealed to be let down.

  “Put me down, ye bastard,” cried McCarthy.

  “Don’t drop me, ye fool. Ye’ll break every bone in me body.” Ryan screeched at the top of his lungs.

  Just then, there was a commotion at the door to the saloon. Some man in a uniform banged on the wall. “Okay, now, lads. ‘Tis enough of this battling,” he hollered above the noise of the fighting.

  “Break it up, now. Break it up,” yelled another voice.

  “Quit yer battling, ye stupid fools,” came from a voice, laden with authority.

  Men dressed in the uniforms of constables moved over the floor strewn with limp bodies. One man stood directly in front of Connor and Egan. “Alright, lads, let’s just ease those bodies down. Nice and slow-like. Ye wouldn’t want to be hurting any more of these men, now, would ye?”

  Connor set McCarthy on his feet.

  Egan did the same for Ryan, giving the man an extra shove and then looking at Connor. “Jesus, Connor, what have they done to ye. Ye’re covered in blood. Are ye alright?”

  The first policeman, who h
ad ordered the fight stop, said, “Och, the man looks to be just foine. Just the usual cuts and bruises that ye always get in a fight.”

  Ryan moved to the man. “Mick, these boyos from the old country started a battle royal over nothing.” Ryan turned around to those who could still answer. “You fellows know me brother, Captain Michael Ryan, don’t ye now? Mick, let me tell ye what happened. Me and me friends were just sitting around here, having a lager or two, when these two fellows came charging in and started insulting everyone.” Again he turned to his bar mates. “Isn’t that right, boyos?”

  “Ayes,” came in a chorus.

  The captain strolled up to Connor. “’Tis sorry I am, but I’ll have to be taking you men into the jail.”

  “Officer, we didn’t start anything. We stopped in here to get a bite of food in our bellies and were attacked,” Connor said. “We didn’t do anything or say anything. We just got off the boat and wouldn’t even know the proper insults to give. Ask Clancy, the owner.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Someone threw him behind the bar. He might be hurt.”

  Mick gestured to one of his men to check.

  “Oh, God, Mick,” Ryan said. “Clancy’s out like a light. He’s all bloody, too. We’ll have to get him some help. And get me out of here before there’s more trouble.”

  “Ryan, go get a doctor to look at Clancy, while I take these two bozos down to the precinct,” Mick said, nodding toward the door. “Sorry to do this to Irish laddies, but I’ll need to keep ye close until I sort out this whole thing.”

  Chapter Five

  Late in the evening, Bowes scoured the entire waterfront searching for the O’Malley brothers. No matter what saloon he stopped in, he heard no word of their whereabouts. He was afraid they might have left New York City. He was about to go to the police to inquire, when one of the local barkeeps, Mulligan the Madman as he was called, gestured him over. The man acted like he had some secretive gossip to dispense, so Bowes approached slowly, not wanting to be bothered with gossip.