Chapter 4
August 1st, 1881
Five Points, Manhattan, New York City
Henry’s carriage crept toward the saloon through the dizzying evening streets of the Five Points district in Lower Manhattan. The brown-brick buildings, their square windows of equal size flanked by broken shutters, were adorned with rusty wrought-iron balconies and faded, threadbare store awnings. From the ash-smudged windows of his carriage, Henry watched dark hoards of men and women trudging through the dusty streets.
It was little wonder gangs ran rampant here. Over the last few decades, a handful of them had cropped up: the Bowery Boys, the Dead Rabbits, the Short Tails, the Gopher Gang, the Whyos Gang and the most malicious of all, the Davenport-funded Eastman Bludgeoners. Some of the gangs were rivals, while others formed alliances to further their illicit activities, competing violently over the revenue. The Five Points district was a war zone.
Henry dragged his gaze away. He had seen enough. He slid a cigarette from his silver case, brought it to his lips and lit it. All it took was one inhale for his tense body to relax. He rested his head against the back of the carriage and closed his eyes.
It took little concentration to see the colours of his home at Asheford Hall. The rolling green hills where his yellow-stone manor sat, the vibrant colours of his gnarled magnolia trees, rose bushes and wisteria vines, and, of course, his favourite – the deep-blue glistening sea next to the cliffside of his pristine white Bondieux House.
A flush spread across his face. Warm with a tinge of discomfort, he wanted to be outside but not in the stench of New York. He longed for England.
God, how he missed it all.
Everything had drastically greyed since his arrival in New York nearly two weeks ago. After his wedding to Fanny Davenport, he had been instructed by his father to solidify the business relationship between their families in America. Although it was a golden opportunity for his plan to provide secrets to the London police regarding his father’s illegal practices, like most things in his life, it was easier said than done.
With his wretched wife trailing his coattails, he had no chance to speak with his police contact, Clarkson, before his departure from London. All he could manage was a letter to a Mr. Turnbull at The White Lion pub, instructing Clarkson of his plan to gather information on the Asheford Sons’ overseas smuggling prospects. He hoped to deliver something substantial enough for the arrest of his father, Edwin Asheford. Even better if he could take down the family business once and for all. To his bitter disappointment, all he had managed thus far was a busy schedule of playing husband and dutiful heir. He had to keep reminding himself that all this sneaking around was for good reason. If he could not live as a free man, he would forcefully burn the shackles that bound him, no matter how long, or what, it took to get there.
A familiar hazel gaze burst across his mind.
With a pang in his chest, he inhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke. Eva, his fallen star. The fire that fuelled his worn and weathered heart. His wicked little imp. How it pained him to think back on those days in June when he broke their relationship with drastic threatening lies in a bid to save her. And yet, not even his cruel words stopped her from chasing him … from seeing his pathetic engagement. The thought of it still made his desolate heart shrivel to ash.
Lungs burning, he exhaled a mouthful of smoky grey tendrils.
He also had to remind himself that she had left his world and stepped forward into hers. She was finally safe and, most of all, free.
Isn’t that what you wanted most of all?
Securing the cigarette between his lips, he tucked a hand beneath his jacket to put away his cigarette case. His fingers brushed against the vial of laudanum in his inner pocket. He gave an exasperated sigh.
Cigarettes and laudanum. How many more vices will you use to keep your demons at bay?
A little over a month ago, his friend Elias had tricked him into drinking a glass of water laced with laudanum. Since then, he had struggled to go a day without taking the drug. He already knew the root of the problem lay in his insomniac mind. After the death of his brother and grandfather five years back, he had needed a few drops of laudanum when he desperately needed sleep. But now? Atop his insomnia, he had a slew of other mental afflictions. His restless brain was constantly active with thoughts of what if. It conjured up regretful images of what could have been, leaving him rolling awake all night. To get any semblance of rest, he needed the relief that laudanum gave. But, aside from that, there was another problem. More appalling than his need for calmness was his craving for contentment. As much as he tried to ignore the feeling, his unhinged mind connected Eva to the sensation of taking the drug, trapping him in an endless cycle of escapism. He feared the low dosage would soon turn into a steady stream taken at multiple intervals through the day.
Concerned as he was, there was no point in barraging his spiralling actions. He knew, without a doubt, he would give up the drug after his return to England, even if his attempt at becoming sober would bring him to the brink of death. After he found a way to take down his father, he no longer wished to live a life running in fear and masking his afflictions with harmful vices. No more. If his plan to bring down Asheford Sons worked, he would soon be on his way home where he could resume his life as a reclusive bachelor caring for his sister. All he needed to do was find the match to set it all aflame.
A possible trade deal?
A potential shipment of illegal goods?
A fabricated war between two gangs to conjure up a ruckus so inflamed that police presence would be needed to douse the fire and arrest those responsible? No. Too complicated. He had to think simpler.
The plan needed to entail something illegal being brought to Britain’s shores to catch his father red-handed in the act of smuggling. But what? All he could think of was that shipment of Smith Wesson pistols mentioned in the stolen ledger from the wharf back in June. But how? How could he involve himself in that deal without making it obvious he was sniffing around?
He huffed.
He supposed an idea would come to him. In the meantime, he would continue to wait, listen and indulge in the wickedness of this city as Henry the fraudulent heir. And with Angelo by his side, that was a surprisingly easy feat.
Angelo Davenport was his brother-in-law and the eccentric boss of the Eastman Bludgeoners. They first met on Henry’s wedding day, in the bathroom of all places. Henry had collapsed against the wall, having purged his stomach from the bottle of whisky drunk mere hours before. He had just learned from Elias that Eva had returned to her world. Unable to withstand the pain of losing the woman he so desperately loved and finding himself in the deep pit of entrapment, he turned to drink and tried his hardest to make his wedding day one to forget. While his wretched bride-to-be waited by the church altar, Angelo swept Henry off the floor by the scruff of his neck.
“Look at you. You poor soul, marrying my sister,” Angelo said and shoved a playing card in front of Henry’s face. A fine line of white powder ran down the centre. “Take this. It shall make you appear lively again.”
Henry wiped the wet from his mouth with his sleeve. “What is it?”
“Cocaine.”
“The drug from America?”
“Indeed,” Angelo smiled. “An up-and-coming medical revolution.”
“How is it done?”
“Block one nostril with your finger and inhale the powder with the other,” Angelo said, miming the process.
Without a care for the consequences, Henry snorted the powdery substance right off the Queen of Hearts.
In a matter of minutes, a rush hit.
As he felt his pupils dilate, he observed Angelo under a new light. He understood then that there may be another method to capture his freedom. By pretending to walk the thin line of sin in Angelo’s drug-fuelled world, Henry could blend into the criminal crowd to uncover more incriminating secrets about the Davenport-and-Asheford alliance. All he had to do was play along with Angelo’s infatuation for debauchery, and soon enough, they would form a mutual trust. When it came to wriggling his way into the man’s good graces, he had made progress as he was increasingly invited to their evening entertainment. Then again, things could quickly shift when dealing with hardened criminals. That was another reason why he had to carefully monitor his drug use. As a rat, he had to stay on his guard.
As Henry pondered how long he was mentally capable of playing this game of cat and mouse, his gaze slid past the figures in the street and toward the shop signs. He was nearing McGlory’s Armory Hall. It was a saloon of depravity for criminals, and a personal favourite of Angelo’s.
This evening, Henry had been invited to come and view the entertainment. He was not stupid; he knew the implied meaning. It would be another test. Whatever the intention behind the invitation, this night would not be any different; he would join Angelo’s side, endure his deviant nature and weed out potential prospects for his plan to flee. But damned if he would do it sober.
***
The double doorway at 158 Hester Street was a huge wooden slab of red, held together with large metal pins and framed by a soot-covered arch of thick stone. In the evening light of the receding sun, the doors to McGlory’s Armory Hall looked like a portal to hell.
How fitting.
A group of men hobbled toward the door. They were a rough sight of curled moustaches, torn brown jackets and cowboy mountaineer hats. They pulled open the door with the squeak of a hinge and a metal scrape against the stone ground.
While the men scampered in, Henry caught a glimpse of the long, narrow passage toward the saloon. The Armory Hall’s first novelty. One had to walk down an unlit passageway that had been painted black. It led fifty feet toward the barroom, where brawls were a nightly sight.
Henry waited a few seconds before he entered. He could not dawdle in a place like this. He would likely be mugged or even murdered if he stayed still for too long.
Within the passage, he stuck to the centre, decreasing his odds of accidentally stepping over a vagrant lying against the wall. His hand never strayed far from the polished metal handle of his pistol which jutted from the depths of his waistband. Since the weapon was a wedding gift from Angelo, he was reluctant to carry it around. However, in Five Points, it was kill or be killed. He would not hesitate to threaten a man if provoked, nor would he think twice to pull the trigger.
He entered the saloon and was met with a whirlwind of action.
A large, unruly crowd had gathered around the bar, each man more drunk than the last. Amid the cigarette smoke and the hazy light of the gas lamps upon the walls, it was clear McGlory’s Armory Hall allowed racial intermingling. It was, as they said in New York, a black-and-tan saloon.
Henry did not understand the need for racial division. He assumed it was a prejudiced strangeness of the New World, where immigration brought forth an obsession with race and segregation. The sight at McGlory’s made his heart pump with a newfound exhilaration. Here were people who hailed from every corner of the world, and if it were not for the criminal setting, he would be thrilled at the idea of spending an evening chatting with strangers. Ah, the questions he would ask; the stories they would tell. He supposed his curiosity was a remnant from his boyhood days when he read tales of adventures in faraway lands. But these men were not to be spoken to. They had come to New York in search of better pastures, only to realize the American dream was a fraudulent lie, so had turned to a life of organized crime to feed their impoverished families.
A large man stepped into Henry’s field of vision. With a shaved head and a bulge of fat at the back of his neck, he hovered over Henry like a brick wall of pure muscle. To complete the look, a pair of brass knuckles marked his fingers and the pistol tucked into his belt glimmered in the light of the ceiling lamp.
“Mr. Davenport is in Booth Seven,” he said. His voice was barely audible over the rough-and-tumble distortion of the piano.
Henry gave a sullen nod.
The booths were reserved for McGlory’s wealthy patrons. Above the dance room, a row of balconies circled the perimeter, on which the private booths were hidden by a wall of heavy red curtains. Here, the patrons would hold private exhibitions for the sake of entertainment – exotic animals, blood sports, human curiosities, and even sexual activities. There were no limits to the degradations on offer.
The brick wall of a man led Henry up a flight of wooden stairs.
The sour stench of the saloon could not mask Angelo’s cologne. It was the sort of scent a cheap man might consider expensive; a sickly-sweet mix of perfumed alcohol that masked the potent stink of cigarettes or too much hair pomade, both of which Angelo used in excess. These traits befitted his proud crime-lord status. He dealt American-made weapons, peddled extortion schemes around the city and trafficked South American cocaine and Chinese opium. Angelo was short, small-framed and effeminate, a near-perfect reflection of his sister, Fanny.
Booth Seven’s curtains were shut. Henry parted the heavy material and entered.
Around a circular table sat three men. To the left was Vic, the Bludgeoner Henry had brawled with in London, days before his engagement was announced. To the right was Robbie, another trusted partner in the Bludgeoners’ illicit activities, and in the centre was Angelo, whose black eyes locked onto Henry.
“Asheford!” Angelo shouted, raising his hands.
His chair scraped across the floor. Within seconds, Angelo was before Henry, gripping his face and planting a kiss on each cheek.
Henry hoped his grunt of distaste was masked by the music of the dance room below.
“You’ve come,” Angelo said.
“Good evening,” Henry said. “I would be hard-pressed to miss an exciting evening in the city.”
Angelo sauntered back to his chair. “It pleases me you think our nights are exciting. I strive to be the best entertainer in the city. My New Year’s party is still the talk of the town. It was an extravagant vision of raw male power.”
Henry’s jaw tensed. Raw male power. Did that entail blood sports? With Angelo, one could never be sure. After all, the man was a homosexual, hence his admiration for McGlory’s Armory Hall. It offered the novelty of servant men painted like women in a bid to encourage homosexuality amongst its patrons. It was an attraction Angelo certainly got his fill of.
“Will you not sit?” Angelo gestured to the fourth chair.
“I do hope I have not interrupted business?” Henry probed as he took a seat.
“Not at all,” Angelo said. “Tonight, we play.”
Disappointment hit Henry hard. It would be another blasted night without progress toward his escape plan. He took out his cigarette case. God knew he needed every distraction in this company.
“Angelo, we need to talk about the fucking Whyos. Those Irish bastards need to pay for what they did to Rocco,” Robbie said. “Ain’t nobody deserve to die in the gutter like that, you got me?”
“Yes, yes, I got you, dear boy,” Angelo said, filling a glass full of blood-red wine. “We will enforce our retaliation soon enough.”
Henry’s ears pricked up. So as not to appear too interested in the news, he casually lit his cigarette and brought it to his lips.
“They robbed us dry, Angelo. Average retaliation ain’t gonna be enough,” Vic said.
“We need to go to war,” Robbie agreed and slammed his fist onto the table.
“They say it was that fellow Josh Hines. He goes by the nickname ‘Big’ in these parts,” Vic said, reaching for a bottle of vodka. “He’s a slippery little fucker going about robbing gambling houses.”
Angelo peered at Henry from over his wine glass. “Boys, now is not the time to talk business when we’ve got a guest.”
There was a murmur of grumbles around the table.
“Well,” Henry drawled through a cloud of smoke. “We can always forgo the entertainment for the evening and show the Irish what it means to burn.”
There it was. An inflammatory suggestion to wriggle his way in, stir the pot and set it ablaze.
“And you say the Limeys are stiff,” Robbie said to Angelo.
Angelo’s eyes narrowed to dark slits. “What do you propose, Asheford?”
“It’s quite simple,” Henry said. “An arm for an arm, and while you’re at it, destroy their source of income. Hit them where it hurts; for the Irish, it’ll be where they drink. I have heard this Josh Hines fellow frequents a tavern called The Morgue in Bowery. Perhaps it is Whyo property? It is a fitting name for a group of men with a death wish.”
“I admire your thirst for vengeance, Asheford, but it isn’t as simple as an arm for an arm,” Angelo said, staring at each man in turn. “I inquired about Rocco’s death days ago. There may be more at play than just the Whyos. This Hines character offers special services: seven dollars to break a nose or jaw, fifteen to chew off an ear, twenty to shoot in the leg, and murder for a cool hundred … it’s the sort of childish prospect only a small-time gang would provide. Given our recent rise in power, it isn’t so farfetched to believe we have amassed many enemies.”
“You think someone paid the Whyos to murder Rocco?” Robbie said.
“It’s a hunch.” Angelo shrugged. “A hunch that requires more investigation but men, my dear men, tonight, let us not talk business and rather drink and feast our eyes on the entertainment I have prepared.”
“Hopefully better than the last band of duelling cripples,” Robbie muttered.
Henry frowned. What the hell kind of entertainment was he in for? Unsure, he glanced at Angelo.
As always, Angelo was watching him like a hawk, the corners of his lips curling.
The bastard is indeed testing you.
“Just one moment. I shall return shortly.” Angelo promptly stood and took his leave between the heavy pleated curtains of the booth’s entrance.
The jingle of the piano and the shouts of the rowdy crowd below broke the awkward silence that filled the private booth.
Robbie leaned toward Henry. “Say, Asheford, have you ever killed a man?”
Henry stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. They were probing him too. He leaned back and met Robbie’s square, flat face. “I am not in the habit of bragging about my accomplishments.”
“So, you have,” Robbie said.
“Perhaps,” Henry said.
“How many?” Vic asked.
Henry turned to meet Vic’s cold, hard eyes. There was something off-putting about the way he was looking at him. In fact, his whole regard was laced with venom.
“Is there a competition I am not aware of?” Henry said.
“C’mon,” Robbie urged. “Spill the beans.”
“Certainly more than big old Vic,” Henry said, poking at the man’s pride.
Vic huffed. “Get a load of this guy, Robbie. The Limey’s kidding himself into thinking that brutalizing isn’t what I do best.” He pointed his stare back at Henry. “In fact, I had a good time with a feisty American whore in London, of all places.”
Henry glared at Vic. There was a connotation to his words that felt personal.
“Did you fuck her?” Robbie said.
Vic waved his hand dismissively. “Didn’t manage to. The bitch fought like a honey badger, clawing and spitting filthy curses. Besides, by the time we got to the inn, my lower back was acting up.”
“That old knife injury?”
“Burns something fierce on a good day. All the way down my leg—”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Angelo cried, shuffling through the curtains with a rustle of chains. “The entertainment is here.”
Henry peered over his shoulder.
Angelo stood next to the entrance. A thick chain the width of an apple hung from Angelo’s hands and disappeared beneath the hem of the curtain. He tugged on the chains, and the curtains opened. A boy of around ten, with a face full of long golden wisps of hair, stumbled into the room. He wore tattered clothing and had a thick metal collar around his fragile neck.
“Allow me to introduce the Lion-Faced Boy,” Angelo said. “The Bronx Zoo was kind enough to loan me the beast from their human exhibition for the evening.”
Henry’s breath hitched. Human exhibition? Not understanding the horror of what he saw, he stood.
The motion startled the boy, who leapt at Henry with a hiss. Angelo tugged on the chain. The boy was instantly pulled back and fell on his behind with a youthful cry.
Angelo let out a sharp laugh.
“Look at that, the lion likes the Limey,” Robbie barked out in laughter.
“Or wants to maul him,” Vic added. “Maybe we should take it as a warning.”
“Is he not magnificent?” Angelo said with a devilish grin.
“This is vile,” Henry said at once.
Angelo met Henry’s gaze. A flash of annoyance crossed his dark eyes. “Does this displease you? I thought your people liked to dominate and colonize those less fortunate.”
Henry choked.
Angelo pouted. “Don’t give me that distraught look. I sought out this entertainment for you, Asheford. It pains me to see you so displeased.”
“Consider getting to know your guests better before you assume their entertainment preferences. I certainly do not stand with this level of savagery. It is beyond abominable,” Henry said firmly.
“C’mon,” Vic interjected. “You spoke about setting the Irish bastards alight. Shackled curiosities are a step too far?”
“Shackled curiosities?” Henry cried out, his voice cracking. “There’s a bloody difference between well-deserved vengeance and shackled innocents.”
Henry stared mutely at the poor boy. Seeing him chained like an animal sent a rush of hot blood through his veins. He envisioned himself as the Lion-Faced Boy, a trapped curiosity who pretended to be a lion for the sake of Angelo and Edwin’s entertainment. The vision crashed over him until he felt like he was drowning and the only thing keeping him above water was the dose of laudanum taken earlier in the carriage to take the edge off. It did not matter whether this was a joke at Henry’s expense or that this horror was deemed normal in America, no one should ever know the pain that came with entrapment.
“Christ,” Henry muttered as he reached for the chains. “Release him at once.”
“I cannot let you do that,” Angelo said.
Henry tugged on the chain. “And why not?”
“Because this beast is not your property to do with as you please.”
“Then I’ll buy him from the bastards at the zoo and free him myself.”
Angelo yanked the chain, pulling Henry to him. “You’re not a local, so I will forgive your ignorance of our culture, but allow me to educate you. The boy is nothing more than a curiosity. He generates profit for his owner, and as a friend of the man, I know he won’t be willing to release his business asset, nor will he take kindly to your anti-slavery agenda.”
“Anti-slavery agenda? For Christ’s sake, it is simple human decency,” Henry scoffed. “By God, do none of you harness a semblance of morality?”
“You’re in Five Points,” Angelo said. “Morality dies the instant you step foot in these streets.”
Henry released the heavy chains, which fell to the floor with a thud. No matter how much he debated his point of view, his words would fall on deaf ears. And judging by Angelo’s stone-faced expression, he had angered the bastard by speaking against his actions. Whether that would harm the relationship he had spent a couple of weeks building, that would soon be determined. In any case, he had outstayed his welcome, and it was probably best to leave.
“Thank you, Angelo, for the invitation, but for the next time, I prefer blood sports. I find a greater satisfaction in seeing grown men bleed,” Henry said. “I bid you all goodnight.” He hurried out of the booth.
Heart hammering, he made his way out of the Armory Hall. How far was he willing to go to become part of Angelo’s inner circle? Could he ever stoop so low as to throw his morality to the wind without a backward glance? If anything, tonight, he had learned he could not.