The Publisher Wants the Book

There is a caveat here. I would have to make changes. I would have fallen down from shock if it were bought as is. I cannot improve as a writer without critique. Doesn't work that way.

Waiting with anticipation for the changes.

I've Created a Monster

My poor show host (and potential publisher) cringed when she read the piece you have just seen. My friend Rita said "you have a vivid imagination." I thought, "gee, isn't that what is said about folks in the mental institutions. However, I digress.

I had a discussion with a friend in my Toastmasters club who is an attorney. The "is Moriarty is Psychopath or a Sociopath? Some definitions:

Psychopath

Sociopath

These from Wikipedia are a little more complex. My friend basically boiled it down to this:

The psychopath has a mental illness. He genuinely cannot control himself and doesn't realize his improper actions are wrong in anyway.

The sociopath realizes they are wrong, but genuinely does not care. Other are objects, there to be used.

Anger

I put that up, because there is no question. Moriarty is certainly angry. He certainly sees the British as a threat to him, his family his people. He sees them as unjust and that they are humiliating Ireland. I am just throwing this out here. What I am asking the reader to do is figure this out for yourself. Is the anger genuine, or is Moriarty a sociopath who is using the suffering of the Irish people for his own gain? Well let me rephrase that, the anger is there but is he using it to help his people only to build his empire? Something tells me if Moriarty were living today, anger management would not sit well with Moriarty. He will take his anger and go home.

Of course, as Holmes thwarts him more and more, the anger keeps building. I was reading about the Buddhist way of dealing with anger. That would not go over well with the good professor either.

Moriarty in Boston.

You will now see how evil he turns out. Read this and you will realize it. Remember, much of the language is raw and racist. People spoke like that 150 years ago.

Chapter Seven: My Time in Boston:

In March 1856, now a man of 21, I made my first adventure to the United States. It was to Boston. Well Cousin David always thought scum such as I belonged in Boston. Well, I bloody belonged anywhere there were Irishmen and women, especially those in need. Oh Cousin David, if you only knew how much your hatred of me only served to drive me that much harder. I traveled on an immigrant ship, the Lady Jane. I provided better food for the poor souls on the ship. I helped them, but I also helped myself. These would be my willing accomplices in their new home.

I arrived in Boston and immediately found cheap lodgings in the North End. I wanted to blend in with my people and learn the ways of the town. I had letters of introduction to the right Irishmen in Boston, to start organizing for them. These letters were from Molly Maguire leaders in London. They were sewn in the lining of my coat so they could not be detected until they were supposed to be seen.

No place in the United States was harder than Boston for Irish immigrants. Irish immigrants faced Anti Irish and Anti Catholic hatred in other places; however, Boston was by far the worst. The founders of Boston in 1630 were an intolerant lot. The Church of England mistreated them; but they wanted to create a state where they were the masters, not where all were equal. After all, they were the spawn of bloody Cromwell. Their kind did enough damage in Ireland at places such as Drogheda in 1641. Their hatred of us crossed the Atlantic with them and was handed down by them. They killed the Indians and built their economic empire. That carried on through the following two centuries. The leading citizens of Boston resented the Irish coming into their city. Well, we would not have been going if we were not being ill-treated in our homeland. Boston became an extension of how we were treated in Britain.

I wanted to build a vibrant, confident Irish community in Boston. The events I am discussing here lead to 1860. I spent four hard years organizing in the Irish slums in Boston.

The leader of my roughs in Boston was a big brawny dockworker from Galway named William Joyce. He ruled with muscle, and I had to rein him in, but he brought people he knew in under me. I found William one day in a local pub. He was a masterful storyteller and more intelligent than others I met. He was unlettered however that could be worked on. I had to show him in my schemes that brain could be more useful than brawn and it took him a long time to understand that.

Just to show the two faced leaders for what they were, they would happily help Negroes flee slavery in the American South, yet they maltreated the needy Irish in their midst. I was going to be happy in throwing it back in their pious faces. It would make them more miserable in their blasphemous Congregational churches on Sunday. The four years leading up to confronting the wealthy of Boston were hard work, however, it was important to lay the groundwork so it could not become undone.

I want to bring this up now. People ask me often if I hate Negroes.

I was not against the Negro, having never dealt with him until I arrived in America. I was not against him as long as he didn’t interfere with Irish interests. I knew that freed Negro workingmen would undercut the Irish working man in the Northern cities. Boston was the center of the abolition movement.

Some Irish did support the Abolition movement. They tended to be Catholics who were lucky enough to be educated in Ireland.

One speaker who came over was a disciple of the beloved Liberator, Daniel O’Connell. I went with some of my people to a lecture, held at an old theater on the edge of the North End. He was sharing the same stage with the escaped slave and Abolitionist, Frederick Douglass.

Many of the crowd booed Douglass. The other man, Edward O’Rourke called for silence. “I will not speak if Mr. Douglass is not shown respect. You did not learn this hatred in Ireland. Those who lead the drive for Irish freedom do not condone, but condemn such behavior. This will be your only warning.

Douglass gave his speech on freeing the Negroes and rights for Ireland. The crowd clapped at the end, some more enthusiastically than others did. It was O’Rourke’s speech that stirred the crowd. That is what they came for.

I still thought the speech was lacking. He said nothing about Irish independence, only speaking vaguely about a better Ireland. I wanted to go backstage and learn more what the man was really like and how he felt.

I spoke with O’Rourke after the talks. He had Frederick Douglass with him. I found them just offstage. They did not know who I was or what I really did. I am not sure they would have spoken with me otherwise.

“Mr. Douglass, your speeches are grand, but for the Irish here, the end of slavery may well prove a disaster for Irish American interests.”

Douglass exploded. “Sir, you have no right to say such things!” You would keep a people who have been enslaved here for centuries in bondage so you can work and not have competition? Outrageous!” With that, Douglass stormed from the stage.

O’Rourke and I had a lively debate.

“Sir, what you said to Mr. Douglass was intolerable.”

“It might have been intolerable to you, but be practical man. The Irish who have come here have suffered enough. You know they have come through hellfire in the Famine. To come here and starve again? Never!”

“But sir, you really would see Negroes continue to be enslaved just so Irishmen can work in Boston?”

“Maybe not enslaved, but with a guarantee that they will not seek work in Northern cities.”

“Good God man, are you mad? You cannot broach such terms. Who are you to think such a thing? Oh what made you so hard you would wish cruelty that is happening to the Irish on fellow human beings?”

“Let me ask you a question, O’Rourke. Did you eat well in the famine?” Where were you during it?

“I was in Dublin sir, as a lad receiving my education.”

“Well, I was educated by my literate parents at home in County Kerry. Funny thing, when you grow up well off in Dublin you can afford luxuries. Do you speak Gaelic, O’Rourke?”

“No I do not.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t, I have always been able to express myself in English. It is a good language.”

“It is not the native language of Ireland!” I thundered. “Can it be you have forgotten your roots? What sort of Ireland are you really pushing for, an independent Ireland or an Ireland that is still a part of Her Majesties’ Empire?

He became exasperated. “Sir, I want equal rights for Irish people.”

I was enjoying the thrust of the debate. “Do you want these equal rights for all Irish people or just Catholics who are fortunate enough to have money? Mr. O’Connell was a great man. I do not see you carrying on in that tradition. You are a theorist Mr. O’Rourke. You are not a practical man.”

O’Rourke conceded defeat by turning on his well shod heel and storming off.

I didn’t think I would get far with the upper echelons of Boston, but thought I would try. I was going to have to try to further Irish interests in Boston eventually. I found out where a prominent Bostonian (or Brahmin as they called themselves), had his club on Beacon Hill through some of the delivery boys in the North End. I wrote Mr. Edward Lowell a letter.

Dear Sir,

I am working to help the many Irish refugees in Boston and would like to form a mutual alliance with you toward this end as well as unite in various business enterprises I can invest in. I work out of an Irish immigrant agency on Hanover Street and look forward to your reply.

The response was quick and I received the following most unpleasant letter.

Dear Moriarty,

I shall not use the term sir to you, for you are no gentleman. Who do you think you are? We have our own group that does proper business in this city. You can never hope to be a part of that. Since you will not stay in your place, it is our pleasure that you leave Boston at once. We cannot force you to leave, but hope and pray you have enough intelligence to understand there is not possible future for you in the Athens of America, our hub of civilization.

The letter was just signed, “Lowell.”

Right, so be it! The insult I really expected. I was building rackets in the North End and Fort Hill slums for gambling and vice. Therefore, I was enriching myself but also helping my people at the same time. I had to live somehow.

Well, I started getting Irish political leaders organized by convincing them the Upper Class in Boston was no different from the overlords in Ireland. We were going to hit the Brahmins where it hurt and work on their arrogance. I started an Irish Newspaper the Flying Geese with sections in English and Gaelic. I did not have my own name on it, but had people writing articles I suggested.

One was about the abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison. He was another phony who would help Negroes but not the suffering Irish in his midst. We had scathing articles about this. We delivered copies of our paper to the Liberator offices. I have to chuckle at the memory, because Mr. Garrison didn’t enjoy our writing as much as we did. He stormed into our offices. Garrison was a weak looking undistinguished man. The men in my office looked as though they might eat him. By the look on Garrison’s face, he did not want to be anywhere near Hanover Street. We thought we should try to make him comfortable.

He furiously waved a rolled up copy of our newspaper looking to hit something with it. “Who is the author of this outrage?” I greeted him gleefully, playing up my accent to sound like the comical Irishman. My way of showing some sarcasm toward our guest. “Good day sir and how may we be assistin’ ya?”

“Your name, sir,” he shouted.

“I didn’t think you Brahmins got so angry and hot under the collar. No need for raised voices sir. We are all gentlemen here. Who might I have the pleasure of addressin’ sir?

Garrison waved the newspaper and pulled a copy of the liberator out of his pocket. He flung it on a table. “This is who I am!” He shouted.

“Ah the famous Mr. Garrison. What brings you off Beacon Hill and to the North End, sir?”

“You know damn well what brings me here!”

“Sir, let us get your some water or some tea. You will have a heart attack behaving like that.”

“Your name sir!” Garrison screamed.

“My name is of no concern to you,” I replied with my voice now changing to a lower colder octave. “Your newspaper is of concern to me. You want to bring Negroes here to displace Irish.”

“The Negroes have been enslaved on American soil for two centuries, sir! They are more deserving of recompense than your wretched Irish refuse.”

Some of my men started to inch forward, but I raised my hand to stop them.

“So, you have power over ruffians. I have been attacked before. Your ruffians do not scare me.”

“Mr. Garrison, I do not care whether you advocate for freedom of Southern slaves. I do care when they cross my interests. You can write about abolition, but those slaves must stay in the South. Any more attempts to bring Negro laborers here will result in measures.”

“Oh and what will those measures be, you disgusting bogtrotter.”

Inwardly, I seethed. I wanted to kill him. My brain got the better of my brawn. “Try me, Mr. Garrison and find out.”

“I’ll see you in hell sir,” Garrison shouted as he stormed out.”

“You shall be there before I will,” I said with a smile. The others in the office laughed as he stormed out the door.

Mr. Garrison was dealt with in the next few weeks. A few years earlier, on September 18, 1850, the United States passed the Fugitive Slave Act. A slave captured in the free North could be returned to the South. Lawmen faced a fine if they didn’t capture a runaway. I had my men track down runaways and turn them over for a fee. I had no great love for Southern planters who were like English nobility. I had in mind keeping Negroes out of Boston and New York. This became another part of my rackets. People frantically posted signs warning Negroes about potential capture. I had to remind my boys not to be too rough on the Negroes. After all, they were property and worth a lot of money, although I did make an exception. One night, I was brought one particularly arrogant light-skinned slave with an arrogant attitude. I strangled him and in the dead of night, we left him on the doorstep of Mr. Garrison’s paper, The Liberator. No money would be earned for this man being returned to slavery but I enjoyed making an unpleasant statement to Mr. Garrison. He did not cease his publishing but stepped his attacks up. I did not kill William Lloyd Garrison. I wanted him always looking over his shoulder. He would come to learn I was no respecter of Boston neighborhood and territory. He was not comfortable in my neighborhood. Irish people always had to work in his. We would be the evil Celtic spirit he could not be rid of. We would be for him and other Brahmins as Lady Macbeth, who cried “Will all the perfumes of Arabia never sweeten this hand?” As you will see shortly, many of his supporters would not be as lucky. My boys also attacked free Negroes living on the North Slope of Beacon Hill. I went on these raids sometimes and would scare them with grabbing them and sending them South to slavery. It was common for us to grab Negroes in the street and demand proof they were free.

I enjoyed watching Mr. Garrison squirm. He could not prove we killed the man on his doorstep, nor could he approve the Beacon Hill attacks. I knew of his suffering for I had some of the young boys in my employ watching the Liberator offices constantly. We were proud of returning slaves, because we were upholding the law of the land. There was no need to murder Mr. Garrison anyway. This was now a case where in this instance; we were holding the best cards.

We had another advantage. The Boston Police were now mostly Irish. I had the force on my payroll and attacks on Negroes were not investigated. I had Irish ward leaders on the payroll. I was now the unofficial gang leader in Boston. Any members of the Know Nothing Party had long since fled. The Know Nothing Party was a political party of English Americans who attacked Irish immigrants. They were called the Know Nothings, because if caught for their deeds their response was “I know nothing.” They were no longer safe in Boston. With our numbers, they knew when to take a hint and clear the field of battle. I wish I could say that for Mr. Holmes later on. Oh, if only he had done as the Know Nothings did, but alas, it was not to be. I made the Brahmins miserable with my waterfront schemes. Boston was built on shipping. We received our cut of their massive profits. As time went on, the Brahmins more and more withdrew with their savings wanting as little to do with day to day commerce as possible. The Brahmins still would not do business with us, so I went to the next step, which was a general strike. In Boston, this meant no police and fire protection, no trash collection, no maids, nothing moving on the docks. I made sure limited help went on in the Irish neighborhoods. We also horrified Beacon Hill by marching through when they were out and about in their finery. We even invaded their churches after we had been to our own services on Sunday and said they were the Anti-Christ. We just would not go away. We could act as ancient Celtic apparitions when needed. We gave no quarter physically and intellectually. We jostled them in the streets, sometimes throwing them in the mud and garbage and ruining those same fine clothes. There were loud screams all over Back Bay and Beacon Hill as people would be pushed down. We broke their fancy windows and painted slogans on their walls. The slogans were against Brahmin feeling toward the Irish and threats against them and Negroes. Then the Brahmins tried to have Negro workmen to repair the damage and we beat the workmen right in front of their Brahmin employers, who gasped in horror but also did not lift one collective finger to stop it. I had led a rally of laborers a few days ago. I was speaking to a group of hard famine survivors who wanted to eat. I made it clear to them the Negro was taking food out of their mouths. Say that to someone surviving the famine and he will fight because he sees it as he is fighting for his life. I now had tremendous power over Boston Negroes, because I could determine if and when they would be harmed.

The Governor called out the Massachusetts Militia, sturdy Yankee boys from Massachusetts farms who also held no love for us Irish.

They shot some of our lads down like wild dogs and bayoneted others. We sent a few of the bastards to hell in return in pitched street battles. Street battles had become a way of life in Boston. Now, we also attacked Abolitionists. We were now breaking up Abolitionist rallies, capturing more Negroes, and sending them South. We also murdered some Underground Railroad captains. We spared nothing in torturing Abolitionists to give them up.

After two weeks of violence, I received a note from Mr. Lowell. The Brahmin leaders wanted to meet. Not in their sacred clubs of course, but at the Boston Public Library. I acted as the Irish spokesman. My boys did not go in the meeting with me. There was no need to show muscle with these gentlemen.

We sat down at a large oak table in a boardroom. There were five Brahmins. Only Lowell introduced himself. They were all grim stern men dressed in black. They stared at me with pure hatred. No one shook hands with me. Lowell was the only one who spoke.

“What is it you savages want from us,” he sputtered. He was shaking and so angry he could barely look at me. His face was red. I was enjoying the power I had over him.

“Why have you come here,” he cried.

“Why have I come here?”

“That and why have your Irish hordes come to this great city, this shining beacon and ruined it with your pestilence?” I thought for a moment he would vomit on me, he was that stressed. “Your drunken slovenly ways, your vileness. Why?”

I eyed him coldly. “We would not have to come to this city if the English hadn’t bloody starved us out of Ireland.”

Lowell looked as though he would have apoplexy. “Control your language sir! The fact that you cannot control my language proves my point!”

Again, I eyed him steely. I spoke to Lowell in a cold hard voice. “You will never like us and we will never like you. You are just another example of cold vicious heartless Protestant bastards. We now have power so you will agree to our demands. In exchange, you will be allowed to keep your riches and your inner sanctums, which we want no part of anyway. We control the docks, police, fire, trash collection and a host of other things. It would be a crying shame if your products rotted in your ships or the ships burned. Oh those ships are so beautiful. That would be a tragedy. Your beautiful homes churches and your clubs. Would be a tragedy if something happened with no fire protection. Your people in their finery are being accosted regularly. Wouldn’t it be a tragedy if they continued to accost them and Constable Paddy Ryan of Station One were otherwise occupied.”

My schemes in London acted as an excellent training ground for this. The Irish were a despised minority in London, but not in Boston, where the Irish were still despised by the upper classes but now a majority. I could use Boston as a base if London proved difficult.

Meanwhile Lowell and Company were more miserable than before. Lowell sputtered again. “Again I ask you, Mr. Moriarty, sir, what do you want from us?” You could hear the sarcasm, though I enjoyed the fact he was addressing me as Mr. and Sir.

“Not a lot,” I said with a smile. I handed him an envelope. The letter inside had the demands I had already stated to them, and keeping the Abolitionists under wraps.

Lowell stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. “This is blackmail,” he sputtered like a dying steam engine. “Are you saying the proper Bostonians and guardians of this great city are to turn the smooth running of it over to ignorant rabble? We sir, and I use term sir to you in sarcasm if you know what that means are the most civilized city in America. The savage hordes running it? Impossible! This meeting is over!”

With that, they walked out. It was time to put some more pressure on the leaders of Boston.

We called for another general strike. The Governor called out the militia again. It was now November 1860 and Abraham Lincoln had just been elected President. The Southern states had begun to secede from the Union. The previous President, a do nothing named James Buchanan left it for the new President to solve. Storm clouds were brewing. With Christmas and the New Year on the horizon, I started my Ten Plagues for the City of Boston. If the Brahmins wanted to play Pharaoh, playing Moses would be just my forte. As with Moses and the Ten Plagues, the Brahmins hearts were still hard. I would make their hearts soft or break them. My training in upping the ante on Lord Fitzmaurice stood me in good stead for dealing with Boston Brahmins.

The streets stank from more trash than usual even with the weather getting colder. The Brahmins could only be thankful it was not the July stink of rotting garbage. The Militia had to act as police in the Brahmin neighborhoods. Calling out the militia had already been a strain for as I said they were farm boys and needed for the harvest. Boston is also the state capital, so the Governor, right in the city and being affected by the turmoil as well. I carried out my threat and some ships were destroyed in Boston Harbor. I took a page out of the Brahmins own text with their Boston Tea Party. It was a beautiful sight as flames from many ships lit up the night sky of Boston. We would put up with a little hot ash in our neighborhoods to watch the show. It hurts when it is you on the receiving end though. Cargoes were again offloaded selectively.

I set up tutoring for poor Irish boys and girls in the Boston Public Library. Scores of children came and took books out. Many Brahmin librarians immediately quit not understanding the word “public.”

The equivalent of the tenth plague was the cruelest. The Brahmin abolitionists would tutor Negroes they would show off to society. Once the preacher Henry Ward Beecher held a mock slave auction on Boston Common as an example of slave sales in the South. Brahmins would buy a slave and free him or help the Underground Railroad free the slaves. Our tenth plague then was odious but effective. We increased our campaign to kill Underground Railroad Captains throughout Eastern Massachusetts. I killed two men myself, one in Attleboro and one in Quincy, Massachusetts. My men found out who they were and I was taken in teamsters wagons to these places. The one in Quincy, was a cold man who had the same last name as the town. There were ten of us in a wagon. Now, few would question ten men with Irish accents in a wagon. Just ten more micks going to do labor. They just figured I was the foreman.

One of my lads slammed the knocker into the door as though he were breaking it down. These lads are not gentle men at all. A maid answered the door. The maid was black as coal dressed in a bonnet and simple frock with an apron. It looked as though she had been baking bread.

“You animals needn’t break the door down, I was coming,” she said in a cold New England voice. “Mr. Quincy didn’t say anything about the house needing any work.”

I looked at her coldly. “Our business with Mr. Quincy is of a different kind.”

“Surely, you are not connected with the railroad”, she snapped.

“Young lady, this station is now closed,” I said matching her frigidness with mine.

My lads were more hot blooded. One grabbed her around the waist and lifted her. “Out of our way, nigger,” he snarled.

She screamed, “Mr. Quincy, I am being attacked!”

A small thin man came out from another room. He was thin, wearing a suit a top hat and a walking stick. “Who are you savages?” Put my maid down now!”

“Oh sir, you are in no position to give orders to anyone now,” I said with a smile.

He struck me in the forehead with his walking stick drawing blood. “Out of my house you savages!” He tried to roar but his voice came out as an amusing squeak. I felt the blood on my forehead and now my blood was up to use a phrase. I grabbed his stick and caned him to death with it. We then ransacked the house. We found papers about other stations on the Underground Railroad and ten runaway slaves in his cellar. Some of the lads returned to the North End and got more wagons and some rope.

“You folks are going back South where it is warm and we will be warmly rewarded for finding you.” They started to wail. “Shut up or I’ll give youse somethin’ to wail about!” One of the lads snapped.

“Aren’t we a cozy little group,” I said still smiling. The escaped slaves were turned over to the law for a nice payday. It certainly helped especially in Boston where the police are now in my pocket.

The peak of the plagues was as follows: The Brahmins had paraded around a Negro who was attending Harvard because they, the Brahmins were paying. His name was Robert Lowell. The same Mr. Lowell who was my nemesis had adopted him and the Negro had taken Lowell’s name in gratitude. We decided he would be a guest of our hospitality in the North End. I had him watched in Cambridge going between his lodgings and the school. He was walking in Cambridge and when we learned his ways, we struck. I set out with my lads in a wagon and pulled the wagon up beside him splashing mud on his new trousers.

“Oh, look what you careless monkeys have done. You have ruined my clothes!” he cried. The teamster looked at him and smiled. “I think you have it backward. You may be wearin’ the fine clothes, but we have the power over you. We don’t see none of your Brahmin friends here now. We roughly got out grabbed him and bound and gagged him. He tried to scream, but he was a small effeminate man and my lads had an easy time with him. We placed him at the bottom of the wagon and surrounded him. It was a hard bouncing trip to the North End and he moaned all the way like a wretched child. We took him to a warehouse and that is when we started working on him. We took the gag out of his mouth.

“What are you going to do with me,” he cried.

“Nothing nice,” I said with a faint smile. “You must think you are better than us Robert.”

“How do you know my name? You Irish pigs should realize I have powerful friends!” It is Mr. Lowell to you peasants anyway!”

“Oh I ain’t takin’ this from no nigger”, William bellowed as he balled up his fist and punched him in the stomach. Robert doubled over retching. “Now clean it up, nigger”, he bellowed.

“Now William,” I said softly. “This is no way to treat out guest. I shall clean it up.” I went and got a mop and bucket. My men could not believe their eyes as they watched me clean up the mess. I think they were too shocked to admonish me.

“How do you know who I am?” Robert cried.

“That is easy,” I smiled. “Your Brahmin friends proudly parade you all over. It is not hard, even for ignorant micks like us. Many of us can read too you know.”

“My patrons will avenge me!” Robert sniffed.

“How,” I smiled. They would not deign to come here. Where do you think you are Robert, Beacon Hill? You are in the heart of the Irish North End. Your hero Mr. Garrison came once. I don’t think he approved of us, our accommodations or Hanover Street. I think he was very happy to leave and head back West to Beacon Hill. Would you like to try a little experiment and see how far you get? We will take you outside and let you wander around the neighborhood. Let us see how you do. William, escort our visitor to the door and bring two lads to follow at a discreet distance.”

“Mr. Lowell,” was led to the door and unceremoniously shoved out. It was a cold Boston twilight and I suspect the cold he felt was deeper than the temperature. No sooner did he get out the door and start to walk down the street did the cries start, “Kill the nigger, get him out of our neighborhood!” Then the stones starting flying. At that point, William held up a hand and said, “we will take care of him.” Robert was roughly taken back to the warehouse and shoved in the chair in front of me. I had my speech ready.

“You see how it is, Robert? You are completely at our mercy. You barely got several doors away and a mob nearly formed. How do you think you will return to Beacon Hill? Answer me; do you think you will return to Beacon Hill?”

“Yes, as God is my witness, I will live to repay your so called hospitality in your squalid pig pen. You I realize are better educated than your men, but your book learning lacks breeding. You will never make it in society.

“Oh Robert, and you will make it in society? Do you think men such as the Cabot’s will let you marry their daughters? They look down the hill at you. They patronize you. They may have more feeling for you than for us, but they have you as a pet. At least with us we know they hate us and we hate them just as much.

“What are you going to do with me,” Robert sobbed.

“That is what you are about to find out, my lad” “Lads, let me go think about this for some time.”

“Do you want us to rough him up, professor,” William said with a smile.

“Yes, William, not fatally. He does need to have that arrogance knocked out of him.” I went off to mull over his fate. In the past, I might have considered sparing him. After Donal, I was not going to make that mistake again. Moreover, the Brahmins needed to have the ultimate horror on their doorstep. With Robert being an adopted Lowell, I almost had my version of Pharaoh’s son. I came back to where the lads were detaining Robert.

I whispered in William’s ear, “take him home, but hang him in Louisburg Square. He will have the opportunity to go home. No one said in what condition.” William smiled that crooked evil smile he had. The lads had already soiled Robert’s clothes and beaten him bloody.

“Robert, you are going to deliver a message. The lads shall take you home now. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

“Well I am not sorry to say it has not been a pleasure for me!” he cried like an angry child.

William slapped him. “That is no way to treat a man in his home.”

“All right William, that will do. Take him back to Beacon Hill.”

They left for their journey. It was now the middle of the night. My lads followed instructions, being careful to avoid Militia Patrols who might ask what they were doing out at that hour. In theory, Boston was under martial law. Luckily, they saw no one in the deserted streets. When they arrived in Louisburg Square, William strangled Robert with his powerful arms as to not wake the neighborhood.

The lads arrived in Louisburg Square and hanged the body from a gas streetlamp.

The elite of Boston awoke to a hanged beaten man wearing the following placard.

“He is firstborn male free educated but alas for what purpose? He is dead.” I must say I worded that placard rather well.

The letter came to my offices two days later. I agreed to meet them in the library again.

Lowell and Company were this time accompanied by the Governor himself, Nathaniel Banks who would later become a Civil War General. Lowell and the other Brahmins looked at the ragged Irish children with horror. Banks grew up poor in nearby Waltham and was a Democrat. He was the one apparently who informed the Brahmins the militia could no longer help. Banks was more sympathetic to us than to the Brahmins. He did not like the violating of the law, but was not someone the Brahmins considered in their circle. This time, Governor Banks did the talking. The Brahmins were just relieved they would be left alone and we would not try to socialize with them or marry their daughters. Banks stayed behind to speak with me. Lowell and the other Brahmins staggered out as though they had been struck. Boston belonged to the Irish. I would use it as my base when the American Civil War broke out.

Well The Book is Off at the Publisher.

Don't laugh. I am excited but scared. I kept wanting to tweak things before I sent it. Well let's ssee where this goes. I already have my marketing campaing going LOL!