The Banished Children of Eve by Peter Quinn Read Free Book Online

formed again. They screamed curses at the contingent of police that had stayed with O’Donnell. One of them threw a rock that fell far short and clattered across the paving stones. The policemen looked at one another uneasily. They were visibly anxious to rejoin the main body of men back on the Bowery.
    O’Donnell said, “Maybe the best thing is for you to come along with us.”
    â€œO Jesus, Sergeant,” Dunne said. “I’ll be in trouble enough for missin’ work, never mind if I’m arrested for nothin’ more than the misfortune of walkin’ in on a riot.”
    Another rock hit the pavement. It struck closer than the one before. A policeman called O’Donnell’s attention to the crowd that was gathering on the rooftops of the buildings across the street.
    â€œGoddamn it,” O’Donnell shouted, “I ordered them roofs cleared and occupied.” O’Donnell turned to Dunne. “Get out of my sight,” he said. “If I see you again, I’ll have you clubbed senseless. No questions, no conversations, just a good crack across the head.” He marched the men toward the Bowery.
    Dunne walked straight toward the Catherine Street ferry-house. He stopped at the corner of South Street. Some boys had taken a bed sheet, laid it over the puddles of blood left by the men who had been shot, and then nailed it to a long stick. They scrambled up and down the street, waving it like a flag. From the rooftops that the police had failed to secure, a choir of women shouted encouragement. The boys followed O’Donnell’s men up the street, running as close as they could without being grabbed. One of them ran ahead and fluttered the bloody sheet in front of O’Donnell’s face. “Come on, you peelers!” he yelled. “Come on and show us how brave you are! Nigger-loving sons of bitches! Murderers of your own people!” O’Donnell lunged at the boy, who darted out of his grasp.
    O’Donnell halted his men outside Brooks Brothers. A platoon of police came down from the Bowery to join him. O’Donnell paced back andforth in front of them. He never took his eyes off the crowd.
    On South Street, from the direction of the Governors Island ferry, came another flock of street urchins. They ran at breakneck speed. One of them collided with Dunne and went sprawling. He clambered to his feet. The soldiers is comin’!” he yelled. “A whole pack of ’em!” He ran off, shouting his news.
    Dunne saw them in the distance, a column of blue coats, bayonets fixed, campaign caps slouched forward over their eyes. The crowds that had filled South Street instantly parted to let them through, and the soldiers moved with an easy gait, muskets bobbing on their shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the uproar around them. Even at a distance it was obvious to Dunne that these weren’t militia, skittish civilians whose uniforms couldn’t masquerade their fear. These were real soldiers, part of the Governors Island garrison, many of them wounded veterans of two years of war. Dunne could see that once the column reached the intersection of Catherine and South, the mob would be caught in a vise, the police to the north, the soldiers to the west, a rout in the making. He hurried across the street toward the ferry-house. Three short blasts of a steam whistle warned him the ferry was about to depart. He ran through the ferry-house, his steps echoing through the emptiness of the cavernous interior. The boat was pulling out, already a few feet from the docking ramp, and Dunne took the distance at a leap. He caught on to the gate at the stern of the boat, and a deckhand grabbed hold of him and helped him aboard.
    â€œCan’t blame ya a bit for riskin’ your neck to get out of there,” the deckhand said. “A daft enough city when the sun is shining and the world is spinning in proper order, never mind when they’re wagin’