Hobbadehoy Rising

By Max Willi Fischer and Historium Press

A young man named Pencil comes of age in the mid-1800s - a gripping story not to be missed!

An orphaned teen in the notorious Five Points district of lower Manhattan in 1854, Pencil's cursed to scavenge the unforgiving streets where trust is a stranger. Even as slavery has divided the nation, the good Pencil comes across

• Language: English
• Publisher: Historium Press
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962465038

Book preview

Introduction

Many Americans wish the nation was more united today with less divisiveness among politicians, commentators, and neighbors alike. The truth is the United States has rarely been united in its near two-and-a-half centuries. From the outset of the nation, there have often been strong opposing views of how the nation should approach the mission of the Preamble of the Constitution— We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union … . World War II and the immediate aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks may have been the exceptions when the vast majority of Americans seemed to be of a singular purpose.

However, the most divided era of this nation may very well have been the decade or two leading up to/and including the Civil War. Every school student learns about how the Union (northern states) fought the Confederacy (southern states) over the issue of slavery. Conventional wisdom often states that the entire affair was purely geographic—the folks north of the Ohio River and the Mason-Dixon Line opposed slavery and those south of it favored it. It wasn’t that simple. There were sympathizers for the opposing view on both sides of the Ohio. Researching the society in which Pencil, the protagonist in Hobbadehoy Rising, lived, I discovered serious differences of opinion about the slavery issue in northern locales. The crux of this story is how an orphaned teen, who doesn’t even know his own age at the beginning of the story, views the events of the day and the characters who promote them as they unfold around him and how he handles the challenges of reacting to them.

Our experiences help form our character. In Hobbadehoy Rising, I hope you enjoy the maturation of Pencil.

Part I

Gotham

Chapter 1

May,1854

My ma will tan my hide if I don’t bring back the molasses in the pot. The boy’s eyes swelled as he pursed his lips after addressing the shopkeeper.

I walked past the grocer’s open door, my ears wide open, before I anchored myself at the edge of the storefront glass. Despite the film of street dirt and dust on the window, I had a front row seat to observe a master at work—my chum, Cherub. Still, a loud-mouthed prat at a nearby street corner annoyed the hell out of me.

Repent ye denizens of Gotham! A street preacher with a slouch hat and a grizzled face shot his hands up to the sky as he repeated his call over and over. The end is near, sinners! Repent or burn!

To me, the Bible thumper’s message had long since been turned to bunkum by another preacher a few years back. That man predicted the exact date of the end of the world, only to see the day come and go without so much as a clap of thunder. No, it was the bellowing voice, straining to heaven, which made me wish he’d dry up and move along.

A tear coursed down Cherub’s grimy cheek and landed in a dented tin pot. His short stature and baby face belied his thirteen years, and he was an expert in using it to his advantage. She’s already thrashed me once this morning. He pulled down his dirty wool shirt at the shoulder, exposing a series of dark, red abrasions across his back. Please, kind sir, I’ve already paid you the fifteen pence.

The rotund grocer, his palms flat on the counter, looked down upon the doe-eyed boy as sweat poured off his forehead. I’ve never heard of such a thing as emptying a jug of anything, let alone molasses, into a pot so as to carry it home. He lifted one hand off the oak counter and touched his forefinger to the ceramic vessel. It says right here on the jug that it holds a half gallon. Your ma ought to know how much she needs.

Ma ain’t too good at cipherin’, mister. Cherub sniveled as he cleared the snot from under his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. But she knows that this here pot will hold exactly what she needs.

I could tell the dodge was about to be set just as I’d planned it.

The shopkeeper, his back to me, wiped his brow with his linen apron, crossed his arms, and exhaled. That pot might be a bit small, but …, if that’s how she wants it, alright. He removed the cork from the jug and turned it upside down into the pot. Here, boy, you hold it. It’ll take a while, and I’ve got to check on things in the storeroom before other customers come along.

The boy watched the steady ooze of the molasses, giving me a sideways glance to make sure I was ready. I gave Cherub a nod and tucked loose strands of my curly, brown hair under my newfangled bowler. Even though it was hot in the city for mid-May, I always wore, or carried, the hat with me. I swiped it from a well-to-do, English gent who was careless enough to have set it down on a park bench. Sewn into its lining were several compartments, which were very useful in hiding things.

Meanwhile, the dark, brown liquid continued its steady swirl into the grubby pot as the grocer returned and busied himself behind the counter with paperwork. Cherub put down the jug after almost filling the black-handled pot to the rim with the thick molasses. He gave me a quick glance, and I tugged once on my ear.

Be careful how you hold that pot, boy. The annoyed shopkeeper diverted his attention from a supply sheet towards Cherub as the boy backed away from the counter. At least, allow me to carry the pot to the front door for you.

As the storekeeper bent down to take hold of the shifting molasses, Cherub grabbed the handle and lifted the pot on top of his head, giving him the appearance of a buffoon imitating Johnny Appleseed.. The brown syrup covered his face before sliding down his apron onto the floor.

You damnable street rat! Blinded by the goo, the grocer struggled to maintain his footing on the gummy, plank floor as he dug his fingertips into the counter to keep his balance. Come back here, you scamp!

Cherub backed away quickly while I rushed in with two burlap sacks and handed one to him while the grocer kept sliding on the molasses-covered floor.

While I scooped items off several wall shelves into his sack, Cherub flipped off the lid to the cracker barrel and stashed handfuls of the thin biscuits into his sack before stealing several hunks of cheese from under a glass dome. Once finished with the cheese, he looked back toward the counter.

Police! Help! Police! The grocer’s panicked voice was somewhat muffled from below and behind the counter. Even though the molasses was sticky, in the summer heat, it was slick enough to have caused him to fall. Now, I could hear him heaving deep breaths as fingers covered in the brown syrup rose from below, hoping to grasp the countertop.

Pencil! Cherub called with a sense of urgency. We need to get going! He dumped hard candy from a glass jar into his sack and headed for the back door, looking back at me while I grabbed a handful of cigars and tobacco plugs before slinging the sack over my shoulder. Come on! He darted so fast out the door, his wooden, penny whistle, which was tied to his rope belt, seemed to defy gravity as it floated parallel to the floor.

Both of us tore out of the rear of the store down one of numerous dirt roads gridding the Five Points neighborhood of lower Manhattan. Sidestepping open pools of sewage and other garbage draining from downspouts, we zigzagged along dirt streets as police whistles piped a ways behind us. With me leading the escape, we passed several saloons before I heard a commotion behind me. A drunkard, who’d been tossed out a door, knocked Cherub off his feet and onto his ass. Like a newborn foal, the youngster scrambled to get up, clutching his bag in his left hand and searching for his whistle with his right. I retreated a bit, close enough to smell the stink of the rot-gut whiskey, wondering if it was the natural odor of the dazed man on his hands and knees or if it wafted out the open door of the saloon.

Just as Cherub started to find his feet, a burly, bare-chested man with an anchor tattooed on his upper arm roared out the same door. You bastard! I’ll teach you to never say those words to me again! He picked up the drunk by his suspenders and wound up a big fist before slugging him squarely on the jaw.

Still struggling to his feet, Cherub looked up and saw the drunk about to drop upon him like a large sack of grain on the docks.

Now, Cherub! I grabbed hold of my friend’s hand and pulled him out of harm’s way.   

We sprinted through a narrow alley. I didn’t know what pained me more—my breathless ribs, my aching, stick-like legs, or my foot being jagged by something caught under my floppy leather sole. Still, there was a shiver of excitement worming its way up my spine, which made the adventure quite to my liking. Escaping the shadows of the alley, we were delivered to a broad, open area under a cloudless blue sky.

We stop running here, Cherub. Still on the edge of the shadows, I sucked in some air while I set my bulging bag by my side and extended an open hand toward a beehive of activity. Welcome … to Chatham Square.

Wait! Hands on his thighs, Cherub inhaled to the point of wheezing. I got something stuck in my foot. Bending on one knee, he unwrapped several brown rags which served as a makeshift shoe. He pulled a wooden splinter from the ball of his foot before rewrapping it as a crude bandage.

Hands on my knees, I remembered two apples I took from the grocer’s as we fled the store. I dug them out from the depths of my burlap sack and handed one to my friend. The juice might quench your thirst till we get back to Sachem’s. We devoured the fruit’s flesh to the point of leaving a mere ribbon of seeds dangling from the stem. It was as if we hadn’t eaten in a day, which wasn’t far from fact.

We now focused on the square as it teamed with horse drawn trolley rails, buggies, and wagons. Chatham had a different feel from the rough and tumble Five Points district. Awning-covered storefronts lined the square which even featured a theater and one of those new-fangled daguerreotype shops that made an image of you on a copper plate. Despite the numerous, intermittent piles of horse manure in the open area of traffic, the boardwalks were tidy and free of obvious filth. Several dozen well-dressed pedestrians strolled in the middle of the square where the unusual spring heat and an absence of rainfall had hardened the dirt surface into dusty stone. A southerly breeze kicked up a bit of dirt while carrying the scent of salt water from the harbor. All-in-all, I wondered when Sachem would send us and the rest of our gang into Chatham Square. For sure, there’d be plenty of quality touches here.

Follow me. We blend in like two good old Joes. I led us across a broad expanse of dirt onto a broken pattern of flat, granite stones in the middle of the plaza. Slightly raised from street level, it offered the best view of the entire square, at least from ground level.

Cherub had recovered enough by now to think of worrisome possibilities. What if we get separated or—

An ear-piercing whistle blew.

There they are! One of two coppers, the sun reflecting off his shiny star attached to his navy blue      coat, pointed right at us from less than two-hundred feet.

Eyeing the police without panic, I jerked back Cherub with my hand on his arm before he could bolt in a wayward direction. I’d learned a thing or two on the streets over the past few years. "When I say go, head down toward the Bowery and the use the alleys to get back to Mulberry Street." As I spoke, I dug into my bag and removed a small pouch. I emptied it, scattering ceramic marbles about the stone surface.

Cherub looked back at the police bearing down on us. Then he glanced back at me, his eyes as wide as saucers waiting for the word.

Go!

Cherub sprinted down Bowery while I raced toward Chatham Street. Separation often confused the police and increased the chances that at least one of us would get away. I glanced back one time to see that the cops had fallen in a heap, their legs twisted upwards at angles not meant for any man. Our escape was secured along with another victory against the coppers.

****

The high-pitched notes of Yankee Doodle screeched out of Cherub’s whistle while dust and dirt danced in sunlight filtering down through the jagged edges of broken glass in a rotting window frame. The stubble-faced man in a faded gold vest reached his right hand across his body and smacked the instrument out of Cherub’s mouth. Damn it boy! Is that all ya can play? Where’s me tobacco? Sachem groused as he started to pick threads of salted beef from between his teeth with a narrow dagger with one hand while wiping his other over his wide brow and back through his greasy, silvery hair.

The squealing of several rats in the corner of this underground lair on Mulberry Street delayed my answer. Don’t be such a rusty guts Sachem, I’ve got it. I drained the last drops of coffee from my tin cup before I dug through my burlap sack and tossed the tobacco plugs across the brazier to my mentor.

And me cigars? Sachem gave me an annoyed look while he grunted.

I clutched the handful of cigars from near the bottom of the bag, being sure to leave one or two behind. Afterall, hadn’t I earned it? The old man wasn’t out there risking his neck from being dropped into a dank cell in the Tombs… besides, he wouldn’t be the wiser. I decided against tossing them, instead I handed them to Mark, who passed them to Rabbit in a counterclockwise procession, before the tow-headed teen handed them to our leader.

Sachem belched as if he were trumpeting a major announcement. It wasn’t Delmonico’s, but the salted beef, hard-boiled eggs, biscuits and coffee were indeed filling. The old man stood up and rearranged his blanket on the dirt floor of the cellar under a dilapidated tenement before sitting down again.  He took a match from his vest pocket, struck it on the sole of his shoe and lit one of his cigars. So, how’d ya dodge play out?

I explained how Cherub worked his innocence to a tee while the youngest group of our mob praised my evasion of the police. Mark, Chatham Square looks to be ripe for the picking, I said as I watched Cherub tighten the rag around his foot, something that stuck in my craw.

That’s another great touch laid out by Pencil this week, said Mark whose name was earned by his ability to select the richest victims in a crowd for our mob of street urchins to swindle or rob. That sneeze powder you gave Bug to use on that rich fellow on Canal Street was quite fine. What did you say was in it?

I stared into the dying flames within the rusted brazier and wiped some beads of sweat off my forehead. The oldest member of this mob, my mind clung to the fact that five years ago I escaped the orphanage and was rescued by Sachem, who taught me the ways of the street. The old man became the only father I’d ever known, always there for me even after two years in the House of Refuge, the city’s street rat reformatory. However, of late, I felt used and underappreciated. I wanted to work the streets on my own.

Pencil, you daft? Mark nudged me out of  my stupor with an elbow. What was in that sneeze powder Bug used on Canal Street earlier this week?

Snuff and pepper. With my bowler on the edge of a torn blanket behind me, I lay down with my head resting on my shrunken burlap sack.

Any way, that touch on Canal Street turned into quite a haul, now didn’t it, Sachem. Rays of late-day sunlight settled on Mark’s freckled face, forcing him to shield his eyes.

Let me see. Instead of standing, our instructor sprawled awkwardly and took a sheet a of paper out of his crumpled, felt top hat. Back on his ass, clenching the cigar in his mouth, he held it up into the fading sunlight. Gold watch and chain, silver Spanish dollar, eight shillings, and a silver snuff case. Sachem took the timepiece out of his vest pocket and admired it before holding out a small, brown velvet money sack in one hand. That is if Pencil’s accounting is accurate. As if to challenge me, he blew several smoke rings.

Why doubt me, Sachem. I looked up into the silken, web-covered cracks and crevasses of the floor above us where dozens of feet shuffled about, opening and closing the knotholes in the wood. I marveled at the intricate geometric patterns spun by the spiders, envying their self-sufficiency. I leaned to one side and put my coffee cup in a linen bag next to my ragged, maroon blanket. Ask Bug, he lifted the goods.

Five sets of eyes turned toward the sullen teen who’d eaten a meager portion in silence. He was now thoroughly engaged in having a cockroach travel down one arm, across his hands, and onto his other arm before reversing its course.

Bug! Sachem yanked the half-finished cigar out of his mouth. Damn it, boy, let ya mind join our midst and put your plaything away.

Bug gently clasped the insect between the tips of his thumb and forefinger before tucking it inside his buttoned shirt. One Spanish dollar, eight shillings, a silver snuff box, a gold chain and watch. It is just as Pencil wrote it down, and you read it.

What’s the snuff box and chained watch worth, Sachem? I asked.

Edwards on Canal Street said he’d give me a dollar for the powder box and five for the watch and chain.

Well, there you have it—eight dollars in cash and goods in fence. What more do want to dawdle on it for?

Ya ciphering skills are beyond reproach Pencil, so ya name’s apt. However, me Mohawk bloods wonders—

Wonders about what? I asked the question quite politely, but inside I fumed. Yes, I got my name from that new-fangled writing stick, but that Irish bastard, he was no more an Indian that any of us were.

It wonders if that gold watch and chain couldn’t be fenced for more elsewhere, and … Sachem rubbed his bearded face while exhaling more smoke. And it wonders about if ya be holding out on me. His blue eyes pierced through his motionless, ruddy face. He seemed transported to another place. And it wonders if I did the right thing by saving ya when ya parents threw ya out into the street because other mouths were more important.

I shot a stern glance at the old man. You picked me up from an orphanage. You never even knew my folks. The lack of knowing my real age boiled in my brain. A few years with my folks, perhaps ten at the orphanage, and two stints with Sachem wrapped around a couple years in the House of Refuge—I could be anywhere from fifteen to twenty. Who really knew?

Aye, but I’ve told ya before the master of the orphanage told me himself that ya parents rejected ya because they wouldn’t feed the spindly likes of ya over the others.

I’d heard Sachem’s stories about his gallantry numerous times, but I didn’t want to think of how little my parents might have thought of me. Have I ever held out? Have my ciphers ever been wrong?

Of course not, boy. Sachem returned to the present and beamed an ear-to-ear smile as he clapped his hands together. But don’t let ya ciphering skills go to ya head. Ya think that book learnin’ ya got in Refuge will keep ya from being a street rat the rest of ya life? Ha! I’ve got acquaintances, such as Hellcat Maggie and others who’d do horrible things to ya if ya ever turn on me, boy. Ya nothing but a hobbadehoy, neither boy, nor man. Until you become the latter, I’ll do the thinkin’ and collectin’ around here.

Sachem loved to dangle the name of Hellcat Maggie, the half-woman half-demon of the Five Points. When I was younger, just the mention of her name sent a chill down my spine as if Satan himself lived among us. Having never actually seen her, and not knowing anyone who had, I’d begun to wonder if she really existed.

Puffing the tobacco chimney out of the side of his mouth, the old Irishman rambled on, I’ve got a big touch we need to talk about for the day after tomorrow on Broadway. Pierce is coming, and there’s going to be a big parade and all. We can make plenty of heists.

Who’s Pierce? Mark rubbed his bruised, bare feet.

Who’s Pierce? Why none other than the President of these here United States.

Let’s talk about shoes first. I looked at each of my four younger accomplices. If we don’t get shoes and socks soon, our feet will be so mangled and infected that we won’t be doing any touches. Now, we can either use the eight dollars in your possession, Sachem, to go buy some, or…

Or what, boy? Sachem cocked his head while he arched one eyebrow, and his hand tightened its grip on his money sack.

There’s a shoe factory on Wooster Street … For a moment, I still felt the sting of the line supervisor’s wooden stick across my back.