By the time we got all our baggage loaded onto the train bound for New York, we needed a respite from the excitement of the last several days. So each of us found a way to fall asleep for most of that eight-hour trip. We awoke briefly at various stops, most notably Baltimore and Philadelphia. But we did not become fully alert until  getting to the western bank of the Hudson River in New Jersey.

There is neither a tunnel nor a bridge connecting the two states across the river from each other. All trains must be transferred to long barges that ferry them from one side to the other. For a modern day traveler pressed for time, that fact can cause frustration. For us, it was splendid; it made our crossing of the Potomac seem like stepping over a brook. 

To the north, there was only lush, hardwood forest as far as we could see. To the south the river broadened into a harbor filled with the masts of sailing ships and the smokestacks of steam-powered vessels. To the east was Manhattan, the largest aggregate of buildings we had ever seen.

Once off the train in Manhattan, we had to decide about lodging. We could go directly to Dr. Johnson’s home in the northern tip of the island. (He was the physician under whom my father had studied at the College of Physicians and Surgeons at Columbia University.) Or, because we had not fixed a time with the doctor for our arrival, we could rent a room in a hotel for a night or two.

Jared began the discussion: “So what should we do, gentlemen? Go up and be nice and polite at the doctor’s house. Or have us a little fun first?”

“I don’t know, brother,” said Horatio. “That’s a tough one. Need to ponder it a bit ‘fore I decide.”

This interchange reminded me that, when it comes to growing up and maturing, boys are like puppies. They are constantly searching for mischief and amusement and even some danger. For them the world is a place of wonder, and they are in a great hurry to grasp all of it they can. Perhaps their hurrying is even fueled by a sense of foreboding, foreboding that all that excitement will vanish and leave them only the burdens and responsibilities of adulthood – raising children, earning a livelihood, dealing with a great calamity like the war, and on and on.

“All right,” I said. “Guess we’re gonna spend some time down here. Need to find a hotel.”

“Got me an idea about that,” said Jared.

With his face a mix of skepticism and surprise Horatio said, “Harry, did we engage the services of a tour guide for this metropolis?”

“That’s fine. That’s fine,” said Jared. “Let’s let Mr. Know Every Goddam Thing Worth Knowing pick the hotel. Like he says, I’m just a ignorant backwoods cracker. What the hell would I know about all that?”

With no hesitation at all Horatio reached up and put his hand on Jared’s shoulder and gently drew him down so he could whisper something. I wasn’t supposed to hear it, but I did.

“Looka here, Jared. I got me a smart mouth and say stupid things from time to time – like just now.”

“Yeah, you do do that, Horatio. Coming from someone else, wouldn’t bother me. Coming from you, it stings. Wish it didn’t, but it does.”

“I understand that. Gonna make me some modifications.”

“That’d be good. Might keep me from choking your scrawny neck.”

“Okay. So … what’s this hotel you found out about?”

“Called the Fifth-avenue Hotel. Not far from here, I believe.”

“How you know ‘bout this place?”

“I found a old copy of the New York Times stuck between one of the seats on the train. Take a look.” 

Jared handed Horatio a faded, barely legible issue of the newspaper – dated way back in March.

“Right there,” Jared said as he pointed to an article titled “Robbery at the Fifth-avenue Hotel.” Horatio read the piece in a matter of seconds and then handed it to me. 

Shaking his head, Horatio said, “Boss, what makes you think we oughta stay at a establishment that got robbed by thieves yet to be apprehended?”

“Well, shit, Horatio, you caught you some train robbers. Maybe you ought to try your hand at jewel thieves. They can’t be nowhere near as dastardly as the train robbers. Probably smarter, but you and Harry gotta be way smarter. And you got me to handle any rough stuff.”

Horatio and I started giggling. The giggling turned to laughter. Jared kept a straight face. When we stopped he said, “So let’s get over there and see if they got some rooms left.”

As it turns out, the hotel had plenty of vacancies, especially on the sixth (top) floor where all but hearty young fellows like ourselves would agree to make the arduous ascent. 

Before entering the ornate lobby, we had a brief discussion of how to avoid issues caused by Horatio’s race. On the one hand, it was reasonable to expect that, since we were now in the land of Yankees, bigotry would be less of a problem than in the South. On the other hand, we were not naïve. We felt it best to have Horatio pose as our servant and to ask for a separate army cot for him in the room.

Jared took the lead with the pompous looking front-desk clerk: “Sir, as you can see, we are young men endeavoring to husband our limited resources. It would be a great favor to us if you would permit Horatio to share the accommodations with Harry and me.”

The clerk’s response took us aback. “Boys, I detect from your accents that you are from a region of the country that was part of the Confederacy?”

“Yessir,” I said, “We are from the state of South Carolina.”

“Well let me be clear on a couple of matters. Firstly, the hotel has no written policy on the race of guests at the hotel. Secondly, and far more importantly, I would not care in the least if it did. I believe that any guest, regardless of color or religion or beliefs or whatever, should be allowed to stay in our hotel as long as he pays his bills and comports himself in a civil manner.”

“Sounds fair to me,” said Jared.

“Excellent. Excellent. And there will be no need for us to find a cot for Master Horatio. I can provide a room that has sufficient beds for the the three of you. So please accept my welcome to the Fifth-avenue Hotel. The staff and I trust you will have an enjoyable stay.”

As soon as we had gotten out of earshot of the clerk, Horatio said, “Didn’t expect that, ‘specially from somebody like him. Musta been a abolitionist before the war.”

“Maybe,” said Jared, “Or maybe he just looks like he thinks he’s better ‘n everybody else. Happy to be wrong about that.”

I nodded and headed for the stairwell.

That evening before retiring we discussed what activities should occupy our time the next day. There were a number of options.

“I vote for going down and taking a gander at how they coming on the Brooklyn Bridge,” said Jared.

“They been working on it for a good little while. Musta made considerable progress. Let’s find out how much.”

Horatio said, “I been reading about the project. Seems the gentleman who designed it – Roebling, I think it was – hurt hisself shortly after they got started and died directly after that. Then his son took over running things …”

“How you know all that?” asked Jared.

Before the two of them could get into another exchange of insults, I said, “Going down and having a look-see would be good. Don’t believe it’s far. We can walk down once we have us some food in the morning.”

After we gulped down a hearty breakfast at the hotel, we headed southward towards the bridge. The walk must have taken 45 minutes or so. During that time, we saw more human beings than we had seen in all the years we had been alive. Washington was a populous city, but nothing like this. 

Not only were there throngs of people, there was huge variety among them. We heard all matter of languages. Some, like German and Italian, I recognized. For most, I had no idea at all. And what differences we saw in how people looked. Being from the South, we were accustomed to seeing white people of Scotch-English-Irish descent and colored people. Not here. We saw brown faces from South America. We saw dark-haired, swarthy people from the Mediterranean. And we saw faces from all parts of Asia, although I could not tell you where.

As we got closer to the East River waterfront, the uncompleted tower on the Brooklyn side rose up in front of us. Jared said, “Don’t see no tower on this side of the river.”

“I read about that,” said Horatio. But before he could finish Jared said, “I’m sure you did, boss. But let’s get us some information firsthand.”

Puzzled and a little on my guard, I asked, “Jared, what you got in mind?”

“Simple. These boys must be working round the clock. Let’s find us a tavern where they go for vittles and spirits. Bound to be a few of ‘em in there who could tell us stuff we won’t find in no book or newspaper.”

I was sure Jared was right. Nonetheless, I was not at all convinced his idea of going into a saloon frequented by bridge workers was something either Mary Kathleen or my mother would have approved of. But go into one we did.

The place was poorly lit and filled with loud conversation and laughter and the smells of beer and sweat. The patrons were muscled men dressed in overalls with suspenders. Most were white, but a few were non-Caucasians from parts of the globe I could not have picked out on a map. The predominant language we heard was English but with a variety of accents, none of which sounded as if they had been acquired in the Deep South.

Jared marched into the tavern as if he had been a long time patron and went straight for the bar, which was a good thirty feet long and obscured by men standing three deep and holding pint glasses of amber liquids. Horatio and I trailed after him as if attached to a tow line. 

A huge redheaded fellow with an unkempt beard saw us coming and bellowed:

“Well, lads. Yis all laid out in your Sunday best and coming into this hole on a Tuesday morning. I’m guessing you must be in search of contributions for the local parish. How much would you be needing so’s yis don’t get yer arses whipped by the good father upon your return to the house of worship?”

Horatio and I were too surprised by the man’s accent and his question to speak. Not Jared: “Oh, thank you kindly, sir. We ain’t looking for no contributions. But we are looking for somebody – and perhaps that would be you, sir – who could tell us about that big ol’ bridge ya’ll are putting up out there.”

“Well, boys, one thing’s crystal clear. Yis not from around here. Not talkin’ with them accents, yis not.”

“You’d be right about that, sir. We from way south of here, South Carolina to be exact. And yourself, sir, if I might ask?”

“You might, boyo, but hazard a guess, wouldya.”

No one was more shocked than I when Horatio said, “Sir, I believe you hale from the country of Ireland and most likely the city of Dublin.”

“Well, jaysis now, aren’t you the smart one. What’s your name, sonny?”

“Name’s Horatio, sir,” he said as he extended his hand.

As that hand disappeared into the man’s grasp, he said, “Me ma would have yis call me, Liam, but Fagan’s what I go by. And, lads, do me the favor of not calling me ‘sir.’ Makes it sound like I’m some sort of British royalty. I’d sooner cut off me member than be associated with the likes o’ them tosses.”

At that the three of us began laughing near loud enough to be heard above the din. Fagan neither laughed nor smiled. But his twinkling eyes showed how pleased he was that we found him entertaining. 

After Jared and I had shaken his hand and introduced ourselves, he said, “I’d be pleased to tell yis all about the bleedin’ bridge. But first, tell me what yis doing up here so far from hearth and home. Bursting with curiosity, I am.”

So we did. We told him just about everything we could think of. He listened to every word with wide-eyed fascination – almost as if we were the adults and he the youngster hearing a tale we could not have fabricated.

When we were done, he said, “Sweet jaysis, lads. That was fearsome interesting. Let me purchase each of yis a pint before I tell yis about the bridge.”

I’m not certain how much experience the three of us had had with  beer and spirits. Jared had probably gotten himself inebriated on a homegrown variety of whiskey more than a few times. I had had some wine at the occasional family gathering. And Horatio? I knew he had drunk some whiskey here and there. But from the sour look on his face as he took a sip? This was his maiden voyage with beer.

Fagan started in. “So … the bridge. Well, one peek out into the harbor will tell yis it’s a truly massive undertaking. Yis probably know that Mr. Roebling, Senior – the gent who designed the thing in the first place — lost his life early on in the project …”

Before Fagan could continue, I heard the thud of a glass hitting the floor and a cry of “Whooee!” coming out of Horatio.

“Well, now, sonny,” said Fagan. “Would appear yis getting’ maximum enjoyment out of your beverage.”

I am certain Horatio heard not a word of what Fagan had said. He had started dancing some kind of jig and shouting a rebel yell that drowned out all other noise in the establishment.

As heads turned toward the spectacle of our little friend, Fagan and Jared began clapping their hands to the rhythm of his clacking feet. Then other patrons started clapping as they formed a circle around Horatio.

I did not clap, nor did I yell; I stood there with my mouth agape thinking “What have we gotten ourselves into now?” The answer did not tarry.

With an accent similar to Fagan’s, a voice outside the circle of clappers roared: “Fagan, you sotted Harp. Shut that little nigger up before I come over and do the job meself.”

Fagan yelled right back, “Do I detect the stink of a bleeding Englishman with the social graces of a barnyard hog?” 

The Englishman was a towering tree of a fellow. He burst through the circle of men and headed straight for Horatio, still jigging and whooping and blissfully unaware of the peril he was in. The man tried to grab Horatio by the nape of his neck. Before he could, Jared delivered a kick to the back of one of the man’s knees. I thought his kick would have the effect of a small hammer struck against a wide oak. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The Englishman crashed to the floor inches away from Horatio.

Save for the sound of Horatio’s voice and feet, a hush fell over the huge room like that of church congregants deep in prayer. After fifteen seconds there was an eruption of cacophonous shouting. Bar stools hurtled through the air. Fagan picked up the Englishman with both hands, threw him against the bar, and the two began trading punches. Two men pinned Jared’s arms as a third began hitting him in the stomach. The last thing I remember was a whiskey bottle soaring towards my head. Then blackness.

Sometime later, I felt calloused hands gently slapping my cheeks as Fagan’s said, “Well there, boyo, yis got yourself a lump on your noggin the size of an egg. But a handsome bloke like yirself won’t be scaring off the ladies none. Truth told, it’ll make ‘em squawk for the details of how yis received it. Have a good tale of blarney prepared for when the querying commences.”

I was flat on my back on a hard surface bumping along as if I were in a small boat coarsing down a stretch of rapids. The space was so dark I could barely make out Fagan’s broad face.

“Yis in the back of a paddy wagon with me and yir two friends. We’re all four of us a bit banged up, but no real damage was done to us. Can’t say the same for the Englishman. He’ll survive but he’ll be in the care of physicians and nurses for most of a month. Shame it won’t be longer.”

As my head began to clear and my eyes grew adjusted to the dim light, I could see Jared and Horatio sitting on a crude looking bench. They were immersed in a heated discussion and paying me no attention.

“Goddam it to hell, Jared, it was y’alls brilliant idea for us to go into that den of iniquity. Wasn’t me who thought it up!”

“Yeah, that’d be right, boss. All you did was get drunk as shit on a few sips ‘o beer and start acting the fool with your hollering and dancing. Like a pint-sized black boy doing such wouldn’t draw no attention. Innocent as a newborn child. That’d be you.”

“Harry,” said Fagan as he reached over and picked up Horatio as if he were a doll and placed him on the bench across from Jared. “Best I separate these two clowns before we have ourselves another donnybrook.” That brought the dispute to a halt, at least for the moment.

“Now listen closely, the three of yis. I’ve concocted a scheme for your escape.” 

Some fifteen minutes later the wagon came to a halt. We were in a busy street somewhere with much noise from other horse-drawn vehicles clattering on cobblestones. Plus the jumbled murmurs of hundreds of voices, and a shout now and again rising over the din. 

Then there was a sharp rapping on the door followed by: “Gentlemen! Some fool with a broken carriage wheel is blocking our way. I’ll be lettin’ yis out a street or two from the precinct house. Yis’ll be following me in an orderly fashion ‘til we get there on foot. And no funny business, or the penalties yis’ve thusly accrued will be that much the worse. Am I making meself perfectly clear?”

“Yis do, constable, yis do,” yelled Fagan as the big door of the wagon creaked open.

Because I had been unconscious when arrested and shoved into the wagon, I had not yet seen the constable. When I did see him as he opened the door, I had to muster all the restraint I could to keep from bursting with laughter. The wide face with a crimson, bulbous nose? The thick handlebar moustache? The short brimmed hat at least eighteen inches tall? The assemblage of all these? Hilarious.

Suddenly there was a calloused hand squeezing the back of my neck as Jared whispered through clenched teeth, “Control yourself, boss.”

“Get yis all in a straight line standin’ at attention and await further instructions,” said the constable as the three of us boys tumbled out of the wagon and onto the street. Then Fagan emerged from the portal rubbing his eyes to adjust to the streaming sunlight.

“Well, bloody hell! If it ain’t Liam Mcsorly bigger ‘n than life staggering his Mick arse straight out in front of me. Don’t know how I missed yis when me and the other coppers was rounding up these three street urchins. Tell me now, how’s life treating yis?”

“Save for the crack on the bonnet one of yer lot give me with his truncheon, I’m fit as a fiddle. And how’s the wife? Can’t be too well puttin’ up with the likes of yirself each and every day. Perhaps I should drop by yir flat when yis on duty and offer the poor lady some solace and comfort.”

“Yis’d be doin’ me a great service, yis would.”

“Run!” whispered Jared. And run we did as the two Irishmen continued their reunion, all part of the plan, of course. Fagan had said, “I’ve spoken with the constable driving this conveyance. Got to know the gent when I come over on the boat a few years back. Brought him news from his old granny in Dublin. He’s been looking for a way to return me the favor ever since.”

When I first encountered the phrase in loco parentis I understood its literal meaning because I had been well schooled by my grandmother in the basic vocabulary and grammar of Latin. But I think this experience gave me a fuller sense of what the term conveys. 

Sadly, there are many adults who have forgotten what it is like to be young. All of us knew some of these hard-hearted people as we were youngsters. They lectured and moralized to us and meted out harsh punishments for offenses far less grievous than those they themselves had committed during their growing-up years. But we also knew adults like Fagan and his friend the constable – adults who very much did remember what it was like to be young and reckless and foolish. And who remembered that, at times, overlooking or turning a blind eye to these offenses was the right thing to do. We are in their debt.

As we finally stopped running, Jared gasped, “Damn, fellas. That was kinda fun. What we gonna do next to keep ourselves from getting bored?”

I said, “I not only can’t breathe, I got a ache in my head feels like some fools throwing rocks at each other in there. What say we leave the afternoon for doing absolutely nothing ‘cept go back and take a nap at the hotel?”

Horatio, who had somehow achieved full sobriety, said, “Heard o’ worse ideas.”

That evening after supper the three of us were on our beds and about to fall off to sleep.

“So what we gonna do about the doctor and going to visit him and all?” asked Jared.

“Not sure,” I said. “On the one hand, he is expecting us to come, and I feel some obligation to honor the commitment. Other hand, time is getting short, and I’m thinking we best get on up to New Hampshire. Whadya y’all think?”

“I think there’s only one way to make the decision,” said Horatio.

“And that would be …?” asked Jared.

“Find out he got a daughter or two living with him who might get sweet on Jared.”

“You just not gonna let it go, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Well you need to, small fry, ‘specially after what you got us into at the tavern.”

“Not the same thing, hoss. Not even close …”

This could go on for a while, so I exercised my role as peacemaker and told them both to cease and desist and that we would decide in the morning. Not five minutes later we were snoring away.

By the time we had finished with breakfast, our plans were solidified. We would send Dr. Johnson a telegram from some point between New York and Boston. It would say we were most sorry that a number of unavoidable delays in our journey had made it impossible for us to accept his kind invitation. We would thank him profusely and say we looked forward to the opportunity of meeting him in the not-too-distant future.

“ ‘Unavoidable delays?’ ” said Jared. “Kind of stretching the truth with that one, aren’t we?”

“We are,” I admitted.

“Way I look at it,” said Horatio, “sometimes telling a little less than the whole truth is the right way to go.”

“Like when?” I asked.

“Since we been talking ‘bout Jared and the ladies, let’s use him as an example …”

Jared looked ready to piss and moan but held back to see where this was going.

“So, Jared, let’s say some female makes it clear she wants to get something going with y’all. Trouble is, you don’t find her so appealing. She’s a nice young lady, but she ain’t getting your fire lit. You ever been in such circumstances?”

“Few times. Maybe more than a few.”

“Good. So what do you do with a girl like that? You tell her straight up you don’t got no fancy for her?”

“Nope. And I see where you’re headed with this.”

“Where?”

“You saying that sometimes telling people, not just some female, the cold truth ain’t right ‘cause, you do that, it wounds the person. So you concoct a little story. Story ain’t the whole truth but it’s better ‘n being totally honest.”

Horatio turned to me and said, “Harry, I was wrong about this boy. Ain’t all brawn and no brains after all.”

“Better you don’t forget about the brawn part.”