O'reiley's Island

CHAPTER 1

It was near the end of November—the twenty-second of November, 1889. Most inhabitants of San Francisco claimed that November was, at least weather-wise, the most pleasant time of the year in the bustling sea port, home to nearly two hundred thousand people. November usually brought satisfying sun-warmed days, and the evenings were absent the thick, cold fog that poured into the magnificent bay during the rest of the year, rolling like a thick, grey blanket over the coastal mountains and slipping through the narrow passage that connected the bay to the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

It was seasonably pleasant that evening, though it was actually early Friday morning and the pre-dawn coolness had begun to creep in. Thomas O’Reiley was comfortable in his heavy, though thread-bare wool coat as he strode easily along the unlit sidewalk. He had turned the broad collar up against the gentle breeze that blew through the deserted streets, kicking up the stray scraps of paper and other human generated detritus. The breeze was weighed heavily with the aromas of the huge bay’s low tide; a salty, marshy scent mixed with the pungent odors of humans and animals and the tangy stench of the always busy docks: the tar and wood of the big ships that waited impatiently for cargos to be loaded or unloaded and the smell of the fishing boats as they got ready for another day at sea, come the change of the tide. O’Reiley drew the air in deeply through his nostrils; the scent was familiar and reassuring, the courier of a thousand subtle aromas. He sniffed at the air expectantly and let his mind separate and sort out the odors of tobacco, roasting coffee, cooking onions, a woman’s flower-like perfume, damp leather, horse manure, exotic Chinese herbs, wood smoke, fish, a workingman’s perspiration-soak clothing.

San Francisco was the only home he had known, and he had walked throughout the city since his earliest recollections, committing to memory each and every street and alley and unnamed path. He knew exactly where he was, what homes or buildings were on the next street over, which streets were illuminated with gas street lamps and which were dark and menacing. He loved the city and its vast and intertwined assortment of cultures, quirks and customs. He glanced up between the tall buildings at the cloudless sky. There was no moon tonight and the star-strewn heavens sparkled like a handful of diamonds spilt upon a black velvet cloth, the display diminished only by the orange-yellow flicker of the cities evenly spaced gas street lamps.

For nineteen year-old O’Reiley, the day had actually started eighteen hours earlier, in the early hours of Thursday morning and long before his mother was awake. At five in the morning he was already hustling for whatever work he could find among the city’s busy wharfs, loading and unloading ships from the East coast, from the Orient and from South America. When the work tapered off in the late evening, he walked to the rambunctious Tenderloin District and spent the next several hours making the rounds among San Francisco’s perpetually open saloons, earning extra change by sweeping and mopping the floors and hauling the day’s accumulation of trash and garbage to the edge of the street. He had a tacit agreement with each saloon keeper that allowed him to pocket any change he found on the wooden floors during his sweeping up. He usually found and pocketed an assortment of pennies and jitneys, deemed too paltry for their possessors to stoop to retrieve, but tonight had been especially rewarding. The fingers of his right hand rolled and massaged the fifty dollar gold coin in his coat pocket. Fifty dollars! He had of course seen many fifty-dollar gold coins exchanged among the patrons in the saloons, but had never personally held one. It had probably been dropped unnoticed by a drunken customer—a gambler most likely. He would have had to work a month on the docks, maybe more, to earn fifty dollars! He grimaced wryly; it would be his for only a short while. Tonight the money would become a welcome addition to the meager household expense money. O’Reiley lived with his widowed mother in the small clap-board house set back a few feet from the mud street in the dreary Potrero District, populated mostly by Irish immigrants. The tiny two-room house, paint cracked and peeling on the outside, had two small windows and a door facing the deeply rutted street. At least the house was warm and dry inside, and it embraced the familiar aromas of his mother’s cooking. O’Reiley’s father, James O’Reiley, had emigrated from Ireland, leaving behind two orphaned younger brothers and an older sister to fend for themselves. He arrived in California as the volatile days of the California gold rush were well into decline. He met his wife-to-be, Mary McGarity, in Sacramento during a provisioning trip in 1867. After living in tiny Sierra Nevada gold mining towns with names like Red Dog and Rough n’ Ready, James realized he had failed completely as a prospector and he and his now pregnant wife moved to San Francisco to settle in with thousands of others who scrabbled for a living among the various opportunities the bustling city offered. James O’Reiley had been laboring on the busy docks fourteen months when a load of cargo broke loose above him, burying him in a deluge of wooden cases filled with machine parts. The accident crushed his skull and left his wife and young Thomas, a year and some months old at the time, to fend for themselves. Little Thomas was suddenly the man of the household. By the time he had celebrated his fifth birthday Thomas O’Reiley was on the streets of San Francisco earning odd coins by running errands and performing many of the endless tasks the cities moneyed families seemed to require. The jobs and errands provided him the opportunity to visit, and eventually know, most areas of the big city and its interconnecting web of streets and alleys. His mother worked as a librarian in the city’s single public library and laundered and ironed men’s shirts in the evening to make a little extra money. Thomas O’Reiley would deliver the neatly bundled shirts the next day, trudging the hills of San Francisco for two or three pennies, usually handed over by another household employee at the rear entrances of the huge homes where those with money lived. It was in that manner he had by chance met young Amanda McPherson, the only daughter of Handon McPherson, one of San Francisco’s prominent and wealthy businessmen. O’Reiley guessed she was about a year younger than he was, and as a young lad was smote with her emerging beauty and demure glances. Her hair was the color of wheat, shiny and silky, and fell over her shoulders and around her face. She had eyes like two deep green pools, almost bottomless, as if he could dive in and swim. Her lips were somewhat thin, but curled into a wonderful smile, and when they parted they revealed beautiful, even teeth. A few inches shorter than he, her figure was still in the process of becoming a young woman, but with carefully guarded glances, he could see the smooth curvature of her breasts pushing under her blouse. She was the most beautiful creature O’Reiley had ever seen, and in spite of himself, felt that curious awakening that young men of his age experienced. Her father was a regular customer of his mother’s ironing and over the next few years he learned her name, and they even exchanged a few words. He also learned she had an older brother, Amos, who was not at all like Amanda, and who appeared to take an immediate dislike for O’Reiley. As months and years passed, Amos and O’Reiley became bitter adversaries, with O’Reiley refusing to back down to the taller, heavier Amos McPherson, who was known to spoil for a fight at the slightest provocation.

O’Reiley turned the corner and leaned his head into the brisk wind. It was growing colder in the early morning hours, and he tucked his chin further into the collar of his coat. Most establishments had been closed since early evening and few lights other than the sparsely spaced street lamps reached into the deep shadows. It would take him another half-hour to reach the small house where his mother was already asleep. With luck, he would get four hours of sleep this morning before he began another day by heading for the docks to find work. He smiled to himself—a broad smile that split his face and made his blue eyes crinkle; tomorrow was Saturday and the last work day of the week. His mother always insisted they take Sunday off as the Lord’s Day. After attending Mass at St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, they would spend Sunday together; his mother tutoring him in reading, writing and arithmetic skills as she had done every Sunday for as long as he could remember. In the afternoon he would read the small pile of books she would bring home from the library; mostly books of science and nature. She would say, ‘someday you will be a great man, Tommy, remembered by many.’ He smiled again, and his mind flashed to the evening a week ago when he had seen Amanda and her father boarding a coach after an evening of theater. She had seen him as well, and he touched his hat and she smiled; it was a quick sparkle of beauty that caused his heart to lurch in his chest. In a moment she was gone, but she turned and glanced at him one last time. He had no great expectations; she was the daughter of one of the most important men in the city, he was the son of an Irish immigrant. He smiled to himself and thought—she sure is beautiful.

A sound, a small rustling sound, a shoe against the cobblestone perhaps—barely audible—came from the left as he passed a narrow alleyway, a crowded space sandwiched between two brick buildings. It was pitch-black in the passageway that was only wide enough for a small horse-drawn cart to enter. Boxes and piles of trash littered both sides of the opening. The sound repeated and he paused to peer into the inky darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could just make out the stacks of trash piled against the brick walls on either side. He cocked his head, sensing movement somewhere further back in the dark alley. He waited, but there was only a tense silence. It wasn’t unusual for someone to be sleeping in the dark alleys of the city. Finally he shrugged and was about to turn away when a sound, perhaps that of something grating on the cobblestones, came once again from the depths of the alley.

Who’s there? he called into the darkness, but there was only silence now. Probably a rat or a cat scurrying for food, or maybe a derelict who had squandered his money in the saloons and brothels the city offered and now was forced to live and sleep on the street. Anybody there? Only silence from the alleyway.

O’Reiley had turned to leave when his eyes caught the faint glimmer of something on the cobblestones, something that didn’t appear to be part of the boxes and piles of trash. It was darker than the shadows, smoother and rounded, spread out against the damp cobblestones. He stepped warily into the darkness and almost stumbled over the form of a man, arms akimbo, legs sprawled apart, stretched out on the rough stone. It was not the natural sleeping position of a man. He stepped closer, bent over and stared at the face. The man was bearded; the chin whiskers and mustache neatly trimmed and well kept. Long hair flowed out against the cobblestones; his hat was a few feet away. The man’s mouth was open, as if caught in surprise and his eyes gaped unblinking at the stars above. That he was dead was almost a certainty, for a dark stain covered the front of the white shirt beneath his unbuttoned coat.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph! O’Reiley whispered. He pulled the coat open a little more and gingerly put his hand over the man’s heart. Nothing. He pulled his hand away and wiped the blood on the man’s shirt. The man’s body was still warm. A shiver ran through O’Reiley’s frame. The killer may still be in the shadows within narrow alleyway, watching him. He rose to leave and his foot caught on the sleeve of the man’s coat, pulling it open even more. Something fell from under the coat and clinked onto the cobblestones. A knife in a leather scabbard was attached by means of a belt across the man’s chest and over his left shoulder. Curious, O’Reiley bent and pulled the knife from the scabbard. It was a large knife with a wide, thick blade longer than the span of his outstretched fingers. A substantial haft, carved from ivory and laced with intricate scrimshaw, graced the weapon, suggesting it was an expensive piece. O’Reiley glanced quickly at the man’s clothes. He was dressed in a high quality suit and shoes, an expensive overcoat. This dead man had been no moneyless derelict. More likely, he had been a gambler that had been followed and killed and robbed of his evening’s winnings. O’Reiley carefully unbuckled the scabbard, pulled it loose and stood, knife in hand. When the police investigated, he quickly reasoned, one of them would simply do the same; take the expensive knife home to show to his friends. He backed carefully toward the street as he slipped the belt over his right shoulder and positioned the scabbard and knife under his left armpit.

Stop! You there! Stop, you thieving little punk! a voice called from within the alley. Three forms emerged from the darkness. We saw you murder this man and we caught you red handed!

O’Reiley continued to back onto the narrow sidewalk. He recognized the voice. He eased the knife from its scabbard and held it behind him, carefully testing its balance and grip. It was heavy, evenly weighted, and the grip was solid; the carvings fit his hand and he realized it was designed that way to prevent the weapon from slipping from his grip.

The three men stepped into the dim circle of light of the street light. The largest of the three stepped forward and stared at O’Reiley.

Well, well! Should have known it would be a sneaky Irish bastard that’d stab a man like that! Thomas O’Reiley! Yeah, you’re the one panting like a lovesick puppy around my sister! He shook his fist at O’Reiley. She ain’t your kind, boy! You think I’m blind, Irish? You think I don’t see you making eyes at her? Well, she don’t associate with Irish trash and murderers! Hoo wee! Wait ‘till she hears about this! He eyed O’Reiley suspiciously. What you hiding behind you, boy? A sudden revelation swept across his face. You got the knife! That’s the knife you killed him with! Coppers will make short work of you, O’Reiley. Hoo wee! They’ll have you dancing and swinging at the end of a rope before the year’s through. A Christmas present for your mama! He laughed and the two behind him chuckled nervously.

O’Reiley stared at the big man before him. You got it all wrong, Amos. I didn’t kill that man! He was dead when I found him laying there. Fully six inches taller than O’Reiley and dressed in dark pants and leather vest, Amos McPherson looked as mean and threatening as he was. Broad shouldered and barrel-chested, his head squatted on a short, thick neck. Amos frequented the city’s saloons and openly spent his father’s money on alcohol, women and gambling. Only two years older than O’Reiley, McPherson already had a reputation in the Tenderloin as a wily gambler and a brutal and vicious brawler. O’Reiley had several times seen him pick a fight over some prefabricated and meaningless incident and then proceed to methodically beat the unfortunate adversary, usually someone smaller than he, into a bloody and broken heap. On one occasion, O’Reiley himself had been the target of Amos’ wrath and was saved from further brutality when four bystanders stepped in and pulled Amos away as he continued to beat and kick his unconscious opponent. Amos McPherson was not a man to antagonize. I tell you, this man was dead when I found him. O’Reiley repeated flatly.

McPherson stepped forward, balancing on the balls of his feet. I say you killed him, O’Reiley. I say you stuck that knife clean through his heart. He turned to the two men with him. Isn’t that what you say? The two men nodded silently, their eyes on McPherson. Amos had now pulled a knife from his own belt and was bouncing it in his hand as if weighing its heft. He pointed with his free hand at O’Reiley. I’ll take the man’s knife, you piece of Irish crap. Give me the knife and I’ll give you a head start before I call the coppers. His voice suddenly had a hard edge to it.

Somewhere deep within O’Reiley the smoldering fire of loathing burst into sudden and unexpected assertiveness. No, I don’t think you will. He adjusted his grasp on the big knife behind his back and watched McPherson carefully. The big man was easing forward, inching closer and closer, his own knife weaving back and forth.

Kill him, Amos! one of the men whispered. Slit him open like a fish! Cut his …

Shut up, Chandler! McPherson growled. He stepped forward, knife held steady now, his eyes staring onto O’Reiley’s. Suddenly Amos feinted left, slashing with the knife, but O’Reiley stood his ground, eyes locked on McPherson. Amos smiled, shifted the knife from his right to left hand and back, shuffled his feet, sliding forward several more inches across the rough cobblestones. O’Reiley had never been in a knife fight before, although had witnessed several in the saloons and on the streets of the city. Usually they ended with neither participant being seriously injured, but he had seen three men die, gurgling in their own blood.

He watched McPherson’s eyes. They squinted, sizing up O’Reiley, glancing up and down, centering on the knife held in O’Reiley’s hand. He saw McPher-son’s muscles tense just before the big man lunged on his right foot and he slid sideways half a step, his own knife hand now ready, the blade forward and steady. What happened next was a swirl of confused motion and noise. McPherson’s lunge fell short. Off balance he attacked again, awkwardly this time and leading with his left foot. But his boot struck one of the cobblestones in mid-lunge, slid to one side and Amos suddenly stumbled forward, arms flailing and grasping at O’Reiley. His left hand caught the leather strap of the scabbard around O’Reiley’s waist and the two of them went down onto the cobblestones in a jumbled heap of arms and legs. O’Reiley’s right arm was pinned under McPherson’s body, entangled and trapped under Amos’ heavy weight. There was a loud grunt from McPherson and he stiffened for a few seconds, then his body became still as the air left his lungs in a long whistle.

The sudden silence was broken when one of the men whispered, Jesus Christ! You killed Amos! The man suddenly looked up and down the empty street. Help! Police! Murder! Police! he yelled at the top of his voice.

O’Reiley struggled to get clear of McPherson’s weight and pull his arm from under the body, his fingers still locked around the handle of the big knife. His hand and the knife were covered with blood. He stood up unevenly, just as a light came on in a window across the street. I didn’t …

Get the police! the man continued to yell. A man’s been murdered!

O’Reiley stared at the body on the sidewalk, then at the knife in his hand. There would be little argument in court. Justice in California was swift and sure. He was a murderer. Self defense would be a pitiful argument, especially considering the other body laying in the alleyway and the bloody knife in his hand. Somewhere in the distance a police whistle blew in response to the calls for help, and running footsteps clattered against the pavement. Another whistle joined in from another direction. The city’s police would be here momentarily. The two men knew his name; Amos McPherson had identified him to them. Another whistle sounded, closer this time.

O’Reiley turned and ran, slipping the knife into the scabbard and buttoning the coat over it. He knew this part of the city as well as anyone, and stayed with the darkest streets, taking shortcuts through narrow, unnamed alleys and squeezing through gaps between buildings. He fled toward the docks, zigzagging ahead of the growing crescendo of whistles and running footsteps. Voices hollered directions of pursuit: This way! Over here! This way, quickly! Once he turned a corner and almost ran into three policemen. One grabbed at his arm and another struggled to blow his whistle. O’Reiley spun out of their grasp and ran in the opposite direction, away from the docks for several blocks, then circled back around. His chest was heaving and he gasped for air. The whistles and shouts were fainter, the chasing footsteps barely audible. O’Reiley could see the tall masts of the ships over the low buildings and storage sheds lining the docks. He headed for one dock in particular, and one ship. The Orion was due to sail with the tide before dawn. He had helped finish loading her with heavy machinery bound for Sidney, Australia, this very afternoon.

There she was! A two masted ship, brigantine rigged, she was still tied to the dock, her gangway in place. O’Reiley heard whistles and shouts not far behind him as he lunged up the gangway.

The man standing there put his arm out and stopped O’Reiley. Hey! Where the hell you going? he asked.

O’Reiley turned and stared toward the street, then faced the man. I need help—a job! On the ship! I’ll do anything! He stared again toward the noise that was getting ever louder. The big man stared down the dock in the direction of the noise.

Police coming after you, are they?

O’Reiley hesitated. Yes. They … they say I killed a man.

Did you? the man asked as he looked toward the street.

Probably—I don’t know. He stared toward the street again. They’ll hang me if they catch me! He turned to the man once again. "I need your help!