Alderman Mick Donovan liked to think of himself as a genteel, urbane Irishman about town, but William Fitzpatrick quickly learned that they were fellow bottom-feeders in the cesspool that was Lower New York. Mick’s family lived uptown, his daughters attended fashionable Catholic schools, and the Donovans owned a pew at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. However, when crossed, Mick could order slow and painful death without hesitation.
Six weeks into his new assignment, William lost a letter down a sewer grate. It just slipped out of his hand. When he manfully confessed, Mick rose from his chair and slapped him, sending William tumbling with a blackened eye and loosened teeth. Mick stood over him, glaring.
“Next time, Kid, you’re out in the street. “
The next morning Mick exuded affability, but William now knew the rules. The laws of the jungle still applied on the second floor of Tammany Hall.

In the fall of 1882, Mick handed him a note addressed to:

Richard O’Gorman
Judge of the Superior Court
415 West 24th Street.

“Kid, be sure to put this letter in the Judge’s hand, no one else’s.”
“Yes boss,” William replied, wanting to ask if this was the Richard O’Gorman of Young Ireland fame, and deciding against it.

The leaves were turning golden in the crisp air as William hurried to his destination. He was surprised that the O’Gorman residence was modest, at least compared to the extravagant uptown mansions favored by the Irish elite. It was an early Victorian, painted white with green trimmed appointments and gables and perhaps a wee gargoyle or two peeking out from the gutters on the roof. There was no front yard to speak of, nor any deviation from the sameness of the middle-class Irish neighborhood. A handsome, white-haired woman of a certain age answered his bell.

“My name is William Fitzpatrick, Ma’am, from the Alderman‘s office. I have a letter here for Judge O’Gorman.”
“I’m Mrs. O’Gorman, William. I will make sure that my husband receives it.”
“Excuse me, Ma’am. No disrespect intended, but Mr. Donovan instructed me to put the letter in the Judge’s hand personally.”
“Wait here, son,” she replied, leaving the front door ajar for what seemed several minutes.
“Come this way, young man,” she called, motioning him to follow her through a plainly furnished parlour to the Judge’s office at the rear of house where a white-haired, angular gentleman, spectacles perched on his bald pate, sat at a desk surrounded by mountains of papers heaped on tables, desks, and the faded settee by the fireplace while a small fire took the autumn chill from the room. Disorderly bookshelves lined the walls. William could look past the learned man to see, through French doors, a small formal garden featuring a minnow pool framed by miniature evergreens and three stone benches, now overtaken by scattered leaves blowing in the late afternoon sun.
“Richard, this is William Fitzpatrick,” his wife announced. “He has a letter for you, to be delivered personally.”
William walked on tiptoe to the desk, being sure not to disturb any papers, and handed the Judge Mick’s letter. When the Judge made no reply, William cleared his throat and asked,
“Excuse me, Sir. Are you the O’Gorman of the Young Ireland revolt?”
“Yes I am, young man,” the judge replied. “You speak well for a Donegal son--though I can hear the gruff in your brogue.”
“Would you know the fate of my grandfather, Kevin O’Mahony? My mother prays every day for news of her father.”
“Of course I knew Kevin. We came to New York together. He may very well have saved my wife‘s life during our flight. Kevin went to Kentucky for a while to be with relatives and returned to fight with our son and Tom Meagher in the Fighting 69th in the Civil War. Tom was our leader in Young Ireland and Kevin, like so many of us, fell under his spell. He was wounded at Fredericksburg where our son perished, and then headed West. He wanted nothing further to do with Tom Meagher, even when he became the Territorial Governor of Montana. I heard later that your grandfather took up with a notorious madam and eventually settled near Deadwood in the Dakota Territory. I also heard that he had something to do with Meagher’s mysterious drowning, but he was never prosecuted.”
“The Civil War changed many men,” Judge O’Gorman continued, “and few for the better. Kevin had to go West because he could no longer deal with civilized society. He had seen more than any sane man could stand warring in Northern Virginia.”
“Sometimes I think that I’ve seen too much in New York,” William sighed. “I’m no longer young.”
“You must be the William Fitzpatrick whose father was so cruelly murdered by Percy Bingham…”
“Yes I am, Sir.”
“Your uncle John O’Mahony asked me to watch over you, and I’ve followed your progress with Mick Donovan. How is your family?”
“Michael and Frannie are in school and doing well,” William replied. “My mother’s worst scars don’t show, and she hides her face in shame of her disfigurement. She will be happy to hear news of her father.”
“How in God’s name have you learned to speak good English?”
“I listen to the fancy gents and ladies that I hear when I go uptown and imitate them as best I can… Gawd, I wish I could speak like you, and read and write a bit, too.”
Judge O’Gorman paused for a moment, impressed both by the young man‘s ambition and his obvious sincerity.
“Would you like our help?”
William nodded enthusiastically as the Judge continued.
“We lost our son Richard Jr. at the battle of Fredericksburg in front of Marye’s Heights, and our house has been empty for a long time. It may be good for Grace to tutor you--she was a teacher for twenty years.”