his back to me and staggered down Fulton, holding onto the buildings for stability. He soon disappeared into the gloom.
Such a sight reminded me of my father on most Saturday nights. The only thing more pathetic than a drunk in public was a lone drunk on a cold, dark night. Rum was for the weak, and I would have none of it!
As I passed directly across from the public house, its door opened again, releasing more sounds of merriment. Stopping in the shadows, I watched two young men emerge from the tavern. Both looked like jack-tars, in their striped blouses, tattered jackets, and baggy breeches. As the door closed behind them, one turned and peered up Fulton, while the other turned and looked down the avenue. One whispered loudly, “He went this way, mate. Come on, let’s get him.” Turning, both men moved briskly into the darkness, following the drunk.
I crossed the street, knowing full well what was happening. It had become a nightly custom for some to beat and rob the many drunks found on the docks. It had happened to my father more than once, and I hadn’t liked it. A hapless drunk made an easy but unfair target, one that I found shameful. These scourges of the wharfs had to be stopped.
Picking up my pace, I rapidly reached the next cross street, but I could neither see nor hear which direction the sailors had gone. It was so dark that I could hardly make out the lines of the buildings, let alone moving shapes. Looking up at the sky, I prayed for moonlight and moved farther down Fulton.
Halfway along the next block, I heard a dog bark, and then the faint sounds of a person crying out. Moving towards the sounds, tracing the passing shop fronts with my fingertips, I found an alley just down the street. As I rounded its corner, the clouds briefly parted, and a sliver of blue moonlight helped me see the way.
Twenty feet into the lane, a shadowy figure lay prone on the cobbles. One jack-tar, to the left of him, was kicking the drunk with his boot. With each kick, I heard a muffled cry. The other sailor, closer to me, knelt by the figure, apparently rummaging through his clothes.
“What the hell goes on here?” I shouted.
The ruffian on his knees turned quickly at my approaching steps and shouted back, “No concern of yours, mate. Move on, before I spoil your guts.”
“Stop kicking that man!” I demanded.
In the blink of an eye, the kneeling sailor jumped to his feet and turned to face me. In the pale moonlight, I saw a quick flash from a knife in his right hand.
He lunged at me, trying to stick me with the blade, but I jumped to the side. As he stumbled by me, I kicked him hard in his groin with my boot. He let out a loud cry and hit the stones with a thud, face down. When he landed, I heard the knife clink out of his hand. Looking down in the faint light, I spotted the blade not three feet from me and moved to it, kicking it out of the alley and onto Fulton. Then, twisting back, I found the second thug moving towards me over the stranger’s body. But as he did so, the drunk raised one of his legs, tripping him. The sailor landed hard on the stones and scrambled in an effort to get to his knees. Rushing to him, I punched the side of his head before he could rise. The force from my blow threw the man across the alley, where he crumpled against the opposite wall.
Rounding on the first thug, I saw that he was still moaning, holding his crotch as he tried to stand. Reaching down with trembling hands, I pulled the second jack-tar up the bricks until we were face to face. He was dazed and only half conscious, the fight gone from his eyes. Grabbing him by his jacket, I pushed him in the direction of the other wavering sailor.
The entire brawl had lasted only a few breaths, and I was shaking but ready for more. Herding the two groaning men towards the street, I angrily shouted, “You guttersnipes get the hell out of here… and if you touch that dagger in the street, I’ll stick you both.”
Helping one another, they slowly retreated out to the street and vanished into the darkness.
Turning, I rushed back to the stranger, who had pulled himself up to a sitting position, his back braced against the alley wall. When I knelt, I found him groggy and groaning.
“Let me help you, sir,” I said quietly.
He just sat there a moment, shaking his head in the dark. Slowly, he moved his hands down to the cobbles and finally looked up at me. “You’ve got a hell of a punch, lad. Thanks. Let’s see if I can get up.”
Putting my hands under his arms, I gently helped him stand, with his back to the bricks. Then, after a brief rest, we stumbled out of the alley to the street. Here I propped him against a building, and we took another respite. By the faint moonlight, I finally got a look at his face, and what I found startled me. He had blood trickling down one side of his dirty forehead, and he wore a pearl stud in his left ear. On the right side, his badly scarred eye was mauled shut. His face, hair, and thick beard were covered with filth, as was his black wool coat.
Concerned, I said, “Your forehead is bleeding, sir, and your eye looks mangled.”
With a slight grin, he replied, “Aye, the blinker has been like that for years. Go back and retrieve my hat, lad… and my eye patch, so I can cover it up.”
Steadying the stranger against the wall, I watched as he reached into his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, which he then held to his bleeding head.
“Are you sure you’re alright, sir?”
“Aye. The rum got the best of me, and those varmints thought me an easy mark. My head will heal. It’s my innards that hurt. They got a couple good whacks at my ribs before you came along. Now, go get my belongings, boy. I’ll be fine.”
Returning with his gear, I watched as he slipped the black patch over his dead eye and placed his hat on his head. When he finished, he looked every bit like the pirates I had read about. Laughing to myself, I thought, what have I done here—saved one buccaneer from other pirates?
After straightening his filthy coat, he finally said, “Okay, lad, let’s sail for home.”
“Where would that be, sir?”
“The Morrison House, just a few blocks down.”
With the stranger’s right arm draped around my shoulders, I steadied him as we slowly stumbled farther down Fulton. The man was short and stout, but I could feel his powerful muscles under his coat. With every step of his left leg, he let out a grunt or a cry. I was sure that those vicious wharf rats had cracked a few of his ribs, and I hoped he wouldn’t pass out from the pain.
Finally we reached the boarding house, where I knocked loudly on the small front door.
Within seconds, an older man opened the way. The expression on his wrinkled face when he saw us was one of shock. He stood there a moment, staring at the scruffy drunk, and finally said, “Captain, is that you? Come in, come in.” Helping me get the stranger through the doorway, he pointed down a small hall. “Put him in the parlor by the fire and get his coat off. I’ll get a basin to clean him up.”
We bumped down the narrow hall and into a large, warm, well-lit room. Here I steadied the standing captain in front of a chair while I helped him remove his heavy coat.
Once done, he collapsed into the overstuffed armchair and mumbled, “I need some rum, boy. It’s over there on the sideboard. Pour me mug, there’s a good lad.”
Studying the stranger slumped in the chair, I found that he
