Chapter Eleven

THE FIRST SECTION:

The next morning saw the streets considerably cleaner than they were the day before. And while many homes and buildings were lost in the numerous fires, a steady downpour that had lasted most of the evening had luckily quelled most of the fires. Richard was still trolling the streets with his men to ensure that that the cleanup work was getting done and that nothing had been missed from the previous day. Still, Marnie was left in greater ruin and he knew that somehow this is exactly what Coleman had envisioned.

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He recalled Coleman’s words from a few days prior, when Coleman had definitively stated that he wanted to raze the neighborhood, kick everyone out and rebuild. Well, Richard said to himself, now he will have his chance. All around the streets of Marnie were signs of destruction from what Richard thought was clear mismanagement and shortsightedness. Teams of local workers were still pulling charred bodies from the rubble of burnt homes and from time to time Richard spotted an injured resident crawling from a side alley seeking help.

“I cannot believe the devastation,” he said aloud. “They only had a couple of hundred men and Marnie had well over a thousand!”

In a surprise attack, the numbers do not always matter so long as the enemy’s gun is six feet away from his sleeping body. That was clear to Richard that morning and he pondered how he was going to both fix the infrastructure of Marnie, the problem that the citizens might think this was his doing and how to strip the power of such decisions from Montgomery and the rest. Certainly quieting Coleman would not be out of order either, he thought.

When the mayor came to an intersection where the road to the left went down to the docks and the straight-ahead route went deeper into Marnie, he decided to head to the docks to inspect the buildings and atmosphere there. He figured that the riots could have spilled over and ruined the entire economic foundation the city was built on. It would not surprise me if the people ran away from the thugs, ended up down here and decided to burn the place down. To his delight, however, nothing had changed from the previous two days on the waterfront. It did occur to Richard that Montgomery had thought of this and prepared to have the docks protected from any advancing mob. Montgomery was never so stupid as to leave these things out, Richard admitted. Oddly, Richard was happy that Montgomery was in charge because he likely acted as a counterbalance to Coleman’s reckless ambitions.

“Mr. Mayor,” a voice called from a crowd of men nearby, “how are you this morning?”

Richard brought his carriage to a halt and surveyed the scene around him. Business was being conducted as it normally would, with merchants bartering with ship captains about their load. “Doing better now thank you,” he said in reply. “How is business today?”

“Better than yesterday,” the man replied. “Just wanted to know if you see anything going on down here like what happened up there?”

Richard paused despite the fact that he knew the answer already. There was just no way that Montgomery, or even Coleman for that matter, would want another riot on their hands. “I do not foresee it, no. I would think that what happened yesterday has taught all parties a lesson or two,” he responded.

The man waved goodbye and walked back into the crowd. Richard sighed at the situation he was in and felt lucky that not all was lost. The businessman’s trust is easy to earn and keep as long as you allow his business to continue running profitably, he muttered. The public’s trust is something different altogether.

*******

Back in Marnie, Michele sat in the Patrick’s basement and fed the fishmonger a steady flow of whiskey to ease the pain of his bruises. He was certain the old man was drunk enough to withstand the aches for another few hours, but he wanted to make sure that Patrick would pull through mentally as well. George joined the men in the basement and grabbed his usual spot and mug. When Michele offered George whiskey he refused.

“What are you all about?” Michele asked. “A man does not sit in his drinking spot with a mug in his hand and refuses to drink. Not after what he went through yesterday at least.”

George remained silent, staring off at what seemed like nothing to Michele. He was obviously in a depressed place and did not want to move away from it. Michele closed Patrick’s eyes for him and told him to get some sleep. Not that you can understand me you poor man, he muttered. He then walked over to George, grabbed the hand that held the mug and poured a nip of booze before lifting the hand and mug to George’s lips. When George refused to open his lips, or even shift his eyes in response, Michele tried to move the mug to just under his friend’s nose. He hoped that the strong scent would awaken George’s senses, and that it did. But the response was not what Michele had expected. Instead of regaining normal consciousness, George flipped the cup out of his own hand and pushed Michele’s away crying, “Leave me alone!”

“What has gotten into you?” Michele demanded. “That was some of the best stuff we’ve got. And I have never known you to refuse a drink, even on your worst days!”

“Drink it yourself,” George stammered.

Michele sat back and stared at his friend. He looked closely at his body. There were no obvious signs of a beating; at least nothing worse than anyone else had received. Sure, there were a few bumps and bruises on his head and his hands scraped beyond what they normally were. So what is bothering him? Michele asked himself. Michele leaned in for a closer look and saw that something inside George was eating away. He watched a tear roll down George’s face before the fool wiped it away.

Finally, Michele got the courage to ask him what was wrong, “What happened George? What did they do to you?”

Michele heard George start to sniff back his tears and runny nose. Eventually, the man looked at his friend and cried, “They killed my horse. They killed him. Knocked him right down and bashed him to death…and there was nothing I could do!”

Michele took George’s head and placed it on his shoulder. No matter how often the friends had teased him about the horse, Michele knew that it provided George with a sense of business partnership that he could not live without. Everyday, George would load up the cart and walk the horse through town selling off his mussels. Except for the occasional stubborn streak, George treated the horse better than he did himself, never letting it sit in the rain at night, almost allowing it to sleep in the same room as he did. George had his friends, but the horse was his daily companion.

“I don’t know what I could have done,” George cried.

Michele just responded that there was nothing he could have done; nothing that anyone could have done. He tried to calm his friend down by telling him that they would all become stronger for this – Patrick, David, Christopher, himself and George. They would all survive and move on. George picked his head up and looked at Michele. His eyes were bursting of red streaks painted across the white surface of his eyeball. His chin was ground tight as his lower jaw pressed upwards against his upper jaw.

“I’ll find a way to make them pay,” George claimed. “I’ll get my revenge. God will teach them who is in control.”

Michel chuckled at his friend’s determination, but he also knew that George was serious. “I would let God take care of things George,” Michele advised. “If I were you, I would just pray and let Him take care of things.”

George looked at Michele and the look on his face showed that he agreed. “Then I will pray. And I will pray that the scoundrel who did this will pay with his dear life. That he will hang for his mistakes.”

“That’s better George,” Michele reassured, “now come and share a drink with us. I think Patrick is starting to wake up.”

But George started to sob again and he fell into Michele’s shoulder. Michele let the mug of whiskey fall to the floor where the it ran freely across the floor.