Chapter 24 - Even Without Being in a Gang, There's Plenty to Do
The Marginals and the Hudson Dusters—if they ran into each other, it wouldn't be surprising if a knife fight broke out.
"Hey, you misfit rejects!"
"Yeah? And you damn dust bunnies—blow too hard and you'll all scatter, so don't get cocky."
The Marginals refers to those on the fringes—social outcasts.
The Hudson Dusters means the 'dust sweepers' of the Hudson River, implying they 'clean up' the area around the Hudson.
Both sides were locked in a childish argument over their gang names.
Honestly, this is pretty embarrassing.
I took a few steps away from Gavin and Cory.
Leo was next to me, shaking his head.
"Shit, I shouldn't have come to watch this. I should've stayed holed up at home like Marcus."
Would it really make sense for a German immigrant to show up at a rally to 'fight the Germans'?
That's what Leo thought, but if it were Marcus, he'd almost certainly be somewhere here.
Probably standing in line at the registration office with the other German men far off in the distance, looking small and nervously glancing around.
While glancing around for Marcus, Gavin and Cory suddenly went quiet.
The Hudson Dusters gang had closed in, clearly intimidating them with their numbers.
"Damn it, if we weren't so outnumbered…"
"That's a pretty weak excuse, Gavin."
Suddenly, a man sprang out and clamped his massive hand down on Gavin's shoulder, almost pinning him.
He looked to be in his mid-twenties, a head taller than me, and his hands were the size of pot lids.
"You're scared of that many? And you still call yourself a Marginal?"
"Ow, no, I'm not scared, Oliver!" Gavin yelped, pretending to be in agony.
Oliver just scoffed and let go of his grip.
Behind him stood three more guys with rough looks on their faces—all Marginals.
"Hey, you Hudson riffraff! If you've got something to say, pick up a weapon first."
"Throwing your weight around, huh? Don't act tough when you know full well there's no real fighting allowed here."
"Is it just talk? Want to find out after this is over, in the alley by Terris Baker's place?"
"Screw you, bastard."
Neither side actually crossed the line.
The police were gathered at the registration office to keep order.
Leo was standing far in the back, while the giant Oliver pointed at me.
"And who's this?"
"He's a protest slugger—a rookie Boss Tanner assigned this time."
"Boss did?"
Oliver stared at me intently.
"What's he planning, giving us this scrawny kid?"
"Don't judge by appearances."
"Yeah, right."
I wasn't even an official member yet, so Oliver didn't think much of me.
My presence wasn't enough to catch his attention.
They stood in line in front of the registration office, chatting about the army and the war.
In front of the school, a lot of the registrants' parents and relatives had shown up too.
There were also some kids who had just come out of curiosity, like me.
As I was moving over to where Leo was, Salvatore of the Five Points Gang approached me alone.
"I guess you're not planning on paying the ten cents, seeing as you joined the Marginals."
"That's how it worked out."
"Well, it's not like there are many places that would take you. Why didn't you just join all of Chinatown? That would suit you better."
Salvatore sneered at me, clearly trying to provoke a reaction.
I pointed to the registration office and asked,
"Aren't you getting in line?"
"Unfortunately, I'm still only twenty."
"Liar."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
You just look old, that's all.
When I didn't answer, Salvatore started flexing his fist.
"Meyer told me—you found Johnny Spanish's body together, right?"
"That's right."
"Johnny was chasing you, and he even got caught by other bootblacks but managed to escape, then went into the Garment Warehouse?"
How do you know all this in such detail?
As I was trying to come up with a decent answer, Salvatore sized me up and said,
"Idiot. With a head like that, you'll either end up in handcuffs or dead before long if you keep playing gangster."
"Thanks for the advice."
"Advice?"
Salvatore made a mocking face, said, "I'll be watching you," and then walked off somewhere else.
"What a ridiculous guy."
I have no idea why he bothered to come over and say such pointless things.
When I got to where Leo was, he was staring after Salvatore and asked,
"It didn't seem like you just happened to run into each other on the street. The way he talked to you, you two don't have an ordinary relationship, do you?"
"Yeah, I'm curious about that too. Why is he acting like that?"
"Either way, you need to be careful. I heard the impressive thing about him is that he's been arrested by the police plenty of times, but he manages to get out every time."
Assault, illegal gambling, robbery charges.
He's been caught about twenty-five times, and almost every time he's slipped free.
"Is that why I need to watch out?"
"It means he's quick-witted and cunning. Plus, he's resourceful—he's got a lot of people who follow him."
"What's he do now?"
"He's a pimp."
A pimp is someone who manages prostitutes and connects them with clients.
"From what I saw today, he doesn't get intimidated by the other gangs at all."
"We worked together for a few days, remember" "Back then you had your scarf pulled down over your face. Now you're just Ciaran, as you are."
Anyway, things like the Slugger activities and hanging around the patent attorney's office brought us closer.
Maybe Leo was a little jealous of that.
"Do you think I could become like that too?"
"You want to be part of a gang?"
"To be honest, shining shoes has gotten boring lately. I'm actually giving your suggestion some serious thought."
"I take that offer back. There's no need for you to end up in a gang and start doing dangerous stuff."
Leo looked at me, clearly disappointed.
"That's… actually pretty disappointing. I just wanted to be with you…"
At that moment, a commotion broke out at the registration office.
It started when a man of German descent was registering his name.
"Shouldn't we stop a spy bastard like him from joining the army?"
"Watch your mouth—I'm just as much an American citizen as you are!"
"Don't give me that crap. Who knows if you'll turn around and shoot us in the back once we're at war!"
"Send all the German spies packing right now!"
Anti-German sentiment in America was at its peak. In times as sensitive as these, standing in line to register your name alongside an enemy national? That alone served as a flashpoint for conflict.
The press was already portraying German immigrants as spies and publishing one article after another questioning their loyalty to America.
With America's declaration of war, the Liberty Knights emerged.
The Ku Klux Klan (KKK), resurrected by the specters of white supremacy that had been wiped out after the American Civil War, also fanned the flames of anti-German sentiment.
These two extremist organizations didn't hesitate to kidnap, beat, or even execute German immigrants.
Up until now, such incidents had only occurred in the western wilderness or rural areas, but this extreme behavior was steadily spreading to major cities.
"If anyone makes a scene, I'll haul all of you away, so just register your names quietly!"
"If we get shot by these bastards on the battlefield, will the police take responsibility!? This isn't something we can just let slide!"
Did they think anyone was happy to register for this?
You could see the frustration and resentment on the German immigrants' faces.
The U.S. federal government had announced that any German immigrants who refused to register or cooperate would be arrested or deported on suspicion of espionage.
So after coming here to register, they turn around and yell at them for showing up. Of course they'd be angry.
Despite police intervention, the uproar didn't die down. To make matters worse, gangs started causing a scene to show off their influence. It was complete chaos.
Bang!
"From this moment on, anyone causing a disturbance here will be taken into custody!"
In the end, the police fired their guns into the air, finally calming the situation. Some of the German immigrants were in tears, and once they finished registering, they hurried to leave the scene.
Then, I noticed a German man watching everything unfold from a distance.
It was Marcus.
I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. Startled, Marcus jumped and gave me a shocked look. When he recognized me, he gritted his teeth and looked like he was about to take a swing at me. Of course, he only pretended—his fist never left his side.
"You almost gave me a heart attack."
"Yeah, well, what are you doing here?"
"If you want to get information, you have to see it for yourself. I don't trust the newspapers."
"Says the idiot who's always reading the paper."
At Leo's words, Marcus just dismissed him, telling him to buzz off, and then turned to me with a meaningful remark.
"I want to join a gang too."
"..."
"Not that I could, of course. Who's going to accept me, just because I changed my name? But in any case, I want to work with you."
It seemed Marcus had made up his mind after witnessing what happened at the registration center.
In the early days of the European Great War, America stayed neutral, so there wasn't much discrimination against people of German descent.
What changed everything was this: In 1916, there was an explosion at the munitions depot on Black Tom Island in New Jersey. Then, just a year later in January of this year, the Kingsland Munitions Factory in New Jersey was blown up.
Ever since German operatives started sabotaging America's war supply lines with acts of terrorism at home, anti-German sentiment had intensified.
To escape that, German immigrants began changing their last names to American ones. Marcus's family joined in, and after they changed their name, he became even more obsessed with gathering information.
And now, Marcus was finally reaching out.
"I waited for a German gang to show up, but that hope's gone."
Even if it did happen, it's obvious how tough it would be to survive among the Irish, Jewish, and Italian gangs. Just shows how scary things like race and place of origin are.
Marcus and Leo both looked at me.
By now, they'd both lost their attachment to being shoeshine boys.
"There's plenty of work to do even if you're not in a gang."
"So… you're telling us to just find something else to do?"
Disappointment was written all over Leo's face, and Marcus looked somewhat let down too.
I shook my head with a smile.
"I mean there's a lot we can do together besides joining a gang. I need you both, too."
At the registration center, Asians, Black people, and Hispanics were also standing in line. When the white people mocked and blamed the Germans, they mostly stayed silent.
Anyway.
"We may not be able to choose our country, but we can choose our friends and coworkers."
Marcus and Leo's eyes grew moist.
Even if I work them like dogs from now on, it'll be fine—we're friends, after all.
The day of draft registration. According to the newspaper, over ten million men had completed registration, and each was assigned a unique number.
Their fate would be decided a month later, at the lottery in Washington, DC, on July 2.
Garment District. The day after draft registration, which had taken place simultaneously across America, the protests resumed.
And on the sixth protest—something dramatic happened.
Word came just as the protest was wrapping up, delivered by an ILGWU member.
"Everyone! The bereaved families have dropped the sewing machine lawsuit!"
To be precise, it was the families of the deceased factory owner and the loan shark who wanted to negotiate in exchange for dropping the lawsuit.
It seemed they wanted to avoid the uncertainty and expense of a drawn-out legal battle and try to at least get some crumbs by giving up ownership. The garment factory owners were the ones who encouraged them from behind the scenes.
The death of Johnny, the slugger they had hired, and the Sewing Machine Contract found on his body had put the owners in a difficult position.
On top of that, as the protests continued, more and more women workers began joining in.
Hiring Johnny in an attempt to suppress the demonstrations had backfired, tightening the noose around their own necks, exactly as they'd feared.
And furthermore, The newspaper article reporting that ten million men had registered for the draft in a single day probably shook the owners as well.
With the coming labor shortage due to the draft and the growing influence of women who would replace those men, the owners were eager to settle things before the protests could spread any further.
Before ILGWU and WTUL could even discuss the matter, my mother—now one of the leading organizers of the protests—coordinated with them in advance.
"I just have a feeling—those two organizations might want to keep the protests going."
"But we're struggling to get through each day as it is."
The garment factory owners' proposal was for themselves, the ILGWU, and the WTUL to pay the Yu family $300 and return ownership to the workers. In exchange, all protests would stop immediately.
"They think they can put an end to the protests for just a hundred dollars each."
"Still, it's the factory owners who are caving and dropping the lawsuit, so it's not a bad deal."
"You're absolutely right."
The protest itself isn't what matters.
But for the women's labor union organizations, the act of protesting was the goal.
"What's important is that the protests forced the bosses to approach us first to negotiate—and that sets a precedent. And at that meeting, we get to share our vision."
It wasn't just about selling the sewing machines for cash, but presenting a vision for a sustainable business!
"…By showing the brassiere?"
"We're all women here, so why not? Anne Morgan will definitely be there too, so take the opportunity to make your pitch and show them you're confident about making this a success."
"…Okay. I'll give it a try."
The next day, the protest continued as planned while, behind the scenes, quiet negotiations took place. We only found out the outcome that evening when Mother came home.
ILGWU and WTUL accepted the garment factory owners' offer. For both organizations, achieving their objectives through protest was hugely significant. So they decided to use this victory as a major publicity tool.
"That's really none of our concern. What matters to us is something else, isn't it?"
Mother handed me a paper with a knowing smile.
It was an investment contract. They would provide us with a total of $3,000 as investment funds, with the condition that we repay the principal within three years In truth, aside from the lack of interest, this was closer to a loan than an actual investment.
The real point of interest was who the contract was made with.
"So Anne Morgan took the bait after all."
"To be honest, she didn't seem all that interested in the product itself. Her expression was more like, 'Why would anyone bother to wear something like that?'…"
"But she still signed the contract?"
"Surprisingly, she said this—"
She said she hoped to see more women become successful by their own abilities, not just through wealth inherited from their parents.
"That's right, we need more women like that."
"And while she said she'd like to hear more about our business, she didn't have time and signed the contract on the spot. Something about having to deliver relief goods directly to the front in France."
What can I say, their scale really is on a different level.
Clap, clap, clap.
I nodded in agreement and applauded.
Before I knew it, Roa was giving Mother a thumbs-up too.
"I want to be like that lady when I grow up!"
"Then your father would have to be JP Morgan. I'm afraid that ship has already sailed."
"Big Brother could be a Morgan! Don't you have any dreams?"
"Should I make you one, Roa?"
No, you're too big for that. Still, you might be better than Liam, who spends every day mindlessly destroying his lower body working out.
Anyway, Mother managed to secure $3,000 in investment.
Adding in the money I've scraped together so far, we had around $5,000 in total. That was more than enough to get started.
The protests ended the next day.
Mother and I signed the Underground Workshop Rental Contract with the owner of the Tenement House, agreeing to pay $10 a week.
We also registered the business in New York City under Mother's name.
Meanwhile, we cleaned up the gloomy Underground Workshop and gave it a fresh coat of paint, transforming the atmosphere.
Leo, Marcus, and Liam helped with this.
So did the five Marginals, who suddenly found themselves with nothing to do after the protests ended.
"We're still a gang, you know! Just because we're working like this doesn't change who we are!"
"Yeah, yeah, let's just get this over with and grab a drink."
A few days later, wagons pulled up in front of the Tenement House.
It was the sewing machines coming back, finally returning to where they belonged.
Once everything was ready, Mother and her colleagues shed tears of joy and were filled with emotion inside the workshop.
Meanwhile,
A man wearing his fedora pulled low came to see me at the Tenement House.
"What brings you here?"
"Today's our day off from striking."
"Even strikes get days off, and now you're taking another break?"
"...It's a different concept. Want me to explain?"
"No."
Tanner Smith and I headed up to the rooftop