“Never again,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “Never, as long as I live.”

When Sean O’Donnell looked around his saloon in the early evening, he knew he was right to make Hudson stay in the cellar. All over the West Side, the crowds had been attacking the black people, burning their houses, beating them up. There were rumors of lynchings. Over at St. Nicholas Hotel, the mayor had been joined by the military. Troops were being summoned. President Lincoln had been telegraphed. With the Confederates in retreat after Gettysburg, he must spare them some regiments before New York went up in flames. A body of gentlemen had armed themselves with muskets and gone to defend Gramercy Park. Sean was glad of that. Meanwhile, he’d seen fires coming from Five Points.

“It can’t be long now,” he warned his family. “We’ll be next.”

It was a quarter of an hour later that a vigorous figure with the face of an adventurer and long, drooping mustaches strode into the saloon. Sean smiled.

“Mr. Jerome. What’ll you have?”

Sean liked Leonard Jerome. The daring financier might not have been born at Five Points, but he had the instincts and the courage of the street fighter. He mostly ran with the rich sporting crowd like August Belmont and William K. Vanderbilt. But Jerome liked newspapers and newspapermen too. The rumor was that he was invested in newspapers. And he’d come into the saloon once in a while.

Once Sean had asked him where his family came from.

“My father’s name was Isaac Jerome, so Belmont says I must be Jewish.” Jerome had laughed. “Of course, you have to remember that Belmont’s name was Schoenberg, before he changed it. But the truth’s less interesting. The Jeromes were French Protestants. Huguenots. Came over in the 1700s. Farmers and provincial lawyers mostly, ever since.” He’d grinned. “My wife’s family swears they’ve got Iroquois blood, though.”

“You believe it?”

“A man should always believe his wife, sir.”

In answer to Sean’s question now, he answered: “Whiskey, Mr. O’Donnell. A large one. I’ve a busy night ahead.”

“You expecting trouble?”

“I thought they’d burn my house—they haven’t yet, but they’re coming down here. On the way already. You’d better hide your nigger.”

“I already did. Think they’ll go for the saloon?”

“Probably not. It’s the abolitionist newspapers they’re after: the Times, and others.” He downed his whiskey and gave Sean a puckish grin. “So wish me luck, Mr. O’Donnell. I’m off to defend the freedom of the press.”

“How will you do that?” Sean asked, as Jerome began to stride out of the saloon.

Jerome turned. “I got me a Gatling gun,” he answered. Then he was gone.