KATHLEEN Boluch

LUCK STRUCK 

Prologue

In the 1860’s, over 100,000 immigrants arrived at Boston’s Constitution Wharf, mostly Irish survivors of the Great Famine.

Those without family connections found themselves stranded. Lodging was expensive. Families lived in rented rooms, boarding houses, carriage barns or tucked away in alley corners.

Sparks of resentment took flame as men restlessly paced on street corners. Women washed and sewed. Stick figured children stole, all desperately awaiting a change of luck.

CHAPTER 1

Mountains of Gold

Wind whistled through the boarding house walls. A few small children pressed against their mother as snow dusted the floorboards. The eldest boy added the last bits of coal to the fire.

When the coal turned to ash, the room went dark.

The boy had an idea. He pulled a little wooden elephant from his pocket. “Mama look. This will burn.”

His mother, Anna, said, “Thomas no. Your father made that for you.”

“Yes, but Mum.”

“No. It’s precious. It’s for good luck.”

Once, Anna Lawson had been pretty. But her husband’s death from Civil War wounds stranded them penniless in Charlestown, Massachusetts.

The grinding indigence that followed twisted Anna’s mouth down. Her eyes, once bright, took on a halting squint. Her hands, as worn as a sharecropper’s, guided the carved wooden toy back to her son’s pocket.

The children slept beneath every quilt Anna had ever sewn. Icy air stung their nostrils. Anna’s mind raced as she prayed.

All the while, Thomas wished for luck.

Every Sunday at mass, he scoffed at his mother’s prayers. Prayers didn’t work fast enough for Thomas. They needed a miracle right away.

The next morning, Thomas scrubbed himself from head to toe. He dressed, wearing his father’s old boots. He then walked across the Charlestown Bridge.

Thomas W. Lawson had dropped out of the Boston Public Schools years before. A boy of the streets, he wove around wagons and passed shouting newsboys. Thomas zigzagged through the crowds, ducking elbows and umbrellas, grinning at familiar faces. He fought his way to Boston’s financial center: State Street.

There it was, posted in a bank window, the “Office Boy Wanted” sign.

Thomas had thought of little else.

He climbed the bank stairs dwarfed by fluted columns. He pushed the massive oak door open. Inside, the air was dry and smelled of ink. Quiet as a church. He yanked up his knickerbockers, adjusted his ragged tie. He strode to the front counter and waved overhead. The bank teller leaned over, his beard brushed the marble counter. “May I help you?”

With a grin, a slap of his hand on the counter, Thomas shouted upwards. “Good morning, my good man. I am Thomas Lawson. I am here for the job.”

Thomas’s inquiry was met with a dubious ‘ahem’ from the teller. “The sign asks for a boy, not a little boy.”

“Aye, but I can do a man’s work.”

To prove his point, Thomas gripped the teller’s counter and pulled himself up, grunting and grinning as his elbows reached over the top.

The teller returned to his receipts but found he could not ignore the boy’s presence. “Lad! Get down.”

“Yes sir.” Thomas landed on his boot heels. “May I inquire about the job? The job posted on the glass, kind sir?”

The boy’s wrists and neck were dangerously thin. But his eyes were lively.

The teller exhaled. “’Tis against my better judgement.”

The teller found himself posting a ‘next window’ sign between the brass bars. “Wait here. I’ll get Mister McClanahan.” “Yes sir. I will. Yes sir.” Thomas beamed.

The teller disappeared down a hall.

Thomas leaned against a marble wall. He studied the bank ceiling, embellished with majestic brass chandeliers and squares of copper. The boys calculated 396 copper squares. Just then, the teller gestured for him to sit on a bench with other applicants: older boys, sweating beneath wool overcoats.

Thomas sat and swung his feet. The other job candidates smirked. Thomas glared back. He clutched his pocket-sized elephant, rolling it between his palms for luck.

After every other candidate had interviewed and departed, the hiring manager, McClanahan, found Thomas, a squalid street rate, thought he, and waved his cane for the boy to follow.

Thomas jumped from his seat. The marble floors were smooth. Gilt-framed portrait faces looked down upon him. Thomas entered a toasty room to meet a lady, dressed in ruffles and pearls.

“This is Miss Adams.”

The lady’s hands were as smooth as lilies. She wrote down his information, “Born on Sullivan Street in Charlestown, eighteen fifty-seven.” Noticing the boy’s gaunt cheeks she clucked. “Poor child.”

“Please!” McClanahan barked at Miss Adams. She returned a murderous scowl. Thomas grinned at the lady and climbed onto a chair. McClanahan snarled, “Can ya read, lad?” He slid a math exam in front of Thomas.

“Yes sir.”

“Ready?” McClanahan glowered at his pocket watch.

Thomas scanned the paper and nodded.

“And, begin.”

McClanahan’s pocket watch ticked.

Without picking up the pencil, Thomas said, “Three hundred twenty-one.”

“What’s that, boy?”

“The answer sir. To question one.”

Miss Adams drew her head back in surprise and marked her paper with a check. Impatiently, McClanahan hammered his cane against the floor. “Use the pencil boy.”

The boy’s unusually large irises were pools of honesty. “No need, sir. Number two is eight thousand. Number three is eleven.”

Miss Adams wrote check marks as Thomas flew through the exam. McClanahan, seethed with irritation. “Let us end this colossal waste of time. Go home boy.”

Miss Adams shot from her chair. “Not a single error!”

“No matter,” McClanahan blustered. “He’s too little.”

“He’s brilliant!” Vexed, she turned to Thomas. “Do not leave this chair young man, until I return.”

Miss Adams flung a blistering stare at McClanahan and exited in a swish of black skirts. McClanahan studied his watch. Thomas studied his father’s beaten Civil War boots. Upon return, she was followed by the bank manager, a towering man, sandy haired with sideburns and kind, crinkly eyes. McClanahan said, “Sir, Miss Adams is meddling in my duties.”

Deeply offended, Miss Adams shook her head. “Nonsense.”

“Don’t kick up a shine, McClanahan. What is your name, boy?”

“I am Thomas Lawson.” He bowed.

Amused, the tall man extended a hand. “And I am Mister Tilley.”

Thomas shook the bank manager’s hand and nodded. “Honored to meet you sir.”

Mister Tilley found a chair. “Boy, you must pass this exam to work here.”

Tilley placed a new exam on the table. Thomas climbed back into a chair. “I don’t need a pencil sir.”

McClanahan sighed, his face drawn tight.

Mister Tilley folded his arms and nodded as Thomas matter-of-factly delivered the correct answer to every question, some involving complex correlations. Miss Adams whispered a few words into Mister Tilley’s ear. He nodded.

McClanahan drilled an unwelcome stare into the boy. Nonetheless, Thomas’s slight shoulders lifted with pride upon the news he had aced the second exam.

“Thank you, young man,” Mister Tilley said. “McClanahan? A moment please.”

Mister Tilley patted Thomas’s head and strode out the door followed by a seething McClanahan and the rap-tat-tat of the man’s cane.

Closing the door, Miss Adams said, “You didn’t make a single mistake.”

“I know,” Thomas grinned, quite satisfied, his hands swept the table surface. He then popped from the chair to extend his fingers over the heater.

Miss Adams blinked with long eyelashes. “Have you had lunch?”

Thomas shook his head sadly. “No, not yet.”

The truth was, he had yet to have lunch, ever.

“I’ll be right back.”

She brought a tray with milk, bread and ham. Thomas inhaled the small meal while shouting could be heard from the hall.

The men returned. Mister McClanahan gritted his teeth at Thomas, little yellow teeth they were. “Against my better judgement boy, Mister Tilley has awarded you the job.”

Mister Tilley bent to meet the boy’s eager face. “You are officially employed at Stevens Armory.”

“So deserving,” Miss Adams patted Thomas’s back.

Thomas’s eyes widened. “Thank you all. Mister Tilley. Aw, Miss Adams, thank you ever so much. And of course, Mister McClanahan.

Thomas bowed to Mister McClanahan, who grunted a response.

Mister Tilley bent to meet Thomas’s eye level. “We need someone with your mathematical skills.”

“Aye, you do, sir, you most certainly do,” Thomas agreed with collegial concern.

“How wonderful.” Miss Adams blinked back tears. “Now you can get some proper sized boots.”

“I should mention, Miss Adams and I are engaged,” Mister Tilley said.

“Lucky man,” Thomas winked at Mister Tilley. Laughingly, the bank manager winked back.

“Enough of this,” McClanahan shouted. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? Can you shovel gold, lad?”

The idea of shoveling gold tickled a smile to Thomas’s face. Could this question be real? It must be a trick. He went along with it.

“Yes sir.” Thomas would shovel a ditch if he had to.

“We’ll see about that,” McClanahan spat into a brass spittoon. “Follow me, boy.”

Thomas spoke. “Yes, pardon, but may I ask, Mister Tilley,” further testing McClanahan’s threshold for impertinence, yet Thomas’s sweet sincerity broke through.

The adults stopped, turned and looked down. Thomas raised his eyebrows and sweetly said, “I must ask. What is my wage, sir?”

“You runt!” McClanahan exploded. He swung his cane with a loud crack. “What insolence!”

“For heaven’s sake, McClanahan. The boy has a right to know his wage.” Mister Tilley patted Thomas’s head. “Three dollars a week.”

“I accept.” Thomas’s chest was close to bursting, this being the greatest moment of his life, so far.

Thomas followed Mister McClanahan, floating down the marble halls, pie eyed at the finery. Gilded mahogany doors. Glass doorknobs. Gold framed portraits of men on horseback. Gold and green papered walls. He was led down a short flight of marble stairs that changed to wooden stairs midway. Muttering under his breath, McClanahan limped down the corridor. They emerged into a sunless muddy yard with a loading dock. Cold seized Thomas’s shoulders.

A few grimy, solemn men stood around smoking pipes. They eyed Thomas suspiciously. McClanahan led Thomas down to a wide rear cellar entrance. The underbelly of the building.

The boy was greeted by his new boss, the yard supervisor, Smokey O’Sullivan. “How do you do, Mister O'Sullivan,” Thomas chirped.

A tall buffalo of a man, with a head and beard of white surrounding his weathered face, Smokey O’Sullivan barked. “Now where’s your coat and gloves, boy? Can’t be freezing the breath of life outtaya?”

“I forgot,” Thomas lied.

“Do what you please with him,” McClanahan spat and turned, “so I may be rid of this pestilence.”

The men in the yard remained silent until McClanahan’s departure. Smokey bent to Thomas’s ear. “Well, he sure don’t like you. What’d you do?”

“I suppose I exceeded his expectations,” Thomas grinned.

The men blinked. Smokey hooted at the boy. “Now then lad, keep your mouth shut, if you want to keep this job.”

O’Sullivan’s grunt turned into a prolonged coughing fit. “Tis the whooping cough?” Thomas stepped back.

“No, no, no, stop fussing lad. I’m fit and fiddle.”

Thomas somberly noted the man’s milky eyes and purple veined cheeks.

“Come along,” Smokey trudged. “We’ll teach you the way of the shovel.”

They walked past rifle-toting bank guards. Smokey O’Sullivan took Thomas’s hand as they descended into the dampness beneath. Down wooden plank steps, worn by countless boot heels, into a frigid dug out cellar.

Thomas’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and widened at the spectacle: a mountain of golden coins. An unfathomable mountain of money stood glowing before him. The answer to every problem in Thomas’s meager existence.

Never had the boy seen a real mountain nor had he ever held more than three coins together. He was mesmerized, watching the endless streams of glistening coins, poured from worker’s shovels into canvas bags.

“Luck’s struck me,” Thomas told himself, thrilled.

Thomas chose the smallest shovel, held the wooden handle tightly and nodded to Smokey’s shouted instructions. He watched the other men filling canvas bags with coins. Each bag was weighed, tied and placed in a cart. A muscle bound, one-eyed man pushed each filled cart down a track, grimacing until the cart rolled into a small tunnel. A rolling empty cart would appear on the other end of the tunnel track. They’d fill the next one with bags of coins.

Smokey placed an empty canvas sack in front of Thomas.

Smokey O’Sullivan stepped back, nodded encouragement.

“You’re on the clock, boy.”

Heart hammering, Thomas tightened his lips, thrust his shovel in deep. His shovel blade shimmered with coins. The lad did not stagger, Smokey noticed. The lad poured evenly into the mouth of the bag. Not a coin fell astray. The men exchanged smiles at the kid. One couldn’t help but admire the set of the boy’s jaw.

It was one time Thomas W. Lawson worked for someone else.

CHAPTER 2

The Edge of the Ledge

The young Thomas Lawson attributed his new coin shoveling job to luck. And just in the nick of time.

For only the day before, Thomas had wondered if he had any luck at all.

It was plain: the Lawson family was on the edge of the ledge. Father, dead. Widow and children about to be drummed out of a boarding house. The unyielding claw of hunger scraped the gullets of the four children night and day.

Thomas burned with the practical necessity of helping his family. Day after day, he relentlessly begged for work around Boston Harbor, flashing his smile, promising he could do the work of a man.

That particular day, deeply worried, Thomas fell upon a harbor side bench, weak and discouraged by sneering sailors and the shouts to, “git outta here, rat!”

The ancient bench was hacked and initialed with decades of jack knives.

Thomas sat among the old sea men. They were toothless, leather skinned merchant sailors, warming themselves in the sunlight.

Despite his brutal reality, Thomas had a powerful imagination, which he unleashed whenever times were tough. He was fascinated by the quest for honor in a world of gold. Before bed time, his mother read to them, “The Arabian Nights,” tales of mysterious caves of gold. Thomas wholeheartedly pledged himself to live by their code of honor: as one man, with no other weapons than honesty, pluck and nerve; to be a man who might single handedly give battle to all the world, and win.

Yet at this moment, Thomas’s daydreaming made him feel even worse, so elusive was his luck. Sun shone on his brow as his troubled gaze turned to State Street. Far in the distance, a sign stole his eyes and drew his stare to a bank’s plate glass window. The sign read, “Office Boy Wanted.”

Thomas flew over the cobblestones to the bank window. He studied the sign. Peering through the etched glass, he saw a long wooden bin, heaped with shining Eagle and Liberty headed gold coins. His breath steamed the glass.

Stepping back, Thomas vowed to get the Office Boy position. He’d go home, clean himself up and get that job.

∞∞∞

Thomas’s mother knew of his instinct for trade. Where this quality came from could be attributed to his Scottish and Norwegian blood, she supposed.

Thomas never lazed about. His nose peeked around every corner as he kept tabs on who was doing what, where, and how they were paid.

Folks doing lucrative business in Charlestown were doing it on the sly, Thomas found. He’d begged to work for them. The weekend chicken fight handlers said, “Nay!”

A woman running parlor seances turned Thomas away.

Thomas trailed the spiritous liquor salesmen who was known to pay delivery boys. Thomas was rejected for being too slight. He’d surely drop the glass bottles. As he would likely smash dishes, it was deemed by the kitchen cook, who turned Thomas away from a dishwashing job at the Warren Tavern.

All that was changed now.

With his job shoveling coins at the Stevens Armory, little Tommy Lawson’s stroke of luck came through. Now he could bring money to his mother each week. Anna let Thomas keep some. What he did with his share was his secret. Self-reliant since the day he was born, Anna Lawson knew not to pry or else her Thomas would erupt. He was his own man.

The Lawson Family moved out of Charlestown for brighter, greener Cambridge, to a cozy rental house on Main Street. There, inspiration thrived on every corner among the Harvard and MIT campuses. As a keen-eyed entrepreneur herself, Anna Lawson cited a new laundry clientele: students. The students provided an unending supply of laundry and mending. And because the students were from wealth, they paid her top dollar.

The Lawsons now ate well. They even ate lunch.

A shade of healthy pink blossomed in the cheeks of Mary, John Henry and Jenette Lawson. The youngest and most frail,

Jenette had always been sickly. Now that the Lawsons were settled, a skip returned to Jenette’s step. He long-lashed eyes looked up to her older brother Thomas, for now they could buy coal, taffy and ribbons for her hair.

Thomas devised clever short cuts to get to State Street, over the Longfellow Bridge, down Cambridge Street, on to State Street, into Smokey O’Sullivan’s care.

The usually expressionless men in the work yard broke into smiles, watching the inseparable Smokey and Thomas together. Under Smokey’s expert tutelage, the boy could spot a counterfeit or foreign coin from ten paces. Daily coin shoveling built Thomas’s neck and shoulder muscles. His palms were blistered and calloused, but he didn’t care.

Smokey and Thomas lunched together daily near the back loading dock, indulging in jokes and stories. Smokey told stories from the Civil War, others from his time in the merchant navy, sailing a windjammer along the southwest coast of Spain. Smokey was a born storyteller and taught Thomas the art of speaking aloud. “Keeping the audience’s attention,” Smokey whispered, “that’s what you must do.”

Smokey patiently listened as Thomas shared young boy fantasies based on caves of gold and treasure hunting aboard pirate ships, brandishing swords and the like.

∞∞∞

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