THE EVENTS THAT LED TO POOLE'S DEATH. There was no ring, but by general consent the throng had kept a space open for the combat. Poole, in his undershirt, as he had rowed across the river, was ready. It did not take Morrissey long to peel.

Throwing off his coat and white shirt, he stood in his red flannel undershirt, as brawny a young bruiser as the most enthusiastic admirer of muscle could desire to see. Poole had a powerful physique and carried himself the more gracefully of the two. Each stood over six feet and weighed close to two hundred pounds.

The fight began with some light sparring, Poole holding himself principally on the defensive as his opponent circled about for a chance to close. For about five minutes this child's play of the giants lasted. Then Morrissey made a rush. But Poole was too quick for him. As "Old Smoke" made his lunge "Bill the Butcher" ducked with remarkable agility and seized him by the ankles. In a flash Poole threw his opponent clean over his head and as "Old Smoke" went sprawling he had only time to roll over to his back when Bill pounced on him like a tiger. Then followed terrible minutes of fighting.

Clutching each other in grips of steel they butted and pounded their heads and bodies together, tearing at each other's face with their teeth and gouging for the eyes with talon-like fingers. It was sickening to watch, for in no time they were frightfully punished. There was a long gash in Poole's cheeks where the flesh had been torn by his opponent's teeth. The blood was streaming from Morrissey's both eyes. 

They never changed positions while the struggle went on, for the minute they were down the crowd closed in on them and the surging bodies of the combatants pressed against the feet and legs of the surrounding onlookers. The wonder is that the two on the ground were saved from being trampled to death. Not a hand was raised to interfere with or favor either contestant during the two or three minutes this inhuman struggle lasted. But Morrissey was underneath and was doomed to defeat. And soon his voice was heard, hoarse, breathless and suffocating with blood. "I'm satisfied," he gasped. "I'm done." 

A cheer went from the crowd and the shout rang out and repeated till it swelled into a roar that carried through the streets half a mile away: "Poole's won! Poole's won!

That was the end of the great fight between John Morrissey and Bill Poole, but not of the day's excitement, nor of many more days of turbulence. A number of outsiders had drifted by to see the battle. They had reason to wish they had stayed away before the pugnaciously inclined Poole minions were through celebrating. An attack was started on Morrissey as he started to depart from the scene of his defeat and but for a few brave friends and the aid of some fair-minded ones among the enemy he would have been carried off bodily to Lord knows what fate. He finally got safely away to the Bella Union saloon on Leonard Street, of which he was part owner.

Within less than an hour after the crowds had cleared from the Amos Street dock "Smut" Ackerman, in trying to illustrate how his friend Poole had thrown Morrissey, slipped and suffered a fatal fracture of his skull in the fall. As the dying man was being taken in a cart to the New York Hospital, then at the corner of Broadway and Anthony Street, they drove by the Bella Union saloon. 

The street was jammed with friends of Morrissey all hot with rage against any one who had concern with the man who had worsted their champion, and soon the cart and dying man were hemmed in by this threatening crowd. Directly opposite the Morrissey saloon was the Fifth Precinct station-house. As the infuriated Morrissey men closed in on their prey the door of the station-house opened and the knights of the club made a sally. Beating back the mob they escorted the cart to the hospital. That same afternoon Ackerman died in the arms that had beaten Morrissey into submission.

Ackerman was not even in his grave before the two factions were fighting again. The Bowery Boys and the Short Boys, who supported Morrissey, had it in for Allen for the part he had played in Poole's victory. "Paugene" McLaughlin soon after ran into Allen and challenged him to a fight on the New York Hospital grounds. At that time, though the gates to the hospital park were pad-locked, there were many who had keys that filleted the lock and it was a common practice to fight out differences there. 

"Paugene," however, was so "spoiling for a fight" that he smashed Allen in the jaw on the way and there was scrimmaging all over the street. "Paugene" had enough for the time being, but Harry O'Donnell, who had fired a pistol at Allen during the scrimmage, was challenged to battle on the Harrison Street wharf on the following night. The gangs rowed down to the wharf, for this was in the era before street-cars roamed this district. O'Donnell, though he boasted some reputation as a professional pugilist, was well handled by Allen and wound up by being thrown into the water. The evening was topped off with a general fight in which knives, slung-shots and brass knuckles were brought into play. This succession of defeats had the Morrissey men thoroughly aroused and greedy for revenge.

A few nights later Allen and two friends were trapped in Brady's Hall, at Bayard Street and the Bowery, which was close to the headquarters of the Bowery Boys, which was at No. 40. In the desperate fight for life of the Poole trio two policemen, Rogers and Sullivan, were so terribly beaten that the latter died soon after. Allen was taken away insensible to the Star Hotel, Frankfort and Williams Streets; his eyes had been gouged from their sockets and hung out on his cheeks. A skillful operation restored them to place; he lay in bed several weeks stone blind.

The first day he was permitted out by his physician, he hunted up Bob Linn, who had been the ringleader of the attack against him. Linn was found at supper in Spring Street and almost brained with a vinegar cruet.

And the following morning Allen lent a hand with the Sand boys, all Poole followers in an attempt at revenge against a crusty mail-agent named Peck. The sand boys were in the habit of loading their carts from the hills of sand left by the sloops and schooners before daybreak each morning. There was so little room between the dock and the railroad-track that the carts would be backed up against the sand piles and the forelegs of the horses would be on the tracks. Peck was in the habit of speeding down in the mail-car without warning and smashing over carts and horses. The mail-car was stoned this morning and in response to pistol-shots from the car window by Peck. Allen procured an ancient blunderbuss loaded with nails, which was possessed by one of the sand-schooner captains, and blazed away at the mail-car.

Bill Poole met death on the night of February 24, 1855. Poole did not like Maguire, for some reason or other, and invited everybody to have a drink with the exception of Maguire. Mark resented this and said if he was as big as Poole he would show him what he thought of him. Poole took a bread-knife from behind the counter and tossed it to Maguire with the remark that the two were now equal, as he was unarmed, and he exposed his pockets in proof of this claim. Chris Hogan, of the detective force, came between the two to smooth out the trouble. At this in juncture the door opened and in came Morrissey with several of his friends.

Morrissey immediately walked over to Poole and began pouring out a torrent of abuse to which Bill responded by stripping off his coat. Morrissey tore off his collar and ejaculated a remark, that while pointless, was equivalent on his part to saying that he was primed to do bodily injury. "I'm John Brown, the Button Man," he said. There was an attempt by Hogan and some of the onlookers to prevent the fight, which only enraged Morrissey more than ever, and drawing his revolver he snapped it three times at his enemy's head, but the gun missed fire. Some accounts have it that Poole then drew a pistol and would have fired at "Old Smoke" only that Maguire asked him reproachfully if he would kill a helpless man in cold blood. The truth is, Poole was unarmed and the coolness of the unarmed man only made Morrissey wilder than ever and he hurled his own pistol to the floor and begged some one to loan him another.

Then the police, led by Captain Charles Turnbull, arrived and Morrissey was placed under arrest, while Poole and Allen escaped by the back way into Mercer Street. Poole and the rest of them went back to Stanwix Hall. They stayed there drinking and talking until some time after midnight. The saloon was supposed to be closed and the curtains were all down. Poole had just announced that it was time for him to go home when the front door opened.

The Morrissey Thugs arrive as Poole was leaving. Bloodshed was inevitable. In walked Lew Baker, "Paugene" McLaughlin, Dad Cunningham and several others of the Morrissey bunch. Among the party was Jim Turner, who had just come back from California, having been run out of San Francisco by the Vigilantes. "Paugene" was the last to enter, and as he came in he turned the key in the lock and made the door fast. Every soul present knew there was to be bloodshed. Poole leaned coolly against the bar and watched "Paugene" drop the door key into his pocket. "Paugene" returned the glare and asked: "What are you looking at, you black-muzzled bastard?"  "At you," was the reply. "Well, you're looking at a better man than yourself when you take a look into the glass. So you're the American fighter? Why, Morrissey can lick you on sight."

As he said this "Paugene" leaped at Poole, seized him by the lapel of his coat and spat in Bill's face. At the same time there was a general drawing of revolvers among McLaughlin's followers. Poole calmly shook his insulter off and offered to bet $500. that he could lick any of the party fairly and he drew five golden eagles and slapped them on the bar. Turner, who had been fidgeting about nervously, yelled:

The Moment of Bloodshed

"Oh, hell! Let's sail in." And with that he pulled aside his heavy cloak and drawing a long-barreled "tar anta" pistol of the type then in use by the Mexicans and the miners, leveled it over his arm at Poole. As he pulled the trigger some one jostled him and the ball ploughed through his own arm.

That was the signal for a general fusillade, and also for a general scamper. Unable to get out, those who had no stomach for the deadly sport took refuge behind counters and stools. One chap, George Deagle, actually walked into a pier mirror, supposing it in his terror to be an open door. One of the shots had taken effect in Poole's leg. He clinched "Paugene" and as they struggled toward the door another bullet hit Bill in the shoulder and he dropped across the door, which some one had forced open by now.

Lew Baker made a rush for the prostrate man, bounded upon him, and with his knee pressing into Bill's chest and before his friends could get to him, he placed the pistol against Poole's body and fired twice. One bullet lodged in the heart and the other in the abdomen. There was scarcely a second's interval between the two reports.

The sharp barking of the revolvers, the jangle of broken glass, the oaths, blows and cries suddenly ceased. Then, as Poole's friends sprang for the assassin, Baker jumped to his feet and dashed through the open door. He would never have escaped then had it not been for Turner. Directly after that personage had injured himself he dropped down and hugging the floor during the shooting, he had dragged himself toward the door. He was close to the exit when Baker fired his last shot and leaped away over him. Lozier, Shay and several others of us tripped over Turner and were still mixed up on the floor when the police came surging in.

Poole lingered for two weeks before the end came. He had been removed to his home and examination showed that, while the heart had not been reached by the bullet, the pericardium had been pierced and there was no possibility of saving the victim's life, as it was impossible to reach the bullet. Poole recovered consciousness and made a statement that his death was due to an organized plot of Morrissey. Further, he swore that he had been unarmed on the night he had been shot.

His recuperation was only temporary and on the fourteenth day the physician in attendance announced the last hour was at hand. Poole heard the announcement with a placid face, looked up at Hyer, who had been constantly at his bedside, then drew his last breath and managed to gasp: "I die a true American!"

In the meanwhile New York existed in a condition of excitement no words can adequately describe. The entire affair was fraught with a significance that political as well as personal. It would have been worth the life of any person even suspected of being remotely connected with the Morrissey faction to come anywhere close to the district of the home on Christopher Street near West where Poole lay dying. The vicinity had taken on the appearance of a camp. A steady line of vehicles poured through the street depositing their freight of anxious inquirers at the Poole door. Not alone the comfortable equipage of the sport, but the wagons and carts of the venders and butchers halted long enough for the latest bulletin. Many strangers from out of town traveled to Christopher Street before seeking their hotel. The Herald, Tribune, Times and every other New York paper of consequence had their reporters on hand day and night. But there was no serious outbreak until the day of the Poole funeral. That a day in New York to be remembered. It was a pageant, this funeral, the like of which the city has probably never witnessed. The funeral was set for Sunday and it seemed as though all New York was out on that eventful day.

The Day of The Poole Funeral

The sidewalks all along the route of the funeral procession were jammed, and every housetop and window was clustered. The very trees, awnings and projecting signs were seized on as points of vantage and the air was alive with the great roar of the multitude. Opposite the dead man's residence was a carpenter-shop owned by a man named Onderdonk. It was a sturdy two-story frame building with a stairway on the outside giving access to the upper floor. The spectators packed this stairway as one solid mass and every inch of roof space was also taken up. The structure began to creak ominously, then the roof and stairway gave way, and the people and the timbers fell together in one common wreck. Four people were killed and thirty injured. To add to the excitement, the firebells were set ringing and several companies were called to the scene of the casualty.

It was amid this turmoil that the funeral cortege got under way. It was headed by a detail of several hundred of the old police force. The van of the procession was led by the Poole Association, 2,000 strong. Then came deputations from the Order of the United Americans from various cities forming a body twice as great. The famous Shiffler Hose of Philadelphia followed with about 1,000 members, and then came various local and visiting fire companies headed by the Red Rovers, Engine No. 34, of which Poole had been a member. Deputations of the volunteer fire companies had traveled hundreds of miles to do the occasion honor, the Mash Markey Hose coming from Baltimore, and Boston also being represented. Then came thousands of citizens in advance of the hearse in which the casket rested under the stars and stripes and which was guarded by two companies named in the dead man's honor as the Poole Guards, and the Poole Light Guards, captained respectively by Captain Jim Bannon and myself.

The course lay through Christopher and Bleecker Streets on to Broadway and every foot of the way had to be cleared as the cortege slowly made its way downtown. At Grand Street, a body of five hundred men in the familiar attire of working butchers knelt with their heads uncovered as the procession passed. They fell in behind and accompanied the march to the ferry. The funeral and its immediate escort crossed to Brooklyn and continued on to Greenwood Cemetery. There, after most impressive ceremonies, Bill Poole was committed to that last long rest which comes to busy and troubled lives such as the like of his as well as to those of less troubled men.

Poole Followers and Innocent Spectators, Ambushed by The Morrissey Men

After the ceremony the procession broke up into parties and returned to New York by various routes. The Poole and the Light Guards marched together and reached Broadway and Canal Street late in the afternoon, where the New York and New Haven Railroad depot then occupied one corner. 

Opposite the depot a house was being torn down and work had been stopped in consequence of the parade. Behind the brick and timber barricades made by the wreck and that lined the gutter a strong party of Morrissey followers had ambuscaded themselves. They consisted of members of the 36th Engine, known as the Original Hounds, reinforced by a gang of Buttenders and Short Boys, led by Larry Aiken and Dan Linn.

As the Poole volunteers came within range a volley of stones and bricks darkened the air. Another and another followed. The attack was so sudden and unforeseen that the spectators who were gathered in the street watching the parade had no time to get out of the way and a woman on the other side of the street was killed, while a number of men and women were badly wounded.

 Five of the Poole Guard were included in the list of the injured. They were not long in recovering their order and Canal Street soon became the scene of a pitched battle. The howls of the ruffians and the cheers and shouts of the volunteers made a ringing chorus, through which was heard the sharp crack of pistols, the crash of stones smashing windows and doors, and the shrill screams of the wounded.

The fight continued for an hour, when the Morrissey men, having used up pretty much all of their barricades for missiles, were left without cover and the Poole Guards proceeded to charge them with their bayonets. The Morrisseyites had no stomach for cold steel and they scattered just as the Seventh Regiment, which had its armory in National Hall over the depot, and which had been called out to suppress the riot, appeared upon the scene. The assailing party had a number of its members disabled and two lay dead. The Poole Guards marched off to the Village, bearing their wounded with them.

That night the Hounds were gathered around the stove in their engine-house discussing the events of the day, when a menacing murmur fell upon their ears. In a moment more there came a crash which shook the building and split the doors. Another and another followed until the doors fell open. Then, dropping the beam that had been used as a battering-ram, the besiegers poured in upon their demoralized foes. The assailants were the Poole Guards which had come down bent on vengeance.

Separated into a number of detachments to prevent the suspicion which would have been roused by the passage of such a large party as their combined one through the streets, they had come together undiscovered at the portals of the enemies' stronghold, which they lost no time in storming. When they got through there was nothing left of the engine-house but four blackened and smoking walls. The Hounds narrowly escaped with their lives. After which the Poole legion returned to the village and celebrated long into the night. Bill Poole's burial had certainly been a grand and exciting occasion.


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