A Bandit's Tale Read online

  ALSO BY

  DEBORAH HOPKINSON

  The Great Trouble:

  A Mystery of London,

  the Blue Death,

  and a Boy Called Eel

  Into the Firestorm:

  A Novel of San Francisco,

  1906

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  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Deborah Hopkinson

  Cover art copyright © 2016 by James Bernardin

  Map copyright © 2016 by Andrew Thomas

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For picture credits, please see this page.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhousekids.​com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachers​Librarians.​com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hopkinson, Deborah.

  A bandit’s tale : the muddled misadventures of a pickpocket / Deborah Hopkinson. — First edition.

  pages; cm.

  Summary: In March of 1887, Rocco, an eleven-year-old from an Italian village, arrives in New York City, where he is forced to live in squalor and beg for money as a street musician, but he finds the city’s cruelty to children and animals intolerable and sets out to make things better, whatever the cost to himself.

  ISBN 978-0-385-75499-6 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-385-75500-9 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-385-75501-6 (ebook)

  [1. Conduct of life—Fiction. 2. Child labor—Fiction. 3. Child abuse—Fiction. 4. Immigrants—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 5. Italians—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 6. Animals—Treatment—Fiction. 7. New York (N.Y.)—History—19th century—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H778125Ban 2016

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015004491

  eBook ISBN 9780385755016

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

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  For Barbara and Jim,

  and for Dimitri,

  lovers of animals

  and New York City

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Deborah Hopkinson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  Late Winter 1887

  Containing the history of a contract, with a word or two about a donkey

  BOOK ONE

  Spring 1887

  CHAPTER 1

  In which my (mis)adventures begin and many tearful goodbyes are said

  CHAPTER 2

  Giving an account of a dusty journey by foot; another goodbye

  CHAPTER 3

  Arrival, after a disagreeable (and often disgusting) crossing

  CHAPTER 4

  Containing a grave and shocking event that may disturb some readers

  CHAPTER 5

  I encounter meddlers and am tormented by a sausage

  CHAPTER 6

  I meet the Prince of Bandits’ Roost

  CHAPTER 7

  A chapter covering many long and dismal days; observations on horses

  CHAPTER 8

  In which I receive an intriguing invitation

  CHAPTER 9

  I visit Wall Street and witness an impressive demonstration by experts

  CHAPTER 10

  Of several new matters not expected, including sausages

  CHAPTER 11

  I embark on a rewarding new pastime, which virtuous readers will undoubtedly find objectionable

  CHAPTER 12

  In which I make an audacious proposal of dubious merit

  BOOK TWO

  Fall 1887

  CHAPTER 13

  A little chapter containing a small but significant incident

  CHAPTER 14

  Containing some surprising revelations and a terrible but predictable episode

  CHAPTER 15

  A long chapter detailing the dire consequences of the preceding misadventure and introducing several new personages

  CHAPTER 16

  Showing the sort of insalubrious instruction provided to inmates at the House of Refuge

  CHAPTER 17

  Containing rather a lot, including a heated discussion about the relative merits of going under or over, a nail-biting account of a daring escapade, and a lie

  BOOK THREE

  Spring 1888

  CHAPTER 18

  Being very full of daring (but once again disreputable) acts

  CHAPTER 19

  Containing a storm so terrible that the reader cannot laugh even once through the entire chapter

  CHAPTER 20

  A surprising instance of my rising to the occasion

  CHAPTER 21

  A lot of snow and a lot of lies

  CHAPTER 22

  A day to be forever known as Blizzard Monday

  CHAPTER 23

  A short and slightly sentimental chapter introducing a horse

  CHAPTER 24

  An interlude with horses; Mary imparts a lesson in meddling

  BOOK FOUR

  The Battle in Bandits’ Roost

  CHAPTER 25

  I meet other meddlers and make a speech

  CHAPTER 26

  Containing matters of much significance relating to a locket, a dog, and a most difficult reunion

  CHAPTER 27

  In which much is revealed and I begin to become unmuddled

  CHAPTER 28

  A bandit’s plan

  CHAPTER 29

  In which the plan continues to unfold in breathtaking fashion

  CHAPTER 30

  What I owe the donkey; Saint Rocco and me

  CHAPTER 31

  In which, at last, I put everything right and the history approaches its end

  EPILOGUE

  Spring 1889

  Giving a delightful account of a parade, as well as some unexpected events that provide a satisfying and heartwarming conclusion to the tale

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Containing a variety of facts and resources of possible interest to the reader, as well as information illuminating historical personages

  Reading and Resources

  Source Notes

  Picture Credits

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

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  Long ago it was said that “one half of the world does not know how the other half lives.”

  —JACOB RIIS, How the Other Half Lives

  Do you know why this world is as bad as it is?…

  It is because people think only about their own business, and won’t trouble themselves to stand up for the oppressed, nor bring the wrongdoer to light….My doctrine is this, that if we see cruelty or wrong that we have the power to stop, and do nothing, we make ourselves sharers in the guilt.

  —ANNA SEWELL, Black Beauty

  I have counted on one of the lines of this City one hundred persons upon a car, while the snow was eight or ten inches deep….I submit this is a cruel load for any two horses.

  —HENRY BERGH, letter in the New York Times, December 26, 1871

  PROLOGUE

  Late Winter 1887

  Containing the history of a contract,
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br />   with a word or two about a donkey

  All my troubles began with a donkey. If it hadn’t been for one obstinate, bad-tempered beast, my parents wouldn’t have rented me out to a stranger for twenty dollars a year.

  I can name a few men (you’ll meet them in the course of this history) who would swear Papa and Mama were well rid of a lying rascal like me. But I hope you’ll make up your own mind once you hear my tale.

  The deal was made on a night so still every sound startled like a slap. I was half asleep when I heard heavy steps on the stones outside. Whoever it was limped. Clomp, CLOMP. Clomp, CLOMP. I woke up a little more then. I knew almost everyone in our village, and no one walked like this.

  When the footsteps halted, I caught the sound of a low, quick rap: the knock of someone who was expected. By now I was curious as a mouse on a shelf stacked with cheese. I untangled my legs from the straw pallet I shared with my brother and sisters and tiptoed to where I could peer into our other room.

  As the door swung open, a shadow filled the space like an enormous black cloud. It settled into the shape of a man, who, to my surprise, turned out to be rather short. The stranger lumbered in, dragging his right leg behind him. He lowered himself heavily into the chair Papa pulled out for him at our table. I could hear the rustle of Mama’s long black skirt as she bustled to serve him a cup of homemade wine.

  “Rocco will be twelve this summer. He might be skinny as a twig, but he’s strong,” Papa said. “I put a hoe in his hands when he was five, and he’s been helping me in the fields ever since.”

  “Is he a good boy?” the man asked. He took a long swig of wine, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Like me, he was watching Papa, but Mama answered.

  “Sì, sì, Rocco is a good son,” she murmured quickly, rushing to fill his cup again.

  Papa said nothing. He couldn’t. Even a stranger, I guessed, would already know what Signor Ferri, our landlord and one of the most important men in town, had declared in the piazza that day, loud enough for all ears to hear.

  “I have something to say, men. As you know, I gave Signor Zaccaro’s son Rocco a post of honor, caring for the donkeys and mules I rent to you all,” Signor Ferri had announced, standing in front of the farmers before they headed down the mountain to the fields.

  Signor Ferri was so rich his wife had even bought a piano, the only one in town. Its arrival was like a festival procession. We paraded behind the mule-drawn cart to the landlord’s house at the very top of Calvello. My little sister, Emilia, was so fascinated by the piano she sometimes followed me when I worked in the landlord’s stable just so she could stand in the yard and hear Signora Ferri practice.

  “This ungrateful boy has abused my trust and stolen from me. Rocco Zaccaro is no longer to step foot anywhere near my home,” the landlord said. “It would be best not to let your children have anything to do with him.”

  Then the landlord fixed his cold, dark eyes on me. “That boy is a bandit.”

  —

  I shook my head, as if to sweep the memory away. It was useless. I could never forget my father’s look of shame as he stood with bowed head, stared at and pitied by his neighbors. It is a hard thing indeed when the elder son brings dishonor on the family name.

  Now I tried to make out what the stranger was saying. He was speaking quickly, using his hands to paint pictures in the air. I caught the word “America.”

  That’s when I knew. I wanted to rush out and beg, No! Don’t send me away, Papa. I’m sorry. I can explain. It’s not what you think.

  I said nothing, but I must have let out a little gasp, because all three turned my way. Mama looked at me, her eyes already filling with tears.

  One glance at Papa’s face told me the deal was already done. “Rocco, come here.”

  No matter what they said about America and the good chance it would be for me, I knew it wasn’t really about that. This was a punishment.

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  CHAPTER 1

  In which my (mis)adventures begin and many tearful goodbyes are said

  These days, when anyone asks, I say I’m an American, New York City–born. And why not? Because, in a way, I was born here.

  Right here, smack in the middle of this giant, swarming bees’ nest of a place, is where I became me: Rocco Zaccaro, pickpocket, liar extraordinaire, and escaped convict, among other things. I’m a true guttersnipe—a scruffy and badly behaved street kid. I’m an alley rat of Mulberry Bend and Bandits’ Roost.

  And though it may not be exactly correct to say I was born in New York City, well, I ask you: Just what is truth? My adventures have taught me that truth isn’t a solid thing, like a brick you can heft in your hand. Naw, it’s more like a shadow that changes shape depending on the time of day. Your shadow looks one way in the morning, another in late afternoon. At noon on a sunny day? It just about disappears. But it’s still your shadow.

  Nonetheless, I’m guessing you do want to know some facts—basic, hard facts—so you can make up your mind about me. Am I a poor, misfortunate victim, whose parents sold him to a wicked villain? Or am I a young scoundrel, who deserves every bad turn that has come his way? Well, as I said at the beginning, you’ll have to decide that for yourself. All I ask is that you keep an open mind.

  As for those facts, I arrived in New York City in March 1887 at the age of eleven, plucked from the region in southern Italy we call Basilicata, province of Potenza, hill town of Calvello, a desperately poor place, where peasants like my parents struggled to survive.

  It’s also a fact that Mama named me Rocco because I was born on August 16, feast day of Saint Rocco, patron saint of the sick, dogs, and falsely accused people.

  Mama said that Rocco was a rich man from Montpellier, France, who gave up his fortune to go on pilgrimage. While caring for others during an epidemic, Rocco fell ill. He was exiled to the forest, where a dog—and the dog’s noble owner—befriended him and nursed him back to health. But when Rocco finally returned home, he was falsely accused of being a spy and put in jail, where he stayed for five years, until he died. Whew! Quite a story, don’t you think?

  Mama told me that statues of Rocco often show him with a dog. I’ve never had a dog myself. However, as you will discover later in this history, I have met a man who, like the saint himself, was befriended by a kindly canine. As for Saint Rocco being the patron of the falsely accused, well, I’ll have more to say about that later too.

  —

  Calvello is like no place you’ll find in America. Our village is perched on the side of a steep, jutting hill, which actually looks a bit like a molehill sticking up from the pastures and fields below. As for the town itself, it’s no more than a jumble of limestone dwellings, all huddled next to one another like pigeons in a storm.

  Each May, families would celebrate the festival of the Madonna del Monte Saraceno, honoring the Virgin Mary with songs and a procession that wound through the streets.

  Come fall, we’d trail Mama like little chicks as we combed the forest for chestnuts: le castagne. Anna and Emilia and I would kick the leaves away, searching for the fallen treasure hidden beneath, with little Vito toddling behind us on his chubby legs. Chestnuts have spiky burrs, and it took days to pick them out of our skin. We didn’t mind—the taste of roasted chestnuts was worth it.

  But everyday life was hard. Children in Calvello didn’t go to school beyond age eight or nine. We were needed to help our parents. Sometimes, when we were supposed to be asleep, I’d hear Mama and Papa talking anxiously, their voices sharp as those stinging prickles. They worried about paying rent in the form of grain to Signor Ferri. Mama fretted about having enough food to get through the winter.

  We kept a goat, plus a few sheep and pigs. We tried to slaughter at least one pig each winter so Mama could make sausages. She spiced them with wild fennel and hung them from the rafters to dry.

  We’d had our own donkey once, but poor crops and high taxes had forced Papa to sell it.
Now Signor Ferri owned the only donkeys and mules in town, renting them out to Papa and the other peasants when there was a need to carry heavy loads. At ten, in addition to helping in the fields, I’d gotten an extra job working in the landlord’s stable—the very job I’d lost in that public, shameful way.

  —

  All in all, our family’s prospects were bleak when the stranger Giovanni Ancarola appeared in our midst, spinning a story bright as gold. Even if I hadn’t embarrassed Papa, his proposition would have been hard for my parents to pass up. Signor Ancarola was a padrone—a boss man and patron—who held out a promise, a chance for things to be different someday.

  Best of all, the padrone offered cash. Under the contract, Signor Ancarola would get me, a string bean of a boy (and a disgrace besides), and be my master. My parents would receive an amount equal to twenty American dollars each year for the next four years, so long as I kept working for him in America. Not only that, but there’d be one less mouth to feed with me gone.

  —

  Two days from that fateful night, Giovanni Ancarola returned to take me away. To my astonishment, he had Old Biter with him.

  “Where’d you get that donkey?” I blurted out.

  “Like him, do you?” Signor Ancarola grinned. “Signor Ferri sold him to me. He said you were good with donkeys, and you’d especially know how to handle this one.”

  I swallowed hard and felt my heart race with anger. That’s when I realized how the padrone had chosen me: The landlord had sent him to our door. Signor Ferri wanted me gone from his village.

  And I knew exactly why.

  Signor Ancarola went inside to finish his business with Papa, leaving me holding Old Biter’s rope. Six-year-old Emilia tried to hug me one more time, without getting too close to the donkey. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  But Anna, the oldest of us at thirteen, and the boldest too, peered at me with dry eyes. Anna wouldn’t have been frightened the way I was; she wouldn’t have tossed and turned all night, imagining gigantic waves swallowing her on the passage.