{"product_id":"the-last-pirate-of-new-york-isbn-9780399589942","title":"The Last Pirate of New York","description":"\u003cb\u003eWas he New York City’s last pirate . . . or its first gangster? This is the true story of the bloodthirsty underworld legend who conquered Manhattan, dock by dock—for fans of \u003ci\u003eGangs of New York \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eBoardwalk Empire\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“History at its best . . . I highly recommend this remarkable book.”—Douglas Preston, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lost City of the Monkey God\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHandsome and charismatic, Albert Hicks had long been known in the dive bars and gin joints of the Five Points, the most dangerous neighborhood in maritime Manhattan. For years, he operated out of the public eye, rambling from crime to crime, working on the water in ships, sleeping in the nickel-a-night flops, drinking in barrooms where rat-baiting and bear-baiting were great entertainments.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis criminal career reached its peak in 1860, when he was hired, under an alias, as a hand on an oyster sloop. His plan was to rob the ship and flee, disappearing into the teeming streets of lower Manhattan, as he’d done numerous times before, eventually finding his way back to his nearsighted Irish immigrant wife (who, like him, had been disowned by her family) and their infant son. But the plan went awry—the ship was found listing and unmanned in the foggy straits of Coney Island—and the voyage that was to enrich him instead led to his last desperate flight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLong fascinated by gangster legends, Rich Cohen tells the story of this notorious underworld figure, from his humble origins to the wild, globe-crossing, bacchanalian crime spree that forged his ruthlessness and his reputation, to his ultimate incarnation as a demon who terrorized lower Manhattan, at a time when pirates anchored off 14th Street.“Rich Cohen’s \u003ci\u003eThe Last Pirate of New York\u003c\/i\u003e is a compulsively readable nonfiction tale of mystery and murder. He captures the city’s teeming waterfront of the mid-1800s, crawling with every conceivable Dickensian degenerate and then some, with brilliance. He is one of the finest storytellers there is, and \u003ci\u003eThe Last Pirate\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eof New York\u003c\/i\u003e takes its place alongside Erik Larson’s \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eDevil in the White City\u003c\/i\u003e and Nathaniel Philbrick’s \u003ci\u003eIn the Heart of the Sea\u003c\/i\u003e. Pick it up; you won’t put it down.”\u003cb\u003e—Buzz Bissinger, author of \u003ci\u003eFriday Night Lights\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Last Pirate of New York\u003c\/i\u003e is an absolutely incredible true story. From the opening scene of a blood-drenched ship drifting in the fog, severed fingers lying on deck, to the evocative depictions of the New York waterfront teeming with murderers, mountebanks, and crooks, this is not a book for the faint of heart. Rich Cohen’s research is masterful, and he brings alive nineteenth-century New York in raucous and fascinating detail. This is history at its best, full of drama, crime, dogged detectives, curious characters, smoky taverns, and dark byways. I highly recommend this remarkable book.”\u003cb\u003e—Douglas Preston, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lost City of the Monkey God\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Last Pirate of New York\u003c\/i\u003e is a riveting tale of Gotham City’s first gangster and most notorious serial killer. Rich Cohen, a superb writer and brilliant storyteller, delivers a chilling true-crime narrative—from murders to manhunt, courtroom to gallows. This book takes you to the darkest places of the human soul, and will keep you up all night once you start it.”\u003cb\u003e—Linda Fairstein, author of the Alexandra Cooper crime novels\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A remarkable work of scholarship about old New York, combined with a skillfully told, edge-of-your-seat adventure story—I could not put it down.”\u003cb\u003e—Ian Frazier, author of \u003ci\u003eTravels in Siberia\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “With its wise and erudite storytelling, Rich Cohen’s \u003ci\u003eThe Last Pirate of New York\u003c\/i\u003e takes the reader on an exciting nonfiction narrative journey that transforms a grisly nineteenth-century murder into a shrewd portent of modern life. Totally unique, totally compelling—I enjoyed every page.”\u003cb\u003e—Howard Blum, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eGangland\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eAmerican Lightning\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Rich Cohen has a knack for finding untold stories, and a talent for telling them exceptionally well. The tale of the murderous Albert Hicks is by turns upsetting, surprising, grisly, and peculiarly seductive—in other words, perfect material for this fine and original writer.”\u003cb\u003e—Daniel Okrent, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Guarded Gate\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eRich Cohen \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestsellers \u003ci\u003eTough Jews; Monsters; Sweet and Low; When I Stop Talking, You’ll Know I’m Dead \u003c\/i\u003e(with Jerry Weintraub); \u003ci\u003eThe Sun \u0026amp; the Moon \u0026amp; the Rolling Stones;\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Chicago Cubs: Story of a Curse\u003c\/i\u003e. He is a co-creator of the HBO series \u003ci\u003eVinyl\u003c\/i\u003e and a contributing editor at \u003ci\u003eVanity Fair\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eRolling Stone\u003c\/i\u003e. He has written for \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e The Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e, and\u003ci\u003e Harper’s Magazine, \u003c\/i\u003eamong other publications. Cohen has won the Great Lakes Book Award, the Chicago Public Library’s 21st Century Award, and the ASCAP Deems Taylor Award for outstanding coverage of music. His stories have been included in \u003ci\u003eThe Best American Essays\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Best American Travel Writing\u003c\/i\u003e. Despite frequent predictions, he still lives in Connecticut.The Ghost Ship\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe ship was spotted March 21, 1860—Wednesday, four hours before dawn—by the crew of the \u003ci\u003eJ. R. Mather\u003c\/i\u003e, a schooner hauling molasses to Philadelphia. The captain of the \u003ci\u003eMather\u003c\/i\u003e, Ben Nickerson, discovered the ship by running into it. \u003ci\u003eBang!\u003c\/i\u003e The crew was sent reeling. Nickerson rushed to the bridge. That’s when he saw the strange sloop, a dark shape on dark water, listing as if wounded. The bowsprit—the spar that extends from the prow over the sea—had snapped off. The fore-topmast staysail, inner jib, outer jib, and flying jib had come down in a heap. Wood and rigging landed on the deck of the Mather, where Nickerson stood over it, muttering. He went to work untangling the mess. His first reaction was anger. Why had this ghost been drifting without lights in the center of the Lower Bay? But when he turned his attention to the sloop, anger gave way to dread. There was something unreal about the ship. No sound came from it, no sign of life. No glow came from the pilothouse, no sailors stood at the rail. The decks were deserted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNickerson called out—shouted, helloed—but nothing came back. Speaking to police a few days later, he recalled the unsettling silence. He would have investigated further had his own boat not been badly damaged. He returned for repairs to the South Street docks on the East River in Lower Manhattan instead, bringing with him the first news of the mysterious ship. That report, as well as the rigging Nickerson had carried away from the collision, fired up the rumor mill. Within hours, the story was being told in every harborside tavern.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNew York was a maritime city. It was all about the waterfront, oyster sloops and ferries, steamships and cutters, channels, tidal washes, and bays. Nearly everyone below Houston Street was connected to the ocean. Terms like \u003ci\u003ebowsprit\u003c\/i\u003e did not have to be defined; nor did \u003ci\u003eforecastle, rigging,\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003ecaptain’s daughter\u003c\/i\u003e. Everyone knew the bowsprit was the spar that extended over the sea, that the forecastle was the ship’s upper deck before the mast, that the rigging was the system of ropes that controlled the sails, that a captain’s daughter was the whip that officers used to discipline unruly sailors, as in, “All right, boys, give him the captain’s daughter.” In that New York, an abandoned sloop, without crew or direction, a phantom nearly within sight of the downtown docks yet lost in a watery delirium, stood for breakdown and chaos.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe crew of the \u003ci\u003eTelegraph\u003c\/i\u003e, a schooner out of New London, Connecticut, were the first to get a good look at the ghost ship. The sailors spotted it less than an hour after the collision with the \u003ci\u003eJ. R. Mather\u003c\/i\u003e. The ghost was already a kind of ruin. Bowsprit busted, sails down, adrift—a thing like that is a bad omen, a portent of evil. They saw it at first light. The captain of the \u003ci\u003eTelegraph\u003c\/i\u003e recorded the location: the Lower Bay, between Brooklyn’s West Bank and Romer Shoals, an outcrop that stands between the harbor and the open sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eTelegraph\u003c\/i\u003e sailed around the ghost ship, the crew calling out, looking for signs of life, then tied to it. Several men went on board to investigate. The ghost was identified by the name on its side: \u003ci\u003eE. A. Johnson\u003c\/i\u003e. It was a classic oyster sloop, a mast in the middle, a main sail and smaller sails in front and in back. The crew of the \u003ci\u003eTelegraph\u003c\/i\u003e walked the deck, then went down the ladder to the cabin, bewildered by everything they saw. Ax marks in the ceiling and floor, drawers pulled out, locks smashed, trails of blood and pools of blood that ran in rivulets when the ship pitched. An oyster sloop was typically crewed by four to six, yet no bodies could be found. “Her deck appeared to have been washed in human blood,” the captain of the \u003ci\u003eTelegraph\u003c\/i\u003e said later.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe yawl, the wood rowboat that served as life raft and dinghy on every sloop, was missing. Here were the braces and here were the chains, but the boat itself was gone. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eTelegraph\u003c\/i\u003e tried to tow the \u003ci\u003eE. A. Johnson\u003c\/i\u003e back to the city, but it was too heavy, and the sea was too rough. The captain called for help. Dozens of tugboats worked in the harbor, clearing wrecks, shepherding traffic. The \u003ci\u003eCeres\u003c\/i\u003e, commanded by Captain Stevens, sat as low as the tugboat in the children’s story, red and gold, funnel and smokestack, pilothouse topped by a huge American flag—thirty-three stars. Captain Stevens boarded the ghost, walked the decks, and saw the signs of the slaughter, then shook off whatever unease he might be feeling and got to work. After securing the sloop with ropes and chains, he pushed it through the Narrows and Upper Bay, which was among the deepest, most protected natural harbors in the world. The \u003ci\u003eE. A. Johnson\u003c\/i\u003e drew attention from every onlooker—a battered craft, broken and bleeding, touched by disaster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrinity Church was the tallest building in Manhattan. Its spire could be seen before anything else, rising out of the sea. Then the harbor islands, the clanging buoys, and the seagull-covered rocks. Then Manhattan, with its warehouses and exchanges, wooden tenements and narrow streets. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The \u003ci\u003eCeres \u003c\/i\u003eleft the \u003ci\u003eE. A. Johnson \u003c\/i\u003eat a pier beside the Fulton Fish Market, where the morning rush had given way to a sleepy afternoon. The warehouses were built on piers over the East River, brackish, trash-filled water sloshing around the posts. The market had opened in 1822 and would stay in that location—between Fulton and Beekman streets on the East River—until 2005, making it, for many years, the longest continuously operating shopping center in the United States. Sloops and draggers unloaded their catch through the night, and trading began at dawn. The stalls were heaped high with shellfish and finfish, many still alive, gasping through bloodied gills. The sky above the market was awash in seagulls, screaming and turning great circles. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Crowds soon assembled to look at the ghost ship: cold-faced men in hats, street urchins, sailors, and clerks. They’d heard the rumors via the lightning-fast word-of-mouth network that carries news around all seaports.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The story made the late editions of the newspapers. By the next morning, it was the topic of every conversation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The police went to work as soon as the sloop was anchored. Captain Hart Weed and an officer named Washbourne walked over to the Fulton Fish Market from the second precinct station house at 49 Beekman. They examined the wreckage on the \u003ci\u003eTelegraph, \u003c\/i\u003eropes and rigging—it was docked nearby—then went aboard the \u003ci\u003eE. A. Johnson\u003c\/i\u003e. Then came the coroner—Schirmer—who wrote everything down in a book. The cops started at the prow of the \u003ci\u003eE. A. Johnson \u003c\/i\u003ein full sight of the crowd. “The deck was besmeared with blood,” Captain Weed said later. “It appeared as if two persons had been lying on it, and one had been dragged out of the cabin; the appearance of the blood led to the inference that on deck one had lain in front of the mast, and the other amidships. . . . Forward of the mast there was some light-colored hair and blood; the blood had run on both sides of the vessel; when [we] hauled the sail up it was found to have covered up a great quantity of blood. . . . On two places there were blood outside the rail, rubbed on, as if a bleeding body with clothes on had been thrown overboard.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The cabin was in disarray—everything smashed. The floor, according to Captain Weed, looked as if it had been “scrubbed with water; there was a pail there which looked as if there had been bloody water in it, and the rope by which the pail was dipped into the water was saturated with blood, and had hair on it; the blood and hair were near the end of the rope, which was about six feet long—long enough to dip into the water from over the vessel’s side; there was no water in the pail, but the rope was wet; I found a broom, and it had the appearance of having been used to brush the blood into the forepart of the cabin, behind the stove.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Captain Weed discovered three holes “bored” into the floor behind the stove. These holes had been made with a hot poker—Weed called it an “augur”—found nearby. The purpose, some believed, was to fill the cabin with water and sink the ship. It seemed evidence of intent—a man meant to hide his crimes by sending the sloop to the bottom of the harbor. But blood had rushed out instead, carrying detritus that stopped up the holes and saved the \u003ci\u003eE. A. Johnson\u003c\/i\u003e.","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301658775781,"sku":"NP9780399589942","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399589942.jpg?v=1767740154","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-last-pirate-of-new-york-isbn-9780399589942","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}