“Aren’t you being a little harsh?” Gaylord asked.
“I think not. I find it humorous that they have the audacity to look down their noses at those with lesser fortunes while at the same time idolizing those who are richer.”
Emily studied the older woman, wondering if she might be talking about herself as one of those with “lesser fortunes.”
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Gaylord turned to Michael. “How about you? What news have you?”
“I went to see Mr. Walsh and he’s given me the name of someone to see tomorrow morning.”
“What kind of business is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m just to see a Mr. Cullinane.”
Gaylord tapped his spoon on his bowl. “Cullinane. The name is familiar. Where are you to meet him?”
Michael took the piece of paper and read it. “Twenty-Five Pearl Street.”
“Ah, that’s it. There’s a Cullinane Construction Company on Pearl Street. I hope you have a strong back, Michael. Construction in this city can be brutal.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll just be glad to have a job.”
“Do you know how Pearl Street got its name?”
“He doesn’t,” Henrietta said. “But I’m sure you’ll tell him.”
Ignoring Henrietta’s dig, he said, “When the Dutch first came ashore on Manhattan Island they noticed huge mounds of oyster shells deposited by the Indians. They called them oyster middens. There were dozens of middens along the path of the road they were building and so they called the path Pearl Street.”
“You are an absolute font of wisdom,” Mrs. Winslow said with a raised eyebrow.
Gaylord nodded. “It’s true. I am a great repository of information. Alas, none of it is very useful.”
Back in their room, Michael picked Emily up and whirled her around the tiny room. “Isn’t it grand? Here we are only a few days in New York City and we both have jobs.”
Emily kissed him. “I never doubted it for a minute.”
He put her down and frowned. “Well, you were more optimistic than me. There’s a lot of hostility toward the Irish in this city.”
“That is no concern of mine,” she said with a sly smile.
“And why not?”
“Because I’m English.”
“So you are,” he said with a grin. “So, you are.”
Chapter Six
The next morning with great trepidation Michael set out early for Pearl Street. He’d lost track of how many times he’d already gotten lost in the confusing jumble of intersecting and crisscrossing streets that was Manhattan and he didn’t want to be late getting to the Cullinane Construction Company.
Following Gaylord’s handwritten map, he made his way east on Barkley Street, to Fulton, and finally to Pearl. He found himself standing before a large warehouse-like structure and read the sign over the door: Cullinane Construction Company. He stepped inside and was met with a fearful din of hammers and saws. The air was filled with a not unpleasant smell—a combination of brick dust and wood chippings. Even at this early hour the warehouse was bustling with activity. A handful of men were loading several wagons with brick, stone, sand, and wooden beams, while others were busy sawing lengths of planks.
Above the noise, he shouted to a man loading a wagon. “I’m looking for Mr. Cullinane. Could you tell me where I might find him?”
The man pointed to a small office in the corner.
Sitting behind an old desk piled high with floor plans and architectural drawings sat a heavy-set, roughhewn man in his early sixties. He was bald, but his cheeks bristled with bushy gray muttonchops.
He looked up at Michael over his round steel-framed spectacles that perched at the tip of his nose. From his expression, it was clear that he didn’t appreciate being disturbed. “Yeah, what is it?”
From the man’s brusque and dour demeanor, Michael was afraid he was going to tell him that no Irish need apply. “Mr. Thomas Walsh sent me,” he said, nervously.
Cullinane threw his glassed on the desk in disgust and shook his head. That damn Walsh. Why does he send me every damn Paddy that comes off the boat? I suppose you’re looking for a job?”
“I am.”
“The last five Paddys he sent me didn’t last a day. Construction is hard work.”
“I can do it, sir.”
Cullinane squinted at him. “What makes you think so?”
“I need a job,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Mr. Cullinane. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
The old man grunted. “We’ll see. What’s your name?”
“Michael Ranahan.”
“Come with me, Ranahan.”
Out on the warehouse floor, he called out to a small, wiry man preparing to drive a loaded wagon out the door. “Flynn, hold up.”
“What is it, Cully?”
“Take this man—what was your name again?”
“Michael Ranahan.”
“Take Ranahan with you.”
“What’s he to do?”
“Anything you damn well tell him to do. Mind, if he slacks off, give him the boot.”
“I will.” Flynn grinned, revealing several missing teeth. He motioned to Michael. “Climb aboard, Ranahan. Can you drive a horse?”
“Aye.”
Flynn handed him the reins. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
Glad to have something to do, Michael snapped the reins and clucked to the horse. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.” For a moment, he wondered if the horse would understand his brogue. But the horse responded immediately. He began to relax. Finally, he had a job. But his newfound sense of serenity evaporated as soon as they cleared the warehouse doors. Outside the street was crawling with horse drawn wagons and men pushing wheelbarrows and fruit carts. Everyone seemed to be shouting at each other at the same time.
“Take a left at the corner,” Flynn said, lighting up a cigar and seemingly unperturbed by the chaos around him.
At the corner of Pearl and John Streets, Michael took the turn too close and the rear wheel of the wagon bounced over the curb.
Flynn grabbed the bench with both hands. “Jasus, man. Are you trying to kill us all together?”
“I’m sorry. That other wagon cut me off and—”
“Sure they always cut you off, Ranahan. You’re not on some quiet country road in Ireland now. Give no quarter and ask no quarter. That’s how things are done in this city, me boyo.”
Keeping his hands tightly on the reins, Michael followed Flynn’s directions. Soon they were skirting a lovely park with trees and an open field that looked very much out of place in such bustling surroundings. “What’s this?” Michael asked.
“This is Washington Square Park.”
“It’s lovely.”
“If you think this is lovely, you should see Gramercy Park.”
“That’s where my wife is going to be working.”
“She get a position as a maid?”
“No. She’s going to teach French to a young girl.”
Flynn looked at Michael askance. “French, is it? What Irish peasant learns French?”
“Oh, she’s not like me. She’s the daughter of my late landlord.”
“Then how did the likes of you end up with an aristocrat?”
Michael told him the story of their experiences in the famine.
When he was done, Flynn said, “That’s pretty much everyone’s story. Turn right here onto Fifth Avenue.”
Michael turned onto a wide road that ran straight as an arrow north. It was a welcome relief from the narrow and twisting streets from which they had just come. But the air was suddenly filled with a choking dust thrown up by passing wagons and carriages. “My God, is the air always this bad?”
“Aye. In the summer, the streets and sidewalks are covered in dust. And then, come the fall, these same streets will be ankle deep in mud. And in the winter the mud turns to rock-hard ruts that will jar the teeth right out of your head. It’s a grand city you’ve come to
, Michael Ranahan.”
As they moved north, Michael stared in astonishment at the piles and piles of cow manure covering the street as far as the eye could see. “What’s this about?”
“There must have been a cattle drive come through here last night.”
“Do you mean to say they drive cattle through these streets?”
“Aye. They used to do it during the day, but the city council has forbidden it. Now they can only drive the cattle at night.”
Michael was beginning to suspect that nothing that went on in this city made any sense. “Have you been here long, Mr. Flynn?” he asked, changing the subject.
“You can cut out the mister for Jasus sake. I go by Flynn. That’s all anyone ever calls me. We came from Cork twenty years ago. I was just a young gossoon. I’m the only one left now. My father abandoned us within weeks of us coming to America. Then, two years later, my mother died of the cholera. I took care of my young sister and brother as best I could. But within a year, they were both dead as well. My sister of the fever. My brother ... I have no idea. Probably something in the stinking, foul water we drink.”
“This is a rough city, isn’t it?” Michael asked. It was more a statement than a question.
“It is that. There’s no one going to give you anything. You must fight for what you want or you’ll never have nothin’.”
As they continued up the broad avenue, Michael observed the same phenomenon that he’d seen on Third Avenue. The road traffic had thinned out and houses became sparser and gave way to open fields.
‘Have you been with Mr. Cullinane long?”
“Goin’ on ten years.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“He’s not a bad lot.” Flynn lit up another cigar. “Demanding, but fair. Give him a good day’s work and you’ll have no trouble from him. The old man’s tough as nails. Comes from upstate Albany. Ran away from home when he was thirteen. Lived in the streets and slept under bridges until he got a job as a hod carrier.”
“Married?”
“The wife died in the cholera epidemic of forty-nine. That was a bad time. More than fifteen thousand died that year. Anyhow, Cully worked his way up to foreman and finally saved enough money to buy out the owner.”
Flynn stared off into the middle distance. “That’s what I’d like to do someday. Of course, I’m only a foreman now, but someday…”
After a long silence, Michael said, “So where is it we’re going?”
“Fortieth Street,” Flynn said, snapping out of his reverie.
Michael looked at the cross-street sign. “My God, we’re only at Twelfth Street. Does anyone even live that far north?”
“Precious few. Mostly just some scattered hog pens, orphanages, farms, inns, cattle markets, and shanties inhabited by the Negroes and the Irish. Although, we’ll be passing the great mansion of Mr. Waddell. Truth be told, I don’t know how anybody in his right mind would move all the way up there into that wild country. There are plenty of fine homes on Union Square and Madison Square and even here on Fifth Avenue up to Twenty-Third Street. Mr. John Harrington might not be crazy, but he certainly is odd.”
“Harrington?”
“He’s the man whose mansion we’re building, a millionaire who made his fortune in fur and now real estate. He’s good friends with John Jacob Astor.”
“Astor?”
“Jasus, don’t you know about anyone in this city?”
“I’m only here a few days,” Michael said defensively.
“True enough. Astor made his fortune in real estate. The Astors are known as the landlords of New York.”
“There’s an awful lot of rich people in the city, isn’t there?”
“Aye, but even more poor. And those rich people don’t even notice them. They spend their money on big houses and private clubs and such and the devil take the poor.”
“Apparently, they like expensive horses as well. The other day I was almost run down by man I was told was Mr. Vanderbilt. He was racing some other fellow on Third Avenue.”
“They come almost every day with their fast trotters and pacers. Vanderbilt, Belmont, even the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher. Although I don’t know that horse racing is the proper sport for a preacher.”
“Does Mr. Harrington race?”
Flynn laughed. “Lord, no. For all his money, he’s tight as a tick he is. Certainly too cheap to spend money on a fine horse. Do you know he had old Cully draw up the plans for the house?”
“So?”
“So, Cullinane is only a contractor. He’s no architect.”
“Why didn’t he hire an architect?”
“To save money on the architect’s fees. These rich people are a strange lot. I’ll tell you that.”
As they approached Thirty-Seventh Street, Michael saw a huge house with towers and chimneys sprouting from the roof. “And what in God’s name is that?”
“Ah, that would be the fine mansion of Mr. Coventry Waddell. We had a hand in building that back in ‘45.” Flynn chuckled. “Mr. Waddell’s brother said it looked like a collection of condiment bottles.” He stared up at the profusion of towers and chimneys and said, “By God, I think he’s right.” After he finished lighting his cigar, he said, “Do you know his lot extends all the way to Sixth Avenue? He has a field of wheat growing there for the use of the household. The rich are a strange lot, I’ll tell you.”
As they approached the building site on Fortieth Street, Michael’s eyes widened in amazement at a massive Egyptian-like structure two blocks north of them. “What in God’s name is that? It looks like some kind of Egyptian tomb.”
“Ah, that would be the Croton Distributing Reservoir. Now that’s a lovely piece of work and I’m proud to say I had a hand in building that back in ‘42. We worked on that job for three years. The land down toward Sixth Avenue was the city’s potter’s field and it had to be cleared before building the reservoir.”
“Potter’s field?”
“That’s what they call the graveyard where the poor and destitute are buried. They took thousands of bodies out of the ground and buried them again on Ward’s Island.”
“What does this reservoir do?”
“It supplies drinking water to the whole city. The water comes down from a great dam up in Westchester County and ends up here. The reservoir opened on July 4th and what a celebration it was. There were parades and such and it went on for days. Along the tops of those fifty-foot walls are public walkways, offering a lovely view of the countryside. One day you should bring the missus up here to see it.”
“I will.” It occurred to Michael that since they’d arrived in America, they’d done nothing but work, sleep and eat. It would do them both good to get away from the boardinghouse for the day.
Michael pulled the wagon up to the building site. “Here it is. The Harrington mansion.”
Michael was taken aback by the strange, cube-like three-story, red brick brownstone. It seemed stunted and squat, as though rooted in the ground. It looked nothing like the grand Waddell mansion he’d just seen. In fact, most of the buildings he’d seen in his wanderings were much more stylish and impressive.
“Would you believe it?” Flynn said, shaking his head. “A great huge house like that just for a husband and wife and three children.”
When Michael pulled the wagon up to the mansion workmen were swarming all over the building. Some were on the roof installing slate trimmed with copper, others were cutting and measuring beautiful lengths of mahogany, while still others were carrying building material inside.
“Let’s have a few men here,” Flynn shouted.
Immediately, six men rushed up to the wagon.
Flynn jumped down. “All right. Let’s get this wagon unloaded. Everything is going to the third floor.” One man groaned and Flynn gave him a sharp look. “And what’s the matter with you?”
“Why does everything have to go the top floor?”
“Because the lower floors are finished, you eejit. Now, get
to it.” He looked up at Michael. “Do you think you’re going to sit on this wagon all day like some grand pooh-bah? Get down here and help them carry the bricks upstairs.”
One of the men loaded bricks onto Michael’s hod and he followed the others into the house. He nearly dropped his load of bricks when he saw the interior. In the style of the times, these brownstone houses were rather simple on the outside, but the interiors, decorated with Italian statuary, rich tapestries, and expensive porcelain, were where the wealthy spent their money. The ceilings in the enormous foyer had to be thirty feet high. A beautiful curving staircase of gleaming mahogany led to the second floor. Everywhere was marble and gleaming wood.
For the rest of the day he and the others carried wood and bricks to the long three flights of stairs. Finally, just when Michael thought they would never stop working, Flynn called out. “All right, that’s it for the day.”
As the workers piled into the wagon for the ride back to Cullinane’s warehouse, Michael asked a man next to him for the time.
The man looked at his pocket watch. “Just seven.”
No wonder he was tired. They’d been at it for almost twelve hours. Michael slumped on the floor, grateful that Flynn had picked another man to drive the wagon. After such a long and tiring day, he had no desire to drive back into the chaos of lower Manhattan.
That night only Gaylord, Mrs. Winslow, and Emily came to dinner. When they’d finished, Gaylord patted his stomach and in a mocking tone said, “After another one of Mr. Coyle’s fine stews, I feel the need to recuperate. Ladies, why don’t we adjourn to the parlor?”
Mrs. Winslow stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Temple. I believe I’ll retire for the night.”
“Very well.” As Mrs. Winslow left the dining room, Gaylord turned to Emily. “How about you, young lady?”
“Yes, I think I will. To tell you the truth I prefer to spend as little time as possible in that dreadfully small room. But are we allowed? Will Mr. Coyle mind?”
“No, not at all. He’s a strange old duck. As far as I can tell, he spends all his time in the kitchen. Doing what, I have no idea.”
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