Manhattan

by Michael Grant

  Cully slid behind his paper-strewn desk and motioned for the two men to sit down. “Tomorrow’s an election day,” he said, dryly.

  Flynn slapped his knee. “Ah, Jasus, I completely forgot.”

  “Does Ranahan know the drill?”

  “No, I haven’t told him yet.”

  “Is this your first election, Ranahan?” Cully asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow morning you and all my other employees will report to Tammany Hall at five.”

  “Do we have a job there?”

  “You could say that.” Cully sat back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Flynn, explain it to him.”

  Flynn lit up a cigar. “There’s a big, important election tomorrow. The Whigs against the Democrats.”

  “Who are they?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just know that you’re a Democrat. We’re all Democrats.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means that tomorrow you and all us good Democrats are going to vote for, among others, one Fernando Wood and one William Magear Tweed.”

  Michael’s head was spinning, barely able to follow what Flynn was talking about. “I met Mr. Wood at Tammany Hall. But I’m an immigrant. I don’t think I’m allowed to vote.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll all be arranged.”

  Michael didn’t like the sound of that. He suspected there was something illegal and underhanded about this whole business. “What happens if I don’t go to Tammany Hall tomorrow?”

  “Then you lose your job, Cully said flatly. “It’s as simple as that.”

  “But ... but that’s not fair.”

  Cully chuckled. “Fair? Do you hear him, Flynn? It’s fair he’s talking about.”

  “I hear him,” Flynn said, grinning.

  Michael felt his anger rising. “I don’t understand what’s so funny.”

  Cully stopped chuckling. “Fairness had nothing to do with it, Ranahan.” There was a hard edge in his voice now. “How do you think you got this job?”

  “Mr. Walsh sent me and—”

  “And Mr. Walsh works for Tammany Hall. I’ll give it to you that for these past few months you’ve been a good worker, Ranahan, but I would never have hired you if you hadn’t been sent by Tammany.”

  “But, why not?”

  “Because,” Flynn interjected, “all the jobs that Tammany controls go only to the men who support the Democrats and Tammany. If it wasn’t for Tammany, you’d still be walking the streets looking for work.”

  “You’re either with us or you’re agin us,” Cully said. “There are only two ways to control this city. Either you’ve got money or you’ve got power. The Irish don’t have the money, at least not yet. So that leaves power. And we get power through the ballot box. When we put more and more Irishmen into political positions, we gain that power.”

  “So, what do you say?” Flynn asked, flicking an ash onto the floor. “Will I see you at Tammany Hall tomorrow morning?”

  Michael’s mind was a confusion of emotions. He was angry, he was frustrated—and, he had to admit, he was afraid. If he got in trouble, could he be deported? Why was he being asked to do this? All he wanted was to do his work and earn a decent wage. He wanted nothing to do with the politics of Tammany Hall. He was about to tell them that he wouldn’t do it, but then he thought of Emily. How could he go back to the boardinghouse and tell her that he was out of work after so short a period of time? He also suspected that Flynn was right. Remembering all those NINA signs he’d encountered, if he went looking for work without the support of Tammany, he probably wouldn’t find a job. “All right,” he heard himself say, “I’ll be there.”

  “But … but, that preposterous,” Emily sputtered indignantly.

  They were sitting in the parlor alone and Michael had just told her about his conversation with Flynn and Cully.

  “It is that, but there’s nothing I can do. I—we—can’t afford for me to lose my job.”

  “That’s true. We can’t survive on my part-time tutoring position.”

  Just then, Gaylord came into the parlor. He took one look at their solemn faces and said, “Is it a wake I’m interrupting?”

  “I’ve been told I have to vote tomorrow,” Michael blurted out. “But I’m only an immigrant and—”

  Gaylord shook his head grimly. “That’s the way it is in this city, Michael. Politics is a dirty business and both sides engage in outrageous chicanery and often criminal behavior.”

  “They told me I must vote for Fernando Wood and someone named Tweed.”

  Gaylord nodded. “Wood is a very ambitious man who wants to be mayor. Have you heard of the gold rush in California?”

  “No.”

  “Last year, Wood made a great deal of money shipping goods out to San Francisco to supply all those prospectors. As for Bill Tweed, he, too, is an up-and-coming figure in the Democratic Party. He grew up not far from here on Cherry Street. And quite a rogue. A big fellow with clear blue eyes and an amiable disposition. But don’t let that appearance fool you. Tweed is a rough sort. Last year he and a couple of friends organized their own fire company with the highfalutin’ name of the Americus Engine Company, Number Six. As you saw the other day, these fire companies often battle with the competition. On one of his outings, Tweed led his men in an ax-wielding assault on his competitors and a couple of them were badly hurt. Tweed was expelled from the company.”

  “And this man is running for political office?” Emily asked incredulously.

  “He is. The Democratic politicians in the Seventh Ward in their infinite wisdom have decided that a man like Bill Tweed could be of use to the party. He’s running for assistant alderman for the Seventh Ward.”

  “And I must vote for him,” Michael said, glumly.

  “I’m afraid you do,” Gaylord conceded.

  Emily was perplexed. “Gaylord, how can the good people of New York tolerate such blatant fraud?”

  “A good question, Emily. It seems the good people of New York have adopted a peculiar belief that respectable and educated classes of New York should abstain from voting. I’ve heard some boast that they are utterly indifferent to politics.”

  “So, they don’t care who gets elected?”

  “Precisely. Those of refined taste are not keen to mingle with the coarse rabble that surround voting places. The unfortunate result is that the good people of New York leave the control of politics in the hands of the worst and most vicious classes.”

  Michael shook his head. “If I live to be a thousand, I’ll never understand this city.”

  “It is a puzzlement,” Gaylord agreed. He leaned into Michael. “A word of warning, my friend. Be careful tomorrow. Sometimes these elections get out of hand and heads get broken.”

  And with those uneasy words, Emily and Michael retired to their room for a restless night’s sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  A steady, early morning rain made the gray, drab streets of Manhattan even more dreary than usual. It was just before five when Michael arrived at Tammany Hall and found Flynn huddled in the doorway smoking a cigar. “So, you showed up.”

  Michael, still irritated and apprehensive about what was going to happen today, snapped, “I’m here, am I not? So, what’s next?”

  Flynn took his arm. “Let’s go inside and find out. The meeting’s about to start.”

  They took a seat at the back of a large hall where there were at least a couple of hundred men.

  Fernando Wood stepped up to the podium. “Good morning, gentlemen. As you all know, this is a big day for Tammany and the Democratic Party. Today our job will be to make sure we get the votes for me and our other candidates. The Whigs are a wily bunch and we’ll have to keep a sharp eye on them.” He turned to a man seated behind him. “Bill, do you have anything to say?”

  “That’s Bill Tweed,” Flynn whispered.

  Michael was surprised at how young he appeared. He’d been expecting an older man, but Tweed appeared to be in
his mid-twenties. And he certainly was big. Well over six feet tall with a big barrel-chest and a full beard.

  Tweed stepped up to the podium. “I’m running for assistant alderman in the Seventh Ward. I would appreciate anything you can do to get me elected.” He waved a big fist in the air and shouted, “Let’s get out there and defeat them goddamn Whigs.”

  The crowd roared its approval.

  Wood came back to the podium. “On your way out see the men at the desk in the back of the hall. They’ll tell you the saloon you are to report to.”

  Michael leaned into Flynn. “Saloon?”

  “That’s where most of the voting is held. Most of the saloons in this city are owned by politicians. It’s said that if you want to clear a council meeting just shout, your saloon is on fire and there won’t be a soul left in the room.”

  Wood continued. “Your most important job after you vote is to make sure the vote goes Tammany’s way. And you know what that means. All right, on your way. Don’t forget to come back here tonight. Drinks are on Tammany.”

  At the back of the hall, Flynn stepped up to the desk. “All right, Casey,” he said to the curly black-headed man seated at the desk, “which fine establishment am I to vote in today?”

  The man consulted the list. “That would be Halloran’s over on Division.”

  “And what about my young friend here, Michael Ranahan?”

  Casey ran his finger down the list. “Ranahan. You’ll go with Flynn to Halloran’s. I see you’re not a citizen.”

  “No, I’m not,” Michael answered, hoping he would be told he couldn’t vote.

  Casey grabbed a slip of paper out of a pile and handed it Michael. The name Donald Maclean was written on it. “You’ll vote using that name.”

  As they were leaving, Michael saw Tommy Walsh talking to a group of six men with beards and muttonchops. He overheard Walsh tell them, “After you vote, go the barbershop, get that facial hair scraped off you and go back out and vote again.”

  When Michael and Flynn got to Halloran’s there were dozens of men milling about outside. They squeezed past the men and stepped into a spacious saloon with high ceilings and a wooden floor covered with sawdust. It was barely six o’clock, but men were already lined up three-deep at the bar.

  “Do you want a beer?” Flynn asked.

  “No, it’s too early for me.”

  “Suit yourself,” Flynn said, elbowing his way through the crowd.

  A half hour later, four officious men came in carrying a black box with a lock on it.

  “Ah, the ballot box is here.” Flynn drained his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Let the games begin.”

  The box was set up at the far end of the bar. “All right, gentlemen,” a self-important, bald-headed man said, “the election may commence."

  Michael studied the slip of paper Casey had given him. “I’m supposed to be Donald Maclean. Who is he?”

  Flynn shrugged. “Some dead guy, I suppose.”

  When it became Michael’s turn, the man asked him, “Name?”

  He almost blurted out his real name, but he caught himself just in time. “Um… Donald Maclean,” he muttered.

  After consulting a list, the man handed Michael a ballot. Holding his breath, Michael put an X next to Wood and Tweed’s names and dropped it in the box. At any moment, he expected a policeman to grab him by the scuff of the neck and arrest him. But all the man said was, “All right, move on. Next.”

  Feeling relieved, Michael went outside where Flynn was waiting for him. “Well, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

  “It’s done. Can we go now?”

  “Not a’tall. Our work is just beginning. We’re to stay here till the balloting is closed.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Usually eleven.”

  “Eleven at night? What are we supposed to do in that time?”

  “Keep an eye out for Whig shenanigans.”

  As the day went on, Michael’s uneasiness left him. Remembering what Gaylord had said about busted heads, he was worried there might be a disturbance. But everything seemed to be going smoothly. All day long a steady stream of men came to vote, drank a beer or two, and then went on their way.

  It was almost ten when Flynn slipped up behind Michael. “There’s trouble afoot,” he whispered.

  Michael looked around. “Where? I don’t see anything wrong.”

  “Do you not see those three great big brutes at the bar?”

  In fact, Michael had seen them come in. They were the only ones who hadn’t voted and he thought that odd.

  “They’re what we call ‘shoulder-hitters.’ If something starts up, they’ll be in the middle of it. You can be sure of that.”

  “Are they Tammany men?” Michael asked, beginning to feel uneasy again.

  “They are not. They’re part of the Whig contingent.”

  Michael could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Keep an eye on them. They might go for the box.”

  Michael spun around to face Flynn. “What do you mean they might go for the box?”

  “Steal it.”

  “Why would they steal the ballot box?” Once again, Michael felt as though he was in some mad dream.

  Flynn shrugged. “If they think we have more votes in the box than they do, they’ll go for the box.”

  “But what about the police?”

  “Look around you, Ranahan. Do you see any policemen here?”

  He didn’t, and he found that strange. Even in Ireland there were always constables at the polling locations. But he hadn’t see a policeman all day.

  Casey, the man who’d sent them here, suddenly appeared in the doorway. When he saw Flynn, he nodded and went back outside.

  “Come on,” Flynn said. “We’re wanted.”

  They followed Casey around the corner to where a group of men were crowded around Tommy Walsh.

  “Here’s the deal,” Walsh said. “Our watchers have determined that the Whigs have more votes in the box than we do.”

  “I thought it was the other way around,” Flynn said. “They’ve got three shoulder-hitters in there.”

  “I know. But they’re not there to go for the box. They’re there to protect it from us.”

  Standing with the group were four very large men whom Michael assumed were Tammany’s shoulder-hitters. “What do we do, Tommy?” one of them asked.

  “We go in there and when I give the signal, you grab the box.”

  “What do the rest of us do?” Michael asked in a voice constricted with apprehension.

  “Do whatever you have to do to see that the box goes out the door with us.”

  Michael and Flynn went back to the saloon first. The rest of the men wandered in two and three at a time. Walsh was the last man to come into the saloon. When he saw that everyone was in place, he shouted, “Now!”

  And all hell broke loose.

  Tammany’s four shoulder-hitters rushed toward the ballot box. But the three Whig men jumped them, clubbing them with iron pipes they’d concealed under their coats. As Michael stepped forward to help them, somebody hit him over the head with a stool and he went down. Then a boot came out of nowhere and he felt a sharp pain as he was kicked in the side. Bleeding from the head wound and grimacing from the kick, he rolled on the sawdust-covered floor among shuffling feet. He managed to stagger to his feet just in time to see another man take a swing at him. He blocked the man’s punch and drove his fist into the man’s face.

  After that, amidst the shouted curses, kicks, and screams of pain, Michael, fighting for his life, swung at anyone within range, not knowing, nor caring, if the man was Tammany or Whig. After what seemed a lifetime, he saw one of the Tammany shoulder-hitters racing for the door with the ballot box tucked under his arm. The other three shoulder-hitters ran interference, clubbing anyone who tried to stop them.

  He felt a tug on his collar and turned to confront his attacker. But it was Fl
ynn. Wiping the blood streaming from his nose with his sleeve, he said, “Come on, Ranahan, our work is done here.”

  When they got outside, Michael saw the man carrying the ballot box jump into a waiting carriage, which then raced up Division Street, scattering pedestrians and other carriages.

  “Ah, that was a good night’s work,” Flynn said, with a gap-toothed grin. “Let’s go back to Tammany and have a few beers.”

  Michael’s head wound was still trickling blood and, when he moved a certain way, he felt a sharp pain in his side. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to Tammany Hall for a beer. “No, I think I’ll go home.”

  “Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.”

  It was almost midnight by the time Michael got back to the boardinghouse. An alarmed Emily jumped out of bed when she saw him. Dried blood had caked in his hair and there was blood—some of it his, some of it not—on the front of his shirt.

  “Good God, Michael, what happened to you?”

  “I … I voted today ...” he mumbled and collapsed onto the bed.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning Emily awoke and was surprised to see that Michael had already left for work. Judging by the way he’d looked last night, she didn’t think he’d be able to get out of bed this morning. All night, whenever he turned, he groaned and clutched his side.

  Down in the dining room, Emily sat down to have coffee with Gaylord, who was reading a newspaper. “How did the elections go?” she asked.

  “Not well for Tammany. The Whigs took the election.”

  “So that Mr. Tweed didn’t get elected?”

  “He did not, nor did Fernando Wood, who lost to Ambrose Kingsland.”

  “Michael will be disappointed. Apparently, he had a rough night.”

  “He wasn’t alone. There were donnybrooks at almost all the polling locations. Bottom line, the Whigs stuffed more ballot boxes than Tammany.”

  “It all seems so illegal.”

  “It is, but that’s the way things are done in this city.”