Manhattan

by Michael Grant

  He tiptoed up to the bed. Emily was sleeping with a peaceful expression on her face, but the pillow was drenched with perspiration and her long auburn hair was a tangle of knots. Then he looked at the baby. It was bundled up in such a way that he could barely see its face. It? He’d forgotten to ask if it was a boy or girl. Just then, Emily opened her eyes. Michael gently brushed her hair back from her face.

  “How are you doing?”

  She nodded and tried for a smile. “I’ve been better,” she said in a weary voice. “I thought the voyage across the Atlantic was bad …”

  Michael moved the blanket away from the baby’s face. “Emily, is it a boy or a girl?”

  “It’s a boy.”

  Michael felt light-headed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “A boy …” he muttered in almost disbelief. “We have a son … born in the New World ...” His expression hardened and he looked at his wife. “Emily, he’ll never have to go through what we went through in Ireland. He’ll have a better life.”

  Emily squeezed his hand. “Yes, he will. Our son is an American.”

  “What are we going to name him?”

  The question caught Emily off guard. They hadn’t bothered to play the name-the-baby game because they didn’t know if it was going to be a boy or a girl. “I haven’t really thought about it. Do you have anything in mind?”

  “I’d like to name him Dermot.”

  Emily frowned. “Oh, Michael. You want to name the baby after your brother? He was such a troubled young man.”

  “I know. That’s why I’d like to name him Dermot. My brother had such a short, unhappy life I’d like to think our baby could lead the kind of full life he never had.” When he saw the doubtful expression on her face, he added, “We don’t have to decide right now.”

  She nodded. “All right, let’s think about it.”

  As he was going out the door, Emily said, “Lucy is dead.”

  Michael nodded. “I know.”

  That Sunday, Henrietta prepared a sumptuous meal of turkey, potatoes, and fresh vegetables. For dessert, she made apple and cherry pies. Letta, Gaylord, and Flynn were invited. With the birth of the baby, it was supposed to be a celebration, but the death of Lucy cast a pall over the day. All through dinner everyone tacitly agreed not to mention Lucy’s death.

  “So,” Gaylord said, trying to stay upbeat, “Have you decided what you’re going to name the little tyke?”

  Michael was about to suggest the name Richard, which was Emily’s father’s name, but before he could speak, she said, “Dermot. We’re going to name the baby after Michael’s late brother.”

  Michael put his fork down. “Are you sure, Emily?”

  She smiled back at him. “I’m sure.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  By mid-August, Emily was feeling strong enough to resume her French lessons with Abigail. She sent word to Delia Hainsworth that she was ready.

  On the day of the class, Delia arrived with Abigail and, much to Emily’s surprise, the three girls who had dropped out earlier. Emily looked at Delia quizzically, but the woman whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”

  As soon as the class was over, Emily brought tea into the parlor. She handed Delia a cup. “Well, what happened?”

  “As I’d told you earlier, Ingersoll put pressure on the fathers of the girls to have them to stop coming to you. But then, when little Lucy died, suspicions were aroused and there was a lot of talk. No one will actually say it, but the consensus among some is that her death may not have been an accident.”

  Emily felt vindicated, but this matter couldn’t be put to rest so easily. “Now will there be an investigation?”

  Delia shook her head. “No. Despite what people may think of Ingersoll he’s still a powerful man in this city.”

  “And powerful men can get away with murder?”

  Delia looked down at her lap. “It would seem so.”

  “I can’t believe that. I can’t accept that. I won’t accept that.”

  “Emily, I don’t know how it was in Ireland, but New York is a wicked city. Most politicians are corrupt, most police are on the payrolls of wealthy criminals, most businessmen routinely lie, cheat, and steal to amass their fortunes. When it comes to the poor, we have young children dying every day from abuse, neglect, starvation, and disease. Young mothers routinely die in childbirth. I hope to God that someday all that will change, but in the meantime, that’s the way it is and we just have to accept it.”

  One part of Emily told her that was unacceptable, but the more practical side of her told her that Delia was right. There was nothing she could do and she would just have to accept it.

  Summer gave way to a wet and chilly fall. The beginning of November was especially cold, with biting winds whipping off the Hudson River and swirling through the streets of downtown Manhattan. It was late afternoon when Flynn, Michael, and a work crew huddled in the back of a wagon as they made their way back to the warehouse. Cully was waiting for them. He signaled for Michael to come into the office.

  Without waiting for Michael to sit down, he said, “Well, I guess you know there’s an election in a couple of days?”

  Michael groaned and sat down heavily on a chipped wooden chair. The truth was, he hadn’t thought about it. Between work and the new baby, he had precious little time to think about elections. He thought back to the tumultuous election last year. With a start, he realized that it had been over a year since they’d landed on Manhattan Island. Their first anniversary in Manhattan had come and gone without notice. The voyage … their night in the Five Points … their time in the boardinghouse … It seemed like a long, long time ago.

  Michael looked at his boss uneasily. “What is it I’m to do?”

  Cully tossed his eyeglasses on the desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Same as last year,” he said wearily. “You and the others will report to Tammany Hall. You’ll get your marching orders there.”

  “Cully, I have a young baby at home—”

  “Makes no difference, Ranahan. You owe your job to Tammany.”

  “No, Cully, I owe my job to you.”

  The old man shook his head. “I couldn’t have hired you without Tammany’s approval. If you don’t show up on election day and do what you’re told to do, you’ll be out of a job the next day.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry, Ranahan,” Cully said, reaching for his glasses. “That’s the way it is and there’s nothing I can do.”

  As an angry Michael stormed out of the office, Cully called out, “Ranahan.”

  Michael turned. “What is it?”

  “Be careful. This is going to be a vicious election. Tweed is running and he has no intention of losing a second time.”

  Remembering the violence of last year, Michael nodded glumly and left. He was going to go home, but he decided to stop by Coyle’s boardinghouse to have a word with Gaylord.

  Old man Coyle opened the door and scowled at Michael. He still hadn’t forgiven him for leaving and depriving him of three cash-paying boarders. “What is it that you want?”

  “Is Gaylord in?”

  “He’s in the parlor.”

  The reporter looked up from a newspaper and smiled. “Michael, what brings you here?”

  “The election.”

  Gaylord’s smile faded. “Ah, the election. And a mad one it’ll be.”

  Michael sat down on the worn couch. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m to report to Tammany and I assume I’ll be told to do what I did last year. Cully warned me to be careful.”

  “He gave you good advice. You know Tweed is running again?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “This year the Democrats will field the usual band of shoulder-hitting ruffians, but this time they’ll be led by one John Morrissey, a tough customer indeed. To counter the Democrats, the Whigs have employed one Bill ‘the Butcher’ Poole and his Bowery Boys gang.”

  “The Butcher?”

  “H
e’s a butcher by trade, but he’s not adverse to carving up a human being as well. He’s a nasty brawler, an eye gouger, and virulently anti-Irish. Mind you don’t tangle with him.”

  “My God, is there no law and order in this city at all?”

  “Very little. There’s not a policeman in this city who will interfere with the shenanigans of this, or any other, election.”

  On election morning, those ominous words were ringing in Michael’s ears as he entered Tammany Hall, which was crowded with other men such as himself, coerced into doing the bidding of Tammany.

  He slid onto a bench next to Flynn. “Will there be trouble today, Flynn?”

  Flynn’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and his face was pale. “I’m thinking there will be. Did you know—” He stopped when he saw a grim Bill Tweed step up to the lectern.

  “Good morning, men,” he said, gruffly. “Today is going to be an important day for Tammany. We must win this election for the Democratic Party—and meself,” he added with a grin. “But there will be opposition. John Morrissey here wants to say a few words.”

  A stocky man with a full beard and a pugilist face stood up. “We got word that the Whigs and Know-Nothings are going to try to steal the ballet boxes in the Eighth Ward. They’ll be sending Butcher Bill and his Bowery Boys to do the dirty deed.”

  At the mention of that gang, a howl went up from a group of men standing in the back of the auditorium. Michael turned to see a rough bunch of men wearing tall beaver hats and red stripes on their pantaloons pounding clubs into the palms of their hands. “They’re a strange looking bunch,” Michael whispered. “Who are they?”

  “They’re Morrissey’s boys, the Dead Rabbits.”

  “All right, pipe down,” Morrissey bellowed. “Save your energy for later.” He looked over the seated crowd. “Some of youse will be going to the Eighth Ward office to defend it against all and any who wish to disrupt the election. The rest of youse will be assigned to election sites throughout the city. All right, off you go.”

  As the men shuffled up the aisle, several Dead Rabbits standing at the back of the auditorium were selecting men and shunting them off to the side. Michael and Flynn were among the seventy or so men selected.

  Morrissey came up the aisle. “All right. Youse men will come with me to the Eight Ward headquarters. Pick up your weapons of choice and form up outside.”

  Michael, Flynn, and the others were led to a table where there were boxes filled with assorted clubs, axes, iron bars, bludgeons, and brickbats.

  “What are these for?” Flynn asked a man with one eye and a long scar running the length of his face.

  The man grinned a toothless grin. “To defend yourself with. What else?”

  “Will I be needing something to defend myself with?”

  Again, the smile. “I’m thinking you will.”

  Flynn sighed and picked up an iron bar.

  “What’s your choice?” the man said to Michael.

  “None.” He had no intention of becoming a street brawler for Tammany Hall.

  The man grabbed his sleeve. “I wouldn’t advise that, me boyo. If you don’t take a weapon, you’ll be the only one without and you won’t stand a chance.”

  Reluctantly, Michael picked up a wooden club and weighed it in his hands. It was sturdy, but not too heavy. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but if there was trouble, he would defend himself.

  En masse, the men, augmented by the Dead Rabbits, marched over to the building that was the headquarters of the Eighth Ward. It was an ornate building with six columns and a wide flight of stairs. Michael was relieved to see that, except for a steady stream of men leaving and entering the building to vote, there was no sign of trouble.

  “All right, men,” Morrissey said, “Spread out and keep a sharp eye on me.”

  For almost an hour, they milled about blocking the entrance. Anyone going in was searched for weapons. If anyone was recognized as a Whig, he was kicked back down the stairs.

  Toward late afternoon, Michael was beginning to believe that there would be no trouble. Then he heard the roar of angry voices. From around the corner came a mob of thirty or forty men.

  “Uh, oh…” Flynn whispered out of the side of his mouth, “here comes Butcher Bill and his Bowery Boys.”

  If Michael thought the Dead Rabbits dressed oddly, the Bowery Boys outdid them. They, too, wore tall beaver hats, but they also wore inordinately long black frock coats, loud, checkered, bell-bottomed pantaloons, floppy kerchiefs knotted under their collars, and their hair was plastered down with what looked to be lard. They advanced down the street armed with brass knuckles, knives, and lengths of iron pipes. A daunting sight. They were led by a man in a black stovepipe hat. He was powerfully built, about six feet tall and close to two-hundred pounds. Michael was struck by his eyes. They were the soulless eyes of a killer. He pounded an iron bar in his hand and shouted over his shoulder, “Come on, boys. We got a job to do.”

  “Is that Butcher Bill?” Michael whispered to Flynn.

  “The same. And a more dangerous man you’ll not find in this entire city.”

  As the mob moved toward the building, Morrissey, standing at the top of the stairs, said, “That’s as far as you go, Bill.”

  Butcher Bill squinted up at Morrissey. “Stand aside, John, and nobody gets hurt.”

  Morrissey grinned down at him. “If you want to get into this building, you’ll have to go through me and my men.”

  Butcher Bill grinned back. “Have it your way. You always were a stubborn man. Come on men,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Form a line,” Morrissey bellowed.

  Everyone, including Michael and Flynn, stood shoulder to shoulder at the top of the stairs. Michael felt his throat go dry as he watched the men start up the stairs.

  Suddenly, he had a flashback of that terrible day the men of Ballyross had gone to Cork Harbor to protest the shipment of food out of the country. It was supposed to have been a peaceful demonstration, but some hothead from the village threw a rock striking the captain escorting the food wagons. As he fell from his horse, a frightened, undisciplined solider fired into the crowd and mayhem ensued. Many men from Ballyross died that day. Now, Michael wondered if there was going to be needless blood spilled over a damn fool election.

  With a roar, the butcher and his men rushed up the stairs. In an instant, Michael found himself surrounded by howling men swinging axes, clubs, and iron pipes. Dodging an iron pipe aimed at his head, he swung his club, catching the man in the throat. The man, gagging, stumbled backward and tumbled down the steps.

  Suddenly, time seemed to stand still and everything went into slow-motion. The howls of fury and the cries of pain blended into a dull cacophonous roar. As Michael fought to defend himself, all around him he saw heads bashed open, bodies stabbed, and blood splattered everywhere. The copious flow of blood made the steps slippery and more than once he almost lost his footing.

  He didn’t know how long they had been fighting, but suddenly, as if on some silent signal, the Bowery Boys disengaged and slowly retreated down the steps, dragging their wounded with them.

  To the shouts and jeers of the Dead Rabbits, Butcher Bill and his Bowery Boys limped off the way they’d come.

  At dinner that Sunday, Michael recounted the bloody battle, adding that he was lucky to come away with no more than a black eye and a superficial knife wound.

  Gaylord nodded. “You were lucky. There were pitched battles at other sites throughout the city, but Tweed’s Eighth Ward was the crucial location. The Whigs didn’t get the ballot box and thus Tweed was elected to the United States House of Representatives. And as a reward for stopping the ballot box from being stolen by Butcher Bill, Morrissey and his Dead Rabbits have been allowed by Tammany Hall to open a gambling house without police interference.”

  Emily shook her head in disbelief. “What kind of lawless city is this?”

  “What kind of lawless city indeed,” Gaylord answered. “Thi
s kind of shenanigans has got to stop. And I pray to God it will end soon. Among the others who were swept to victory on election day were a saloon keeper, a stone cutter, a fishmonger, and a fruit vender. Most of these men have been elected to the Common Council which now has the deserved sobriquet ‘The Forty Thieves.’”

  Chapter Eighteen

  1852

  January began with a snowstorm. By six in the morning, more than eight inches fell in the city making it difficult for horses to negotiate the frozen, rutted roads and for men to tread on icy sidewalks. Because of the frozen conditions, Michael was late for work. He barely had time to shake the snow off his clothing when Cully bellowed, “Ranahan, in my office. Now.”

  “Cully, I’m sorry I’m late, but the roads and sidewalks are treacherous. There are no omnibuses running on—”

  Cully waved a hand in dismissal. “Never mind that. Sit down. Sit down.”

  Michael was relieved to hear that he wasn’t going to be fired. Cully was a mercurial man capable of slapping a man on the back for a job well done one day, and the next day threatening to fire him for some minor blunder. But right now, the old man was more excited than Michael had ever seen.

  “What’s up?”

  “Ranahan, I’ve just landed the biggest contract I’ve ever had.”

  “That’s great, Cully. Where is the job?”

  He slammed his fist on the desk, barely able to contain himself. “It’s huge, Ranahan. We’re going to be doing a construction project for William B. Astor.”

  Michael remembered something Flynn had told him about Astor. “Is he the one known as the landlord of New York?”

  “The same. Ranahan, we’ll be at this job for probably a year or more.”

  “For one mansion?”

  “It’s not a mansion. Astor is going to construct two hundred brownstone row houses, three to five stories tall.”