“What happened?”
“As you can imagine, there was a real donnybrook with many smashed heads and broken bones, but only the Catholics were arrested and charged with disturbing the peace.”
“Well, there are a lot more Catholics in this city today, some even in the police force.”
Gaylord waved a hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t matter. There’s bound to be trouble. And you’d do well to be out of it.”
“I’ve got to go. I gave the men the day off tomorrow to march.”
“How generous of you,” Gaylord said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose you know that neither Astor, nor Vanderbilt, nor all the other truly wealthy men in this city have been so magnanimous.”
“I said I would march with them.”
Gaylord downed his last oyster, made a sign of the cross in the air toward Michael, and intoned, “May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
It rained all that night, but the morning of July 4th was sunny with temperatures expected to be in the mid-eighties by noon. A fine day for a parade. By nine in the morning, hundreds of New Yorkers were strolling down Broadway on their way to the annual military parade. The air was filled with the smoke and sounds of firing cannons and the popping, fizzing, and whirring of fireworks.
Michael Ranahan, Flynn, and the Ranahan Construction employees joined up with 500 other Irish marchers wearing green scarves and badges at the corner of Hudson Street and Houston Street.
The sorrowful and tragic events Michael experienced in Ireland during the five years of the famine had dampened his ardor for the old county, but seeing the smiling faces of all those Irishmen standing under an enormous banner depicting George Washington shaking hands with Daniel O’Connell made him swell with pride. Looking around him, Michael was happy to see that Gaylord was wrong. This was not an angry assemblage bent on fighting and destruction; it was a gathering of men who just wanted to express their pride in being a Catholic Irishman.
A great din of whistles, booming drums, and shrieking bugles signaled that the parade had begun. At first, the men shuffled slowly, heads bobbing out of sync, but as the line stretched out, they fell into a steady stride as they marched up Hudson Street. A few bystanders watching them pass clapped and cheered, while others jeered, yelling out “mackerel snappers,” “papal bastards,” “bog runners,” and worse.
A grinning Michael and other marchers cheerfully waved at them. If that was the worst they could do, it would be a good day.
The plan was for the Irish marchers to meet up with the main line of march at Abingdon Square in Greenwich Village. As they approached the square, Michael saw that there were perhaps a thousand marchers milling about. As the two groups converged, Hudson Street became clogged with a sea of men carrying a variety of banners and flags.
Seeing a motion out of the corner of his eye, Michael looked to his left and saw an omnibus coming out of Bank Street. He didn’t know if the horses were spooked by the sight and roar of the men or if someone had prodded them, but for whatever reason the horses bolted into the ranks of the Hibernians, knocking down scores of men. To Michael’s horror he saw a group of angry, bellowing men pull the driver down from his box and proceed to beat him with fists and flagstaffs.
As if this were some kind of signal, the Protestant marchers rushed the Catholic contingent. In seconds, hundreds of men were punching, kicking, and clubbing each other. The George Washington shaking hands with Daniel O’Connell banner was torn down. As Michael fought to defend himself, he noticed two groups that, moments before, had been standing on the sidewalks, seemingly not part of the marchers. But as the fighting started, they gleefully waded into the Catholic marchers punching and swinging clubs with abandon. Gaylord would later tell Michael that one group was a local gang called the Short Boys. The second group were volunteer firemen who rushed the marchers crying, “Kill the Catholic sons of bitches!”
Michael didn’t know how long the battle lasted, but he was grateful to see a wedge of policemen rushing down Eighth Avenue toward them. Terrified and exhausted, he hoped they would put a stop to this madness. Then to his dismay, he watched as the policemen waded into the crowd clubbing anyone who was wearing the scarf and badge of the Irish Catholics.
Flynn had fallen to the ground after a vicious blow to the side of the head. Michael grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him up. “We’ve got to get out of here, Flynn.” He yelled to his men. “Come on, men, follow me.”
With renewed ferocity, Michael and his men clubbed and punched their way through the crowd and away from the advancing policemen. They broke free of the melee and kept running until they reached Houston Street. It was only then that Michael stopped to assess the damage to his sweating and panting men. All of them, including himself, were bleeding from head wounds. Two had superficial stab wounds, but nothing that required more than a bandage. Looking at his men, he again experienced the same flashback he’d had standing on the steps of the Eighth Ward Headquarters that election day. “He’d led his men into a disastrous march to Cork Harbor, and now he’d done it again.” Gaylord’s stern warning rang in his ears. “There’s bound to be trouble. And you’d do well to be out of it.” “I’m sorry, men,” he said, his voice breaking. “I never should have allowed you to march today.”
Flynn wiped his bloody nose with his sleeve. “It’s not your fault, Michael. It’s those damn nativists. They outnumbered us today, but one day ...” His voice trailed off.
“We can’t keep fighting each other. For God’s sake, we’re all Americans, aren’t we?”
Flynn shook his head. “No, Michael you’re wrong there. There’s Irish Americans, and there’s native Americans. Two entirely different breeds all together.”
Michael saw the other men nod in agreement. He was too tired, too sore, and too frightened to argue with them. “Go on home, men. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
As Emily dressed the gash on Michael’s scalp, Gaylord read aloud from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. “Dozens of Irishmen were arrested for inciting the riot. They were solely responsible for the disturbance of the peace—”
“That’s a damn lie. We were attacked by them.”
Gaylord continued reading. “The marchers, armed with pistols, staves, and stones attacked anyone regardless of age or physical condition. The nativist spectators who joined in the riot were described as peaceful citizens who tried to reason with the Hibernians before being attacked and forced to fight to defend themselves. There was promise of serious results, but the riot was speedily quelled when a formidable body of police turned a corner at a double-quick, and the rioters scattered instantly. Happily, no person was mortally wounded in the encounter.”
Michael shook his head. “None of that is true. The police attacked us.”
Gaylord folded the paper and tossed it on the table. “Just be grateful that neither you nor any of your men was killed or seriously injured.”
“I agree,” Emily said. “When are you going to learn, Michael? First, two elections, then this parade and you come home with your head busted open every time.”
Michael grinned ruefully. “I guess it’s a good thing I have a hard head.”
For days, Emily, still shaken by what had happened at the parade, was curt with him and what conversation there was, was kept to a minimum. Michael tried to reason with her. “I got my head busted open, that’s all. It wasn’t so bad.”
“It wasn’t so bad?” she exploded. “What if you’d have been seriously injured or killed? What would become of me and Dermot and the coming baby? What would become of your business? You’ve got serious responsibilities, now, Michael.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “You’ve got to think of us.”
Michael was jolted by what she said. He hadn’t given it much thought, but she was right. What if he’d been seriously injured, or, God forbid, killed? What would become of them? He’d been selfish. He’d put furthering his business interests above his family. He would not make that mistake again.
>
He went to her and put his arms around her. At first, she pulled away, but he brought her back to him. “Emily, I’m sorry. You’re right. What I did was stupid.”
Emily buried her head in his chest. “Michael, I don’t know what I’d do if you ... if you were …”
He kissed her. “Put that out of your head. Nothing is going to happen to me.” To lighter the mood, he said, “Remember back in April when we saw them building the Crystal Palace?”
“That strange looking building with all that cast-iron?”
“The same. Well, it opened last week. Let’s go see it next Sunday. I’ll ask Gaylord if he’d like to join us. I’m sure he can explain a lot of what we’ll see there.”
That Sunday afternoon, Henrietta took Dermot, who’d just turned two the previous month, to the park. Michael and Emily had agreed they would meet Gaylord at the Crystal Palace. At one in the afternoon, they stepped off the omnibus at Sixth and Forty-Second Street. Now that the Crystal Palace was completed, it looked even more magnificent than the cast-iron frame they’d seen under construction last April.
Gaylord came up behind them. “Magnificent, is it not?”
“It’s beyond words,” Emily said, gaping at the towering structure before them.
“It’s officially called the Exhibition of the Industry of All Nations, and from what I’ve read it is not an exaggerated claim. Our own Walt Whitman has penned a poem about it called, Song of the Exposition. There is one stanza that stands out for me:
Mightier than Egypt’s tombs,
Fairer than Grecia’s, Roma’s temples,
Prouder than Milan’s statued, spired Cathedral,
More picturesque than Rhenish castle-keeps,
We plan, even now, to raise, beyond them all,
Thy great Cathedral, sacred Industry—no tomb,
A Keep for life for practical Invention.
Slightly embarrassed by his bombastic, theatric tone, he said, “Shall we go in?”
Although it was a sultry August afternoon, the interior was surprisingly cool. The glass and cast-iron frame gave the building a curiously light feeling, unlike the typically ponderous structures of brick and wood.
Once inside, they saw that the building was in the shape of a Greek cross with three entrances on Sixth Avenue, Fortieth Street, and Forty-Second Street. At the juncture of the four arms a 100-foot diameter dome rose 123 feet from the floor. The interior was so immense as to stagger the imagination, dwarfing even the imposing Equestrian George Washington statue in the center of the main hall.
Opening the guidebook, How To See The New York Crystal Palace, Gaylord read, “Two dozen cast iron columns support the dome, each sixty-two feet high. Thirty-two stained glass windows decorate the sides of the dome, each representing the arms of the individual states as well as that of the Union.”
They followed the crowds wandering the building’s halls past shimmering fountains and glaring clusters of gas-lights. They marveled at the miracles of the age, great and small: scales, meters, guns, lamps, safes, clocks, carriages, scientific instruments, agricultural instruments, a Fresnel lighthouse lens, telegraphy and photography equipment, fire engines, ships, and plans for an elevated railroad above Broadway.
To reach the second story, they climbed one of twelve broad staircases. The cast-iron fittings, the staircases, and railings were painted a rich cream color accented in red, blue, and yellow, giving it a gay, festive look.
An hour into their tour, Gaylord glanced at his pocket watch. “Come,” he said, taking Emily and Michael by the arm. “There is going to be a demonstration of a steam-powered elevator. This is something we must not miss.”
At the north end of the main hall, a crowd had already gathered around a curious structure—a tower thirty feet tall with a large platform at the ground level.
A young man with a full beard and wearing a top hat and a black frock coat stepped onto the platform. Pulling a lever, he activated the steam engine and the elevator jerked to a start. Up, up it went until it was suspended twenty-five feet in the air, a single strand of rope holding the elevator in place.
Then the man did a curious thing. He called out to his assistant, who was stationed at the top of the tower, “Cut the rope.”
A gasp went up from the crowd. Without hesitation, the assistant swung his axe severing the rope. Some women averted their eyes, others turned away, some screaming, some swooning. The breathless crowd of onlookers waited for the platform to come crashing to the ground, but it dropped only a few inches, and then, amazingly, came to a stop.
Michael immediately grasped what had happened. “Did you see that?”
Emily and Gaylord shook their heads too dumbfounded to speak.
Michael explained. “When the hoist rope was cut, it released the tension on those clamping devices that grip the guide rails and they acted like some kind of brake.”
Emily stared up at the grinning man on the platform who was tipping his hat to the crowd below. “Who is he?”
Gaylord consulted his guidebook. “That would be one Elisha Graves Otis. I do believe we will be hearing from this young man in the future.”
Fascinated by what he had just seen, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off the mechanism. “Do you know what this means? It means that with a safety elevator, we’ll be able to construct buildings taller than four or five stories.”
Gaylord nodded, finally grasping with Michael was saying. “Literally, the sky’s the limit.”
When they came out of the exhibit, Emily saw an odd, faraway look in her husband’s eyes.
“What are you thinking, Michael?”
“Watching that elevator demonstration and looking at all those modern tools in there has convinced me that there is a great future in this city. We will not only build this city out, we will build it up.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
With the birth of her child only two months way, Emily invited the midwife to tea to discuss arrangements. As the elderly woman sat across the table from her stirring her tea, Emily said, “I’ve asked you to stop by, Mary, because I’m pregnant and I want to—”
The old woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, no missus. You must not be pregnant.”
“Well, I am, and I’ll need your help—”
The old woman shook her head. “Do you remember the terrible time you had with your delivery?”
“Yes, but everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
“I’m not a doctor, missus, but I’ve been a midwife for over forty years and I’ve seen a thing or two. It’s my belief that you cannot, you should not, have this baby.”
Emily felt a wave of dizziness overcome her. Not have the baby? What was her alternative, abortion? She couldn’t even think of that possibility. “Mary, why won’t you help me?”
The old woman’s eyes focused on her teacup and both her gnarled hands grasped it tightly. “Things are changing in midwifery,” she began slowly. “For as long as I can remember, male doctors wanted no part of the duties of a midwife. It was considered work fit only for a woman. Still, to protect our livelihood, we midwives take an oath that we will not reveal—” she cocked her head trying to remember the exact wording— “… any matter appertaining to your office in the presence of any man.” She nodded firmly, pleased that she gotten it right.
“What does this have to do with my having a baby?”
“The doctors have invented a device—forceps, they call it. Now they’re assisting us midwifes with difficult births. That was welcome help, but lately, they’ve been trying to take over entirely the work of the midwife.”
Emily shook her head. “I still don’t understand …”
“Don’t you see, missus, they’re watching us carefully. If I make a mistake and a baby or the mother dies, they’ll hound me out of the business. They’ve done it before to others, I can tell you.”
Emily was incredulous. “Are you saying you won’t take the chance with my birth?”
The old woman’s eyes teared u
p. “I can’t take the chance, missus. It’s the only work I know. I’m too old to work in a factory.”
Sunday night dinner at the Ranahans had without premeditation become a tradition. It began with inviting Gaylord, then Letta, then Henrietta and Cully. It was so ingrained in everyone that they just showed up without the need of an invitation.
Half-way through dinner, a blushing Letta said in a soft voice, “I have an announcement to make.”
“What is it, child?” Henrietta asked.
“I’m engaged.”
Emily jumped up and embraced her young friend. “Oh, Letta, that’s wonderful. Who is the lucky man?”
“His name is Otto Schmidt and he owns a beer garden in Kleindeutschland.”
“We must meet this lucky man,” Michael said.
Henrietta clapped her hands. “Yes, you must bring him to dinner next Sunday.”
“I will.”
Shortly after dinner, Letta left to meet her Otto. Emily pulled Henrietta into the parlor, away from the men. “Isn’t that wonderful news about Letta?”
“It is. I was beginning to wonder when she would meet a suitable young man. I’m very happy for her.”
Emily sat down. “Henrietta, I need your advice.”
Seeing the concerned expression on her friend’s face, Henrietta said, “Whatever is the matter, Emily?”
After Emily told her what the midwife had told her, Henrietta took Emily’s hands in hers.
“You poor dear. Have you told Michael?”
“Yes, and he agrees with me. I can’t—I won’t—have an abortion. But what am I to do?”
“What about another midwife?”
Emily shook her head. “Mary said that the way things are, no midwife will risk taking on a difficult birth.”
Henrietta thought for a moment and then snapped her fingers. “Elizabeth Blackwell.”
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