Manhattan

by Michael Grant

  Emily frowned. “A pass?”

  “Yes, missus. You couldn’t leave the plantation unlessen the Massa give a pass.”

  “Like a permission slip to be away from the plantation?”

  “Yes, missus. Slaves always had to get a pass to go anywhere off the plantation. If you got caught by the speculators, you show de pass to them. If you didn’t have a pass, they strip you and beat you, and maybe sell you off to someone.”

  “Speculators?”

  “They the ones that come around every now and then to buy and sell slaves. They come into the fields and pick out the slaves they wants to buy. Whenever the speculators come, we was all terrified of being sold off.”

  Michael and Emily exchanged stunned glances and they were both thinking the same thing: During the famine, life was horrific, but it was nothing like this.

  “I was paintin’ lots of pictures and gettin’ lots a coin, but then one day I had a terrible accident out in the field. I guess I weren’t paying attention, but I got my hand caught up in the cotton gin.”

  Michael looked down at Kitch’s right hand. He hadn’t noticed it before, but his hand looked more like a claw than a hand. How in the world, he wondered, was he able to hold on to a coal-laden wheelbarrow?

  “It tore me up pretty bad. Lost two fingers. There weren’t no doctor, so one a the old mammies who was born in Africa made up some kind of African mixture and rubbed it on my hand. I didn’t lose it, but, as you can see, it ain’t much good to me now. I tried paintin’ with my left hand, but it weren’t no good. The pictures didn’t come out right. And that was that.”

  “Did your master want to sell you off?” Michael asked,

  “He couldn’t. After the accident, he cursed me good and called me a damaged goods nigger. He say no one would pay a decent price for me now. Massa Tom was a great drinker and a poor gambler. By and by, I finds out that Massa is in a whole heap of debt and is in danger of losin’ the plantation. If that happen, me and the others gonna get sold off for sure and there no tellin’ what kind of massa I get. So, one day I approach him. Massa Tom, I say, I would like to buy my freedom.”

  He laugh at me and say, ‘you got five hundred dollars, boy?’ ‘No, sir,’ I say. ‘But it’s like you said, I’m damaged goods. I ain’t worth that kind of money no more.’”

  He stared at me and there was real fire in his eyes. I’m thinkin’ he’s thinkin’ that I’m some kind of uppity nigger and I’m gonna get a good whoopin’ for sure. But instead, he say, ‘how much you got?’ I say ‘I got three hundred and thirty-five dollars.’ His eyes got real big. I know he could use that money to pay off some of those debts. Then he did somethin’ he never did before. He shook my hand. ‘You got a deal, boy. You give me that three hundred and thirty-five dollars and I’ll give you your freedom.’ And that was that.”

  Emily and Michael were staring at him with open mouths. Kitch’s story was so fantastic that it seemed more like a fable than reality.”

  Finally, Emily was able to speak. “What about your family?”

  “Didn’t have none by that time. My pappy had run off a long time before. Then Massa Tom sold off my brother and sister…”

  Emily gasped and tears welled up in her eyes.

  “But he was decent about it. He sold them off together so they wouldn’t be broke up. I ‘spect the missus had somethin’ to do with dat. She was always a kind woman.”

  “And your mother.”

  “She died shortly after the little ‘uns was sold off. As soon as I got my freedom, quick as I could, I got out of the slave South and came north and ended up here in New York City.” He gave Emily a sideward glance. “These dumplings are sure mighty delicious, missus. Might I have some more?”

  Emily practically shoved the platter at him. “Have all you want.”

  When he left, Emily handed him a package. “Kitch, this is for you. Just some chicken and dumplings.”

  “Thank you, missus.”

  The end of 1857 saw increasing unrest among the unemployed and renewed efforts to organize themselves. The Kommunisten Klub, a group of German radicals, joined forces with James McGuire, an Irish labor leader, with a view toward uniting the unemployed. McGuire’s rallying cry was: “If one man suffers, it doesn’t matter whether he is an American or a foreigner—they all suffer.”

  Thousands of men gathered at Tompkins Square Park and marched on City Hall demanding a program of public works and jobs building the new Central Park and adding sewers to the city’s streets. The next day they marched on Wall Street chanting “We want work!”

  The newspapers, unsympathetic to the unemployed men’s plight, lashed out at the marchers. The Herald editorial bellowed: Shoot down any quantity of Irish or Germans necessary. Rioters, like other people, have heads to be broken and bodies to be perforated with ball and steel.

  Days later, men, now desperately hungry, poured into Tompkins Square Park. But this time the organizers couldn’t control the men as shouts of “bread, bread” rose from the throng. The multitude, now a mindless organism of one, swarmed into the streets and began attacking bread wagons and food shops.

  That night, Letta came home crying hysterically. Emily brought her into the kitchen and made her sit down. “Letta, what is it?”

  Between racking sobs, she said, “I was at my parents’ bakery … suddenly a dozen men broke the front window ... As hands snatched the bread and buns in the window, others barged into the shop with sticks and clubs ... They smashed everything ... They cleaned the shelves of bread and pastries ...” She buried her face in her hands. “When my father tried to stop them, they beat him with their clubs. Oh, Emily, it was terrible. Terrible.”

  “Is your father all right?”

  “He has several cuts and severe bruises. I think he’ll recover, but the shop is ruined. They destroyed everything, including his baking ovens.” She looked up at Emily with red-rimmed eyes. “Emily, he no longer has a bake shop. Everything he’s worked for his whole life is gone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  1858

  By mid-year, there were encouraging signs that the crisis was easing and the worst was over. The crisis wouldn’t end for a couple of years, but business conditions were slowly improving, credit was easing, and trade was expanding. While this was happening, Michael, Kitch, and the other men who worked for Clayton Coal Company continued the mind-numbing drudgery of wheelbarrowing coal on and off steamships twelve hours a day, six days a week.

  Michael had gotten used to the work. He no longer felt bone weary and exhausted at the end of the day. The work, nevertheless, was soul-deadening. The wages were poor and the conditions were dreadful. He had developed a hacking cough that wouldn’t go away. And there were times when he became breathless struggling up a gangplank.

  Henrietta extended an invitation to Michael and Emily to come to Sunday dinner. What was unusual about the invitation was that no one else was invited. While most Sunday dinners were at the Ranahans, Henrietta often hosted dinners for the group who usually gathered at the Ranahans on Sunday. But this time, she had specifically said only Emily and Michael should come.

  As they sat down, Cully said, “How’s the work going, Michael?”

  Michael shrugged. “As well as can be expected. I thought construction work was hard, but pushing tons of coal on a wheelbarrow is a helluva lot harder.”

  Emily rubbed his shoulders. “At least it’s keeping you in great shape.”

  “Aye, it is that.”

  Henrietta passed the platter of roast beef. “Will your school be starting up soon?”

  “I don’t know. I hear things are getting better, but so far no one has inquired about coming back.”

  “It’ll happen.”

  “I hope so. We could use the money.”

  All through dinner, Henrietta and Cully had been acting strangely, sharing sideways glances at each other and smiling a lot.

  As dinner was finishing up, Henrietta went into the kitchen and came back with a
bottle of champagne.

  Emily rubbed her hands together in glee. “What’s the occasion, Henrietta? Good news for you?”

  “No. Good news for you and Michael.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Norbert, you tell them.”

  The old man had been uncharacteristically silent during dinner, but now he became fully animated. “I bought Ranahan Construction,” he announced in a loud voice.

  It took a while for Michael and Emily to absorb what he had just said. “You bought what …?” Michael asked.

  “Ranahan Construction. Since the bank foreclosed on your loan, I’ve been keeping an eye on the property. Your man, Hainsworth, tried to sell it several times, but either the price was too high or the buyer pulled out at the last minute. I decided the time was right and I made him an offer. Cash on the barrelhead. No notes, no loans, no stocks exchanged. Cash. It didn’t take him long to think it over. He took the cash.”

  “And why shouldn’t he?” Henrietta interjected. “He’s been sitting on a valuable asset that no one wanted or could afford. Banks are in the business of making money, not absorbing losses.”

  “So ... you own the company?” Michael asked, still not quite grasping what he was being told.

  “I do. Lock, stock, and barrel. And, I might add, I bought it at a price that was considerably less than I sold it to you.”

  Michael was almost afraid to ask the next question. Cully had never said it, but Michael continued to harbor the belief that the old man had never forgiven him for losing the business. “Will I be able to go to work for you?”

  Cully shook his head. “No.”

  Michael’s heart sank. “Oh. Well … I understand…”

  “It’s your company.

  “My …”

  “Just as you paid the bank monthly, you will pay me monthly until I have received my money back. They’ll be no cursed banks involved. This is a business deal strictly between you and me.”

  Emily was speechless. Michael wanted to say something, but a knot had formed in his throat that prevented him from speaking.

  Henrietta thrust the champagne bottle into Michael’s hand. “Well, don’t just sit there. Open the champagne.”

  Cully picked up his glass and looked at Henrietta defiantly. “I’ll have some.”

  She returned his defiant look. “All right, Norbert, just this once, but don’t fill his glass, Michael.”

  When all their glasses were filled, Cully offered a toast. “To Ranahan Construction, may you continue to build this city.”

  Michael was about to add, with the help of my son, Dermot. But he suddenly had a terrible premonition that perhaps Dermot wouldn’t be around to help him. Instead, he mumbled, “To Ranahan Construction.”

  The next morning, Michael arrived at the Clayton Coal Company just before seven. He went into the manager’s office and announced he was quitting. Without a word, the taciturn manager opened his ledger and crossed Michael’s name off the list of employees. He checked his timepiece and brushed past Michael.

  Out in the coal room, he announced to the men those hated words: “Get to work.”

  Michael smiled as he realized he would never have to hear those words again. But his smile soon faded as he watched the men, like beasts of burden, begin their twelve-hour day by filling their wheelbarrows with coal. Thanks to Cully he would never have to do this sort of soul-destroying work again.

  He looked around for Kitch, but his friend was nowhere in sight. He went back into the manager’s office. “Mr. Dunlap, I don’t see Kitch outside. Maybe he’s sick. Do you know where he lives?”

  The manager looked up with a mystified expression. “Why would I need to know that?”

  “What if he’s sick? How would you get his wages to him?”

  “That is no concern of mine.” He consulted his timepiece. “If he’s not here by eight, he no longer has a job.”

  Michael decided he’d come back at quitting time to see if Kitch showed up for work. For most of the morning and early afternoon, he visited various old customers to see if they were ready to resume building. Most weren’t, but he lined up enough customers so that his men would have work.

  It was late afternoon by the time he got to his warehouse. He was grateful to see that the Ranahan sign was still over the door. Apparently, the bank couldn’t be bothered spending the money to have it removed.

  He walked into the darkened warehouse and into an eerie sight. It looked as though the workers had suddenly been snatched off the face of the earth. Stacks of lumber and piles of sand and bricks awaited loading onto the wagons. It was as Cully had said; besides selling off the horses, everything was as he left it.

  He went into his office. Months of accumulated dust covered his desk and papers. He sat down behind his desk and closed his eyes. All those months of laboring for Clayton Coal seemed to fade as though it had all been a bad dream.

  He opened his eyes and there was Flynn with his gap-toothed grin standing in the doorway. He had sent word to Flynn to meet him at the warehouse.

  “Are we really back in business?”

  “Yes, thanks to Cully.”

  “What’s next?”

  “Do you know where our men are?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Good. Go find them and tell them I have work. In the meantime, I have to go buy some horses.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Ranahan Construction Company slowly, but steadily, began its recovery. Michael still hadn’t gotten all his clients back—some had gone bankrupt while those that didn’t remained cautious about needlessly spending money. But the customers that had returned were enough to keep his crews busy. Determined not to make the same mistake twice, Michael promised himself that he would not overextend his business. He purchased seven horses and hired back 35 men, and that was enough to handle all his construction projects.

  One sultry morning in mid-August, a messenger delivered a cryptic note. All it said was: Your presence is requested at St. Patrick’s Church at Price and Mott Street. 10 a.m. tomorrow morning.

  The next morning, when Michael arrived at the church there were about two-dozen men crowded into the pews toward the front of the church. He recognized some of them as contractors with whom he had worked before.

  He sat down next to Angus Roy, a stonemason from Scotland. He had worked with the stonemason and his crew and admired their work, which was meticulous and workmanlike in every detail.

  “What’s this all about, Angus?”

  “I’ve no idea, laddie. I received a message to be here this morning. That’s all I know.”

  Just then a man wearing the red raiment of a bishop, accompanied by two priests and a well-dressed gentleman, came out onto the altar.

  The idle chatter of the men in the pews stopped as the bishop put up his hands for silence. He was a man in his early sixties with a high forehead and gray piercing eyes that said they would brook no nonsense.

  “Good morning, men,” he said, with the soft brogue that Michael recognized as coming from the north of Ireland. “I am Bishop Hughes and I welcome you to St. Patrick’s. I have asked you to come here today because I am about to embark on a most ambitious building project and I am led to believe that you contractors, stonemasons, and bricklayers are the best at what you do in this city.”

  “What is it that you want to build?” a man in the front row asked.

  The bishop smiled slyly. “The biggest cathedral in New York City, nay, the whole of the United States.”

  “Where will you build it?”

  “On Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street.”

  A murmur of shock and incredulity went up from the men in the pews.

  “Way up there in the country?” another man exclaimed. “Why there’s nothing up there but shanties, squatters, and pig farms.”

  The bishop smiled back defiantly. “Mark my words, one day Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street will be the center of the city.”

  Ignoring the la
ughs and guffaws from the men, the bishop pointed to the gentleman. “This is Mr. James Renwick. He will serve as the chief architect for the project.”

  Head nodded in the pews. Renwick’s work was well known to them. He had designed the Grace Church downtown and the Smithsonian Institute Building in Washington D.C.

  As he rose to speak, two priests carried two cloth-covered easels out onto the altar. Getting right to the point, Renwick, a bald man with a long aquiline nose and a full beard, said, “This project is expected to be completed by 1861 and there will be plenty of work for all who are qualified.”

  He walked over to the first easel and stripped away the cloth. Another gasp went up from the men. The rendering showed a magnificent gothic cathedral with two spires soaring into the sky. “This is what St. Patrick’s Cathedral will look like.” He pulled away the cloth from the second easel showing a floor plan of the building. “The cathedral will be four hundred feet in length covering an entire square block bounded on the east and west by Fifth Avenue and Madison Avenue and on the north and south by Fiftieth and Fifty-First Streets. The two spires will be three hundred and thirty feet high.”

  Angus Roy leaned into Michael. “I’m thinking a completion date of 1861 is a wee bit ambitious. Look at the detail stone work alone. Still,” he said, looking admiringly at the rendering, “however long it takes, I will be happy to work on such a splendid structure.”

  “How do we apply for work on this church?” Michael asked.

  “You will be notified when and where to report for an interview. If you are deemed qualified, you will be hired.”

  A grim-faced Bishop Hughes stood up and pointed an accusing finger at the men. “I will tell you now. No graft of any kind will be tolerated. You will not give, nor will you receive, recompense from any source whatsoever, especially Tammany Hall.”