Manhattan

by Michael Grant

  The men glanced at each other uneasily. There was no such thing as construction in this city without Tammany having its hand in it. How could the bishop hope to keep them out?

  That Sunday at dinner, Michael excitedly told everybody about the planned construction of the biggest cathedral in the United States.

  “It sounds like a very ambitious project indeed,” Henrietta said.

  “It is,” Gaylord agreed. “However, some doubters are calling it ‘Hughes’ Folly’.”

  “And no wonder,” Cully added. “It’s miles away from the real city. Who does he expect to get for parishioners? Pigs and chickens?”

  “I’ll say this, if anyone can pull it off, it’s Dagger John.”

  Emily frowned. “Dagger John?”

  “It’s what they call the bishop because he always draws a cross after his signature. By the way, have you been to the site, Michael?”

  “I have. Flynn and I went to take a look yesterday.”

  “Did you notice that great big house across the street from the proposed cathedral?”

  “You mean the ugly five-story house? It wasn’t very elegant, I can tell you that. Who lives there?”

  “Madame Restell.”

  Henrietta almost choked. “You mean … Madame Restell … the abortionist?”

  “The same.”

  “Good heavens,” Emily exclaimed. “Why in the world would Bishop Hughes build his cathedral across the street from such an infamous woman?”

  Gaylord chuckled. “It wasn’t his plan. He tried to buy the site to build his official residence, but she outbid him. Some say—”

  He was interrupted by angry shouts and crying coming from upstairs. Michael started to get up, but Emily saw the angry expression on his face and put her napkin down. “I’ll see to it.”

  Embarrassed by the disturbance, Michael tried to get the conversation back on track. “It’s certainly going to be an interesting project. I’m told they’re going to import white marble from upstate New York and Massachusetts and granite from Maine. There will be massive bronze doors weighing twenty thousand pounds each and they say they will be so well balanced that they can be opened with one hand. It’s going to be a marvel.”

  Gaylord poured more wine. “I’ve been told the overall building contract has gone to the Hall & Joy Company for the princely sum of eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Michael nodded. “They are the biggest contractor in the city and they have a sterling reputation.”

  “It would appear that you can look forward to long-term and very profitable work,” Henrietta said.

  “I welcome the work. We’re getting construction projects, but not like before. Even those who are building are building much smaller mansions. There’s still fear about another crisis. But there is a problem with the cathedral project. The bishop has forbidden any contractor from dealing with the likes of Tammany Hall. I don’t see how we’ll be able to keep them out.”

  Gaylord grinned. “I wouldn’t worry about that. I predict Tammany Hall will be no match for the pugnacious Bishop Hughes. Back in ‘44, anti-Catholic riots instigated by Nativist agitators threatened to spread to New York from Philadelphia, where two churches had been burned and twelve people died. The bishop ringed his churches with armed guards. Then he informed the nativist sympathizing mayor that if a single Catholic Church was burned in New York, the city would become a second Moscow.”

  “What does that mean?” Michael asked.

  “It was a reference to the Russian scorched earth policy. Before Napoleon’s army got to Moscow, the Russian people burned their own city to the ground to deny it to the enemy.”

  “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary,” Henrietta said with a raised eyebrow.

  A grim-faced Emily returned just as dinner was finishing up. “Is everything all right?” Henrietta asked.

  “As well as can be expected,” Emily responded with a forced smile.

  Later, as they were getting ready for bed, Michael said, “What was the ruckus all about?”

  “As usual, Dermot took toys away from Peter.”

  “Sometimes I wish Peter would fight back.”

  “He’s only four, Michael. It’s Dermot I’m worried about. It seems that nothing I do gets though to him. I can punish him, send him to bed early, take away his toys… nothing seems to bother him. I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “I don’t know. Thank God, the other children are no bother. Eleanor is her usual gentle self. Peter is the serious one and no bother at all. And Claire is, well, gentle little Claire.”

  “I’ll talk to Dermot tomorrow after I come home from work.”

  “For all the good it’ll do. Anyway, what’s next with the church project?”

  “I’m to get a message to report for an interview.”

  “Do you anticipate any problems?”

  “Well, there’s the foreclosure for one. And I might be too small a business for them. We’ll see.”

  It had been a week since the meeting with Bishop Hughes, and Michael was beginning to worry that he would not receive an invitation. At last, and much to his relief, he received a notice to come to the offices of the Hall & Joy Company.

  The Hall & Joy Company was housed in a huge warehouse on Hudson Street near City Hall. Unlike his small warehouse, this one was bustling with hundreds of workers sawing and cutting wood and loading up dozens of wagons with construction materials.

  Michael was shown into a cramped office littered with architectural drawings and maps.

  A slightly jowly man with thick spectacles that gave his eyes a strange magnification motioned Michael to sit down. “My name is Mason and I oversee hiring subcontractors,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “And you are …?”

  “Michael Ranahan of the Ranahan Construction Company.”

  “Ranahan Construction…” Mason consulted his notes. After a while, he looked up and frowned. “I see there was a bank foreclose on your loan.”

  Michael was expecting this question, but, still, it was a shock to hear someone actually say he had been foreclosed on. “Yes, sir. It was at the beginning of the panic. I was current with my payments, but the bank called in my loan anyway.”

  Mason grunted. “There was a lot of that going on in ‘57.”

  Michael thought he detected a note of sympathy in the voice, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking. The fact that he didn’t ask Michael to leave immediately was at least encouraging.

  “I see your company assets consist of seven horses and wagons and you employee thirty-five men. Is that correct?”

  “It is,” Michael answered, wondering where he got that information.

  Mason continued to study his notes, making Michael nervous. He would have preferred to make eye contact so it would be easier to judge what the man was thinking.

  “You are a very small company for our needs.”

  Michael’s heart thumped in his chest. He was counting on getting in on this project. It would mean long-term employment for his men and a handsome profit for him.

  “Sir, all my men are hard workers. They’re reliable, sober, and… God fearing Christians,” he added, hoping that would count for something

  But it only elicited a mere grunt from Mason. After what seemed an eternity, he said, “All right, we’ll hire you on probationary status.”

  “Probationary status…?”

  “You will be watched to see if you perform up to our standards. If there are any signs of lateness, drunkenness, or slacking of effort, you will be terminated immediately.”

  “I can assure you, sir, there will be none of that.”

  “We’ll see. You and your men will report to the Fifth Avenue site at eight o’clock Monday morning.

  Michael couldn’t wait to get home to give Emily the good news. But when he came through the door, he saw a tense look on Emily’s face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Dermot hi
t Peter with a toy and gave him quite a gash on his scalp.”

  Michael started toward the stairs, but Emily grabbed his arm. “Michael, he’s only eight-years-old.”

  “I don’t care how old he is. He attacked his younger brother.”

  “Before you see him, get your temper under control.”

  Michael took a deep breath. “All right.”

  Eleanor was waiting for him at the top of the stairs with a worried expression on her face. “Daddy, is Peter going to be all right?”

  Michael embraced her. “Of course he will, sweetheart. He’s a tough little Irishman, isn’t he?”

  “I guess ...”

  Peter, with a bandage wrapped around his head, was propped up in bed surrounded by his toys.

  “How’s my little man doing?”

  “Dermot hit me,” he said, tears welling up in his eyes.

  Michael sat down on the bed and held his son’s hand. “I know. I promise you, he will never do that to you again.”

  Dermot was playing in his room when Michael came in. The boy didn’t look up.

  “Why did you hit your brother?”

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  “Look at me when I talk to you,” Michael snapped. “Why did you do it?”

  Dermot looked up and his blank expression gave Michael a chill. He could have been looking at his own brother Dermot at that age.

  “He wouldn’t give me his wagon.”

  “So, you hit him?”

  His son’s utter lack of remorse infuriated Michael. He had to fight the urge to strike him. After all, wasn’t that the way parents disciplined their children? He’d been given the back of the hand more than once when he was a lad and it had done him no harm. On the other hand, Dermot, too, had been given the back of the hand and worse, yet it never seemed to make any difference in his behavior. Again, he had that terrible thought: Was his son going to be like his own brother?

  Michael sat down heavily on the bed. “That’s not the way you’ve been brought up,” he said softly. “We share in this family. And we don’t hurt each other. Is that understood?”

  Dermot barely nodded.

  When he came into the kitchen Emily was pouring tea. “Is everything all right?”

  “For now. I don’t know what we’re going to do with that boy.”

  “Nor do I.” She handed him a cup. “When you came home you had a big smile on your face. Good news?”

  “I’ve been hired for the project.”

  Emily kissed him. “That is good news. I know work has been slowing down.”

  “It has. This construction business is maddening with its up and down. I’ve had projects canceled because of an article in the newspaper or a wild rumor of a failing bank. This church project will be steady work. It won’t be completed until 1861. If all goes well, that’s three years of steady work.”

  “That is good,” Emily said, looking away.

  “Yes, it is,” he answered, half-heartedly.

  They sat silently drinking their tea. The good news of getting the church project was overshadowed by their son’s inexplicable behavior.

  Just before seven o’clock Monday morning, Flynn stuck his head in Michael’s office door. “They’re all here.”

  Michael came out and addressed the men. “We are lucky to be selected to be part of Bishop Hughes’ project. This is a great opportunity for steady work over the next three years. We must show them that we are worthy of the job. I’ll warn you now, people from Hall & Joy will be watching us. If anyone is caught drinking on the job or slacking off, we will all be sacked. Any questions?”

  There were none. Everyone knew how important this job was and how lucky they were to get it. “Good, let’s get started.”

  Michael led off in the lead wagon, followed by the other six wagons. The convoy rounded Washington Square Park and turned north onto Fifth Avenue. It was late August and the oppressive summer heat was dissipating and promising an early fall. It was a beautiful sunny morning and Michael was in good spirits. If all went well, he wouldn’t have to worry about where the next project would come from for some time to come.

  As the creaking wagons slowly made their way north, they passed the Harrington Manson at Fortieth Street. Michael smiled. That was his first construction job. It had been just eight years, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. At Forty-Second Street, they passed the Egyptianesque Croton Reservoir. On the next block, they passed the four-story Colored Orphan Asylum. Beyond that, formal structures began to give way to shanties, lean-tos, decrepit taverns, and pig farms.

  As the convoy neared Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street, he heard the dull thud of explosives. Already the explosion men were beginning to dynamite the outcroppings on the site. He was glad that part of the job was underway. Actual construction couldn’t begin until the land was leveled and graded.

  There was a scrum of assorted wagons, horses, and men at the site. Michael liked what he saw. To the untrained eye, it looked chaotic, but he saw that wagons were assembled in certain areas and men with clipboards scurried from wagon to wagon assigning work. He glanced around at the men standing idly by while they awaited their assignments. Usually at this time, a whiskey bottle would be surreptitiously passed around. But there was not a bottle in sight. Apparently, Bishop Hughes’ message had been taken to heart. Michael had a good feeling about this. This was going to be a good job site.

  A man with a clipboard approached. “Who are you?”

  “Ranahan Construction.”

  The man consulted his notes. “Take your crew down to Madison Avenue. Load up your wagons with the debris from the explosions, take it over to the East River, and dump it. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  As he was told, Michael led his men down to Madison Avenue and the men, shovels in hand and as happy as he’d ever seen them, waded into mounds of dirt and rock.

  “I have examined your son and I don’t find anything physically wrong with him, Mrs. Ranahan.”

  An anxious Emily listened to that diagnosis with a mixture of relief—and frustration. In desperation, she’d brought Dermot to Dr. Birney hoping he could explain her son’s bizarre behavior. Of course, she was happy that there was nothing physically wrong with him, but that still left the question: why did he behave as he did?

  “Doctor, can you explain his sudden tantrums, his explosive anger, his stubbornness, the uncooperativeness, the remoteness?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Mrs. Ranahan. In my examination of your son there appears to be nothing wrong with his eyesight or hearing. We don’t know much about the brain, but there doesn’t appear to be anything amiss there either.”

  “What should I do now?”

  “I would advise you to allow time to run its course. There are many children who exhibit symptoms similar to your son’s and many of those children eventually grow out of it. Give it time, Mrs. Ranahan. Give it time.”

  That night, Emily told Michael what the doctor had said.

  Michael sipped his tea. “Well, I’m relieved that there’s no physical malady, but what are we to do with him?”

  “Let time run its course. Perhaps, he’ll grow out of this. At least, that’s what the doctor said.”

  “I guess that’s all we can do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  1860

  Michael and his crew had been working on the St. Patrick’s site for almost a year and a half. For the first three months, they removed tons of detritus from the site. When that was done, they began hauling lumber, sand, marble, and granite from piers on the Hudson and East Rivers to begin the actual construction.

  Now the church was beginning to take shape. The walls were up, the ceiling was in place. Some stonemasons fitted stones into the spires, while others worked on the immense columns in the interior. There was still much to be done in the vast interior space.

  It was a cold and damp February afternoon and Michael was standing by while the stonemason, Angus Roy, inspected the stone
s that Michael’s crew had just brought from the Hudson piers.

  “How do they look, Angus?”

  The stonemason squinted. “There are some wee blemishes here and there,” he said, running his rough hand over a large stone, “but nothing that can’t be chiseled out.”

  Michael looked up at the soaring twin spires. “Here it is February already. Do you think we will be done in another year?”

  “Not ‘a’tall. Och, all these architects are daft, are they not? Optimistic as the day is long. They draw pretty pictures of their buildings and announce some preposterous date when it’s to be done. I suppose it pleases their clients, but it puts pressure on the likes of us to finish on time. Well, that won’t happen this time, I’ll tell ya that. We’ll be lucky to finish the work by the middle of ‘64.”

  Michael grinned. “I don’t mind the extra few years’ work.”

  Angus winked at him. “Aye, and me as well.”

  While Michael was telling Emily of Angus’s prediction of three more years of work, there was an insistent knock at the door. An excited Gaylord Temple was standing there.

  “Come in out of the rain,” Michael said.

  “Michael, you’ve got to come with me tonight to the Cooper Institute.”

  “You mean all the way down to Seventh Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gaylord, I’m tired. I’ve been loading and unloading stones since seven this morning. What’s so important that I would be willing to go out on this miserably cold night?”

  “Mr. Abraham Lincoln is going to give an address.”

  Michael shrugged. “Who is Abraham Lincoln?”

  “He’s a politician from Illinois and there’s talk that he may run for president this year.”

  “Well, I wish him luck, but I have no intention of leaving my comfortable home on such an inhospitable night to see him or any other politician.”