With the entire mob inside the building, there was no one on the street. Gaylord and the other adults quickly and quietly shepherded the children down Sixth Avenue to the police station, which was already crowded with frightened Negroes and whites who had been taken for “three-hundred-dollar men.”
By the time Gaylord got back to the asylum, multiple fires had taken hold and the building burned to the ground.
At about the time the orphanage was burning, Emily went upstairs to check on the children. Eleanor and Claire were playing with their dolls in their room, but when she went to the boys’ room, she found only Peter.
A wave of dread washed over her. “Where’s Dermot?”
Peter pointed to a window. “He went out that way. He said he was going to go play with his friends.”
A frantic Emily rushed headlong down the stairs and grabbed her coat. As she opened the front door, she collided with Kitch, who was about to knock.
“Whoa! What be the trouble, Miss Emily?”
“It’s Dermot…” she answered in a voice constricted by fear. “He’s gone out. Gaylord told me the city has gone insane with rioters. I told that boy specifically not to go out. Now I’ve got to find him.”
Kitch put his big hands on her shoulders. “You caint do that, Miss Emily. It’s too dangerous for a woman to go out on the streets. There be crowds of crazy men, women, and even young chil’en wanderin’ about lookin’ to do mischief. Mikill say I should come here to stay. It took me ‘bout an hour to get here from the Hudson piers on account of I had to keep hidin’ myself from those riff-raffs on the prowl.”
“I agree with Michael. It’s best you be off the streets. Go into the house. I’ll find my son.”
“No, I’ll do it. You needs to stay here with your own chil’en.”
“But you can’t go out there either. Gaylord told me they were attacking Negroes.”
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that. I can take care of myself. Where should I start lookin’?”
“He has some friends over on Thirty-Eight Street. I was going to start there, maybe—”
“You jest go back inside and lock the door. I’ll find that child and bring him home, don’t you worry none.”
Kitch headed down Thirty-Seventh Street toward Sixth Avenue. Luckily, night has fallen and the street was deserted. But when he got to Sixth Avenue and turned the corner, he saw a crowd at the corner of Thirty-Eighth Street. Women were digging up cobblestones, which men and boys hurled through the windows of a four-story mansion. Others were chanting, “Burn down the rich man’s mansions …” and “a three-hundred-dollar man lives there …”
Staying in the shadows, he crept closer to the mob. When he was about fifty feet away, he saw Dermot among a group of young boys. With grins of delight, all of them, including Dermot, were throwing stones at the house. Kitch backed into a darkened doorway, wondering how he would get the boy’s attention without being seen.
Unexpectedly, Dermot started walking toward him, his eyes on the ground, looking for more rocks. When he was about thirty feet way, Kitch whispered from the doorway. “Dermot, c’mon home, now. Your mama’s worried sick.”
A startled Dermot looked up. Seeing Kitch, he backed away, shaking his head. Kitch stepped out of the doorway. “Dermot,” he said, more insistently, “you hear me? Your mama wants you to come home right now.”
Someone in the crowd spotted Kitch. “Look, there’s a nigger ... Let’s get him ...”
Kitch started to run. His thought was that if he could get to the Ranahan house, he’d be safe. But as he reached the corner of Thirty-Seventh Street, it occurred to him that he couldn’t go there. The mob would follow and surely burn their house down and harm Emily and the children. With no other choice, he continued running down Sixth Avenue, hoping to outrun the mob of mostly drunken men and women.
He was putting distance between himself and the mob, when at the corner of Thirty-Fifth Street, a dozen men burst out of a saloon and surrounded him. Slowly, they circled him, wary of the big man’s size. Within moments the mob caught up. Three men swinging clubs crashed into Kitch beating him to the ground. Doing his best to ward off the blows, he swung his massive fists, breaking noses and ribs. He kicked out, slamming his big boots into testicles, shins, thighs, and stomachs. But they were relentless and continued raining down blows on him. The pain reminded him of the many times he’d been flogged by the Massa. But the floggings stopped eventually. Here, the pain from the blows of clubs and cobblestones seemed to go on forever. As he was losing consciousness, he was vaguely aware of being doused with kerosene.
Then there was a lit match. And excruciating pain.
And then there was nothing.
As the dead body of Kitch burned, the mob continued to pummel him with clubs and sticks. Then a man appeared out of the crowd holding a rope. “Let’s string the sonofabitch up.”
And a chant went up. “String him up …. String him up … String him up ...”
A noose was fitted around Kitch’s neck and he was dragged to a nearby lamppost. The end of the rope was thrown over the top of the lamppost and three men pulled on the rope until Kitch’s body was ten feet in the air.
Just then, it started to rain hard. The downpour seemed to bring the mob to its senses. Clubs, sticks, and cobblestones were cast aside and, one by one, the mob dispersed, barely giving a second glance to Kitch’s smoldering body swaying from the lamppost.
When Michael got home around midnight, Emily rushed to him and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Michael, I was worried sick about you. Where were you?”
“Me and my men stood guard at the warehouse. Emily, they’re burning the city to the ground. It’s madness out there. When it started to rain, I decided the rioters were finished for the night. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
Michael heard the hesitation in her voice. What’s the matter?”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Dermot went out tonight even though I told him not to.”
“Damn that kid.”
“It’s all right, Michael. He’s home now.” She started to cry.
“So, what’s wrong?”
“Kitch was here. He went out to look for Dermot. He hasn’t come back yet.”
“Oh, Jesus … I’ve got to go look for him.”
“No, please don’t go out there again. I beg you.”
“I have to. I’ve seen what they do to Negroes. I even saw one hanging from a tree on Canal Street. If he’s hurt, he’ll need my help.”
Just then there was a knock at the door. Emily breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God, he’s back.”
Michael opened the door, expecting Kitch, but instead a pale and disheveled Gaylord was standing there.
“Can I stay the night here? I’m too exhausted to go back to the boardinghouse.”
“Of course. Come in. I’m going out, but Emily can make you a cup of tea.”
“Whiskey would be better,” he said, shaking the rainwater off his coat. “Where are you going?”
“To look for Kitch. He went out to find Dermot and he hasn’t come back.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. I’ll go with you.”
“No, it looks like you’ve done enough for one day. Stay here.”
“No. We’ll find him together.”
“All right. Come on. The wagon’s in the backyard.”
Michael led the horse down to Sixth Avenue. It was still raining and the avenue was deserted, but flames were still shooting out of the mansion’s windows on Thirty-Eighth Street. They went to take a closer look. The street was littered with cobblestones and sticks, and there were potholes where the cobblestones had been dug up. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and burning wood.
“Why aren’t the firemen here to put out the fire?” Michael asked.
“They’re probably too busy putting out fires in other parts of the city. Did you know these fiends burned down the Colored Orphan Asylum today?”
“I did not. What
in God’s name is the matter with these people?”
“What they are doing is inexcusable. But for too long, these poor wretches have been a simmering volcano of resentments. You’ve seen the filthy conditions under which they live with the rats and the vermin. Their children died regularly and they don’t know why. They’re poorly paid, assuming they can find employment. Their politicians are too busy dealing in graft to pay attention to their plight. And now, there’s the draft. They’ve been asked to fight to free slaves who they’re afraid will take their jobs. For some of them that was the last blow and the result is all this,” he said bitterly. “Although the madmen who did this are to blame for this destruction of life and property, so, too, are the city’s politicians, damn them.”
Michael turned the wagon around. “Let’s go down Sixth Avenue. Maybe—” He stopped talking when he saw something hanging from a lamppost a few of blocks away. With a sickening feeling, he said, “What do you think that is?”
Gaylord squinted. “Where—? Oh, good God. That’s a body hanging. I’ve seen it more than once tonight.”
Michael led the horse down the avenue carefully skirting piles of cobblestones and potholes. He pulled the wagon up in front of the body, which was burned beyond recognition.
“I can’t tell if he was black or white,” Gaylord whispered. “I wonder who the poor soul was?”
“I don’t know—” Then Michael noticed the dead man’s claw-like right hand. “Oh, Jesus, it’s Kitch.”
Michael maneuvered the wagon under the body, then they untied the rope and slowly lowered the body into the wagon.
“Where will we take him?” Gaylord asked.
“To my house.”
Gaylord came into the house first to warn Emily, who was anxiously pacing around the kitchen.
“Did you find Kitch?”
“We did ...” Gaylord said, choking back tears.
“He’s dead?
“I’m afraid so.”
Emily sat down heavily “Where is he?”
“Michael’s bringing him in. I don’t think you should see him. It’s a ghastly sight. They burned and hanged him.”
“Oh, dear God. Bring him in here. He’ll have to be cleaned up.”
Michael laid the body on the table. In the light of the kerosene lamps he looked even worse. The skin was charred and most of the clothing had been burned a way. Looking at the body, Emily realized there was no point in cleaning him up. He was no longer recognizable as a human body.
“Is there a next of kin?” Gaylord asked.
Michael shook his head. “No. His wife and daughter are dead.”
“Then, we’ll have to bury him,” Emily said in a dull voice.
“Where?” Gaylord asked. “We can’t bury him in a whites only cemetery.”
“Are there no Negro cemeteries?” Michael asked.
Gaylord shrugged. “None that I know of.”
“The Hudson River.”
Both men looked at Emily. Then, Gaylord snapped his finger. “You’re right. It’s the only thing we can do. With the mood this city is in now, even if we found a Negro cemetery, I wouldn’t put it past some fiends to dig him up and further desecrate the poor man.”
Michael shook his head. “But not the Hudson River. We’d need a boat. But I know where we can put him into the East River.”
The two men carried the burlap-wrapped body outside and slid it into the back of the wagon.
Michael turned to Emily. “We’ll be back shortly.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“This is not something you need to see.”
Emily climbed up into the seat. “I’m coming.”
It was almost one in the morning by the time they reached the Clayton Coal Company warehouse. The rain had stopped, but the moisture in the air made for a muggy, sticky night.
“There are finger piers behind the warehouse,” Michael explained. “They jut out into the river about sixty feet. The tide runs swiftly here. If we weight the body down, it’ll disappear from sight and wash out to sea.”
“What’ll we weight the body down with?” Gaylord asked.
Michael pointed at the warehouse. “Coal.”
After they carried the body out to the end of the pier, Michael jimmied a backdoor lock and slipped inside. A couple of minutes later, he came out to the pier with a wheelbarrow full of coal. As he shoveled coal into the burlap sack, tears stung his eyes as he remembered the first time Kitch had showed him how to properly load a wheelbarrow. When he was finished, they closed up the sack.
The three stared down at it.
“We should say something,” Gaylord said.
“Do you know any prayers?” Emily asked.
“You ask this of an atheist?”
In spite of the circumstances, Emily giggled. “Well, we’re atheists as well. So, now what?”
Michael gazed out at the dark Queens shoreline on the other side of the river. “Isn’t it sad? Kitch survived being a slave and was able to buy his freedom only to come here and die in New York City at the hands of a murderous lynch mob.”
“It’s a cruel city,” Gaylord said softly.
“It is that.”
Emily said nothing, but the same dreadful thought kept running through her head: Kitch was dead because of Dermot.
The two men picked up an end of the sack and gently let it slip into the black swirling river. They watched as it quickly sank out of sight and then silently returned to the wagon.
The next morning, as Michael was dressing for work, Emily brought up the subject that had kept her awake all night. “Michael, you know our son is responsible for Kitch’s death.”
Michael sat down on the edge of the bed. “I know. Should we talk to him about it?”
“What would be the point? Would he even understand what he did?”
“He’s twelve-years-old.”
“Michael, both you and I know he’s not a normal twelve-year-old.”
“I suppose you’re right. If he doesn’t already realize what he’s done, we’d only put the weight of guilt on him for the rest of his life. I guess we should leave it alone.”
“I agree.”
Sunday dinner was a somber affair. The upheaval and devastation of the past week had left everybody in a state of numbed shock.
“Was there any damage to your beer garden?” Michael asked Otto.
“No. I stood guard with a shotgun.”
“How about you, Michael,” Cully asked. “Was there any damage to your warehouse?”
“No. Like Otto, me and my men guarded it until the riots were over.”
“You were very lucky,” Gaylord said. “Those barbarians tried their best to burn the whole city down.”
“What finally stopped them?” Henrietta asked.
“The army—six thousand of them, fresh from fighting on the battlefields of Gettysburg. It ended in a bloody confrontation near Gramercy Park between the mob, the police, and the army. Troops set up howitzers and cannons. Twelve people were killed, including two soldiers.”
“How many people died all together?” Emily asked.
“The best estimate is around a hundred and fifteen, including nearly a dozen Negroes who were lynched.”
The group became silent as they thought about Kitch. Then Gaylord continued. “Hundreds of buildings have been damaged. I hear as many as fifty burned to the ground. There’s millions of dollars in damage.”
“Will the city ever recover?” Letta asked.
“It will. But the memory of what went on for those four days, the deaths and the destruction, will never fade.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
1865
The war years created an economic boom in New York City that allowed countless thousands of men to move up into the middle class and the middle class to move up to the upper class. Michael Ranahan was one of those who moved up to the middle class. Since the start of the war, he’d been adding more men and more equipment. Now the Ranahan Construction Compa
ny employed 75 men with a fleet of 17 wagons. In addition to hauling freight for the government, a building boom offered him the opportunity to get back into the construction business. Not content to simply frame out houses and lay brick, he hired skilled carpenters, stone workers, and artists. Now, instead of merely being a sub-contractor, he could build a house in its entirety from the foundation to the chandeliers in the ballroom.
The boom was prosperous for Otto Schmidt as well. He and Letta had saved enough money to get married that spring. The wedding was held at the Volksgarten and everyone was invited. He almost ran out of beer, but a good time was had by all.
It was a crisp Sunday afternoon in March when Michael looked at his pocket watch and offhandedly said to his wife, “Why don’t we go for a walk?”
She looked at him quizzically. “We haven’t taken a walk in years.”
“I know, but it’s such a beautiful day.”
“All right. Where do you want to go?”
“I thought we’d take a stroll along Seventh Avenue. It’s really becoming a prosperous and fashionable thoroughfare. And there are a lot of buildings going up, maybe I can find some work there.”
As they approached Fifty-First Street, admiring the new brownstone houses that were springing up seemingly everywhere, a man came down the steps of a new and handsome brownstone with a broad smile on his face.
“Ah, Mister Ranahan, good to see you again. And do I have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Ranahan?”
“Emily, meet Mr. Fox.”
Emily offered her hand, wondering what this was all about.
“Shall we go in?” Fox asked.
Emily shot her husband a questioning look.
“Mr. Fox is a real estate man,” Michael explained. “I’ve asked him to show us this brownstone.”
“What on earth for?”
“Because I want to buy it.”
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