Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins

by Richard Sullivan

  Hannah Sullivan had been following the exploits of Corporation Counsel Charlie Feldman for a few years in the newspapers. Whenever the railroads or the east side cattle yards or Fingy Conners’ business interests threatened to steamroll over the well-being of the city’s citizens, neighborhoods or small family businesses, Charlie Feldman was right there, fighting against them with all his might.

  Having lived with her family so long now just a stone’s throw from the river, having lost her beloved son Johnny to its filthy depths after he toppled from a raft and drowned ten years previous, the idea of Conners and his agents trying to privatize it for themselves sent her into fits of rage. The manifest of Fingy’s sins, as Hannah reckoned it, was incalculable. The worst of all of these to her mind was that Fingy Conners had stolen away her beloved brother.

  Family Tree

  ◆◆◆

  As Hannah sat in Ruth’s parlor with her familiar cup of tea and sweet biscuits, she felt embarrassed that she had not yet invited Ruth to tea in her own home, even though it was less than a ten minute stroll away. Ruth didn’t seem to mind, as her cottage was bright and cheery and quieter due to the presence of neither family members nor dogs. Also, since Ruth’s house was situated six blocks further away from the screeching Ironworks than Hannah’s, the racket of industry was comparatively, blessedly muffled.

  Hannah’s brother David was long gone and yet she still missed him terribly. She hoped Ruth might apply her unique brand of logic to her situation and hopefully make her feel better in some way.

  “I have to begin by explaining my complicated origins, Ruth,” she said apologetically. “You might find it quite a bore.”

  “Nothing about you, my dear Hannah, could ever be a bore,” she complimented. Ruth’s unconditional acceptance of her despite all she now knew is what kept Hannah returning to her for friendship. That and her talent for seeing things in a different light somehow.

  “Please, tell me, Hannah. Where were you born?”

  “I was born right here on this street, Ruth. When I was barely two years old my mother Mary Collins died giving birth to my younger sister Cate, so I have no memory of her at all, just the memories of others that have been told to me. My father Jeremiah Nugent quickly remarried my dead mother’s sister, Ellen Halleran, née Collins, herself a recent widow with two children, Maurice and Mary Halleran. My own aunt thus became my stepmother and my cousins my step-siblings. My stepmother had a baby with my father, a boy, my brother David. Then when I was barely four my father Jeremiah died, and within months so too did my baby sister Cate and then too my stepmother Ellen, leaving me, my brother David, and Ellen’s Halleran children all orphans in 1868. Friends and relatives stepped in. The Manahers from South Street took David and Maurice; William and Margaret Shea from Tennessee Street adopted me. Mary went with the Smiths on Vincennes Street.”

  “Oh, how lovely that none of you were given over to that awful orphan asylum!” Ruth exclaimed.

  “ My, yes. It could have been such a different story had that happened!’

  Hannah stopped to sip her tea. “Delicious,” she flattered her hostess before continuing. “You see Ruth, David had been a troubled boy from the start. The Manahers had bitten off more than they could chew, as both David and our stepbrother Maurice Halleran were cut from the same troubled cloth. When I married Jim in 1883 and left the Shea home, they generously opened their home at No. 2 Tennessee Street to David. Their intention was to separate him from Maurice, the two having cultivated a reputation by challenging one another in ever-increasing wildness. But Maurice wasn’t the only undermining influence on David.”

  She stopped again to sip some tea. Ruth smiled encouragement for Hannah to continue.

  “As a young boy David had an encounter with Fingy Conners. David had thrown a rock through Fingy’s saloon window in retaliation for Fingy’s cuffing him for abusing his horse.”

  “Excuse me for interrupting Hannah, but who’s this Fingy Conners again?”

  “Ruth, I can’t believe you don’t know. Why, you must be the only person in the Ward who doesn’t know who Fingy Conners is! Well, no mind. He’s a labor contractor who holds the lives of thousands of our neighbors in his grasp, and believe me, he squeezes them hard!”

  “Oh yes. All right. Now I remember. Please carry on with your story.”

  “Well, my brother David and stepbrother Maurice had stolen the blanket off his animal when it was tied up out front of Fingy’s saloon one night in the dead of winter. The poor horse nearly froze to death. Fingy interpreted David’s retribution against him somehow as admirable and instead of thrashin’ him Conners took Dave under his wing. In Fingy Conners I think David found a father substitute. In David I believe Fingy recognized a clever, malleable, enthusiastic pupil—someone willing and eager to do his bidding.

  “Initially David ran simple errands for Fingy, but soon their relationship deepened and David assumed a role not unlike that of favored son, mentored and protected and schooled in Fingy Conners’ methods. I kept a wary watch over him from a distance. Since we were so young when we were orphaned and were separated, I had no real influence over him, yet I felt as his older sister that I bore some responsibility for his raising. I guess the truth is that I have been in a tug of war with Fingy over David’s soul from the day my brother fell under his spell. I could well see the path down which my little brother was heading. Conners had a notorious reputation in the First Ward as an absconder of other people’s money and property and as a ruthless thug and brutal disabler. I soon became suspicious that David was carrying out assaults and worse on men at Fingy’s direction.

  “By age sixteen David had become somewhat of a dandy. Fingy was generous with money and encouraged David’s puffed-up ego. David’s handsome looks were widely acknowledged. Everyone liked him. He was cocky and self-assured. He preferred dashing clothing and wore fine suits from the very day that Fingy bought him his first, returning never afterward to laborer’s trappings unless dirty work needed doing. He had been well trained in street pugilism and intimidation by his Master, who thereafter set him loose to do said dirty work. On one too many an occasion I was unable to quiet my worst fears upon the discovery of some acquaintance, enemy, or someone with whom David or Fingy had an issue of bad blood being found dead under mysterious circumstances. Whether they had been brought to light stuffed into a barrel in some garbage-filled alleyway or found floatin’ in some stagnant canal or slip come dawn’s first light or beaten brutally and left for dead alongside the Hamburg Turnpike, I couldn’t deceive myself for long. Nor was I able to convince my brother that he deserved a more decent and moral life.

  “David was always flush with spending cash. He was protected by the city’s most feared figure who provided him opportunity to lead men and accrue property. Because of this association David was rendered respect and power, so naturally he scoffed at my attempts to steer him toward a school or apprenticeship that might lead him toward more honorable inclinations. David believed himself to be on top of the world, especially compared to all those poor souls around him, laboring their lives away for no more than a few pennies and a portion of misery-numbing liquor.

  “In May of 1899 David demonstrated a level of barbarism I’d never thought him capable. He lead a gang of 17 men including our brother Maurice and our cousin Richard Nugent on a vicious attack aboard the ship Samuel Mather. It was a whaleback unloading iron at Buffalo’s Minnesota Dock. As dozens of men toiled below in the dark holds David and his gang sneaked aboard and stood over the open hatches, firing 200 rounds coldly downward against the unarmed men in the dark. I don’t know if the light human toll was due to some miracle or was testament to what poor shots he and his gang were, but no man was killed. One Polish laborer having five small children at home was disabled for life. Two others in time recovered from their wounds.

  “Ruth, for quite some time I could not show my face at Sunday Mass, so ashamed I was of what my brother had done. I took to blaming Fingy Conners for ever
ything that was wrong with David as a convenient way of exonerating my brother from his own dastardly acts. Fingy stole my brother away from me and corrupted him. This became my unassailable belief.

  “Fingy cemented his hold on David by arranging a marriage between Dave and his niece Minnie Hayes. That made me, much to my horror, a close relative of Fingy Conners. The irony did not escape my Jim. He had tried his best to distance himself from Conners provided any opportunity, but the fact that by virtue of this marriage, his own wife and children were newly part of Fingy Conners’ “family” threw a wrench into the works.

  “Underneath I had convinced myself that my dashing, witty, caring, protective brother had been corrupted by Fingy. That he wasn’t responsible for his actions. David gave me money and intervened in my squabbles with neighbors and our kids’ teachers. Using his name in certain situations allowed me favored treatment, better quality goods, reduced prices. His fearsome reputation ensured safe passage for me and my children wherever we went. He visited us nearly every day at the house, where he himself had lived with my family when he was in his early twenties. At the time this was a refuge—Fingy then was hounding David to marry his niece. David was reluctant, claimin’ he had plenty of wild oats left to sow yet. Fingy was, to put it mildly, persistent. He knew David had some interest in politics. So as an inducement Fingy arranged with Chief Supervisor Dennison of Utica to appoint David United States Supervisor of Election for the city in that year’s election.”

  Hannah took a breath. Ruth seemed fascinated.

  “I was too permissive back then, Ruth! I allowed David too much access and influence over my children, most especially my youngest, David’s namesake—we named little Davey ‘David Nugent Sullivan.’ His uncle’s influence on little Davey has not been entirely positive, I’m afraid, especially when it comes to little Davey’s cursing. He adores his uncle and I’m not so sure now that will turn out to be all for the best. It was the Mather incident that finally did us all in. You may recall the sensational trial that ended with David’s conviction. It was front page news. The jury for whatever suspicious but thankful reason recommended leniency despite the crime’s viciousness. Fingy’s Attorney William Hoyt, the same scoundrel who is presently trying to award the Buffalo River to the railroads, put all his energies into delaying, obstructing, petitioning...anything he could think of to insert time between David’s conviction and the sentencing. Hoyt questioned everything. He petitioned for a retrial and ultimately won even further delays. In the meantime during all of this legal malarkey David was free on bail. Fingy thought it best that David, who had taken to boasting publicly about his attack on that ship, be out of the picture entirely so as not to present a continual reminder to all involved of his existence, and so he sent him to Milwaukee. David was dispatched to oversee Conners’ stevedore operations there, which was an opportunity for him, but selfish old me saw it as a banishment, an expatriation. God was punishing me once more, depriving me of the solace and comfort of having my younger brother in my life. I took it so personally that I regarded it as Fingy’s ultimate sin against me.”

  Ruth had listened intently as she sipped and nibbled. Hannah barely paused, so relieved was she to have someone to pour out the entire story in one big lump.

  “I do remember that,” interrupted Ruth, “because it seemed such an odd observation to make, reading in the newspaper their description of your brother during one of his court appearances. He had just arrived from Milwaukee if I recall. The newsmen remarked that he was handsome and baby-faced, well-dressed, looking much younger that his years, refreshed and seeming as if he had not a care in the world.”

  “Yes! It’s always been that way, Ruth. He never had to account for his behavior partly because he looked and conducted himself like nobody’s idea of a criminal.”

  Hannah pondered a moment, then said, “I wonder what my brother might be like today had I taken a stronger hand. Had I not spent so much time and effort in making excuses for him. Had I allowed him to suffer the consequences of his own actions.”

  Ruth interjected, “If you truly feel that way about your brother, about not having taken a stronger hand when you had the chance, what about your son? It sounds to me as if he is imitating his uncle. Your son is yet a child. Perhaps instead of mourning lost opportunities pertaining to your brother, you might apply those same energies to taking a stronger hand with your son.”

  Hannah mulled that over that for a few seconds. “Well, just listen to me now, won’t you, Ruth?” Hannah laughed.”You know what they say—we are who we defend.”

  The January Thaw

  ◆◆◆

  That second awful winter after Hannah’s brother’s deportation to Milwaukee, the ice on the Buffalo River, having grown thick from three months of historically frigid temperatures, began to break apart in a January thaw. The lakes in South Buffalo’s Cazenovia Park a few miles upstream had always been a problem. They were the crown jewel in Frederick Law Olmstead’s master plan for Buffalo’s park system and thus the powers that be were initially reluctant to consider the possibility they actually contributed to the flood threat. They were beautiful in summer with their flotilla of rowboats commandeered by handsome courting couples. In winter they were jammed with ice skaters of every age gliding over the smooth surface. Whenever there was an ice jam under the Cazenovia Street bridge these lakes quickly channeled backup from the swift-flowing creek into the adjacent neighborhoods. Dynamite was historically used to unclog the frozen dam in hopes of preventing a disastrous flood locally. These blasts only sent the material downriver to where “Caz” Creek intersected the Buffalo River to obstruct again at yet some other unlucky location. The crazy bends in the Buffalo River’s route provided ample opportunity for the depositing of obstructing ice. At each severe bend in the serpentine watercourse there was opportunity for the bergs to slow, collide, accumulate and jam. Just such an opportunity now presented itself. Beneath the Michigan Street bridge a mass of inextricable ice floes formed a dam. The river’s ceaseless current was silently and without warning thwarted.

  The house lights began a familiar flickering a little past 2 p.m. Hannah knew what was coming. What’s the use of electricity, she thought to herself, if we never get to use it half the time? With winter darkness just two hours away, she readied the oil lamps, despite technology’s promise that by now they would have been rendered obsolete. Hannah then recalled that her brother-in-law had recently received a number of the novel electric light torches from their inventor.

  “Davey, you behave while I go out for a minute to see Aunt Annie. Do not go near the stove! Hear me?”

  Her youngest lay on the floor drawing pictures. He nodded in the affirmative. The stew bubbled lazily as she lifted the heavy cast iron lid to check. She gave it a good stir.

  “I mean it, now!”

  “Yes, Mama!” he hollered.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, young man!” she replied.

  David tried his best to appear chastened. Hannah hurried next door as the cold dismal afternoon light dimmed.

  “Annie, where are those hand torches JP ’s been boasting about?” Hannah asked.

  The alderman had met Russian inventor Conrad Hubert in New York while Hubert promoted his invention there. Hubert called it the “Ever Ready Hand Torch.” Hubert, hoping for an opportunity in Buffalo, had presented a number of boxes of a half-dozen to JP. He envisioned every government department in every city in every country buying his torches by the hundreds. Portable electric light, agreed the fire insurance companies, would revolutionize even more people’s lives than the new technology saved. The contraption was of elemental design, fabricated from crude paper and fiber tubing with a bulb and a rough brass reflector. It was powered by a dry cell battery. The battery was weak and the bulb primitive. The hand torch produced only a brief burst of light each time the switch was engaged, and so it came to be known popularly as a “flash-light.”

  “I think they’re down in the basement somewher
e, Hannah. Here, take a lantern with you.” Annie offered her an oil lamp.

  “Oh Annie!” said Hannah, “I wouldn’t know where to begin to look down there. It’s such a jumble! Can’t you go?”

  Hannah was correct. The unfortunate affliction of being incapable of throwing anything away which someday might remotely be of use infected both Annie and the alderman.

  “I’ll watch the kids. Please go look. Please?”

  “Alright!” sighed Annie heavily, with no pretense of disguising her feelings of being inconvenienced. “Sophie, go upstairs and see if the boys are all right,” Annie instructed. The Polish servant girl did as told.

  Annie paused to light the kerosene lantern kept on a hook by the cellar door. She opened it to a rush of frigid stale air, then carefully crept down the steep narrow stairs.

  “I hate it down here,” she complained.

  “Where’s Mama going? asked Little Genevieve as Aunt Hannah stirred the simmering soup pot.

  “She just went down into the basement for a minute, Jenny. She’ll be right up.”

  ◆◆◆

  Detective Jim Sullivan was at police headquarters downtown booking a familiar pickpocket when the alarm sounded. Every officer who was able to wedge himself in jumped onto the patrol wagon the moment driver Ed Stanton pulled up in front. They were off in a instant. Barney and Jerry whinnied and snorted. Wild clouds of icy mist jetted from their nostrils as they raced south to the First Ward. Mush barked excitedly, his forelegs planted in Stanton’s lap, excitedly licking Ed’s face as his master drove. The wagon veered round the corner from Elk onto Louisiana Street where a patrol wagon from the Louisiana Street police station stood still and helpless at water’s edge just a few yards south. The officers, most of whom had families living in the First Ward, were dumbfounded and all abuzz as to what to do. The river had backed into the Ohio Basin which overflowed its bounds and flooded the neighborhood.