“What do they have against the Irish?”
“Well you may ask. It is a puzzlement. After all, unless these lads are native born Indians, they’re immigrants as well. But the thing is, now that they’re here they want the door shut to other immigrants.”
“But why?”
“Jobs. They’re afraid that the newly arrived immigrants will undercut their own jobs by working for less money.”
Michael shook his head. “So, there’s no hope for me, is there?”
Just then there was a knock at the door and Coyle answered it. Michael stiffened when he heard a man’s voice mention his name. A flurry of thoughts flooded his brain. Could it be Feeny or one of his henchmen come to get him? No, it couldn’t. No one knew where he lived—but then he remembered. He’d told the bartender where he lived. He stood in the parlor, tensed, preparing to fight, and regretting that he hadn’t kept that firearm after all.
Coyle came into the parlor and handed Michael a note. “He told me to give this to you.”
With trembling hands and a shaky voice, Michael read the note aloud. Michael Ranahan, come to my office in Tammany Hall tomorrow morning. Tommy Walsh.”
“What does this mean?” Emily asked. “Who is Tommy Walsh?”
“He’s the local ward boss,” Gaylord explained.
“What’s a ward boss?”
“A Tammany Hall ward boss is the local vote gatherer and provider of patronage. Tammany Hall has been very helpful to the Irish community.”
Michael stared at the note. “What do you think he wants of me?”
“Perhaps he can get you a job.”
“Oh, that would be grand.” The smile on Michael’s face faded. “And what would I have to do for this service?”
“Just promise to vote for their candidate in the next election.”
“But, I’m not a citizen.”
Gaylord grinned. “A minor detail. Don’t be surprised if you are asked to vote more than once.”
Michael shook his head again. “Gaylord, I feel like I’m living in some kind of mad dream.”
Gaylord slapped him on the back. “Welcome to the new world, Michael.”
Chapter Four
The next morning, in a soaking downpour, Michael made his way to Tammany Hall, an imposing five-story building at the intersection of Nassau and Frankfort Streets.
Tammany, named after an old Delaware Indian chief called Tammend, was an organization founded in 1789. The leader was called the Grand Sachem and the workers, Braves. Every year the members elected thirteen Sachems. Then those thirteen elected one of their own to be the Grand Sachem. In recent years, Tammany had been taken over by Irish politicians and it was now the place for Irish immigrants to go to get help finding work or a place to stay.
He went into the building and approached an elderly man seated behind a desk who was engrossed in a newspaper. “Excuse me, could you tell me where I might find a Mr. Tommy Walsh?”
“Second floor, room 212,” he answered without looking up.
On the door of room 212 was a name in gold lettering—Thomas J. Walsh.
Inside he found a jowly man, in his early thirties with flaming red hair smoking an enormous cigar. He looked up from his newspaper.
“And what can I do for you, sir?” he asked with a wide grin.
“Are you Tommy Walsh?”
“That I am. And who might you be?”
“My name is Michael Ranahan and—”
The broad smile vanished from the man’s face and tears welled up in his eyes. “God bless you, Ranahan,” he said coming around the desk and vigorously shaking a puzzled Michael’s hand. He motioned to a chair. “Sit down. Sit down.”
Michael, bewildered by the man’s strange behavior, sat down. The ward boss continued to stare at him, saying nothing. Growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute, Michael pulled the note from his pocket. “I believe you sent this to me?”
“I did. I did. I want to thank you for helping my sister.”
Michael shook his head. “Sister? I don’t think I know your sister. There may be a misunderstanding …”
“You stayed at the Old Brewery a couple of nights ago, did you not?”
“I did. My wife and I had just arrived and we had no American money for decent lodgings, so we had to stay there for one night.”
“And that night you saved my sister from Feeny.”
“You mean the young girl, Maureen?”
“Her real name is Bridget.”
“I don’t understand. She said she had no family here.”
“She was lying.”
“Why would she do that?”
“My sister has never been right in the head. She’d been in and out of Blackwell’s Lunatic Asylum for years. We’d bring her home and she’d run away the first chance she got. I’ve been looking for her for these past few weeks, but ...” he shrugged. “It’s easy to disappear in this city, especially into the Five Points.”
“How did you know I helped your sister?”
“Big Bill told me.”
“Big … Oh, the bartender?”
“The same.”
Michael looked away from the man’s intense gaze. “Then you know ...”
“Yes, my sister is dead. Feeny murdered her.”
Michael was surprised by the lack of emotion in his voice. “Will he be arrested?”
“No need. As of last night, Mr. Feeny is no longer among the living.”
Michael nodded solemnly. He knew better than to ask what had happened to him.
Walsh slapped his knees, breaking the somber tone. “So then, Michael Ranahan, if there is anything I can do for you, just ask.”
“Well, the thing is, Mr. Walsh, I’m having no luck finding a job. They all say—”
“No Irish need apply. I know, I know,” he said, returning to his desk. He picked up his cigar and waved it in the air. “Those damn bigoted Know-Nothings control this city, but that will soon change. We Irish have discovered that the only way to gain power in this city is through the ballet box. Eighteen-forty-seven was the first big year of famine emigration. Fifty-two thousand Irish Catholics arrived. And it’s been steady ever since. Do you realize the Irish now make up a quarter of the population of this city? That’s almost a hundred and thirty thousand souls. Every day more than forty passenger ships arrive here in Manhattan. Do you know there are more Irish in this city than in any other city in the world save Dublin?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, it’s true. And that, my lad, is a huge and powerful voting bloc.”
All the while he’d been talking, he’d been looking out the window as though he could see all those thousands of Irish immigrants marching outside his window. He turned back to Michael. “We’ve got to become the biggest voting bloc in the city. It’s a matter of self-preservation, pure and simple. Did you know that the Know-Nothing Party up in Massachusetts has actually been deporting Irish?”
“No.”
“Well, they are. They’ve manipulated the colonial poor law to develop laws for deporting foreign paupers—meaning the Irish. Thousands have been sent back to Ireland already.”
They very thought of being sent back to Ireland made Michael’s heart pound. “Could they do that to me?”
“If the Know-Nothings here in this city have their way, that’s a distinct possibility.”
“Then they must be stopped.”
“That’s what we in Tammany are trying to do with the help of the Irish in this city. So, Mr. Ranahan, how long have you been living here?”
“I’ve just arrived. It was a desperate voyage I can tell you.”
“I know, I know. The North Atlantic can be very unforgiving.”
“Our ship had over two hundred souls aboard.”
“Well that’s a pretty small boat. Some of the larger ships carry up to a thousand men, women, and children. And most of those passengers are Irish.”
Walsh put his feet up on the desk. “So, Michael
Ranahan, what did you do in the old country?”
Michael told him about his life as a tenant farmer, how he’d lost all his family, how Emily had lost her father and his estates, and why they’d decided to come to America to escape the famine.
Walsh crushed the stub of his cigar in an overflowing ashtray. “It’s a familiar story, Michael. I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
Just then the door opened and a tall, handsome, dark-haired man with an immense black mustache and wearing a black frock coat came in. He had a prominent nose and black slicked-down hair. Walsh jumped up. “Mr. Wood, may I be of service, sir?” he asked in a deferential tone.
The man looked at Michael. “I wanted to talk to you about something. When you’re done with your business here, please come to my office.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, by the way, I’d like you to meet our newest voter, Michael Ranahan. Ranahan, this is Mr. Fernando Wood, former congressman and currently our Grand Sachem here at Tammany Hall. And, if we have anything to say about it, he’ll be our next mayor, God willing.”
Wood bowed slightly and shook hands with Michael. “Are you new to New York, sir?”
“I am. I just arrived from Ireland.”
“And he’s looking for a job,” Walsh interjected.
“Do you have anything for him, Tommy?”
“I do. I’m going to send him to see Cully.”
Wood nodded. “Good choice. Cullinane owes us a few favors. When you’re done here, Tommy, I’d like to see you in my office.” Wood bowed toward Michael. “Good luck, Mr. Ranahan,” he said and left.
Walsh wrote a name and address on a piece of paper and handed it to Michael. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll go see this man. I think he’ll be able to find work for you.”
Michael gratefully pumped Walsh’s hand, feeling for the first time since setting foot on Manhattan Island an absence of dread and fear. Maybe things were going to work out after all. “Mr. Walsh, how can I ever thank you?”
Walsh slapped Michael on the back and grinned. “I’m sure we’ll find a way, Ranahan. I’m sure we will.”
Chapter Five
Emily had carefully thought out her plan to find a suitable position. She had gone back to Stewart’s department store and, swallowing hard, spent an obscene portion of the money they had left on new dresses, shoes, and blouses. But it was all for a good cause she told herself. She had to make herself look presentable.
The night before she’d read a promising advertisement in the newspaper: Wanted: An experienced young woman (preferably French or English) of good repute. Purpose: To tutor a twelve-year-old girl in the French language. No Irish Need Apply. Inquire at 15 Gramercy Park N between 2 and 4 pm.
Earlier that morning, Emily had met Mrs. Winslow in the hallway.
“Mrs. Winslow, do you know where 15 Gramercy Park is?”
Mrs. Winslow arched her eyebrows. “Yes, of course. It’s one of the more fashionable neighborhoods in the city. The homes surrounding Gramercy Park, I am happy to say, are mercifully free of the epidemic of humbug and sham finery and gin-palace decorations seen in far too many homes of the nouveau riche. Why do you ask?”
“I’m going there to answer this advertisement.” She handed the paper to Mrs. Winslow.
“Well, it’s a very exclusive neighborhood,” the older woman said, discretely eying Emily’s rather plain dress.
Emily reddened. “I intend to wear something more suitable than this.”
“Quite so. Gramercy Park is inhabited by some of the city’s most illustrious luminaries. It’s home to, among others, Peter Cooper, Cyrus Field, James Harper, and George Templeton Strong.”
“And these are rich and influential men?” Emily asked, with growing trepidation. Until this moment, she had every confidence that she could obtain the position by passing herself off as English. But now she wasn’t so sure she could pull it off.
“Yes, they are all rich and influential men.”
Nestled between Twentieth and Twenty-First Streets off Third Avenue, the land where Gramercy Park now stands was once a swamp. In 1831, Samuel B. Ruggles, a real estate man and advocate of open space, proposed the idea for the park due to the northward growth of Manhattan. The swamp was drained and the park built. In time, the wealthy residents of the city flocked to the area for its tranquility and relief from the cacophonous noise of the city’s streets.
Thirty-nine red-bricked houses were arranged in a broad rectangle around the pleasant, fenced in central garden. The park was private but, as a concession to the city, it was open to the public for one day a year.
Hurrying down a bucolic tree-lined street, Emily stopped in front of 15 Gramercy Park. Taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps and struck the gleaming brass knocker on an impressive solid oak door. A young maid with a heart-shaped face and wearing a black and white uniform opened the door.
“Yes?”
“I’m here about the position of tutor.”
“Please come in.” She led Emily into a parlor. “If you will remain here, I’ll get the mistress of the house.”
The focal point of the spacious, high-ceiling room was a piano draped in velvet. The walls were covered with bright red flock wallpaper. Thick dark green curtains blocked most of the delightful view of the park across the street making the room almost claustrophobic. The rest of the room was cluttered with an unfortunate excess of Chinese vases, porcelain statuary, and oil paintings. Scattered over the oak floor were oriental rugs of various sizes. A massive mahogany bureau set against the far wall was crammed with a confusing jumble of bric-a-brac. On one side table rested a silver tea set replete with a dozen delicate porcelain cups and saucers. On another side table Emily noticed four books and immediately knew what they represented. How to Observe Morals and Manners, Wealth and Pedigree of the Wealthy Citizens of New York City, The Art of Good Behavior, and A Calendar of Wealth, Fashion and Gentility were all of a genre of “courtesy books” that dealt with etiquette, behavior, and morals. These books were designed to instruct the uninitiated in how to comport themselves in polite society.
Emily pushed aside the heavy window curtain and watched several maids wheeling their charges in large ornate parabolas while older children ran with their hoops.
“So, you’re here about the tutor position.”
Emily turned to face a woman in her early thirties with her blond hair pulled back in a severe bun. She was wearing a dark green printed wool challis day dress. She would have been more attractive if she didn’t have such a stern look on her face.
“I am.”
“You’re not Irish, are you?”
Momentarily stunned by the question, Emily muttered, “What… Oh, no. I’m English.”
“Good. My husband has given me strict instructions. I am not to hire anyone Irish.” She motioned toward a Chesterfield sofa near the fireplace. “I’m Mrs. Vera Ingersoll. Please be seated.”
Emily watched the fussy woman smooth out her dress and began to wonder if she’d made a mistake coming here.
“Comment t’appelles tu?” she asked, suddenly.
“Emily Somerville.”
“Parlez-vous français?” she asked.
“Oui, bien sûr.”
“Où avez-vous étudier le français?”
“I studied at the Sorbonne and at a Swiss finishing school,” Emily answered, switching to English, mostly because the woman’s French was so atrocious.
“C’est bien.” Giving up on the French, she, too, lapsed into English. “My husband, I, and my daughter are going abroad next year and he wants Lucy to be able to converse in French.”
“An excellent idea. How often would you want me to come?”
“I think three days a week. Shall we say two hours a day?”
“That would be fine.”
They quickly agreed on salary and work requirements. Then Mrs. Ingersoll rang a small bell on the table and the maid came into the room. “Letta, would you bring Lucy in here?”
A minute later, Letta
brought a gawky, shy young girl into the room. With her dark hair, brown eyes, and dark complexion, she looked nothing like her mother.
“Lucy, this is Miss Somerville. She is going to be your French tutor. Say hello to Miss Somerville.”
Barely looking up, the girl said, “Hello,” in a soft voice.
“Hello, Lucy. Are you excited about learning French?”
“I guess so.”
Mrs. Ingersoll gave her daughter a sharp look. “Very well. You can go now.”
Emily stood up. “Shall I start tomorrow?”
“Yes, that would be satisfactory. Subject, of course, to my husband’s approval.”
At supper that night, besides Emily and Michael, there was just Mrs. Winslow and Gaylord seated at the table. Sarah was still at work.
Mrs. Winslow queried Emily. “So, how did your interview go?”
“It went very well. I have been retained by the Ingersoll family to tutor their daughter.”
Mrs. Winslow’s eyebrows went up. “The Ingersolls are quite wealthy.”
“You bet he is,” Gaylord said. “He’s in shipping I believe. He has a counting house on Water Street. As I recall, he has an interest in three ships that ply the Atlantic trade. But, still, he’s not up there with the Astors or the Belmonts.” He lowered his voice. “He’s what they call nouveau riche,” he said in a confidential tone.
“What does that mean?” Michael asked.
“It means he has the money, but not the pedigree,” Mrs. Winslow explained. “Rest assured, he’ll never be invited to an Astor ball or to the finer homes in New York City. He’s one of the "Shoddy" element and always will be.”
“What do you mean by shoddy?” Emily asked.
“I’m afraid it’s what many of the nouveau riche are, my dear. If you know what to look out for they are pathetically obvious. For one, they overdress. They compensate for their lack of taste with an ostentatious display of expensive, but vulgar, clothing and jewelry. But all to no avail. Their coarseness betrays their common beginnings. They lack what the French call comme il faut – proper social usage”
Manhattan Page 5
