“Who’s she?”
“She’s the first woman to receive a medical degree in the United States. In fact, Gaylord wrote an article about her in the New York Tribune.”
Emily jumped up. “Let’s talk to him.”
Emily barged into the dining room, breaking up a heated conversation between Cully and Michael over the need to buy a new wagon.
“Gaylord, what do you know about Elizabeth Blackwell?”
The newspaperman nodded at the mention of her name. “Ah, yes, quite an extraordinary woman. I wrote a story about her in the Tribune. She’s originally from England. She came here and applied to over twenty medical colleges in New York and Philadelphia and they all turned her down. Finally, she was accepted at Geneva Medical College in upstate New York. It was a highly unusual process to say the least. The faculty couldn’t decide whether to admit her, so they put it to the vote of the one hundred and fifty male students with the proviso that if one student objected, she would be rejected. It was an amazing outcome, considering the hostility men have toward women in the medical profession. Every male student voted for acceptance. She graduated first in class.”
Henrietta clapped her hands. “That’s marvelous. Where does she practice in the city?”
“Ah, there’s the rub. Even though she’s a certified medical doctor, the male doctors in the city have barred her from all hospitals and dispensaries.”
Emily felt her hopes of finding a sympathetic doctor fading. “So, she has no practice?” she asked dully.
“She’s not affiliated with any hospitals in the city, but she has opened a one-room dispensary on Seventh Street near Tompkins Square Park.”
Emily took a deep breath. “Then I must go see her. She’s my only hope.”
The next day, Emily took the omnibus to Avenue A and Seventh Street. She knew immediately where the dispensary was by the long line of women patiently waiting to get in. Judging from the way these women were dressed, it was apparent that they were the poor from the Five Points and surrounding areas.
Emily waited in line for almost an hour before she was admitted to the one-room clinic. The room, sparsely furnished, contained only a couple of old battered benches, a desk that had seen better days, and a cabinet containing medical supplies and equipment.
A young woman with large, kindly eyes came around the desk and offered her hand.
“Hello, I’m Doctor Blackwell,” she said with a soft English accent. “And you are?”
“Emily Ranahan,” Emily answered, slightly taken aback. She expected the doctor to be older and someone with the stern visage of a medical doctor. Instead, this woman was around her own age and was almost shy in her demeanor.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Ranahan?”
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out.
The doctor smiled, looking at Emily’s protruding stomach. “I surmised as much.”
“I’m sorry, that was stupid. I mean I’m pregnant and I’m told I should not have this baby.”
“Do you wish to have an abortion?”
Emily blanched. “No, no, nothing like that.”
“Of course, it’s your choice. But you should know that abortion is often safer than childbirth. The abortion rate in this city is about twenty percent. For some women, it’s the only form of birth control available to them. Do you object on religious grounds?”
“No. I just want to have this baby.”
“Very well. May I examine you?”
“Yes, of course.”
When the doctor was finished with her examination, she said “Mrs. Ranahan, who said you should not have this baby?”
When Emily finished telling her about her conversation with Mary the midwife, Dr. Blackwell’s soft brown eyes turned hard. “Your midwife is correct about one thing; doctors are encroaching on the occupations of midwives and I can understand her reluctance to take you on. On the other hand, she’s wrong about your ability to have this baby. As you described your first birth, and my examination of you, there is no reason to believe you cannot deliver a healthy baby. Excessive bleeding is not uncommon, especially with the first child.”
A wave of relief swept over Emily. “Oh, thank you, Doctor. Would you be willing to take me on as a patient?”
The doctor frowned. “It’s not my usual business practice, Mrs. Ranahan. In this dispensary, I offer a wide variety of medical help to my patients, all of whom are desperately poor.”
Emily was acutely aware that she did not fit the mold of the women with whom she had waited in line. It almost seemed selfish of her to take up the time of this doctor who had apparently decided to devote her life to the poor, but she was desperate. “Dr. Blackwell, I have no one else to turn to. I need you. I would be willing to pay whatever your fee is.”
“It’s not about the money, Mrs. Ranahan, it’s about the time. I have only twenty-four hours a day to devote to my practice. I try to avoid anything that takes me away from that.” When she saw the stricken look on Emily’s face, she softened her tone. “I will, however, make an exception in your case. The birth will be at your home for, as you can see, I have no birthing facilities here. But you will come here for your prenatal care and checkups.”
“Oh, thank you, Dr. Blackwell. Thank you.”
The following Sunday, Letta brought her fiancé to dinner. Michael took one look at the heavy-set man with an enormous handlebar mustache and said, “You look very familiar … Oh ... now I remember. Weren’t you a bartender at the Volksgarten Beer Garden?”
“I was. Now I own it,” Otto said proudly.
“I came into the beer garden with a co-worker named Flynn.”
“Flynn. Yes, of course. Do you still see my good friend?”
“Yes, he works for me.”
Otto frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. We both used to talk about owning our own businesses.”
“Don’t feel sorry for him, Otto. Since I made him a foreman he’s sworn that he would never want to own his own business.”
Otto shook his head in agreement. “It is a lot of headaches, but I manage.”
A smiling Emily took Otto’s arm. “Come with me, Otto. It’s time for dinner.”
January 15, 1854 was the third day of a vicious cold wave that gripped the city. The ominous gun-metal clouds rolling in low and fast from the northeast promised snow. Around noon, as Emily placed a bowl of soup in front of Dermot, she felt a sharp pain in her side. It wasn’t all that unusual. For a month now, she’d been experiencing sharp pains and cramps. She sat down at the kitchen table to catch her breath. Letta poured her a cup of tea.
Suddenly, without warning, Dermot swept his bowl of soup off the table. “I no want,” he screeched.
Emily gripped the table to control her temper. “Dermot, you do not throw your food on the floor.”
In response to her reprimand, he began screaming uncontrollably and banging his spoon on the table.
As Letta tried to calm him down, Emily bent down to clean up the mess. As she was getting up, she felt a wetness on her legs. “Oh, Letta, I think my water just broke.” She pulled the screaming Dermot out of his chair. “Go to your room. Right now!”
Dermot knew from her tone of voice that she meant business. Sulking, he stomped upstairs.
A frightened Letta helped Emily sit down. “Is it time?”
“I think so. Michael must be told.”
As had been previously arranged, Letta sent the boy next door to the job site to tell Michael what was happening.
By the time the boy found Michael it had begun to snow. “Mr. Ranahan, I’m to tell you your wife is going to have a baby.”
Michael rushed over to a wagon being unloaded. “I need this wagon. Get everything cleared off, now!”
The men began tossing bricks and lumber into the street with reckless abandon. Almost before they finished, Michael was in the box with the reins in his hands and had turned the horse south, toward Seventh Street.
By the time he got to Dr. Blackwell’s dispens
ary, the snow was sticking to the ground and the swirling wind and snow had reduced visibility to almost zero.
He rushed past the line of patiently-waiting women and into the dispensary. “Dr. Blackwell, my wife is going to have the baby.”
Calmly, the doctor pulled her assistant aside. “Mary, tell those waiting that I’ve been called away on an emergency. We will resume tomorrow.” Grabbing her medical bag, she said, “All right, Mr. Ranahan, let’s go.”
Ignoring the poor visibility and the stumbling horse and sliding wagon, Michael pushed the horse as fast as he could go. He drove north on Avenue A to Fourteenth Street, then turned west. At Sixth Avenue, he turned north and urged the horse forward. The visibility had grown so bad that at one point he almost ran into the back of a stalled wagon.
“Mr. Ranahan,” Dr. Blackwell said coolly, “I won’t be able to help your wife if I die before I get there.”
“You’re right, Doctor, I’m sorry.” Michael reined in the horse and proceeded up the avenue with greater caution. By the time they got to the house there was six inches of snow on the ground.
Emily was already in bed. Following Dr. Blackwell’s instructions, Letta had on hand plenty of clean towels and a kettle full of hot water. More water was being heated on the stove downstairs.
The doctor took Michael’s arm and led him to the door. “It looks like everything is under control, Mr. Ranahan. We’ll call you if you’re needed.”
Michael went to Dermot’s room, where his son was playing with two wooden locomotives.
Michael knelt beside his son and ruffled his hair. “Well, my little man, it looks like very soon you are going to have a little brother or sister.”
“I don’t want a brother or sister,” he hissed.
Michael was shaken at the vehemence in his son’s tone. “That’s no way to talk, Dermot. It’ll be fun having another little person around.”
“No, it won’t. No, it won’t.” As he repeated the phrase, he started to pound one locomotive into the other.
Michael pulled the toys out of his hand. “Stop that, Dermot, you’ll break your toys.”
“I don’t care.”
Michael got up and sat on the bed, unhappily studying his son. Emily had been saying for some time that Dermot was out of control and was given to sudden tantrums. Being at work all day he’d missed most of those episodes. He’d almost convinced himself that his wife was exaggerating. Perhaps the strain of the pregnancy had made her more irritable and less tolerant of a little boy. But seeing his son’s behavior now convinced him that his wife had been right. Michael felt a chill. His son was acting just as his brother Dermot had acted as a little boy. He prayed that his son would not have the kind of short, tragic life his brother had.
After he put Dermot to bed, he went downstairs and made himself a cup of tea. For the next couple of hours, he heard moaning coming from the bedroom and the soft murmur of voices.
Around five o’clock, Dr. Blackwell came into the kitchen. “The birth went well, Mr. Ranahan. Your wife is resting comfortably. You can go see her.”
Michael pumped the woman’s hand. “Oh, thank you, Dr. Blackwell. Thank you.”
Just as he was rushing out of the kitchen, he turned. “Oh, is it a boy or a girl?”
“You have a daughter, sir.”
Letta was sitting next to Emily, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth.
Michael kissed his wife’s clammy cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“Better than last time,” she said in weak voice. “Dr. Blackwell was wonderful.”
“You’re wonderful, too,” he said, brushing her damp hair away from her cheeks. Gently, he pulled back the blanket to view his new daughter “She’s beautiful,” he whispered.
Emily smiled and nodded.
“What will we name her?”
“Eleanor.”
“Eleanor?”
“It was my mother’s name.”
Michael was only a child at the time, but he vaguely remembered her mother, a beautiful and graceful woman, but he never knew her Christian name. He recalled that her mother died in 1835. Emily would have been ten at the time.
“Eleanor, that’s a nice name.”
“Yes, isn’t it …” she whispered, and slowly dropped off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Early November was colder than usual, but with no snow in sight it was a good day for Ranahan Construction crews.
With genuine pride and satisfaction, Michael stood in the doorway of his warehouse and watched his seven wagons and thirty-five men start out for their respective sites. After eighteen months, he still could scarcely believe he was the owner of his own construction company. He was getting so much work that he was thinking of taking on a few more men and perhaps even another wagon. He would never tell Cully, but his ability to get along with real estate men, builders, and other contractors was largely responsible for the increase in new projects.
As Michael watched the last wagon disappear into the heavy traffic of Pearl Street, a heavy-set young man dressed in the ill-fitting clothing of a dandy approached.
“Is it Mr. Ranahan?” he asked with an oily smile.
“I am.”
“Tommy Walsh says to say hello.”
“Is it a job you’re looking for?” Michael asked, dubiously eyeing up the chubby man. One look told him he wouldn’t last a day in construction.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I have a position at Tammany Hall.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“You know election day is just three days away?”
Michael’s stomach knotted. He knew this moment was coming, but it was not something he was looking forward to. Since that contentious election in 1851, when he stood on the steps of the Eighth Ward Headquarters to deny Butcher Bill and his Bowery Boys access to the ballot box, elections had been routine and uneventful. There was no need for the extra muscle of the working-class Irish. But this year was different. Fernando Wood was running for mayor and he was opposed by a determined coalition of nativists, Know-Nothings, and Whigs.
Michael turned around. “Come into my office.”
He sat behind his desk and eyed the smiling young man. “What is it you want of me?”
“I’m sure you know this is going to be a very important election for Tammany. There’s a bunch of people in this city that don’t want Mr. Wood to be mayor.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“So, Tammany will require the services of you and all your men on election day.”
Michael took a breath before answering. “I can’t do that.”
The young man’s eyes bulged, as though Michael had said that he was personally running against Wood. His jovial mood suddenly changed. “What the hell do you mean, you can’t do it? You have to.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help Tammany this year. I have several contracts that are on deadline. If I don’t complete the work by the contractual date, I face a financial penalty I can ill-afford.”
The man’s face reddened and he slammed his ham fist down on Michael’s desk. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your financial penalty.”
“You don’t have to,” Michael said, trying his best to remain calm. “But I do.”
The enraged man glanced around the warehouse. “It would be a shame if your warehouse should burn down.”
Michael lunged across the desk and grabbed the surprised man by his lapels. “If that should ever happen,” he hissed, “I will come looking for you and, I swear to God you will end up floating in the East River.” He yanked the man to his feet. “Now get out.”
As one of Tammany’s men, he was unaccustomed to being treated this way. In confusion, he smoothed his gaudy suit and pointed a shaky finger at Michael. “I’ll be sure to tell Tommy Walsh what you said.”
“You do that.”
For a long while after the man had gone, Michael sat his desk shaking with rage. After he calmed down, he glumly considered the ramifications of what
he had just done. He had defied Tammany and there would be a price to pay. The only question was: how big a price?
The election of 1854 was indeed violent and accompanied by the usual chicanery. In the end, Fernando Wood won by four thousand votes more than there were voters. It was rumored that the day before the election, the Dead Rabbits combed the city’s cemeteries for names to add to the voter rolls.
Lying in bed on a cold blustery night in early March, Michael turned to Emily and said, “I’m thinking of expanding the business.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. I’m getting more business than I can handle. I’m thinking if I buy a few more wagons and hire a few more men, I can really increase the value of the business. We’ve talked about buying our own home. If I can bring in more contracts, we’ll be able to do that in a year or so. I’m going to talk to Mr. Hainsworth about getting another loan.”
“It’s funny that you should mention a loan. With all the additional students coming to my classes, the parlor isn’t big enough. I think it’s time to move to a location outside of the house. Do you think your loan could cover the expense of renovating the space and buying desks and chairs?”
“I don’t see why not. Of course, we’ll have to find a suitable location.”
“I already have. I’ve found a wonderful location over on Sixth Avenue.”
Michael squeezed his wife’s hand. “Aren’t you the resourceful one?”
She kissed him. “Well, I’ve got to keep up with you, don’t I?”
Charles Hainsworth motioned Michael into a comfortable leather chair. “I haven’t seen you since we negotiated the loan to buy your business. How are Mrs. Ranahan and your two children?”
“Actually, there are four now. Peter is two and Claire is almost six months.”
“So, you have quite the growing family.”
“I do.”
“And how is your business coming along?”
“It’s grand and I’m thankful for that. In fact, I have more work than I can handle. And that’s why I’ve come to see you. I’d like another loan.”
Manhattan Page 18
