“Well, you certainly couldn’t have picked a more propitious time. Our fair city is thriving. Manufacturing and transport sectors are expanding in leaps and bounds. As you are certainly aware, everywhere you look buildings are going up. New York City is quickly becoming the premier city in the world.”
The banker opened a cigar humidor and offered Michael a cigar, which he declined.
Hainsworth sat back and exhaled a cloud of smoke that surrounded him like a blue halo. “What do you want the funds for?”
“Two things, Mr. Hainsworth. Right now, I have seven wagons and thirty-five men working for me. I would like to buy another three wagons and hire another fifteen men.”
The banker nodded. “That seems reasonable given the building boom in the city. What was the other thing?”
“My wife’s French classes have been taking on more and more students and there’s not enough room in our house to accommodate them all. We found a suitable space in a building on Sixth Avenue. We would have to renovate the space to suit Emily’s needs. And we would have to furnish it with desks and chairs.”
“It sounds like you’ve thought this through.”
“I have. But to tell you the truth, I’m terrified at the thought of taking on an additional loan. What would be your advice?”
“Of course, I will have to examine your books to ensure a loan is feasible. As I explained to you the first time, a bank wants to be assured that it’s paid back. In the unlikely event of a default, the bank would be forced to seize your assets to recoup the cost of the loan. Having said that, it’s clear that you are a responsible businessman. As for your wife’s French classes, I hear nothing but praise from my wife and daughter, who, by the way, speaks French flawlessly now. My advice, Mr. Ranahan, is to take the loan.”
When Michael got home, Emily was feeding baby Claire and the other three children were playing a game with Letta.
“How did it go?”
Michael kissed his wife. “He’ll have to look at the books, but he doesn’t see a problem. There’ll be enough money to buy the extra wagons and hire the men.”
“And my school?”
“That, too. He speaks very highly of you.”
Emily hugged him. “I’m so proud of you, Michael.”
Michael took a deep breath. “Mr. Hainsworth thinks it’s a good idea, but still, what if I can’t pay the loan?”
“You will, Michael, you will.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
1857
Sunday breakfast at the Ranahans was always a raucous affair with four children needing to be fed at once. Usually, Letta was there to help, but she had gone with Otto to visit her parents in Kleindeutschland for the weekend. Emily stood over the stove preparing eggs and bacon. “Breakfast is ready.”
Michael scooped Claire up off the floor and placed her in her highchair. “Are you ready to eat?” he asked.
Claire banged her spoon. “Mama, mama …”
“I’ll take that to mean yes.”
Emily shot a worried glance at Michael. “She has no appetite.”
“Didn’t the doctor say she has a delicate stomach?”
Emily stroked her daughter’s wispy blonde hair. “I know, but she must eat. Look how thin she is?”
“She’ll do better as she gets older,” Michael said with more conviction than he felt. The truth was, Emily was right. Little Claire was unquestionably the sickliest of the four children.
That could not be said of two-year old Peter who scrambled up onto a chair next to his father. “I’m ready, Da,” he said in the serious way that he approached everything.
Michael tousled his son’s hair and grinned. “You’re always ready, aren’t you, Peter?”
“Yes, Da.”
As usual, Eleanor made her dramatic entrance. She had a stately way about her, almost regal, which Michael attributed to her mother’s lineage. For certain her imperial demeanor did not come from the Ranahan line of tenant farmers.
Emily studied her daughter and smiled, “My, my what a pretty frock.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Just think, Michael, she’s only three and see how well she dresses herself.”
“Like a little princess.”
As Eleanor took her seat, Emily dished out the eggs and bacon. “Where’s Dermot?”
“Late as usual,” Michael said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Dermot,” he bellowed, “get down here.”
They heard the heavy footsteps of protest on the stairs. A sullen Dermot came into the kitchen and threw himself into a chair.
“Good morning, Dermot,” Emily said, trying to ease the immediate tension that her son generally caused when he came into a room.
The boy stared at his plate in silence.
“Dermot,” Michael said, “Your mother said good morning.”
“What’s so good about it?”
Michael was about to reprimand his son, but he saw the warning look from his wife and he refrained.
They ate in strained silence. Just as they were finishing up, Dermot jumped up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Michael asked.
“My room.”
“You know you don’t leave the table without permission.”
It had all been Emily’s idea. She had been raised in a refined household. Manners and proper decorum were to be adhered to at all times. At first, Michael thought it silly to impose such restrictions on young children, but when she explained that if children didn’t learn proper manners at an early age, it might prove impossible to teach them later, he realized she was right. Looking at his surly son, he also realized there was a lot more to do in the manners department.
Dermot rolled his eyes. “Can I leave?”
Michael hesitated, trying to decide if he should punish his son for his rude behavior, but it was such a beautiful morning that he didn’t want to ruin it for the rest of them. “You may leave,” he said, curtly.
Taking advantage of the weather, Michael and Emily took the other three children out to the garden in the back. The advertisement for the house had promised a garden “filled with elegant forest trees,” but the few scrawny trees that had been planted died the first winter. It was only through the efforts of Emily that the garden looked as inviting as it did. Every spring, she planted new trees and shrubs and tenderly care for the existing ones.
When they’d first moved in here, Fortieth Street was mostly vacant lots with a few squatter’s shanties scattered here and there. But now, more and more residential and commercial buildings were going up all around them. The serenity that they’d enjoyed when they’d first moved here was shattered by the constant sounds of construction and traffic. It was only here in the garden that the outside sounds were muffled.
Michael and Emily sat in the shade of a young poplar watching their children play with their blocks and trucks and dolls.
After a long silence, he said, “What are we going to do with him?”
Emily shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s not like the other children. Look how well they play together.”
“What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know, Michael. I wish I knew.”
Although it had been almost seven years since Gaylord Temple had tried to get Michael to develop a taste for oysters, he hadn’t given up and today they were at an oyster bar on Rector Street.
“So, how’s business?”
“It’s grand. Purchasing those additional wagons and hiring fifteen more men was the best thing I’ve ever done.”
Gaylord shoved the plate of oysters toward Michael. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”
Michael pushed the plate away. “Positive. I’ll just drink my beer and watch you swallow those disgusting things.”
The newspaperman shrugged. “Suit yourself. You know, the city has gone quite mad.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Have you ever heard of a city with two police departments?”
&
nbsp; “What city would that be?”
“New York City. Where else?”
“You mean here?”
“I do.”
“How can that be?”
“It’s all politics, as usual. Upstate Republican legislators believe there is massive police corruption under Mayor Fernando Wood.”
Michael grunted. “Well, they’re right about that. Do you know how much money I have to pay out to a non-ending stream of beat patrolmen and inspectors to keep from getting tickets for everything from blocking the sidewalks to overloaded carts?”
“Which is why the upstate Republicans passed a law called the Metropolitan Police Act. Among other things, it abolishes the Municipal Police Department and authorizes the creation of a Metropolitan Police Force under the supervision of five commissioners appointed by the governor; thus, cutting Mayor Wood out of control of the police.”
“What does Wood have to say about all this?”
“As one would expect, he refuses to recognize the authority of the Metropolitan Police Department.” The newspaperman rubbed his hands together. “Well, now it’s getting hot. The new commission has ordered Mayor Wood to disband the Municipal police and turn over its property to the Metropolitans. Wood has refused to comply.”
“Can he do that?”
“He’s done it, and now the city is in chaos. Criminals arrested by the Municipals are set free by the Metropolitans. Both police departments are fighting over possession of station houses and equipment. It’s all quite madcap.”
“I can imagine.”
Gaylord glanced at his pocket watch and stood up. “I’ve got to get over to City Hall. I have it on good authority that Metropolitan police captain George Walling is going to deliver a second warrant for the mayor’s arrest.
“Second warrant?”
“Yes. The first time Walling attempted to serve the warrant, he was tossed out of City Hall by the Municipals. Do you want to come? It might be entertaining.”
“Sounds like fun, but I’ve got an appointment with an architect.”
When Gaylord arrived at City Hall dozens of uniformed Municipals were already lined up on the top steps of City Hall. At the foot of the steps was a motley collection of rough looking men armed with clubs. Gaylord recognized most of them as Dead Rabbits.
A roar went up from the crowd as Captain Walling and a phalanx of uniformed Metropolitan policemen advanced toward City Hall.
Gaylord rushed out to meet the captain. With his barrel chest, dark eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes, the captain had all physical characteristics of a no-nonsense policeman.
“Good afternoon, Captain Walling. I’m Gaylord Temple from the New York Tribune. Why are you here today?”
“I am here to serve a warrant on Mayor Fernando Wood at the behest of the board of commissioners.”
“Captain, how do you propose to gain entry to City Hall? As you can see, it’s guarded by a rather large contingent of Municipal policemen. And the rabble on the lower steps, judging by the blue stripe down their pantaloons, are members of the Dead Rabbits.”
Captain Walling looked at them with scorn. “That is precisely why the Municipals must be disbanded. Under Mayor Wood, corruption is rampant. When the Metropolitan police force is clearly established, there will be no consorting with the likes of the Dead Rabbits or their ilk. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a warrant to serve.”
As there were many more Municipals than Metropolitans, Gaylord assumed there would be no confrontation. But in an instant, the two groups converged and men on both sides started pummeling each other and swinging clubs with abandon. Men, knocked senseless, rolled helplessly down the steps only to be beaten again. Gaylord furiously took notes of the unfolding scene. He already knew what the headline of his story would be: Police Riot in New York City.
The battle between the two police forces raged for almost a half hour. Just when it looked hopeless for the outnumbered Metropolitans, a platoon from the Seventh Regiment appeared and advanced toward City Hall with fixed bayonets. With the soldiers outnumbering both groups, order was quickly restored. Captain Walling followed the soldiers into City Hall. Minutes later, a triumphant Walling escorted his prisoner, an infuriated Mayor Wood, down the steps to a waiting police wagon.
As Wood was getting into the wagon, Gaylord called out, “Mr. Mayor, do you have anything to say?”
Recognizing the newspaperman, Wood said, “This is a travesty of justice. The state legislature is trying to turn New York City into a subjugated city. This will not stand.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
On a hot, sultry August day in 1857, one small, seemingly harmless event would explode into a world-wide crisis that would later be known as the Panic of 1857. It started when the New York branch of the Ohio Life Insurance and Trust Company suddenly closed its doors. Later investigations would reveal that the bank had been looted by its manager. Worse, the bank made reckless loans to stock market speculators. And the crisis widened. Many New York banks had made loans to the Ohio bank and now they panicked. They started calling in their outstanding loans. In the days that followed, hundreds of other firms would fail. By September, the panic had spread to Europe and banks in France and England were going bankrupt.
That Sunday night grim faces sat around the Ranahan table. As usual the children had been fed earlier and were up in their room playing.
“What does this mean?” Michael asked Gaylord.
The usually optimistic newspaperman was dour. “It’s bad. Very bad. There have been fistfights on the floor of the stock exchange. Earlier this summer, my editor, Horace Greeley, wrote an editorial warning of a coming storm. ‘For a long time now,’ he wrote, ‘it’s been evident that our New York banks have been fiscally irresponsible.’ He chided the luxury-mad New Yorkers for spending millions on houses and gaudy furniture. He predicted that the tremendous levels of speculation in stocks and real estate would create a crisis. Events have shown him to be right.”
“I’ve always said the nouveau riche would destroy this city,” Henrietta said emphatically. “There are simply too many ignorant people speculating in the stock market. It’s all a bubble.”
Letta paled. For over a year she had been depositing her savings in a bank downtown in preparation for her wedding. “Are the banks safe here?” she asked in a small voice.
Gaylord shook his head. “If the past is any guide, more banks will shut their doors, there will be massive unemployment, and building construction will come to a standstill. The economy will sink into recession. I see no other result.”
Emily saw the stricken expression on Michael’s face and squeezed his hand. “How long could this last, Gaylord?”
“I don’t know, Emily. No one does.”
“I think you’re wrong about construction coming to a standstill,” Cully said. “These rich people are pouring fortunes into their mansions. If I know them, they’re not going to abandon their investments. Don’t you agree, Michael?”
Like a drowning man, Michael was filled with gratitude for Cully’s optimistic note.
“I do. I do. We’re working on mansions that cost millions. We’re installing fine marble from Italy and stained glass from Germany. Walls are covered with frescos painted by fine artists. I can’t imagine they would walk away from that.”
That night, as they were preparing for bed, Michael was uncharacteristically quiet. Emily put her arms around him. “What is it, Michael?”
The pent-up anxiety that had been building up since dinner finally exploded. “You heard what Gaylord said about building construction coming to a standstill,” Michael shouted. “I agreed with Cully because I want what he said to be true. But I have my doubts. My God, Emily, what will I do? What’s to become of the business? I have six mouths to feed. I have fifty men depending on me for their wages.”
Emily rested her head on his chest. “We’ll just have to take it one day at a time. That’s all we can do.”
The next morning when Michael got to the wa
rehouse, a glum Flynn came into the office and handed him several envelopes. “These were hand-delivered.”
Each letter, sent from various law firms representing his clients, said essentially the same thing: Stop work on building immediately.
Michael threw the letters on the desk. “My God, Flynn, half of my projects have been pulled.”
“Are you going to let the men go?”
“Not yet. We still have projects to work on. As long as there’s money coming in, I’ll keep all the men working.
That wasn’t the only bad news. Since the beginning of the panic, Emily had been losing students one by one until there was no one left. Reluctantly, she stopped advertising in the newspaper and surrendered her lease on her Sixth Avenue school.
As August gave way to September, the effects of the panic grew increasingly worse. All along Fifth Avenue mansions lay half finished. The rich were firing servants in droves and angry men were meeting in Tompkins Square Park weekly demanding food and work. On block after block, banks that had been thriving a month ago were boarded up.
With each passing day, Michael dreaded receiving another letter canceling another building project. But so far, none had come. He was working with his crew at a building on Sixth Avenue when a breathless youngster ran into the building. “Is there a Mr. Ranahan here?” he asked.
Michael’s heart sank. This could only be bad news. “I’m Ranahan.”
“I’m to tell you that Mr. Hainsworth wishes to see you immediately.”
With mounting dread, Michael hurried to the banker’s office. When he got there, the usually placid office was in a state of chaos. Men with worried looks on their faces were rushing about with arms full of papers. One old gentleman sat in a corner weeping.
A pale and drawn Charles Hainsworth ushered Michael into his office.
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