Manhattan

by Michael Grant

  “But—?”

  “Emily, I’m tired of living in a rented house. We deserve something better.”

  Before Emily could offer an objection, Fox interjected, “Why don’t we begin at the garden level?”

  Once inside, Fox pointed to the backyard. “Out there is a splendid garden. I understand you enjoy gardening, Mrs. Ranahan?”

  “I do.” Emily shot a glance at her husband, wondering what else he had told Mr. Fox.

  “This spacious and airy room could be a study or a library.”

  “Or a classroom,” Michael added, glancing at his wife.

  “That, too, I guess.” Fox led them into the kitchen. “And here is the kitchen. Note the cast-iron stove, Mrs. Ranahan. It’s the very latest in modern kitchens. Shall we go upstairs?”

  At the top of the stairs, he said, “And here is a spacious parlor. Note the sixteen-foot ceilings. Now on the next level—”

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  The real estate man frowned. “Oh, dear, you really should see the two floors above, Mrs. Ranahan. There are two spacious bedrooms on the third level and three more bedrooms on the fourth and—”

  “I’m sure it’s lovely. How much does this house cost, Mr. Fox?”

  “Only forty-five hundred dollars.”

  “What—?”

  “And a steal at that price, I might add.”

  Emily turned to her husband. “Michael, what could you be thinking?”

  “I should point out,” Fox added hastily, “that the home has indoor plumbing, Croton water, gas light, and plaster walls.”

  When he saw that wasn’t making much of an impression on Emily, he started down the stairs. “I’ll let you two talk. If you have any further questions, I’ll be right outside.”

  When the real estate man was gone, Michael said, “We can afford this, Emily.”

  “Not only is it a ridiculous amount of money, it’s far too large for us.”

  “It’s nowhere close to the size of your manor house back in Ireland.”

  “Michael, that was a lifetime ago. I don’t even think about those days anymore.”

  “You know business has been good. I’m winning bids on mansions that I could only dream of building a couple of years ago. I’ve paid off Cully. I own the business outright and we have no debt.”

  “But what if there’s another downturn and the construction work stops? Then what?”

  “It’s a risk, I’ll grant you, but I’ve learned that if you are to succeed in this city you have to take risks. Didn’t we take a risk coming out to America when we knew nothing about it?”

  That gave Emily pause. What he’d said was true. Yes, conditions in Ireland were bad, and there was no question that they had to leave, but they could have gone to England, which was much closer and a country she knew well. Why did they choose to go to America? It was the adventure, the excitement, and, yes, the risk, she decided.

  She looked around. “It is a lovely house.”

  Michael studied her. “It is. And it has plaster walls.”

  Emily turned to the stairs and smiled. “Let me see that room again that could become a classroom.”

  When they came outside, Mr. Fox was pacing nervously. He stopped when he saw them. “Well, are there any questions I can answer for you?”

  “How soon can we move in?” Emily asked with a grin.

  They moved in to their new home on the 15th of April, the day before Easter. While Michael and Cully carried boxes upstairs and Emily and Henrietta loaded dishes into the kitchen cupboards, the children raced through the house exploring all the nooks and crannies.

  Fifteen minutes later, the four children stormed into the kitchen. From the grim expressions on their faces, Emily knew something was amiss.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I want the bedroom on the top floor,” Eleanor said, “but Dermot says it’s his.”

  Emily looked at Peter. “And what bedroom do you want?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, Ma. You only sleep in the room anyway.”

  “And what about you, Claire?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “Which bedroom do you want, Dermot?”

  “The one in the back of house.”

  “Very well. It’s yours. Eleanor, you can have the bedroom on the second level.”

  The drama over, the kids went off to finish exploring the house, but Eleanor stayed behind. “Mother, it’s not fair. Dermot always gets what he wants.”

  Emily took her daughter’s hands and in a conspiratorial tone whispered, “Eleanor, your bedroom is much larger than his and the view is better.” She winked at her. “Don’t tell your brother that.”

  Eleanor grinned. “I won’t,” she said, racing off to find the other children.

  “You handled that well,” Henrietta said.

  “When it comes to Dermot, I always have to be careful.”

  “Does he still have tantrums?”

  “Oh, God, yes. He’s fourteen now. I keep hoping he’ll grow out of it, but so far that hasn’t happened.”

  Michael and Cully came into the kitchen. “I heard all the shouting. Is the crisis solved?”

  “For the time being.”

  It was mid-afternoon when an ashen-faced Gaylord came rushing into the kitchen as the four were having lunch. “Have you heard the news?”

  “What news?” Michael asked.

  “President Lincoln was assassinated last night. He died early this morning.”

  Emily put her cup down so hard it cracked. “Oh, my God…”

  Michael shook his head. “Dead? Remember, when we saw him at the Cooper Institute back in ‘60? I was so impressed. There was something about that man…” His voice trailed off.

  “He was a great president,” Cully added, shaking his head. “He got us through the war and held the country together.”

  “Was it the Confederates that did the dastardly deed?” Henrietta asked with raised eyebrow.

  “No, some actor named Booth.”

  Michael went to the sink to get a drink of water for Emily who’d gone pale. “What now?”

  Gaylord shrugged. “Andrew Johnson is our new president. No one seems to know anything about him.”

  Emily took a sip of water. “I hope this doesn’t mean that the war will break out again.”

  Gaylord shook his head. “No. The South is finished, but there’s much to be done down there. I would have preferred that Mr. Lincoln be in charge.”

  “Where will he be buried?” Henrietta asked.

  “Springfield, Illinois, but the funeral train will stop here on the 24th. The body of Mr. Lincoln will lay in state in City Hall.”

  “I must see him one more time,” Michael said in a voice constricted with emotion.

  The brilliant sunshine of April 24th was in stark contrast to the deep feelings of mourning that gripped the city. There was scarcely a building in Manhattan that was not draped in black crepe.

  Michael and Gaylord stood among the crowd outside City Hall waiting for the cortege to make its way up Broadway. Dozens of men had climbed trees to get a better look.

  City Hall was covered in black mourning drapes while flags flew at half-mast. Over the entrance to the building, the words "THE NATION MOURNS" appeared in giant white letters placed on a backdrop of black.

  A murmur of anticipation went up from the crowd at the sound of muffled drums reverberating off the surrounding buildings. Leading the solemn procession was a detail of mounted police, followed by high ranking generals and their staffs. The hearse came next, followed by approximately eleven thousand soldiers marching in solemn cadence to the muffled drums. The crowd fell into awed silence at the sight of President Lincoln’s enormous glass-sided hearse that was so heavy that it required sixteen matching gray horses to pull it.

  As Michael watched with tears in his eyes, Gaylord furiously scribbled in his notepad. All around them, men silently removed their top hats and ladies burst int
o tears. A few boys, mesmerized by the scene, forgot to remove their caps. Embarrassed parents scolded their offspring as they snatched the caps off their heads.

  After the casket was carried into City Hall, Gaylord said, “Come on, I want to view the body.”

  Michael pointed at the thousands of people who had already lined up to enter City Hall. “I do as well, but look at all those people. We’ll never get in.”

  “Follow me.”

  Gaylord led Michael around to the back of the building. A rear door was guarded by a squad of burly policemen. The newspaperman approached a sergeant with large mutton chops.

  “Sergeant Carroll, this is a sad day, is it not?”

  “Aye, it is that, Mr. Temple. The president was a pure man and he’ll be greatly missed.”

  Gaylord pulled the sergeant aside and whispered. “Later tonight, I plan to be at McSorley’s. I’d be privileged to buy you a pint in honor of our deceased president.”

  The sergeant licked his lips. “I think I’ll take you up on that, Mr. Temple. A pint after this day’s melancholy duty would be a welcome thing, indeed.”

  Gaylord looked over his shoulder. “I wonder if we might slip in and have a look?”

  The sergeant frowned. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that, Mr. Temple. My orders are to let no one through this door.”

  “Of course, of course. I understand. But my editor, Mr. Greeley, has sent me here to get the story. I can’t go back without being able to describe what’s going on inside.”

  “Well, I don’t know…” He gave Michael a stern look, as though seeing him for the first time. “And who is this?”

  “A new man at the paper. I’m breaking him in. Sergeant, we’ll be quiet as a church mice, my word of honor.”

  After a thoughtful pause, the sergeant said, “All right. Rafferty,” he said to a policeman standing in front of the door. “Let these two in. Official business.”

  The president’s casket had been placed at the top of the magnificent curving double staircase in the City Hall rotunda. Despite the hundreds of people slowly climbing the stairs, there was complete silence, the only sound the scraping of feet on the marble steps.

  At either end of the casket stood an admiral and a general. As they passed the casket, Michael gazed at the president. In peaceful repose, the deep-lined face masked the horror of his death. Michael, recalling the soaring words of his speech at the Cooper Union Institute, wondered what manner of man would end the life of such a great man.

  It was just over a month since Lincoln’s death. Emily and Letta were in the kitchen preparing Sunday dinner while Michael, Gaylord, and Otto were in the parlor chatting.

  “Where’s Henrietta and Cully?” Gaylord asked.

  Michael looked at the clock on the mantle. “I don’t know. They’re usually here by this time.” Just then there was a knock at the door. “Here they are,” Michael said, heading for the door. Instead of Henrietta and Cully, a young boy wearing the livery of a Western Union messenger was standing there. He tipped his cap and glanced at the envelope in his hand. “Are you Mr. Ranahan?”

  “I am.”

  He handed Michael the telegram. Knowing that telegrams were seldom good news, he immediately tore it open and gasped when he read the contents. “Good Lord ...”

  Gaylord came to the door. “What is it?”

  “It’s from Henrietta. Cully has had another heart attack.”

  Emily came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. “Is it serious?”

  “She says he hasn’t much time.”

  “Oh my God ...” Emily stripped off her apron and handed it to Letta. “We must go to them. Letta, can you finish making dinner and feed the children?”

  “Of course. Otto and I will manage. Go.”

  Emily, Michael, and Gaylord piled into his wagon and, moving as fast as they could through the crush of Sunday traffic, made their way downtown to Cully’s house.

  An ashen-faced Henrietta met them at the door. “The doctor is with him.”

  They sat down in the parlor, grim-faced. “When did it happen?” Emily asked.

  “This morning. As he was getting out of bed, he just fell back and clutched his chest. I sent for the doctor. After examining him, he said Norbert had had a heart attack.”

  “Well, he’s had them before,” Michael said, trying to sound optimistic. “I’m sure he’ll make it through this one.”

  Henrietta shook her head sadly. “The doctor doesn’t think so.”

  Just then the doctor came into the parlor. “There’s nothing more I can do for him, Mrs. Cullinane. You should go in and see him.”

  “We’ll wait out here,” Emily said.”

  “No. You’re his friends. He’ll want to see you.”

  “Emily, Michael, and Gaylord quietly followed Henrietta into the darkened bedroom. A sunken-faced Cully, propped up by pillows, weakly waved his hand. Henrietta took his hand and sat down on the bed. “Norbert, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yeah,” he whispered in a hoarse voice, “you can stop calling me Norbert.”

  Henrietta squeezed his hand and smiled. “You old fool—I mean ... Cully.”

  Cully tried for a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Cullinane.”

  “Your friends are here.”

  Cully looked at them, but Michael wasn’t sure he recognized them.

  “Thanks for coming ...” He closed his eyes and was quite still for a moment. Then he gave a slight shudder and a gurgling sound came from his throat. Then he was still again.

  The doctor, who had been standing in the doorway, stepped up to the bed and placed the stethoscope on Cully’s chest. He turned to Henrietta and shook his head. “He’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

  Henrietta bit her lip and nodded. Emily threw her arms around her. “Henrietta …”

  Henrietta embraced her friend. “It’s all right. We had some good years together. I’m grateful for that.”

  For the next three days, seemingly every contractor in Manhattan came to pay their respects to Cully, who was laid out in the parlor. Although he’d had a rocky relationship with Tammany Hall, several officials also came to pay their respects.

  The next morning was rainy and blustery. Henrietta, Emily, Michael, and Gaylord followed the casket into St. Mark’s Church-In-The-Bowery cemetery located at the intersection of Second Avenue and Eleventh Street.

  At the end of the service, Henrietta stepped forward and dropped a rose into the grave. She turned to Michael. “You probably didn’t know it, but Norbert … I mean, Cully, thought of you as the son he never had. He was a man of few words, but he was proud of the way you expanded the business. I know you think he blamed you for losing it, but he never did. Above all else, Cully was a businessman. He understood why the bank foreclosed on you and he never held it against you.” She was silent for a moment and then looked at the others. “Most of you remember Cully as something of a gruff old curmudgeon. But I got to know the real Cully. He was a gentle, sweet man and I am so grateful that we had the time together that we did.”

  As Emily embraced Henrietta, Michael spoke up. “I would like to say a few words as well.” He stepped forward and dropped a rose into the open grave. “I owe so much to Cully I don’t know where to begin. But I’ll just mention a couple of things. It was Cully who gave me my first job in America. It was Cully who gave me the opportunity to own my own business. And it was Cully who sold the business back to me after I’d lost it in foreclosure. He was a very generous man and I’ll never forget what he did for me and my family.”

  As they were leaving the cemetery, Gaylord pointed to a grave with a weathered tombstone. “That’s where Peter Stuyvesant, the last Dutch director-general of the colony of New Netherlands, is buried.

  At the beginning of September Emily placed notices in the Evening Mirror, the Tribune, and the Daily Express advertising Emily’s School for Young Ladies. Within a week, she was receiving inquires. By the beginning of October, she had signed up a classroo
m full of young ladies who had come to study not only French, but grammar, penmanship, geography, and arithmetic—subjects not usually taught to young women.

  When Michael came home the night after the first class, he asked Emily how it had gone.

  “Exhausting, but very exciting. I’ve decided to dedicate certain days to certain subjects so as not to overtax the girls.”

  “Are they good students?”

  “Very good. Most of them have a foundation in writing and arithmetic, but they still have a lot to learn.”

  “Are our children part of the group?”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “All except Dermot. He refuses to sit in a classroom full of girls.”

  “What about Peter?”

  “He loves it and, I might add, the girls love him. He’s quite the center of attention.”

  “And Claire?”

  “At nine she’s still a bit young for some of the lessons, but, as usual, she loves it when we read poetry.”

  He took her in his arms. “You don’t think this is too much for you, Emily?”

  “Not at all. I really enjoy interacting with the girls. But what saddens me is how timid most of them are. They’re bright and smart, but so reticent to express an opinion.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I think it’s because of the way society is today. Children are to be seen and not heard, especially girls.”

  Michael laughed. “Why do I have a feeling you’re going to change all that?”

  “I will. These young girls will grow up to be young women. I want them to be assertive and feel free to express their opinions.”

  “Well, I certainly want that for Eleanor and Claire.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  1869

  In the four years since the war ended, Michael Ranahan’s Construction business continued to grow due to two factors: One, the wealthy, chased by the creeping incursion of commercial stores and merchants into their lower Manhattan neighborhoods, fled to the north of the city. And two, wealthy men who were already living uptown simply tore down their old mansions to build bigger and more ostentatious ones.