by Jim Musgrave
“And Grant also issued orders on 9 and 10 November 1862 banning southward travel in general, stating that quote, The Israelites especially should be kept out--no Jews are to be permitted to travel on the railroad southward from any point. They may go north and be encouraged in it; but they are such an intolerable nuisance, that the department must be purged of them, unquote.”
“What happened after these orders were given?”
“As a result of Grant's expulsion order, Jewish families were forced out of their homes in Paducah, Kentucky, Holly Springs and Oxford Mississippi, and a few were sent to prison. When some Jewish victims protested to President Lincoln, the Attorney General Edward Bates advised the President that he was indifferent to such objections, saying he had no particular interest in the subject.”
“I now see the connection. Dr. Mergenthaler believed the government was not doing what was in the best interests of the people, so he started his own company,” I said.
“Correct. He wanted to show the government, especially men like Grant and Sherman, that he could provide a much better way to get the South back into the union so that liberty and justice for all could finally be realized.”
“How do you believe this led to his being kidnapped?”
“President Johnson is trying to stop the Radical Republicans, and I believe it was Arthur’s successes in the South which led to his capture. I also believe Johnson and his men may be behind it all,” said Dr. Letterman, with a serious face.
I looked all around the restaurant, trying to notice if anyone had overheard the doctor’s remarks. All the men in the booths were preoccupied with playing cards or drinking, so I turned back to my host. “And I believe you may want to keep this information strictly private, Doctor. What you are requesting, in effect, is that I should enquire into the Government of the United States about the possible kidnapping of Dr. Mergenthaler. Is this what you mean?”
“No. But I did want you to know that my friend Arthur Mergenthaler has made enemies in very high places. You said this plan must have taken months if not years to devise. Who could have afforded the tactical and material cost to do such an egregious act? I wanted you to be aware of all the facts.”
“I have taken your words into consideration, and I thank you for your interest. I am now aware that Jews are not the clandestine and greedy race that I was taught to believe when I was young. I will do my best to find the ones responsible for this act and bring him or them to justice.” I stood up and took Dr. Letterman by his outstretched hand.
“I believe you will do your best, Mister O’Malley. Please keep me apprised of what you uncover.”
“I shall do it!” I said. “I must first get back to the hospital to see what Samuel Mergenthaler has for me. Good day, Doctor. And, in the name of all the men of the Union Army, I thank you for all you did to rescue us.”
* * *
Samuel Mergenthaler’s body lay on a slab in the morgue. His throat was cut in one long slice, from his left ear to his right, and the blood had spilled onto the cart and down over the sides so that there was a large puddle beneath it. I could see no weapon near the body, nor were there any footprints or other telltale signs of a struggle. Mister Mergenthaler must have had the list of the workers, and someone who did not want me to gain such information had come up from behind the kind gentleman and surprised him.
I looked over the body more closely. There were no abrasions on his person; there were no bruises or other marks, and his clothing was still unwrinkled, and his shoes were not scuffed. No, there had been no struggle. It was murder in cold blood. However, I did see a note affixed inside his suit pocket. It flared out of it like a white flag of surrender. I pulled it out and held it before the gas light on the wall near the gurney upon which he lay. I knew I had to put the note back, as the police would soon be there to investigate.
It said, “O’Malley, you are a traitor to your own people! Get off this case, or you will be the next body in the morgue! Order 11 for all these kike bastards!”
When Bessie Mergenthaler came into the morgue with her son, Seth, I had to act swiftly. I took them both by the arms and led them back out into the hallway. My mind was filled with the image I had seen inside the cavern beneath the hospital on the way to the sewers of New York City. It was an illiterate version of the note I had just read. These were certainly conspirators who knew about General Grant and his Civil War anti-Semitic order to get rid of the Jews in the occupied South. “Come; let me show you where they sell a new invention. It’s called roller skates. I think little Seth should see how much faster he can travel on these.”
The boy looked up at me and smiled. “Thanks, Mister O’Malley! David Scherer has a pair, and he lets me use them often. I can do a figure 8!”
“I know you can, my boy. I know you can.”
I wanted to leave in the worst way at that moment, but I knew I needed to distract this child before the news of his uncle’s death became reality. Why does adult reality ever have to interrupt a child’s life? I will never know the answer to that question, but I will find out who killed Samuel Mergenthaler and kidnapped his brother, even if it is the last thing I will ever do on this earth!
Chapter 3: The Irish
I knew that we Irish had a long history of anti-Semitic and racist behavior. It grew out of our religious convictions as well as the fear we had of losing our jobs in this new country of America. Whatever the reasons behind our actions, however, they were not valid enough in my mind to warrant the injustices committed against Jews and Negroes.
My family in America was all male. As I stated before, my brother, Timothy, died from alcoholism in 1863, about six months following the Draft Riots. Technically, he was killed by an Irish gang member, Paul Kelley, when they fought in my father’s bar, Five Pints, in Five Points. He had been drinking steadily following the riots, and I have always blamed his drinking on his actions that night in the bar. Tim would have never fought over a prostitute had he not been drinking.
Tim, my father Robert, and I were the only ones to come over from Kilkenny, as Kathleen, my mother, had died back in Ireland. I grew up in a vacuum of masculine pride that ignored any intuitive insights about how the other cultures might see things. It was always the Catholic view that was superior, and it was always the white Irish who was the noble tribe in this new world of competition and capitalism.
I was visiting my father because he was another person who could give me information about the racist and anti-Semitic folks who live in this great city of ours. We came to New York City in 1834, and my father worked hard to establish his lot in an environment of crowded conditions, fear of being attacked by xenophobic nativists, and a family which had no woman to keep things organized in the home. He was now my only connection with family, such as it was. Despite his narrow-minded bigotry, I wanted to keep our relationship alive. I thought that this case might be my only chance to prove to him that his ideas were keeping us apart and that he needed to change them.
Five Points is an area that has been written about in literature, and even the famous British author, Charles Dickens wrote about our neighborhood in 1842, when he said:
This is the place, these narrow ways, diverging to the right and left, and reeking everywhere with dirt and filth. Such lives as are led here, bear the same fruits here as elsewhere. The coarse and bloated faces at the doors have counterparts at home, and all the wide world over. Debauchery has made the very houses prematurely old. See how the rotten beams are tumbling down, and how the patched and broken windows seem to scowl dimly, like eyes that have been hurt in drunken frays. Many of those pigs live here. Do they ever wonder why their masters walk upright in lieu of going on all-fours? and why they talk instead of grunting?
I was looking at this quote, which hung over the bar in my father’s tavern on Canal Street. It was smashed once during the Dead Rabbits and Bowery Boys riot on Little Water Street. Many people believed we had open gang warfare going on in this neighborhood, but the reality was
not so simple. The gangs were established as a political force to gain power in local politics. Most men vote because they believe the candidate will help bring services to their ward. Our Irish gangs made a convincing argument with their fists and their threats.
Even though my father’s taverns did not permit dancing, Jews or Negroes, there were other bars that did. I liked to go to Pete Williams’s place, a dance hall located at 67 Orange Street on Mulberry Bend, just south of its intersection with Bayard Street. Pete was a black man who encouraged Irish reels and jigs as well as the African shuffle. It was a noisy and enjoyable atmosphere to let out the stress and psychological discomfort of living in the slums.
There was a brothel in just about every tenement row house in the Five Points. On my way to school, I was solicited by these women, and when I first met Miss Rebecca Charming, when I was in the Army, I thought she represented a most despicable profession. Prostitution brought disease and broke-up families, but Becky showed me that the world’s oldest profession did not have to create such an unhealthy enterprise.
My father believed he was keeping all the filth and sin out of his establishments, and I suppose this was a noble goal, but he blamed others for the corruption and sin, and this was where we parted ways. My father stood behind the bar, washing the large beer mugs in soapy water. He was now sixty-two years of age, his red hair sparsely ringing his pate and masses of wrinkles were grooved into his neck and face. But his torso was still strong, and he could lift barrels and bounce a drunk with the best of them. I told him I was trying to find Dr. Arthur Mergenthaler, who had been kidnapped, and I also believed the murder of his brother, Samuel, was linked to this snatching.
“Patrick, me boy-o, tell me why you want to work for these Jews. Oh, you don’t need to tell me. It’s the money. Believe me, I know you need the money, but don’tcha know they’ll be swindling you? It’s in their blood, man!” He spat on the sawdust floor as a way of exclamation.
“I came here to get your help about finding suspects and not to be lectured concerning your racist views. What have you overheard in the bars about the new Jews’ hospital, Mount Sinai? Anybody you know mention this infirmary in any way or about working there?” I took up a bar rag and began to help my father wash the mugs. It was darkly quiet at this time of the afternoon, as my father kept strict opening and closing hours. Many gangs’ leaders and their men came to drink at his bars because they believed it was safe. I knew he would help me if he thought he could support me in my new job as a private investigator.
“You know we had our hands full fighting those Know Nothings in the 1850s. They hated the Irish immigrants. Now we need to keep these Jews from taking over City Hall. Ain’t it bad enough we got these dark monkeys living everywhere now? Now you want to help the Jews stay healthy?” Da’s face turned red. “I heard Shannon O’Hara say he wanted to scare a few of those rich German kikes. You know, they come here with all their money and then they start businesses and hire niggers. They say we drink too much to trust on the job. Shannon said he wanted to teach them Jews a lesson or two about hiring the right color.”
“Do you think he does half of what he threatens to do? When he put that Jewish kid up in the tree, and I tried to get him down, Shannon said he was going to stick me like a pig. He never did. I think he’s a braggart and a coward.”
“He’s not anymore, laddie. He is the leader of the Dead Rabbits, and nobody in the Sixth Ward does anything in the way of business until they’ve talked to Shannon O’Hara first. You live uptown now, and you don’t keep up with the neighborhood no more. You need to get back to your roots and stop doing business with the kikes.”
I threw the bar rag down and stared hard at my father. His green eyes were getting tired, and the twinkle that I remembered him having when I was a boy seemed to be fading into the harsh glare of a bigot. If there were one issue that divided us, it was this one. When was he going to see that people are not so easily classified by race and religion?
My experiences in the Army taught me a lot about life and about how men can pull together for a cause. I have seen black men fighting alongside white men, and Catholics defending Jews, and all they wanted was to bring this country back together.
“I shall teach you about this country one day soon, Da, and it will be a lesson you need to learn. You have grown thick-headed in your old age, and that’s a fact. Is this O’Hara going to be in the bar any time soon? I want to ask him a few questions.”
“He drinks with some of his men on Friday nights. You can come then. You will pay, too, if you drink in my bar. I don’t allow no freeloaders, even my own son.”
My father’s memory was also getting ragged around the edges. “You don’t remember me giving up the sauce when I got back from the war? I don’t drink the stinking booze, and I pay my own way these days. I’ll be here, and I thank you for your information. I know it galls you, but if I can solve this kidnapping and murder of some fine citizens, I believe you might change your way of thinking. Good day, Father. May you stay healthy and warm. Have you been dating anybody at all?”
Father’s face became livid again, and he fumed, “I got no time for the dames! The Five Points teaches you to trust nobody and look out for number one. That’s the lesson the Army never taught you!”
I waved at him and shrugged my shoulders as I swung the doors open onto the street. A man ran past me chasing a woman, shouting drunken oaths. Five Pints was open for another round of Irish cheer, and I wanted no part of it until Friday night. The odor of smoke and liquor made me sick to my stomach.
I next wanted to visit my friend and Plug Ugly gang leader in Hoboken, New Jersey, Walter McKenzie. I knew he could give me some inside information about Shannon O’Hara and how much influence he had in my neighborhood and throughout the Irish gangs of New York. Walter had saved my life when serial killer Joshua Reynolds held me and Becky Charming captive inside a warehouse on the docks in McKenzie’s neighborhood.
The ferry took about an hour, and I arrived at Elysian Fields base ball park at about three in the afternoon. I was going to meet McKenzie in his crank box near home base. It was a polite game atmosphere under the sun, and I could hear the gentlemen conversing about investments and politics while casually watching the action on the playing field out of the corner of their eyes. It was not like this at Walter’s box, however. My friend’s fist was raised up to the sky, and he was shouting out at the players like a man possessed. At six feet and two inches tall and over 300 pounds in weight, McKenzie made an imposing figure, and none of the surrounding gentlemen gave him any discord or reprimanded his uncouth behavior. Playing this game in January was not new to New Yorkers. Base ball games were being played on ice rinks in some areas.
“Walter!” I tried to shout over the din to get his attention. One of McKenzie’s men handed Walter a long milk roll with a much longer wiener sausage stuffed inside it. It was covered in sauerkraut and horseradish, and the leader of the Plug Uglies stuffed it into his mouth as he attempted to shout epithets at the striker standing with his flat bat at home base. Walter finally turned around at the sound of my voice and smiled--his mouth full of frankfurter.
“War hero! Glad you could make it, me boy-o! You want a wiener? A beer? Oh yeah, I forgot, ya don’t drink.” Gentlemen were moving in and out of Walter’s box, and it took me a few moments to realize what they were doing. They were wagering on the game that was going on, and although it was illegal to do so, the local constabulary was obviously turning their backs on the business going on right under their noses. If I knew Walter McKenzie, he had probably bribed the police to allow him to book the games played here.
“Leg it, man! That Lowery runs like an ice wagon!” said McKenzie, pointing to the gentleman who was lugging his immense frame down the base path after hitting the ball through the rover in the middle of the diamond. The players wore white shirts and ties, caps with short bills, and their trousers were tucked inside their stockings. This was the amateur gentlemen’s league, alth
ough the popularity of these games was such that there were thirty clubs playing the game, and twenty-two were in greater New York City.
The two teams playing in Elysian Fields that day were Camden from New Jersey and Gotham from Manhattan in New York City. Alexander Joy Cartwright was the father of base ball in 1842 when he formed the first team called the New York Knickerbockers. He was the gentleman who wrote down the “20 Original Rules of Baseball” or the “Knickerbocker Rules.”
I wanted to talk to McKenzie about Shannon O’Hara and his leadership of the Dead Rabbits. I knew Walter never informed, or “became a stoolpigeon,” as he referred to it, so I chose my words carefully.
“Say, Walter. We played this game during the Civil War. I remember once we were entering the last battles of the war near Appomattox, Virginia, and our job was to keep the Rebs’ cavalry, under General Johnston, from joining up with General Lee’s troops. When we were camped just outside Lewis’s Farm, we started playing a game of base ball. We all played it to relieve tension and to give our troops comradely recreation. The officers played right alongside the enlisted, as all were judged on their athletic abilities alone and not their rank or social status. Suddenly, there was a scattering of rifle fire, and three outfielders caught the brunt. The centerfield was hit and was captured. Left and right field managed to get back to our lines. The attack was repelled without serious difficulty, and we had lost not only our centerfield but also the only base ball in our regiment. I don’t think these fine gentlemen today would be as committed to the game as we were, don’t you agree?”
“Hey, I know about you soldiers. You’re tryin’ to say that General Abner Doubleday invented base ball. It ain’t so, laddie. Cartwright’s yer man, me boy-o. A common bank clerk’s not fancy enough fer the government, now is it? The truth is always gettin’ twisted, so’s more money can be made.” McKenzie took a big drink of his beer and belched.
