Chapter Three
Early the next morning, Michael set out to find a job, thinking it shouldn’t be too difficult. While they’d wandered the streets looking for a hotel on their first day in the city, he’d noticed lots of “Help Wanted” signs. As he walked the streets, he was puzzled by the abundance of oyster stands, seemingly on every corner, that advertised one-cent oysters and oyster stew for six cents. One stand had a sign that stated: “All you can eat – 6 cents.”
Never having had an oyster, he was about to buy one, but then he saw the man shucking them and decided oysters were not for him.
On the corner of Canal Street and Mercer he saw a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of a butcher shop. The sickening smell of blood and animal guts was overpowering, but he went inside anyway.
A burly man wearing a striped apron caked in dried blood was supervising the loading of sides of beef onto a wagon. He turned toward Michael. “Yeah, what is it?”
“I’ve come about the sign in the window. I’m looking for work.”
The man shook his head. “Jesus Christ. All you goddamn paddies are the same. Isn’t there a one of youse who knows how to read?”
Michael reddened in embarrassment. He knew he was still shaky reading words, but he thought he’d read the sign correctly. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
The man brought him outside and pointed to the sign. “What does the sign say?”
Michael stared at the sign. It was simple enough. What could the man be talking about? “It says help wanted.”
“And under that?”
“N-I-N-A. Is that a woman’s name?”
“No, you goddamned mackerel snapper. It means no Irish need apply. Now be off with you before I call a cop.”
A dumbfounded Michael stood on the sidewalk staring at the sign, unsure what to do next. Then, he heard the man say something to the others loading the wagon and they all laughed. Humiliated, he hurried away.
Now that he knew what to look for, he was astonished to see those letters—NINA—on almost every help wanted sign. Some signs even spelled it out: No Irish Need Apply. Wherever he walked—along Canal Street, Grand, Delancey—he saw the same signs again and again.
He found himself aimlessly walking up the Bowery, which soon turned into Third Avenue. He noticed that north of Houston Street the pattern of the streets changed. Instead of the confusing jumble of crisscrossing streets, the streets began to form a rectangular grid. And the cross streets had numbers instead of names—something that as a newcomer he found easier to negotiate.
The farther north he walked the more the buildings began to thin out and there were less people on the street and wagons in the road. He was suddenly aware of an unaccustomed silence and realized something was peculiar about the roadbed. The center of the street was paved with a surface of compacted small stones—something he had never seen before—making the sound of iron carriage wheels on this surface much quieter. And yet, each side of the street closest to the curb was left as soft dirt.
Distracted by his lack of success in finding a job and wondering what to do next, he started to cross Third Avenue when he heard a shout. He looked up and saw two carriages, side by side, racing toward him. One was a sulky pulled by a single horse, the other was a phaeton pulled by two horses. He jumped back just in time as the two carriages roared by him, missing him by inches. Scared out of his wits, he scurried back to the sidewalk.
The man who had shouted the warning was leaning up against the gaslight lamppost smoking a pipe. He grinned and nodded toward the galloping carriages receding into the distance.
“You’re a lucky fellow, mister. You came within a cat’s whisker of being run down by Cornelius Vanderbilt himself.”
“Who’s Cornelius Vanderbilt?”
The man took the pipe out of his mouth and knocked the ashes out against the lamppost. “You’re just off the boat, aren’t you?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Vanderbilt happens to be one of the richest men in the world. Makes his money in steamboats and railroads. And his racing companion is Robert Bonner, the owner of the New York Ledger. I came all the way out from Brooklyn just to see his horse, Dexter.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Bonner paid thirty-three thousand dollars for that magnificent trotter.”
“Good God!” Michael wasn’t sure how much that amount was but it sounded like a king’s ransom. He was beginning to believe that New York was a very strange place indeed. Firemen fighting with each other while a building burns, people living in virtual pigpens in the Five Points, and now a man spending a fortune on a horse. And on top of that, the all-consuming, frustrating question that was now nagging him: would there be no man in this city who would hire an Irishman?
It was getting late and he started back down Third Avenue. After a while the two carriages that had almost run him down came trotting down the avenue side by side, the two drivers laughing about something. He stopped to look at the horse that cost a fortune. It was indeed a magnificent animal. Back in Ireland, before the famine, Emily’s father had had a stable of splendid animals, but nothing to compare to this horse. He looked at the other driver, Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was supposed to be so rich. He was balding with pointed features and bristling side whiskers. Actually, quite ordinary, Michael thought. But one look at the custom-made phaeton and the sleek pair of Chestnuts and even to Michael’s unpracticed eye it was evident the man was wealthy.
At the corner of Third Avenue and Tenth Street, he saw a horse tack shop with a help wanted sign in the window. Now that was something he could do. He understood horses and horse tack. Hadn’t he worked in Lord Somerville’s stables since he was a young boy? As he grew nearer to the store, his heart sank. At the bottom of the sign were the now dreaded letters NINA. He was about to keep walking, but he stopped and ran his fingers through his thick curly black hair in frustration. Maybe that ignorant butcher didn’t like the Irish, but that didn’t mean it had to be true for everyone else in the city.
He went into the shop. A man in a leather apron, polishing a saddle, looked up. “Yeah?”
“I’ve come about the sign in the window. I know all about horses,” he added, hurriedly. “And I—”
“Didn’t you read the sign?” the man snapped. “I don’t hire Irish. Be on your way.”
“But why not? I’m only thirty years old, I’m healthy, and strong. I’m a good worker.”
The man squinted at him. “That’s what you all say. But I’m on to your type. You’ll say anything to get the job, but the next thing is you don’t come to work because you’re too drunk or you were thrown into jail for beating your wife. You’re all shiftless, lazy drunks. Now get the hell out of my shop before I call a policeman.”
After that shameful encounter at the tack shop, a furious Michael continued down Third Avenue. After a while it occurred to him that he was purposely wandering the unfamiliar streets of Manhattan because he was too ashamed to go back to the boardinghouse and face Emily.
Third Avenue led back to the Bowery and the next thing he knew he looked up and saw the Old Brewery where he and Emily had spent their first night. He was back in the Five Points. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and he stepped into a grog shop. The low-ceiling gave the gloomy shop a cave-like feel. In one corner stood a broken stove with a crooked pipe from which the smoke leaked at every joint. The bar consisted of rough boards propped up on boxes. There were a few men standing at the bar. A few more slept at tables made of planks across old barrels.
The man behind the bar was a huge barrel-chested man with a long scar running down the side of his right cheek. “What’ll you have?”
“You serve Irish here?” Michael snapped, surprised that those words had come out of his mouth. All the pent-up anger, frustration, and humiliation had come tumbling out of him with those words.
Taking no offense from Michael’s tone, the bartender wiped the top of the bar with a dirty rag. “I’ll serve the devil himself if he can pay for his drink.”
“I’ll have a beer. Have you any food?”
The bartender laughed, revealing three missing teeth. “It’s a grog shop, not a fine eating establishment. That’ll be three cents.”
Michael took his beer and sat down at one of the barrel tables. He wasn’t there long before two men came in. One of them looked familiar, then, alarmed, he saw that the man’s arm was in a sling. He was the one he’d fought in the Old Brewery.
The man spotted Michael. “So, it’s you again, is it? I told you I’d get you.” Suddenly, there was a revolver in his hand. Instinctively, Michael threw his beer in the man’s face and rushed him. With only one arm to defend himself, he fell back and Michael easily yanked the firearm out of his hand. As the man’s friend made a menacing move toward him, Michael pointed the gun at him. “Just… just take your friend and… and get out of here, the pair of you.”
Giving Michael a murderous look, the man helped his friend up and they stumbled out the door.
The bartender stuck his hand out. “The name’s Big Bill. What’s yours?”
“Michael Ranahan.”
“You handle yourself well, Ranahan.”
A befuddled Michael threw the gun on the bar and shook the man’s hand. “I’m only in this county a couple of days. I’m just trying to find honest work. Is it always this crazy here?”
Big Bill shrugged. “More or less. So where are you living?”
“Coyle’s boardinghouse.”
“The one on Greenwich?”
“Aye.”
He studied Michael as though trying to make up his mind about something. “Are you the one who broke Feeny’s flipper?”
“Feeny?”
“The man you just took the gun away from.”
“Oh, I guess I did. I was only trying to defend a young woman—”
“Maureen? Well, you were wasting your time. He found her, slit her throat, and tossed her into the East River.”
“Oh, my God ...”
Big Bill slid the revolver back to Michael. “I’d advise you to hang onto that.”
“Why?”
“Feeny is one mean sonofabitch. You bested him twice. He won’t forget that.”
Michael stared at the revolver on the bar for a long moment. “Aren’t they illegal here?”
Bill shrugged. “Sort of. If you get caught you can always buy your way out of an arrest.”
Now in a complete state of confusion, but wanting nothing to do with a firearm, Michael pushed the weapon away from him and hurried back to the boardinghouse.
Emily was sitting in their room reading a newspaper when he came in. “How did it go?” she asked.
“Not good. Not good at all,” he said, slumping into the rickety chair.
She saw the troubled expression on his face and put the paper down. “What happened?”
He told her everything that had transpired during the day, leaving out only the news that the young woman had been murdered. “Emily, what am I to do?”
“I think you should talk to Mr. Temple. Perhaps he can offer some advice. Meanwhile, I’ve been reading the employment advertisements and I see what you mean. Listen to this one. Wanted, a girl of neat and industrious habits and amiable disposition to take the entire charge of two small children. No Irish need apply. Here’s another one. Wanted, an American or German girl, about fourteen or fifteen, to assist a small family. No Irish need apply.”
“My God, Emily, what are we to do?”
“I know what I’m going to do. I won’t tell anyone I’m Irish.”
“And well you can. You don’t have the brogue.”
She smiled. “All those years of schooling in England and France may pay off yet.”
“Well, that’s all well and good for you, but what about me?”
Emily frowned. “Talk to Mr. Temple. Let’s see what he says.” When she saw the dejected look on his face, she opened the paper. “Listen to this one.”
Michael waved his hand in dismissal. “Please Emily, I don’t want to hear anymore Irish Need Not Apply advertisements.”
“No, this one is funny, in a strange sort of way.” She read: “Ho! For the execution. The beautiful and commodious steamboat Chicopee will leave this city on Friday morning for the purpose of affording all on board an opportunity of witnessing the execution of John Hicks, the pirate. The boat will lay near the island until the ceremonies are over. This will be a fine chance for sea captains and seafaring men generally to view the exit of one of the most atrocious of these scourges of their profession. The Chicopee will afterwards run up the North River as far as West Point, taking in a view of the countryside. One dollar.”
She looked up at him and grinned. “Do you want to go?”
Michael shook his head in amazement. “This country is daft all together.”
That night after supper, Michael pulled Gaylord into the parlor and told him everything that had happened. The newspaperman listened attentively and when Michael was done, he said, “First, I would advise you to stay away from the Five Points.”
“Why? Do you know this Feeny person?”
“No, but there are hundreds just like him. Pimps and scoundrels are as common in the Five Points as fleas on a dog.”
“But what if he comes looking for me?”
“Highly unlikely. The denizens of the Five Points rarely stray outside the confines of the Five Points. Having said that, you should have kept that firearm. Just in case.”
“But it’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Your friend Big Bill was right. You can always bribe your way out of an arrest in the unlikely occasion that you would be searched by a policeman.”
Michael ran his hands through his hair. “All I want is to find work, but no one will hire me because I’m Irish.”
“I understand. Unfortunately, this city is full of nativists.”
“Nativists?”
“Back in 1835, the New York Protestant Association sponsored a meeting at Broadway Hall to discuss the question: Is popery compatible with civil liberty? Well, a bunch of Catholics forced their way into the meeting and generally tore the place up. In response, a couple of months later, the Native American Democratic Association was formed to—how did they phrase it? —’protect American industry from foreigners’—read Irish—who they described as destructive as locusts and lice were to the Egyptian fields. Almost poetic, don’t you think?”
“So, are these the ones who won’t hire an Irishman?”
“They’re not the only ones. There’s the Order of the Star-Spangled Banner, a secret society with clandestine meetings, rituals, secret signs, and handshakes. They’re commonly called the ‘Know-Nothings’ because that’s the response they always give when asked about the nature of their organization.”
“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.”