Chapter Twenty-Nine

1860

 

Michael and his crew had been working on the St. Patrick’s site for almost a year and a half. For the first three months, they removed tons of detritus from the site. When that was done, they began hauling lumber, sand, marble, and granite from piers on the Hudson and East Rivers to begin the actual construction.

Now the church was beginning to take shape. The walls were up, the ceiling was in place. Some stonemasons fitted stones into the spires, while others worked on the immense columns in the interior. There was still much to be done in the vast interior space.

It was a cold and damp February afternoon and Michael was standing by while the stonemason, Angus Roy, inspected the stones that Michael’s crew had just brought from the Hudson piers.

“How do they look, Angus?”

The stonemason squinted. “There are some wee blemishes here and there,” he said, running his rough hand over a large stone, “but nothing that can’t be chiseled out.”

Michael looked up at the soaring twin spires. “Here it is February already. Do you think we will be done in another year?”

“Not ‘a’tall. Och, all these architects are daft, are they not? Optimistic as the day is long. They draw pretty pictures of their buildings and announce some preposterous date when it’s to be done. I suppose it pleases their clients, but it puts pressure on the likes of us to finish on time. Well, that won’t happen this time, I’ll tell ya that. We’ll be lucky to finish the work by the middle of ‘64.”

Michael grinned. “I don’t mind the extra few years’ work.”

Angus winked at him. “Aye, and me as well.”

 

While Michael was telling Emily of Angus’s prediction of three more years of work, there was an insistent knock at the door. An excited Gaylord Temple was standing there.

“Come in out of the rain,” Michael said.

“Michael, you’ve got to come with me tonight to the Cooper Institute.”

“You mean all the way down to Seventh Street?”

“Yes.”

“Gaylord, I’m tired. I’ve been loading and unloading stones since seven this morning. What’s so important that I would be willing to go out on this miserably cold night?”

“Mr. Abraham Lincoln is going to give an address.”

Michael shrugged. “Who is Abraham Lincoln?”

“He’s a politician from Illinois and there’s talk that he may run for president this year.”

“Well, I wish him luck, but I have no intention of leaving my comfortable home on such an inhospitable night to see him or any other politician.”

“You’ve got to come, Michael. I believe we’ll be witnessing history.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’ve been reading his speeches. He’s a brilliant man. I believe he’s the only one who can address the problem of slavery in a coherent manner.”

“Go, Michael,” Emily said. “You need to get out of the house to do something other than work.”

“Oh, all right. Let me get my coat.”

 

By the time Michael and Gaylord arrived at the Cooper Institute, a striking five-story Italianate brownstone building located at Third Avenue and 7^th Street, it had started to snow. The great hall, capable of holding fifteen hundred people, was already beginning to fill up. Michael was impressed. If so many people were willing to brave such an icy night, perhaps this Mr. Lincoln was indeed a great man.

They found two seats in the fifth row. Within half an hour the great room was filled to capacity.

An elderly gray-haired gentleman stepped up to the podium. After a few brief words about the guest of the evening, he cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great privilege and honor to introduce our speaker tonight. I give you, Mr. Abraham Lincoln.”

Lincoln had been hidden by the lectern. As he stepped up to the podium clutching a sheaf of foolscap papers, there was an audible gasp from the audience. He was a bizarre sight. Michael had never seen anyone so tall nor so angular and awkward. Over six feet, he was wearing a black frock coat that hung from his spare frame. Gaylord had said he was fifty-three, but his deeply lined, clean shaven face made him appear much older. What was impressive were the deep-set eyes which were both sad and hopeful at the same time. But all in all, the man did not present an impressive figure. Was this the great man that Gaylord had been talking about?

Lincoln stood at the lectern with his hands behind his back silently staring out at the crowd. For a moment, Michael thought the poor man had been taken with stage fright, but suddenly, the huge hands grasped the sides of the lectern and he began to speak in a startling high-pitched voice.

“The facts with which I shall deal this evening,” he began, “are mainly old and familiar; nor is there anything new in the general use I shall make of them.”

For the next half hour, he went on to speak of whether the National Government could regulate slavery in the territories. Later in his speech, he gently castigated the South for trying to demonize the Republican party. Finally, as he concluded, he explained why appeasement with the South would not work.

As Lincoln spoke, Michael forgot about the man’s ungainliness, the high-pitched voice, the lurching mannerisms. Lincoln had transformed himself into a forceful man of conviction and purpose. What he said and the way he said it was completely mesmerizing. Michael turned around to see how the audience was receiving the speech. Every upturned face was in rapt attention. A few had tears in their eyes. In a hall of fifteen hundred people there was not a sound, save the high-pitched voice of Abraham Lincoln.

In concluding his speech, he said, “Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.”

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then the crowd that moments before was completely silent, sprang to their feet erupting in applause and wild shouting.

 

After the speech, Michael and Gaylord retired to McSorley’s Saloon just down the street from the Cooper Institute. The potbellied stove was glowing red and the heat was a comforting barrier against the biting cold outside. The saloon was crowded with men who had just heard Lincoln’s speech and everyone was engaged in animated conversation about what they had just heard and what it meant.

Michael and Gaylord squeezed into a spot at the end of the bar and ordered their ale.

“I have to say, Gaylord, when I first saw your Mr. Lincoln, I was not impressed.”

Gaylord chuckled. “Nor was I. I have read his speeches, but I have never seen a photo of him. It was quite the shock.”

“Still, I have never heard anyone so clear and persuasive before.”

“Will he become president?”

“Lincoln is not yet the nominee for the presidency, but the Republican convention is scheduled for May. I’m confident he’ll be selected.”

“Will this mean war with the South?”

“Tonight Mr. Lincoln spelled out the problem quite eloquently. In the end, we cannot compromise the Constitution or our ideals to satisfy the South’s insatiable appetite for their ‘peculiar institution.’ They demand nothing short of acceptance of slavery in all current and future states. We can never accede to those demands.”

“So, it’s war?”

“I’m afraid so.”