Chapter Thirty-Two

 

The business of hauling freight had become so lucrative that Michael decided he had to hire more men. He didn’t make that decision lightly. He hadn’t forgotten how he’d lost the business the last time he’d hired additional men and tried to expand the business. But this time it was different. After the war, Gaylord had assured him, with all those newly minted millionaires, there would be a building boom. Michael certainly hoped that would be the case, but in the meantime, he needed more workers right now.

He was in his office only half listening to Flynn, whom he’d posted outside and assigned him to interview prospective new workers. Michael would have the final say on any man Flynn found acceptable.

Flynn was ruthless in his role. All day long, Michael heard him pass withering judgment on the unworthy: “You’re too old.” “You’re too young.” “Man, I don’t think you could pick up a bag of sand.” And on it went. But then, toward the end of the day, just as Michael was finishing up an interview, he heard Flynn say to someone, “We don’t hire niggers. Off with you.”

An angry Michael stood up. “All right, Cleary, you’re hired. You’ll start Monday.” As the happy man was going out the door, Michael called out, “Flynn, get in here.”

Flynn came in. “You wanted to see me?”

“Did I hear you tell someone we don’t hire Negroes?”

“You did. Sure, the niggers are unreliable, Michael. They don’t show up for work because they’re too drunk or they got thrown into jail for beating their women. We don’t need their likes here.”

Michael slammed his hand down on the desk. “Flynn, what the hell is the matter with you? Those were the kinds of words that were thrown in my face when I first came to this country looking for work. Have you forgotten the No Irish Need Apply signs?”

Flynn hung his head. “I did not.”

“All right, get back to work and know this: I’ll hire any Negro who can do the work.”

As Flynn got to the door, he turned, “Ach, it wouldn’t have worked out anyways, Michael. The man’s right hand was nothin’ but a claw. How could he do a decent day’s work, I ask ya?”

Michael jumped up. “Claw? Was he a big man?”

“Aye. He was that.”

Without another word, Michael raced out of his office and into the street. He looked up and down, hoping to see a large Negro. But there was none in sight. He ran to the corner of John Street and there, about a block away, was the unmistakable gate of Kitch, lumbering up the street among a crowd of workmen and shoppers.

Michael raced after him, shoving pedestrians and peddlers aside. “Kitch, Kitch,” he shouted over the clatter of a thousand iron wheels grinding on the cobblestone street.

Kitch turned around and in an instant recognized Michael. “Mikill,” he said, a wide grin spreading across his face, “my old friend!”

Michael, panting from the run, slapped him on his broad back. “Kitch, am I glad to see you. Come on back to my office. We need to talk.”

In amazement, Kitch looked around Michael’s office and shook his head. “So, you own all this?”

“Not exactly, I have a note to pay off first.”

“When I came in here looking for work, I had no idea you were the owner. Damn!”

“Please forgive my employee when he said we don’t hire Negroes. He was wrong and he shouldn’t have said that.”

“Mikill, I don’t pay that no never mind. I hears that all the time.”

“Well, you won’t hear it here.” After a moment’s pause, Michael said, “You weren’t there my last day at Clayton’s. I went back several times looking for you, but no one knew what happened to you.”

“I was mighty sick, Mikill. Some kind of evil ailment ran through my tenement sickenin’ and killin’ I don’t know how many. I was vomitin’ for days and my legs, Lordy, how my legs hurt. I thought I was gonna die for sure, but somehow, I didn’t. After, some people from somethin’ called the sanitation commission paid a visit to the buildin’. They said it was cholera. They said we shouldn’t be drinkin’ bad water. Well, how’s I supposed to know good water from bad water? Best I can tell, all the water in the Five Points is bad.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re all right. How would you like a job?”

“You mean, here with you?”

“Here with me.”

Kitch’s face widened in a broad grin. “Well, I reckon I would.”

 

At Sunday dinner, the talk was all about the unpopular draft laws enacted in March of 1863.

“Who does this draft law affect?” Letta asked.

“Every male citizen between ages twenty and forty-five,” Gaylord responded.

“I had to sign up,” Otto said glumly.

“I had to sign up myself,” Michael said, indignantly. “I’m forty-two with a wife and four children and they want to send me off to war?”

“I don’t think you have to worry about getting drafted,” Henrietta said. “I believe they want the young men.”

“That’s almost as bad. Am I going to lose all my men again? I’ll be ruined.”

“You won’t be able to stop your young workers from being drafted,” Gaylord agreed. “However, what I find most troublesome is the provision that allows a man to buy his way out of the draft for three hundred dollars.”

Cully was aghast. “That’s outrageous. Why, that’s a years’ wages for most men.”

“True enough, and Andrew Carnegie and JP Morgan have already availed themselves of the provision and hired substitutes.”

“Aye,” Michael said bitterly. “That’s what it’s all about—a way out for the rich.”

“And speaking of the rich, “Gaylord added, “what could Secretary Chase have been thinking when he ordered a three-thousand-dollar shawl from A.T. Stewart’s for his daughter in a time of war?”

“My God,” Emily exclaimed, “that represents the price of ten men’s lives,”

“I doubt he gave it much thought,” Michael added.

Gaylord poured more wine into his glass. “It’s not just the three-hundred-dollar clause that’s provoking the people. The draft also excludes Negroes.”

Michael shook his head in agreement. “Just yesterday, I heard a man up on a soap box complaining about that very thing. His point was why should white men go fight to free Negroes so they can come north and take their jobs away from them.”

“It’s a sore point,” Gaylord admitted. “As far as the draft is concerned, I think we’ll have all the answers soon enough. The lottery is to begin next Saturday.”

“Where?” Cully asked.

Gaylord chuckled. “The Ninth Ward headquarters up on Third Avenue and Forty-Seventh Street.”

“Why that’s an area of nothing but vacant lots and the odd building,” Otto noted.

“Exactly. And I do believe that is intentional. This draft lottery is a touchy business. They want to stay away from the crowds downtown.”

 

The following Saturday morning, at Horace Greeley’s instruction, Gaylord went up to the Ninth Ward to cover the proceedings. In spite of the desolate location, a large crowd had gathered, but they were mostly curious rather than angry. The provost marshal began reading off names drawn from a large barrel. By the end of the day, twelve hundred thirty-six names had been selected. Gaylord was relieved that there had been no disturbance.

The next day, Sunday, he toured the city’s bars and taverns. Everywhere he went, men and women were pouring over the names listed in the newspapers. Getting drunk on whiskey and beer, they denounced the draft in colorful, if angry, words.