Manhattan Read online

  Manhattan

  Michael Grant

  ©Michael Grant 2017

  Published at Smashwords

  Special thanks to Elizabeth Grant and Diana Salesky for proofreading the manuscript. Nevertheless, any errors that remain are mine alone.

  Books by Michael Grant

  In the Time of Famine

  When I Come Home

  A Letter to Ballyturan

  Line of Duty

  Officer Down

  Retribution

  The Cove

  Stalker

  Appropriate Sanctions

  Back to Venice

  Krystal

  Dear Son, Hey Ma

  Precinct

  Who Moved my Friggin’ Provolone?

  The Ghost and the Author

  Chapter One

  Manhattan

  September 1850

  Michael Ranahan couldn’t sleep on this, the last night of his and Emily’s long, grueling voyage. In utter darkness, he lay awake in their cramped berth listening to the now familiar creaking of the ship’s timbers, the sloshing of the water in the bilge, the snap of canvas sails catching the wind, and the snores and pitiful groans of his fellow passengers. After forty-three harrowing days at sea, he could scarcely believe it was almost over. At first light, they had been told, they would be sailing into New York harbor and disembarking at a quay on the southern tip of an island the Indians called Manna-hata and the English call Manhattan.

  Their ship, the Catherine Dee, wasn’t one of the dreaded coffin ships in which so many had perished under appalling conditions, but, still, the accommodations were dreadful. Steerage passengers, over two hundred men, women, and children, had been crammed below decks into an open cabin measuring seventy-five feet long by twenty-five feet wide and with headroom of less than six feet. Running along the starboard and port sides of the ship were rows of berths made of rough planks. Each berth—ten feet wide and five feet long—was designed to accommodate six adults. The narrow aisle between the berths, barely five feet wide, was jammed with passengers’ baggage, cooking utensils, and sacks of food that passengers had brought with them as a safeguard.

  Food was supposed to be included in the price of the ticket, but disreputable captains routinely cheated the passengers by allocating less than the agreed upon provisions. In some cases, ships ran out of food before reaching their destination. What food was available was far from appetizing. Beef, pork, and fish were pickled in brine. Biscuits or “hardtack” were made of wheat flour and dried pea flour cooked into saucer-shaped discs. Passengers were forbidden the use of the galley, which the ship’s cook used exclusively to feed the first-class passengers and crew. Up on deck there was, however, a hearth-box—an open topped sand box atop bricks—which steerage passengers were permitted to use on a rotating basis during fair weather. Over the course of weeks, the food became more and more inedible. The hardtack—true to its name—had to be pounded with a hammer into small pieces. Meat and fish became moldy and infested with maggots, weevils, and rodent droppings.

  The only exit from the dank, musty hold was up a hatchway to the deck above. The lattice hatch cover, the only source of air and light, was locked down at night and at all times during rough weather. Michael and Emily and their fellow steerage passengers were allowed up on deck in small groups for no more than one hour a day. The captain had said it was for safety reasons, but Michael knew better. He’d seen the look of utter revulsion on the faces of the first-class passengers who promenaded on the upper deck. To protect their delicate sensibilities, the captain determined it best to keep steerage passengers out of sight as much as possible.

  By the third day out, the poorly ventilated hold already reeked of vomit, sweat, and human waste that sloshed in buckets until it could be tossed overboard in the morning. As days at sea ticked off, conditions grew worse. The fetid witches’ brew of mold, mildew, stagnant bilge water mixed with human waste, as well as the proximity of the passengers, proved an ideal Petri dish for the spread of disease. Typhus raged through the cabin. Within a week people began to die. Mostly babies, but, as time went on, old men and women who were already weakened by years of famine. Michael always knew when someone had died because the nerve-wracking keening of the women would reverberate throughout the cabin. Anyone who died during the night had to be kept below decks until morning when the crew unlocked the hatch. Barely a prayer was said before the crew unceremoniously tossed the canvased wrapped body overboard. Michael didn’t know how many had died during the voyage. He stopped counting after fifteen.

  The three terrifying storms they’d encountered in the mid-Atlantic made life below decks even more frightening and miserable. As the seas picked up and the wind howled through the rigging, the hatch was battened down. Immediately, the air became suffocatingly foul; the gloom, claustrophobic. With each pitch and roll of the ship passengers were violently thrown from their berths and onto a deck awash with bilge water and vomit. The air was filled with the terrified screams of passengers and the high-pitched shrieks of babies.

  The Catherine Dee was what sailors called a “wet” ship. High winds and pounding seas exerted a great strain on the masts, causing the ship’s planks to separate. Sea-water poured down into the hold, soaking passengers—and bedding, which could take days to dry, if at all. During these storms, candle lanterns could not be lighted, nor could the stoves topside be used. For days, while the storm blew itself out, passengers existed on only hardtack and brackish water.

  Emily stirred beside him. “Is it time to get up?” she whispered, throwing her arm across his chest.

  He looked toward the hatch and could see a faint light. “Soon,” he said, smoothing her unruly auburn hair. “Soon, it’ll be over, Emily.”

  “Thank God for that,” she said, a weariness in her voice.

  Now that they were almost at their destination, he was becoming increasingly more worried about her. How would she fare in this new world? It was true that she’d gone through her fair share of trial and tribulation in the last few years in Ireland. Her father, Lord Somerville was murdered, and the estates, her inheritance, was lost to debt. But before the famine she’d led a privileged life, attending private schools in Switzerland and France.

  The voyage had been particularly hard on her. She’d been seasick almost the entire time. She’d lost a great deal of weight and the dark circles under her eyes attested to the many sleepless nights she’d endured. To take her mind off her constant nausea, she’d busied herself teaching Michael how to read. And to her delight, she found he was a quick learner. They plodded through Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. Neither book held much interest for Michael, but he did enjoy reading Frankenstein, which he’d laboriously worked his way through several more times during the voyage. She’d even been able to teach him some simple arithmetic. Now he could add and subtract reasonably well, but he was still mystified by multiplication and division.

  “So, we’re finally here,” she said, turning carefully so as not to wake the woman sleeping inches from her. Next to the woman was her husband, and next to him were their two children. All six occupants represented the complement of their ten-foot wide berth.

  He kissed her forehead. “Yes. America. The beginning of our grand adventure.” He tried to ignore the knot of tension in his gut, but truth be told, he was terrified of what lay ahead. Leaving famine Ireland for America had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now that they were almost here, he realized he didn’t know what to expect. His mind was awhirl with questions. Where would they live? How much would lodgings cost? Could he get a job? Doing what? And it didn’t help his nagging uncertainty that some passengers, who already had relatives living in New York, related conflicting descriptions of the city. Some said it offere
d unlimited opportunity, while others said it was the most dreadful and soulless city in the world. The latter were the ones who were usually bound for distant cities in the Midwest. Still, despite the naysayers, he told himself that they were young and in good health. He was only thirty and she was just twenty-five. They would make it in America, he told himself firmly. They would make it in America.

  Michael heard the locks being undone and the hatch swung open. “Ahoy, down below,” a crew member shouted, “everyone look smart now. The master says we’ll be dockin’ in a couple of hours. Pack your belongings and be on deck ready to disembark.”

  Michael had anticipated the crush and confusion of almost two hundred people trying to organize themselves in the cramped cabin. The night before he’d packed what little belongings they possessed into their two battered cloth bags and they’d slept in their clothes. “Come on,” he said, helping Emily out of the berth. “Let’s go.”

  They made their way through the sleep-deprived and befuddled throng of weary passengers and were the first to come up on deck. Gratefully, they breathed in the glorious, fresh sea air, a welcome respite from the fetid air below decks. The sun was rising on what promised to be a fine day. A stiffening breeze coming from the southwest gently drove the ship over the rolling waves. Michael and Emily made their way forward, being careful not to get in the way of the crew scurrying about the deck preparing to shorten sail in preparation for entering the harbor.

  At first, as they stood in the bow looking forward, they saw nothing but open sea. But slowly, as the ship plowed forward, they began to see low-lying specks of land. Off to the left was a hilly mass that looked like an island. Michael thought that might be Manhattan, but the ship veered toward a low-lying mass of land to the right. As they closed on the land, everything slowly came into focus and they were stupefied by the sight before them. As far as the eye could see was an impenetrable forest of ships’ masts. Most were anchored, but countless sloops, lighters, schooners, yachts, barges, and ferries maneuvered in and around the anchored vessels. To the unpracticed eye, it seemed that at any moment there must be a terrible collision, but miraculously there was none.

  Michael gripped the rail and his eyes widened. “Jesus!” It appeared that they were heading directly toward a line of anchored ships. Just when he was certain they would plow headlong into one of them, the ship hardened up into the wind. Amidst shouted instruction from the captain and mates, the sails were smartly furled while an anchor gang let go the anchor chain.

  “Why are we stopping out here?” Emily asked. “We must be a good mile from shore.”

  Michael shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Now that the ship had come to a stop, a wind blew offshore toward them bringing a stench that made their eyes water.

  “What in God’s name is that?” Emily said, quickly covering her nose with a handkerchief.

  “I don’t know ...” Michael said, stifling a gag reflex. “I thought the stench below decks was bad, but this is much worse. Could this be what Manhattan smells like?”

  What they were smelling was a noxious combination of more than six-hundred thousand pounds of manure and twenty thousand gallons of urine deposited every day by the city’s twelve thousand horses. And then there were the pigs. For years, pigs—some domestic, some feral—had been allowed to roam the streets of Manhattan. But the stench and destructiveness of the animals had finally roused the city’s reformers. Policemen rounded up over five thousand pigs out of cellars and garrets and drove the herd to the upper wards of Manhattan. All to no avail. Eventually, the pigs returned. To add to the stench, lower Manhattan was also home to over two hundred abattoirs that butchered three hundred seventy-five thousand animals a year. Then there were the more than five hundred butcher shops, the tanners with their piles of stinking hides, and the stench of assorted animals—over five thousand a year—who simply dropped dead in the streets.

  By now most of the passengers, looking frightened and disoriented, were on deck. The captain, a rail-thin man with an enormous red nose, came out of his cabin and called for attention. “There is no berth for us at the piers,” he said, “so we will be going ashore using lighters. First class passengers will disembark first, followed by steerage. Make sure you have all your belongings as there will be no coming back on board once you leave this ship.”

  It took almost three hours before it was Michael and Emily’s turn to board the lighter. The small boat weaved its way through and around hundreds of anchored ships and finally tied up at the Canal Street pier. The huge quay was swarming with confused passengers disembarking from a half dozen docked ships. Horse and wagons carrying luggage and provisions to the ships barreled through the crowds as though they weren’t there, dodging stacks of barrels, sacks, boxes, hampers, and bales.

  As soon as Emily and Michael set foot on solid ground, they both began to stumble, as though they were drunk. So, too, they noticed did every other passenger, all to the amusement of the lighter crew.

  “What’s so funny?” a confused and irritated Michael asked.

  “It took you days to get your sea legs, didn’t it?” a leathery-faced sailor explained with a toothless grin. “Well, after forty-three days at sea, it’ll take you awhile to get your landlubber legs back. Don’t you know—”

  He was interrupted by great shout. Michael and Emily turned to see a spectacle the likes of which they had never seen before. Twenty companies of uniformed fireman in bright red shirts, complete with their colorful fire wagons pulled by teams of men, came marching through thousands of spectators crowded on the quay. They stopped at the foot of the gangway of a steamer ship named the Atlantic.

  A plain, middle-aged woman wearing a lovely silver-gray silk dress and a pale-blue silk hat appeared at the top of the gangway and another roar went up from the crowd. Led by a couple of top-hatted men, she quickly descended the gangway and climbed into a waiting carriage. As it made its way through the mass of spectators, she was showered with flowers thrown by the cheering throng.

  Emily had seen crowds in London and Paris, so for her this was not unusual. But Michael was speechless. He’d never seen that many people in one place in all his life. “Who was that woman?” he asked no one in particular.

  The old sailor puffed on his pipe. “That, my young friend, would be Jenny Lind.”

  “Who?”

  The old man shook his head in disbelief. “Paddy, do you mean to tell me you never heared of the Swedish Nightingale?”

  Michael was more confused than ever. “No. I never have.”

  “She sings that opera music and they say she has a beautiful voice. That old rascal P.T. Barnum has brought her here to make millions for the both of ‘em. I hear tell that some seats are being sold for more than six hundred dollars each.”

  “That’s an awful lot of money,” a shocked Emily said.

  “Aye, a king’s fortune. But I reckon that sly old Barnum knows what he’s doin’.”

  As soon as the carriage left the quay, the crowd quickly dispersed.

  Michael and Emily made their way off the wharf and stepped onto Canal Street, an insane cacophony of street noise and chaos. Hundreds of horse-drawn wagons carrying everything from ice, coal, and lumber to beer barrels zigzagged up and down the street in every direction. One oddity they saw among the lumbering wagons were “bulletin” wagons that carried signs advertising everything from local theaters to medicine to Barnum’s Museum.

  The sounds of hundreds of iron horseshoes and iron wheels clattering over the cobblestone streets raised a fearful din. To add to the pandemonium, carters loudly cursed their horses and one another with equal vehemence. What Michael and Emily were experiencing was a typical day in lower Manhattan and on a typical day, fifteen thousand wagons rumbled along a maze of narrow cobblestone streets.

  Lining both sides of the street cheek to jowl was a profusion of commercial sail-lofts, counting houses, warehouses of every description, and cheap eating houses.

  As the cou
ple stood there taking it all in, a young man wearing a bright green tie and a bowler hat tilted at a jaunty angle, approached them with a wide grin.

  “And welcome to New York the two of youse. And where might you be from?”

  “Ireland,” Michael said.

  “And didn’t I know it,” he said with a thick Irish brogue. “Sure, you have the very map of Ireland all over your face. May I inquire—do you and the missus have accommodations?”

  “No,” Emily said. “We’ve just come off the boat and—”

  “Ah, then you’re in luck.” He elbowed Michael and winked. “The luck of the Irish as you might say. My Uncle Tommy owns a boardinghouse on Greenwich Street that caters to Irish immigrants such as yourselves. It’s a modest hotel I will admit, but you’ll find the prices very reasonable.”

  Emily looked at Michael. “Well, I don’t know ...”

  “I’ll wager you have a lot of questions about New York.”

  Emily nodded. “As a matter of fact, we do.”

  “Well then, the hotel is just the place. You’ll meet other Irishmen such as yourselves. They’ll be able to answer your questions such as you might have.”

  Michael and Emily looked at each other, unsure of what to do next.

  “You don’t have to stay there,” the young man said in a reasonable tone. “But at least take a look. Here, let me carry those bags. You must be exhausted after such an arduous journey.” Before Michael could protest, he snatched the bags. “Come on, follow me. It’s not far.”

  And with those words he darted into the bustling street with reckless abandon. They thought he would surely be run down and trampled, but to their amazement he dodged in and around the chaotic traffic with the grace of a dancer and made it to the other side of the street unscathed.

  An apprehensive Michael surveyed the busy street and took Emily’s hand. “Well, if he did it, I guess we can. Come on.”