31 Bond Street. Ellen Horan

      31

      BOND

      STREET

      Ellen Horan

      blue door

      For my father, Hubert J. Horan III, an innate storyteller; for him, stories were a search for meaning, and history was his compass.

      Beware of large adventures in railroads, niggers, wild lands, new banks, old banks, manufacturing enterprises, steamships, regular and fancy stocks, which promise no redeeming dividends this side of 1860. When the winds blow, and the rains fall, and the floods descend, all these things may be swept away as within the brief space of a single night.

      — The New York Herald, FEBRUARY 4, 1857

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Part I

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

       Part II

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Part III

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Chapter 34

       Chapter 35

       Chapter 36

       Part IV

       Chapter 37

       Chapter 38

       Chapter 39

       Chapter 40

       Chapter 41

       Chapter 42

       Chapter 43

       Chapter 44

       Author’s Note

       Acknowledgments

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

Part I

       CHAPTER ONE

      About three o’clock early Saturday morning, a heavy snow commenced and continued till daylight. The snow turned to rain and the wind blew for four hours, which we cannot but characterize as the worst, the very worst, wintry gale ever experienced in the city, ripping up window shutters and blowing down signs.

      Along the side streets, the water and melted snow flooded the lowlands of the City, which are generally the haunts of the poor. The very rats got frightened, and ran about Washington Street, South Street, the docks and markets, as the gushing thaw, like a landlord weary of seeking arrears of rent, summarily ejected them.

      The New York Times, FEBRUARY 2, 1857

       February 1, 1857

      For a boy who watched boats, his room was the perfect perch. He could see the wharves across a jumble of chimney tops, and beyond, a peek of the harbor. He’d count the ships at anchor, all sizes and shapes. There were three-masters and snub-nosed square-riggers and packet boats built to carry tonnage, with black balls on red flags. Pleasure steamers were loaded down with folks out for amusement, heading past the oyster flats to picnic on the islands. A boat from the Orient had a curving hull and mysterious symbols on the sail. Occasionally, in spring, a cloud descended and sat on top of the water, leaving a ghostly smoke that blocked the Narrows. Skiffs scuttled on the New York side of it, their silhouettes looking like paper cutouts, while the foghorns wailed from the Atlantic side, waiting for it to lift. On summer days, John would crawl out the window to get the widest view, grabbing onto a chimney pot to keep from slipping off the steep pitch. He’d watch for hours from the roof, sitting at a slant, with the sensation that the entire city was straining out to sea.

      Winter was different. Ice stretched clear across the East River, and the ferryboats were stalled in their berths. The previous evening, the weather had turned foul. John awoke shivering in his tangled bedding. He hopped through the cold to find his trousers and a woolen vest. He lived in an attic under the eaves with his mother, who lay still on the wooden bed in the opposite corner. She was frail and spent her days in a rocking chair next to the stove. Her hands were gnarled and pained by the cold and damp. She no longer went to the seamstress’ shop, for she could no longer sew.

      This morning, there was nothing outside the dormer window but rain and a veil of grey. John couldn’t see the harbor or the clock on the church tower, and because of the storm, no one was pulling the bells. He wrapped some pieces of wool around his trouser legs with twine, to protect himself from the bitter weather. He crept out of the room and shut the attic door gently, and hurried down the stairs of the small house on Rector Street. He did not know what time it was, but Saturday was payday, and Dr. Burdell would dock him half a day if he were late.

      He hurried uptown. Along Broadway, the wind whipped a mixture of snow and freezing rain, rocking the shutters and setting gas lamps swinging on their posts. Old snow blocked the culverts, flooding the intersections, and carriages were left abandoned in water up to their hubs. He made his way to Bond Street, a long row of townhouses, and banged at a door under the stoop. The cook pulled the bolts. “Good, lord!” Hannah exclaimed, “You’re wetter than a sea captain. Don’t you dare drip on my floor.” He followed her down the dark hallway and was careful not to drip,