Mollie tipped back her head. The woman must be Mr. Ganz's housekeeper. She wore an old-fashioned mobcap and had a duster in her hand. That the p.a.w.nbroker lived above his shop despite having access to apparently unlimited sums of money was at the heart of the mystery surrounding him. "I'm Mrs. Joshua Turner," she called up. "I've not come to p.a.w.n anything. Mr. Ganz is a business a.s.sociate of my husband and it's urgent that I speak with him. Can you tell where he might be found?"

"Not so's it'll do you any good. Only thing I know is he went to Brooklyn. Said he was going to take the new bridge and left a few hours ago. Didn't say when he'd be back."

Josh pulled out his pocket watch. It was approaching six. He'd so far spent two hours in the back of the hansom, traveling at a snail's pace across the bridge. Plenty of time to contemplate the fact that he had killed a man.

He did not, he decided, feel remorse. Regret perhaps. But he could see no way he could have acted differently. And he could tick off a long line of men who had died at Clifford's hands, starting with the prisoners he shot for sport and continuing to poor little George Higgins, whose death Clifford doubtless ordered, even if Jones was correct and the murder was actually done by Lupo. Not to forget Ebenezer Tickle's story of the deadly chariot races in Kentucky. Good riddance then. If the preachers were correct, Clifford had to answer for his actions to a higher authority. In which case so would he someday. Shooting Trenton Clifford in what was, at the minimum, self-defense was unlikely to be his greatest sin. As for the death of Tony Lupo, he was the immediate cause of Mollie's suffering and grief, and that of G.o.d knows how many others. He had no tears to waste on Lupo.

The cab was making progress but it was incredibly slow. Josh could hear the rumble of the trains on the tracks that connected the elevated railways of the two cities, and the tramping of the pedestrians on the wooden walkway raised a short distance over his head. All he could see of them from the cab's window were their feet and legs, but it was obvious they moved with greater speed than anyone in the crush of private vehicles, his hansom included. Nonetheless, New York was getting closer.

The buildings of the great city were spread in front of him like a swathe of inky black against the brilliant blue of the sky.

Josh lowered the side window and leaned out for a better view. The spire of Trinity Church was immediately identifiable; on the Manhattan side it was the only thing higher than the bridge tower itself. If he moved to the other side of the cab he could distinguish as well the elaborate top of the ten-story Western Union Building. Apart from those two landmarks, the skyline of Manhattan was a solid phalanx of thrusting iron and stone. Some steel as well these days. And surely more of it to come. If it did nothing else this bridge would enhance the reputation of the strongest metal in the world, and . . . Jesus, G.o.d Almighty. What was happening?

It began as a thrumming, a kind of syncopated chant of terror. Josh heard it first from the pedestrians above his head. Then it echoed from carriages in front and behind.

The bridge is collapsing. Collapsing. Collapsing. Collapsing.

The panic descended in the blink of an eye. One moment Mollie was sitting up next to Ollie in the brougham-she'd left the interior of the carriage in favor of the view from the higher driver's perch-scanning the crowd streaming off the bridge, looking for a glimpse of Sol Ganz. The next there were piercing screams and a terrified horde of men and women shoving and pushing and thrusting as they tried to get to the street. "What is it, Ollie? What's happened?"

"I'm not sure, Mrs. Turner. Looks like a sort of stampede. I'd better get you out of harm's-"

"Out of the way! Give 'em room!"

A couple of policemen were shouting, trying to turn the horses by yanking at their bridles, and screaming that all the nearby carriages on Chatham Street had to move off.

"Give 'em room. For the love of G.o.d, room's what's needed."

Ollie concentrated on getting the carriage out of the traffic and controlling the chestnut, who was picking up the surrounding panic and threatening to bolt. Mollie paid no attention to the horse or where they were going. She was twisted around, staring in horrified fascination at what was happening behind them. The crush appeared to have started on the stairway. It was a short double flight, no more than eight feet wide, with a landing between that was equally constricted. This was the only pathway for both ascending and descending foot traffic, and quite suddenly what had been an orderly if slow procession of people in both directions had become a pile of bodies collapsing one upon the other, piling up so there could be no question of those underneath surviving. While she watched, the deadly snarl on the stairs spread to the bridge itself in what seemed an inexorable wave.

Mollie saw a hand thrust out from a pile of bodies and knew that whoever was on the bottom must be pressed to death. Then someone kicked at the hand and it skidded away on its own. There was an iron fence either side of the stairs. The top was meant to be used as a handrail, but the whole thing served instead to make the horror worse and prevent escape. Meanwhile, the crowd on the bridge kept surging forward, screaming and crying that they must get off, while every thrust made that more of an impossibility.

Some people did manage to get away. Mollie saw a woman pull herself free of the melee and wander off. She still wore her hat and her gloves and the top of her frock, but she was totally naked from the waist down, her skirt and her petticoats and pantaloons apparently torn away in the crush. One man leaped onto the back of another and literally walked across the heads of those in front of him until finally he jumped off into the street and ran away. There was a shower of hats tumbling from the upper reaches of the bridge approach, falling onto the rooftops and railroad tracks below. While she watched, an infant was torn from its mother's arms just as the woman was nearing ground level. The infant landed in the street and the woman somehow managed to clamber off the side of the bridge and climb down the framework using the struts for handholds. Mollie hurled herself out of the brougham and ran forward, ignoring Ollie's shouts behind her.

She and the woman reached the baby at the same moment. "He's mine!" the woman shouted, as if she thought Mollie meant to steal the child, and reached down and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the tiny figure and ran off. Through it all the infant remained so still that Mollie feared the worst.

When she looked back to the bridge she saw that others had followed the woman's lead and were climbing down by means of the supporting structure. Soon that escape route was also hideously overcrowded and she watched at least two people fall off and land on the road below. Another she was quite certain simply jumped to his death. "Oh, G.o.d! Oh, dear G.o.d," she whispered.

The words were as much a prayer for those in the terrible situation unfolding before her eyes as an exclamation of shock. Indeed, they were the first sound she'd managed to make since the stampede started, and a way of shaking herself free of the sheer weight of the horror.

A copper shoved her with no apology for his rudeness. "Out of the way, miss. Out of the way!"

Mollie ducked away from his grasp, meanwhile seeing that police and soldiers had arrived seemingly from nowhere and were converging on Chatham Street. One man had a hammer and a chisel and immediately started hacking at the bolts that held the iron stair rails in place. Others soon joined him, using whatever makeshift tools they could find, and in moments they had torn away first one section of the fence and then another.

The mortal snarl was relieved as suddenly as it had formed.

Done and over. Except for those for whom it was not.

Men piled the bodies of the dead on one side of the road to await hea.r.s.es. Most showed by the blood that had oozed from their noses and ears that they had been pressed to death. Others had been torn apart and were missing body parts and apparently had bled away their lives. As for the wounded, they were laid out on the other side of the road to wait for ambulances.

There was a constant hum made up of groans of pain, and sobs, and here and there the sound of praying. Mollie found a horse trough that had some water at the bottom and ripped off a piece of her petticoat and soaked it and went among the injured, wiping faces and hands and promising that help was on the way, unable to think of anything else she could do. She spied a child kneeling on the pavement next to another and hurried over. A little boy-five or perhaps six she guessed-dark-haired and with enormous brown eyes, looked up at her. "My little sister's hurt her leg. She can't walk." He was holding the hand of a small girl lying on the ground. Her hair was as dark as his, though her eyes were an improbable blue.

Mollie reached down and stroked the girl's hair back from her forehead and sponged her face. The child didn't respond, though she was clearly alive. Just, Mollie realized, made silent by terror. "What's her name?"

"Essie."

Mollie turned back to the girl. "There are doctors coming, Essie. They'll get you well soon. You must be brave, and I know you will be." The girl's brother meanwhile had not let go her hand. "My name is Mollie Turner," she told him. "What's yours?"

"I'm Michael," the boy said. "And her real name is Esther. She was named for Grandfather Sol's wife who went to heaven."

Mollie caught her breath. It seemed so far-fetched, but she had after all been told that Sol Ganz had gone to Brooklyn over the new bridge and she had come here precisely because she hoped he'd come back the same way. "Esther and Michael," she said. "Those are nice names. Do you know where your grandfather is now?"

"Over there." Michael gestured to the people stretched out on the pavement waiting for the ambulances.

"Stay here," Mollie said. "Don't move. I promise I'll come back for you. Do you understand, Michael? If anyone asks, remember my name. Mollie Turner. Say it now."

"Mollie Turner," the boy repeated dutifully.

"Yes, that's very good. Mrs. Joshua Turner. If someone asks or tries to get you to go anywhere say I'm returning for you. I shall, Michael. I promise. I'll come back for you and Essie." She waited until the boy nodded, then moved to the ranks of the wounded.

It took only a few minutes. Sol Ganz was lying some twenty feet beyond the spot where she'd found the two children, close to the railing that surrounded City Hall Park. Mollie got down on her knees beside him. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Ganz."

His eyes were open and he smiled up at her. "So, Mrs. Mollie, I was thinking of you," he said. "Now here you are."

The words were spoken quietly. She had to bend close to hear. She could see no obvious wounds, but when she took his hand it was chilled and his pulse was so rapid it could be seen fluttering beneath the skin of his wrist. "There are ambulances on the way, Mr. Ganz. I'll wait here with you until they come. Don't try and speak. Save your strength."

"The children . . . ," he muttered.

"They are not far. I'm watching them. Michael told me where to find you. He said he's your grandchild."

"I have many grandchildren. All over. In the city and in Brooklyn. Now . . ."

"You mustn't use your strength like this, Mr. Ganz. You can tell me later. I promise."

"No. I don't think so. Now I must tell you. I was considering you, Mrs. Mollie. For a long time I have considered. Some of the children have not even one parent . . . You and your husband, you have no . . ."

His voice trailed away and he closed his eyes and Mollie thought he was gone. But when she pressed her ear to his chest she could hear his heart. Faint, and very rapid. When she lifted her head he was again looking at her. "All day I thought, I can bring these two to Mrs. Mollie and Joshua. With the others, the ones who are Jewish, it would be a sin. But these two . . ."

"Mr. Ganz, you must save your strength."

"No. Listen to me. Michael and Esther, their father was Jewish. Not their mother. So it's not such an averah, a sin, to give them to gerei toshav, good people who do not worship idols. Not even money. So Michael and Esther, since they have no one-" His words were interrupted by a fit of coughing.

Mollie looked back over her shoulder. She could see the children, still alone, still where they had been. "Mr. Ganz, are you telling me these children are orphans?"

"Yes. The parents, both dead. Only me they have. So you-" More coughing. Mollie tried to support his shoulders and raise him up. "No," he muttered. "Listen, all my grandchildren. You must . . ." He stopped, and his next words were not, she realized, meant for her. He was saying a prayer she thought, but in a language she did not know.

After that there was a trickle of blood from the left side of his mouth and he stared sightless at the sky.

Mollie heard her name being called as she brushed closed Sol Ganz's sightless eyes.

She looked up to see Josh coming toward her. He was leaning on Ollie and his clothes were in shreds, and he seemed to have neither his cane nor his peg. Mollie sprang up and rushed to him. "Dear G.o.d, Josh, what happened? Were you in that terrible crush? Are you injured?"

"Absolutely fine," he said, and repeated it as if to convince himself. "I'm fine." Then, "Ollie, can we get to the fence do you think, so I can lean on that. And perhaps you can find me a cane in all the abandoned things that are lying about. Anything will do."

Mollie glanced again at the children. Michael was watching her intently, following her every movement with his eyes. "This way, Ollie," she said, maneuvering them to a portion of the fence nearest the youngsters.

Josh's arm around her waist was for more than support, she realized. He was hugging her close. "What happened, dearest? How did you lose your peg?"

He shook his head. "I'll tell you that part later. The worst of all this horror was apparently here at the stairs. I was some further back. It wasn't bad once we got the crowd to stop trying to move, just stand and wait."

He'd seen some soldiers trying to quell the panic by swinging from the rafters above the heads of the crowd, carrying the message that the bridge wasn't falling, that there was a crush at the stairs, nothing more. That was something he could do as well, Josh had realized. After that he'd spent many minutes swinging from the upper beams of the bridge, carrying the message that the only thing needed was patience and everyone would get off without harm. When it was over a couple of the troops propped him up on either side and helped him return to the Manhattan exit on Chatham Street. He might not have found Ollie given the chaos, but the chestnut apparently spotted him and neighed loudly in greeting.

Now it was growing dark. The horizon was a streak of orange and the arc lights that had been installed at intervals along the bridge went on one after the other, a string of jewels connecting the two cities above the silver stream of the water. Here and there electrified buildings around City Hall came alight as well. Ollie was illumined by their glow when he returned with a st.u.r.dy shillelagh. Josh grasped it, grateful that it kept him from feeling so helpless, but exhaustion was returning as the adrenaline ebbed. "I don't have the strength," he said, "to ask what you're doing here, my love. But do you think we might go home now?"

Mollie shook her head. "Yes, of course. But just one moment more, please."

She ran over to where the two children waited. "That's my husband over there, Michael. He is very tired because he has been helping the people trapped on the bridge. He would like to go home now and so would I. Would you and Essie like to come with us? Your grandfather seemed to think it would be a good idea."

The child hesitated, "I guess so. Seems like it would be all right if Grandfather Sol said so."

"Yes"-the voice came from the child still lying on the pavement-"I'm sure it's a good idea." They were the first words the little girl had spoken and Mollie instinctively reached down and kissed her cheek.

"Indeed it is. May I pick you up, Essie?"

The girl said she could, and Mollie did, and took Michael's hand and brought both children to where Josh stood watching her.

"These two were being brought to us by Mr. Ganz," she said. "I'm afraid he has pa.s.sed on." She nodded her head in the direction of the ranks of dead and injured. "Their names are Michael and Esther, and they're orphans now, but I believe he was supporting the family before the parents died. There are, I suspect, many others. That's what he meant about having grandchildren, Josh. They're here in the city and in Brooklyn as well. He said so before he died. I'm sure you will find some sort of record at his shop. If you look."

He reached over and touched her cheek. "Of course I will look. And I'll see to it that what needs to be done is done. You have my word." If in some grand scheme payment was required for the life he'd taken, perhaps this would qualify.

"Thank you," she said. "And Essie and Michael?"

He smiled. At her first, then at the children. "I'm thinking," he said, "that it's a good thing I still haven't rented the penthouse at 1160. A family of four can use the s.p.a.ce." Then, to the stableman, "See if you can get the carriage any closer, Ollie."

Moments later the brougham was a few feet away. Mollie carried Essie toward it. Josh took a tentative step using the unfamiliar shillelagh to provide balance.

The little boy, Michael by name, Josh remembered, stepped close to his side. "Here, sir, I can help if you'll just put your hand on my shoulder."

Author's Afterword.

THE NEW YORK subway system, so often discussed-indeed longed for-in this novel, ultimately evolved as extensions of the elevated railways. The first underground tunnel was opened in October of 1904. It belonged to the Interborough Rapid Transit Company, the IRT, which owned the Ninth Avenue El, and the Brooklyn Rapid Transit Company, later the Brooklyn and Manhattan Transit Company, which became known as the BMT. The independent Eighth Avenue line, the only one originally owned and operated by the city, was the IND. These separate subway systems were for nearly a century the form in which New Yorkers knew, loved, and sometimes hated their subway system. Today's unified, color-coded routes are a considerably later development.

The construction method adopted for much of the early underground portions of the subway system (some forty percent of it is, to this day, run above ground on elevated railways), was "cut and cover." The street was first torn up, the tunnel built, then covered over and regraded, newly surfaced, etc. Such was the origin of what many generations of New Yorkers would call the Lexington Avenue Line. Bringing me to a small puzzle.

Lexington Avenue was not on the original grid as laid down in 1811. It came into being in the early 1840s at the behest of Samuel Ruggles, when he created Gramercy Square Park and surrounded it with new and expensive (and taxable) luxury houses. Most sources agree that in this original incarnation the thoroughfare went only as far as Forty-Second Street. Indeed, for much of the nineteenth century everything above Forty-Second was pretty much no-man's-land. As happens in the story, things began to change with the opening of the Grand Central Depot in 1871. In this novel, however, as in some reference sources, Lexington is among the avenues that in the early 1880s still had not pushed north. Evidence to the contrary can be found on the Galt & Hoy map, but Josh deals with that in chapter 18, and it seems to me other evidence supports him. Beyond question, however, the avenue became a major north-south artery in the late 1880s. That's when the old dirt road was torn up and built anew to accommodate the building of the IRT's Lexington Avenue subway.

As a result, readers looking for any trace of the Carolina or St. Nicholas apartment buildings in today's ultra-fashionable East Sixties will not find them. In the parallel universe of this novel's truth, they were torn down to make way for the subway. Trenton Clifford's ghost no doubt looked on from h.e.l.l and laughed.

And as additional evidence for this version of history, in this neighborhood the beautiful single family townhouses date from after 1900. Park Avenue, not Third, smiled on the East Sixties and carried the day.

Acknowledgments.

ALL BOOKS STAND on the shoulders of other books-in no instance is that more true than in the matter of historical fiction. This one, like the others in the series, owes an enormous debt to the writers and editors who over two centuries created the books that chronicle New York City and now fill two entire shelves in my office. They are too many to mention, but my grat.i.tude to them is boundless. With regard to the quintessential New York quest, still a source of angst and ecstasy-finding a place to live-I relied on Charles Lockwood's Manhattan Moves Uptown (Houghton Mifflin, 1976), and New York, New York: How the Apartment House Transformed the Life of the City, by Elizabeth Hawes (Knopf, 1993).

The great Sydny Miner, editor extraordinaire, midwifed this book into existence as she had the others, but moved on before I finished it. Her impossibly large shoes were filled by a trio I have come to think of as my "rose-lipt maidens": Mich.e.l.le Rorke, Kate Ankofski, and most particularly Michele Bove, who was tireless in shepherding the ma.n.u.script through the quirks and quandaries of the production process. The final story owes much to the youthful energy and a.s.sorted points of view of all three. Mollie especially benefited from their attentions. They have my thanks.

As to making possible the book you actually hold in your hands-in whatever format-it would be considerably less than it is were it not for Loretta Denner, a senior production editor at Simon & Schuster. In terms of knowing what to ask, whom to ask, and how to get it done, she is, quite simply, in a cla.s.s of her own. Thank you. Henry Morrison brought his customary quite special skill to the origins of the project, and Marly Rusoff graciously-and effectively-became its supporter and chief cheerleader. I could not have done without either.

And finally, as always, I thank my husband, the wind beneath my wings.

ALSO BY BEVERLY SWERLING.

Shadowbrook:.

A Novel of Love, War, and the Birth of America.

City of Dreams:.

A Novel of Nieuw Amsterdam and Early Manhattan.

City of Glory:.

A Novel of War and Desire in Old Manhattan.