Everyone in Irish Hill knew Frank McManus.



The husky, six-foot-tall proprietor of the Union Hotel towered over the seven-block community. Founded by Irish immigrants in the 1860s, Irish Hill stretched from about Illinois and 20th streets to the San Francisco Bay. Crammed together were about 60 cottages and 40 boarding houses and hotels providing lodging for the hundreds of mostly single men working in Irish Hill factories.



By day, they worked at the Union Iron Works or the Pacific Rolling Mills, the West Coast’s first steel mill. By night, they blew off steam in the small neighborhood’s dozens of drinking establishments.



The Union Hotel was the place for Irish Hill’s most ambitious men and it all centered around McManus, a political boss in the style of Boss Tweed. He was so famous that when Hawaii’s King Kalākaua visited San Francisco in 1891, he was taken to the Union Hotel for a beer after his tour of the nearby iron works.



McManus, boisterous as usual, was introduced to the king as “the uncrowned monarch” of the neighborhood.



"Put 'er there, my royal pal," McManus said, shaking his hand. "You see, they don't allow no crowns in this blasted country, but we get there just the same."



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McManus was born in County Leitrim, Ireland in 1850 and emigrated to America in 1882. His forceful personality and propensity for violence helped him gain a quick foothold in his new home.



"He was the terror of his guests when he chose to dominate and control them,” the San Francisco Call wrote in his 1896 obituary.



He chose to often. As a staunch Republican, he was responsible for getting other Union Iron Works employees to vote the party line. Intimidation was part of the job. A search for Frank McManus in newspaper archives brings up dozens of articles: He was constantly in jail. Police brought him in repeatedly for battery and assault, attempted murder, forgery and sometimes simply the use of “vulgar language.” He rarely spent more than a night in jail, though, because he used his political pull to get charges dropped.



In court, he was as "imperious as a czar," wrote The Call in 1893, and "he was treated with much more favor and deference than an ordinary citizen.”



"I run the police," he once declared — to a judge, no less.

The law, it seemed, had no real interest in taking down McManus. But his political competition did.



The Welch brothers were Democrats, and they opened a boarding house and saloon right by the Union Hotel. Their establishment served the heavily Democratic Pacific Rolling Mills workers, and they were quick to mobilize. In the next few political primaries, the Welch brothers’ candidates won. The war was officially on.



Welch boys and McManus boys fought toe-to-toe on the streets, and their skirmishes became known as “The Blue Mud War” in the papers due to the color of the often-muddy streets.



It all came to a head on June 24, 1892. That morning, McManus was making the familiar walk out of the courthouse, this time on forgery charges. He had a full head of steam; a rumor was going around that one of the “witnesses” to his crime was a member of the Welch gang.



McManus was met by his brother Cornelius and a few other members of the McManus crew. They rushed down to Third and Howard, where the Welch boys were drinking at a bar. Patrons later told newspapers Jack Welch said he was sure he would be killed for crossing Frank McManus.



The moment he stepped outside, he was assaulted. Welch made a run for his horse cart but was ripped from safety by the McManus brothers. In a flash, Cornelius stabbed him in the stomach. Welch didn’t go down easy, though. From the ground, one hand clutching his gun, he fired off a shot. It hit Cornelius right under the heart.



The melee stopped just long enough to get Cornelius McManus and Jack Welch to the nearest hospital — but with both gangs there, the fight continued in the waiting room. Three policemen had to hold back Frank as he lunged for Jack, hoping to finish the job.



Remarkably, everyone survived, but life was never the same for Frank McManus. The feud marked the end of his reign as the king of Irish Hill. He lost his foothold in the neighborhood, and the Welch boys took over his crown. Two years later, his beloved brother Cornelius lost another fight. This time, he died, shot in a bar by a popular baseball player named Charles Sweeney.



"Frank McManus never got over the death of his brother,” The Call wrote. “He sought solace in drink, and his once magnificent physique fell away to a mere skeleton.”



McManus drank himself to death, dying in 1896. His funeral was one of the biggest Oakland had seen and a huge retinue followed him to his final resting place at St. Mary’s Cemetery.



"When in his better mood,” eulogized The Call, "his generosity and urbane manner won back to him the friends he lost when in his tantrums."



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Soon, Irish Hill too was gone.



In 1897, the Union Iron Works bought a large part of the hill to expand its operations. In order to build on it, they started demolishing the hill. They graded it, little by little, over a few years, dumping its dirt into the bay. Its peak, 90 feet above sea level, disappeared, as did its connection to nearby Potrero Hill.



The neighborhood by then had an irreparably rough reputation. Although many immigrant families lived there, headlines were overshadowed by the rowdy single men who blew off steam by drinking and fighting.



In November 1897, a massive brawl broke out when over 200 drunk and pissed-off Irish Hillers were told to disperse by police.



"There was a hot time on Irish Hill, Potrero, Saturday night and early yesterday morning,” The Call reported. “It was all caused by an unlimited supply of strong whisky sold by Mrs. Cole, the proprietress of a lodging house on the hill."



At 2 a.m., a dozen cops arrived, billy clubs in hand, to beat back the crowd. They started smashing everyone in sight with their clubs, eventually arresting 22 men for disturbing the peace. Mrs Cole, however, got away.