“I don’t know,” said Mary, pleased, but not sure what to do with this flattery.
“You have an artist’s eye,” he said. “It’s rare, you know.”
“Oh.” Mary almost blushed.
Gretchen stood up.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s walk back.”
They ate a little in the middle of the day, and while they did so, Theodore spoke again of Mary’s drawing of the doe. “She should sketch here every day,” he said to his sister.
In the afternoon, Mary and Gretchen changed into their matching swimming dresses again. This time, Theodore joined them. His swimming suit covered most of his body, but Mary could see his manly form. He was in a playful mood. He splashed both the girls in the water, and they laughed. Then Mary fell down when a wave hit her, and he helped her up, and Mary felt his strong arm holding hers for a moment. It seemed to Mary that Gretchen was looking a bit put out, so when they came out of the sea, Mary sat down beside her and told Theodore: “Now you leave us girls alone.” So Theodore went for a walk along the beach, and Mary put her arm round Gretchen’s shoulder, and talked to her for a while until Gretchen was in a better mood.
“Do you remember how you got me my job with the Masters?” she said. “I never knew you could lie like that, Gretchen. I was quite shocked.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Saying my father, God rest his soul, was going to get married to a widow with a house of her own?”
“I only said ‘If he got married.’ I never said it was going to happen.”
“You’re a monster.”
“I am,” said Gretchen, and smiled.
When Theodore returned, they all went back to the inn. Gretchen asked Theodore if he was going back to the city now, but he said no, he thought he might stay another day.
After they’d changed and dressed, they went downstairs, and for a while Gretchen and Mary played cards with some of the other guests. Theodore was sitting in an armchair deep in a book. The weather was still sultry, and the fall of the cards seemed slow. Two days of sea air and exercise had made Mary feel wonderfully relaxed. “I could just laze around and do nothing all week,” she said to Gretchen. And her friend smiled and said, “Good. Because this week, nothing is all you’re supposed to do.”
The evening meal passed much as before; there was quiet talk and laughter, and by the end of it, the food and wine and sea air left Mary with such a delicious sense of ease that she whispered to Gretchen: “I think I had too much to drink.”
“We’d better walk along the beach then,” said Gretchen. “Clear your head.”
So when people finally got up from the tables, Mary and Gretchen, with Theodore between them, walked by the sea together, and they all three linked arms, and Theodore began to hum a little march. It felt very nice, Mary thought, having her arm linked in Theodore’s, and she couldn’t help thinking how wonderful it would be if they were all one family, and she were married to Theodore and Gretchen was her sister-in-law. She knew it was impossible, of course, but she’d had a bit too much to drink and sometimes, she thought, you can’t help thinking of things.
The sun was still some way above the sea when they came back to the inn. A few people, tired like themselves, were starting to turn in; others were sitting on the porch, waiting to watch the sunset. But Mary was still a little light-headed, so she said she’d better turn in. Theodore said goodnight, and Gretchen came up to the room with her.
The soft evening light was coming through the window as they changed into their nightdresses. Mary tumbled into bed and lay staring up at the ceiling, which seemed to be moving, ever so slightly. Gretchen came over and sat on her bed.
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“Only a little,” said Mary.
After a little pause, Gretchen said, “I wish Theodore would go.”
“Don’t say that,” said Mary.
“I love my brother, but I really came here to have a holiday with you.”
“We’re having a good time,” Mary answered sleepily.
Gretchen didn’t say anything for a little while, but she gently stroked Mary’s hair.
“Have you ever been with a man, Mary?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m a respectable girl,” Mary murmured. She didn’t want to talk to Gretchen about that, so she closed her eyes and pretended she was falling asleep. Gretchen continued stroking her hair, and Mary heard her give a little sigh.
“I don’t want you getting hurt,” she said quietly. Mary knew that her friend was trying to warn her, but she went on pretending to fall asleep. And as she did so, she thought to herself that she was twenty-nine years old now and she’d never been with a man, and if it were to be anyone, excepting Hans of course, then better Theodore than any other. At least he’d know how to treat her right. He wouldn’t be like Nolan. If it were to happen, she’d have to be careful, because of the risk, and she was a respectable girl.
But why was she respectable? She knew why she was respectable in Gramercy Park, because she wanted to be like the Masters. And she knew why she’d wanted to be respectable when she was a girl, so as not to be like the people in Five Points. But she was neither one thing nor the other, really, if she came to think of it. Somehow, out here, with nothing but the ocean and the soft sound of the surf breaking on the beach, she hardly knew what she might be any more. And Gretchen was still gently stroking her hair when she fell asleep.
Sean awoke early on Monday morning, and went straight down to the bar. Opening the outer door, he took a quick look out into the street. All quiet. He closed the door, bolted it again and started to check the bar. He’d only been working a few minutes when his wife appeared. She gave him a mug of tea.
“You were restless last night,” she remarked.
“Sorry.”
“Still worried?”
“I was remembering ’57.”
If the history of Five Points was a long disgrace, six years ago the place had surpassed itself. It had been just this time of the year as well. Two of its Catholic gangs, the Dead Rabbits and the Plug Uglies, had started a big fight with their traditional rivals, the Protestant Bowery Boys. Who knew what had set them off in such a rage, or why? Who cared? But this time the battle had got completely out of hand and raged over so many streets that Sean had thought it might even reach his bar. Mayor Wood’s police could do nothing. Finally, the militia had to be called in, and by then, some of the streets had been reduced to ruins. God knows how many died—the gangs buried their own dead. Sean knew where many of the bodies were hidden, in the dark recesses of Five Points.
“You think it could happen again?”
“Why not? The gangs are all there.” He sighed. “I s’pose I was just as stupid, years ago.”
“No.” His wife smiled. “You’d kill someone, but not in anger.”
Sean drank his tea. “You know who came in the bar yesterday?” he said. “Chuck White.” There were plenty of the White family around. They’d had a bit of money sixty years ago, but two or three generations of large families, and they were mostly back where they’d started. Chuck White drove a cab. But he was also a volunteer fireman. “He ain’t too pleased about the draft. Says they’re supposed to exempt the firemen, but they didn’t.” He shook his head. “Bad idea, annoying the firemen.” He took another gulp of tea. “They like fires. That’s why they’re firemen.”
“They’ll refuse to put them out?”
“No. They’ll start ’em.”
At six thirty Hudson appeared and silently began to clean up. Sean gave him a nod, but said nothing.
At a little after seven, there was a knock at the street door. Sean went to it, and looked out cautiously. It was a tobacconist from nearby. Sean opened the door.
“There’s a bunch of men over on the West Side. Big crowd and growing. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Where are they headed?”
?
??Nowhere yet. But they’re going to head uptown, to Central Park. And then across to the Draft Office, I reckon. It’s only three hours and some till the damn lottery starts again.”
Sean thanked him, then turned to Hudson.
“We’ll close the shutters and bar them now,” he announced.
“You think they’ll come down here afterward?” his wife said.
“They might.” Sean inspected the shutters, checked the door again, and turned to Hudson. “You’re going down to the cellar. You’ll stay there till I tell you it’s safe to come up.”
“What’s the draft got to do with Hudson?” his wife asked, after the black man had gone down, rather unwillingly, to the cellar.
But Sean O’Donnell didn’t answer.
At nine o’clock, Frank Master knew he really ought to be going. He gazed across at Lily de Chantal. She was sitting up in bed, in a lacy gown, and she looked delicious. But before he left, there was a question or two that he needed to ask.
“Should you like to go up to Saratoga, one day?” he inquired.
He loved Saratoga, and journeys to the fashionable resort could be accomplished in considerable style. For those who could afford it, there was a sumptuous steamer, like a little floating hotel, that plied its way up the Hudson all the way past Albany. Then carriages took you to the great summer houses and hotels of the spa. That journey upriver still felt as much of an adventure to him now as it had when he was a boy.
And there was no doubt in his mind, after that weekend, that he wanted to share the journey with her. They’d have to be circumspect, of course. He couldn’t very well carry out a public affair with her, even up in Saratoga, with New York society there. But these things could be managed discreetly. He knew other men who did so.
The question was, did Lily de Chantal wish to go?
“You love the Hudson River, don’t you?” she said. “When’s the first time you went up it?”
“When I was a boy. My father took us all, to escape the yellow fever when it was in the city. Then, a bit later, he took me all the way across to Niagara Falls, for the opening of the Erie Canal.”
“I can imagine you as a little boy. What was your father like? Was he a good man?”
“He was.” Frank smiled. “He tried to show me the majesty of Niagara Falls. He wanted to share it with me. Wanted to open my heart.”
“Did he succeed?”
“Not then—I only saw the volume of falling water—but I remembered.”
“You feel it now?”
“Yes, I believe I do.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I will come with you to Saratoga, Mr. Master. But wait a little while. Then, if your heart tells you to, ask me again.”
“As you wish.”
“It’s what I wish.”
Suddenly Frank laughed. “I just remembered. I was angry with him that day. At Niagara.”
“Why?”
“Oh, to do with a little Indian girl. It’s not important. The Falls were the main thing.”
“I may stay here a few hours before I go home,” she said. “I feel rather lazy. Do you mind?”
“Keep the room as long as you like.”
“Thank you.”
It was in the hotel lobby that he heard about the marches.
“First the West Side, then the East,” a fellow guest told him. “They’re going uptown to protest against the draft. Quite a few of the factories along the East River have closed in sympathy.”
“What sort of crowd?”
“Union men. Irish, of course, but a lot of the German workers too. They mean to surround the Draft Office, I believe.”
“Violent?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Hmm.” Master considered whether to go home. The union men wouldn’t be interested in Gramercy Park, though, and the Draft Office was more than twenty blocks further north. He decided to go to his counting house first.
The air felt thick and heavy when he stepped into the street. It was going to be one of those hot and humid July days. He started to walk down Broadway—it was only a mile to City Hall. Things seemed quiet enough. He continued down to Trinity Church and turned across Wall Street to the East River. A few minutes more and he was at his counting house. His clerk was there, working quietly as usual.
After ten minutes, a young merchant looked in.
“Looks like things are getting rough up the East Side,” he reported. “They’ve been pulling down the telegraph lines. Broke into one store and took a load of broad axes. I wouldn’t care to be running the draft lottery today.”
Telling his clerk he’d be back later, but to lock up if there was any sign of danger, Master started to walk along the South Street waterfront. At Fulton Street, he found a cab and told the driver to head up the Bowery and across into Gramercy Park. Everything there seemed to be quiet. “Go up Third Avenue,” he said to the driver. He had no desire to encounter his wife just yet.
At Fortieth Street, the driver refused to go any further.
The crowd was huge and blocking the avenue. Some had placards saying NO DRAFT. Others were beating copper pans like gongs. There seemed to be a few dozen policemen guarding the marshal’s office where the draw for the draft was supposed to start again, but it was obvious that they wouldn’t be able to do much if the crowd turned ugly. He saw a respectable-looking man like himself standing nearby and approached him.
“Why so few police?” he remarked.
“Mayor Opdyke. Typical Republican. Hasn’t a clue. Hope you’re not a Republican,” the man added, apologetically.
“I’m not.” Master smiled.
“Oh my God,” said the man. “Look there.”
The crowd saw too, and sent up a roar of approval, as, dressed in their full firefighting gear, the entire Black Joke Engine Company No. 33 came marching out of a side street and made straight toward the building.
“Do you know why they’re here?” the man asked Master, who shook his head. “Their chief was drafted on Saturday.”
“Unfortunate.”
“I’ll say.”
“What’ll they do?”
“Think about it,” said his companion, cheerfully. “The draft records are still inside that building. To destroy the records, therefore …” “They will burn it down.” “They are logical men.”
The Black Joke firemen didn’t waste time. Within moments, volleys of bricks and paving stones smashed through the windows. The police were swept aside. Then the firemen marched into the building, found the drum used for the lottery draw, poured turpentine over everything, set fire to the building and marched out. They were very professional. The crowd roared approval.
And from somewhere, a shot was fired.
“Better be going,” said the man, and hurried away.
Frank Master did not hurry away. He found a covered stoop a couple of blocks distant, and watched from there. The crowd was thoroughly roused now, tearing up paving stones and hurling them at the burning building. After a while, a body of troops appeared, moving up the avenue. But when he saw them come close, Master almost winced.
It was the Invalid Corps, the wounded soldiers, still recovering from the hospital, poor devils. All the able-bodied men had been sent to Gettysburg two weeks earlier. The invalids came up bravely.
But the crowd cared nothing for the invalids’ bravery, or their wounds. With a roar they rushed at them, throwing paving stones or anything else they could find. Hopelessly outnumbered, the invalids fell back.
Now the crowd had tasted blood. While the flames still rose from the Draft Office, they began to move across town, smashing house windows as they went. Frank followed them. He saw some women with crowbars, tearing up the streetcar lines. At Lexington Avenue, he heard a roar. They’d discovered the police chief. They beat his face to a pulp. People were pouring in from the tenements to join the crowd. A huge party headed for Fifth Avenue, and started moving south. Then, as he was wondering what to do next, he heard another cry.
&n
bsp; “Guns, boys! Guns!” And then, a moment later: “The Armory!”
A large group separated from the rest and started across town. There was an armory on Second Avenue at Twenty-second. Only a block and a half from Gramercy Park.
Master turned, and started to run.
Young Tom had never seen his mother in such a state. An hour ago, he’d nearly gone down to his father’s counting house, but then decided he’d better stay home. To hell with his father if he was skulking down there, he thought. His duty was to make sure his mother was safe.
Hetty Master had hardly slept for two nights. The first evening she had told Tom quietly that his father had to be away that night on business. The second, she’d admitted that they had quarreled. “No doubt he will return tomorrow,” she had added calmly. Looking at his mother’s pale, drawn face, Tom had to admire her dignity.
But this morning had been too much, even for her strong mind. First, they’d heard the commotion as the marchers streamed up the avenues, though they hadn’t come through Gramercy Park. Tom had gone out to see what was going on and met a neighbor who’d just come up from South Street.
“They’re going uptown to protest against the draft,” he’d said, “but everything’s quiet down by South Street. No trouble downtown at all, not even in Five Points.” This news had reassured the household, and Tom had decided not to bother with his father.
Since the news of the riot at the Draft Office reached them, however, his mother had become agitated. She stood at the big window, staring out at the square and murmuring: “Where can he be?”
“I’ll go down and find him,” Tom now offered, but she begged him not to. “It’s bad enough having your father out there,” she said. And feeling that he should probably stay to protect her, he didn’t press it.
So he went up to the top of the house. From the attic window, he could see the flames rising from the Draft Office, twenty-five blocks to the north. He watched them for some time before coming down.
Reaching the hall, he did not see any sign of his mother. He called her name. No answer. The parlormaid came out.
“Mrs. Master’s gone,” she told him. It seemed his mother had seen a cab draw up at the house next door, run out and taken it. “She said you were to stay and mind the house,” the parlormaid reported.