Tom sighed. It was obvious where she’d gone. So he might as well stay put, as she asked.
When Frank Master arrived at Gramercy Park, it was about noon. Young Tom didn’t give him a very friendly reception. Having explained that his mother had left the house only minutes before, he asked his father where he’d been, and when Frank said, “Away,” Tom gave him furious looks. It seemed to Frank that there was little point in following Hetty down to the South Street counting house, which was obviously where she’d gone, because he’d probably just miss her as she came back. The best thing was to wait for her at home. Meanwhile, if his son was going to give him these angry looks, he’d rather get him out of the house.
“Tom, there’s a big mob on its way down to the armory on Second. You’d better watch out for them. Don’t get near, but see what they’re up to, and let me know.” He looked around. “I’m going to close all the shutters.”
The South Street waterfront was quiet. Hetty wasn’t sure how long she’d been waiting at the counting house, but at least she knew now from the old clerk that Frank hadn’t disappeared. That was something. And the clerk had been clear that Frank had said he’d be back. She resolved to wait for him, therefore. There was only a hard wooden bench to sit on. Like most busy merchants, Frank didn’t encourage visitors to stay too long. She didn’t care. So long as she saw him. But an hour passed, and there was no sign of him.
From time to time, people came in and were quickly dealt with by the old clerk. Apart from that, there was only the sound of his steel-nibbed pen, scratching on ledgers. She considered going back, but she couldn’t bring herself to the thought that she might miss him on the way. It was almost two o’clock when a young clerk from one of the other counting houses stuck his head round the door.
“It’s getting rough out there. We’re shutting up shop,” he told the clerk.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“Well, ma’am, I’m afraid there’s been trouble on the West Side now. They’ve been chasing niggers up there. I don’t know if they’ve hanged any yet, but I reckon they’re looking to.”
“Why in the world would they harm black men because of the draft?” she cried.
“Because if Lincoln has his way, the city’ll be full of niggers taking the Irishmen’s jobs. Least, that’s what they think,” he replied. “That, and the fact they don’t like ’em,” he added by way of further explanation.
Hetty was so horrified she could barely speak. “What else?” she asked the young clerk.
“They’ve been coming down Fifth Avenue, destroying houses. They were at the mayor’s too. But he ain’t there now. He’s called his people to the St. Nicholas Hotel. They’re meeting there to figure out what to do. That’s all I know.”
“I am Mrs. Master,” Hetty told him. “You know my husband, I’m sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. Fine gentleman.” “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“No, ma’am. But quite a few merchants and Wall Street men were going over to the St. Nicholas to find out what the mayor intends to do. I should think he might be there.”
“If my husband should come by,” she told the old clerk, “tell him that’s where I’ve gone.”
Sean O’Donnell didn’t leave the saloon until two o’clock. Though he opened for his usual customers, he kept the shutters closed and barred. Several of the regular men asked where Hudson was.
“I sent him out to Coney Island with some things for my sister,” he lied calmly. “He’ll be gone a day or two.” Meanwhile, his wife took food down to the cellar to feed the black man.
“He’s not very happy down there,” she told him.
“He’ll be happy he’s alive when this is over,” he answered. And soon afterward he visited Hudson and said to him once again: “You stay here, and don’t make a sound.”
At two o’clock, however, he decided to walk over to the St. Nicholas Hotel himself, to find out what was going on.
There were lines of policemen in front of the hotel when Hetty arrived, but they let her through. The hotel lobby was crowded. The mayor was in a private room, she was told, with a number of gentlemen. The manager himself happened to be at the desk at that moment, and he obligingly went in to the mayor to ask if Frank Master was there with him.
“Your husband isn’t with the mayor,” he told her, “but I’ll have a boy ask round the lobby for you. He could be here somewhere.” Five minutes later, the boy returned and shook his head. “You’re welcome to wait, ma’am,” the manager said, and told the boy to find her a seat.
Despite the bustle of people, the boy found her a sofa in a sitting room. It was by a large window from which she could see people entering the hotel. Gratefully, she sat down.
She’d been there about five minutes when another lady entered the room. She was elegantly dressed, but she looked somewhat agitated. She glanced briefly past Hetty through the window, and seemed to be hesitating about whether to remain, or go back to the lobby. She evidently had not recognized Hetty. But Hetty recognized her. She rose with a smile.
“Miss de Chantal?” Hetty held out her hand. “We met once at the opera. I am Mrs. Master.”
Lily de Chantal seemed to go somewhat pale.
“Oh, Mrs. Master.”
“I am looking for my husband.”
“Your husband?” The singer’s voice was a little high.
“You haven’t seen him?”
Lily de Chantal gazed at her uncertainly. “There are a lot of people in the lobby,” she said, after a slight pause.
“I know.”
As though remembering her part after almost missing a cue, Lily de Chantal seemed to recover herself.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Master, if I seem a little distracted. I came in here for refuge. They have just told me that I should not go outside.”
Hetty looked out of the window, then back at Lily de Chantal.
“I hardly know what’s going on,” Hetty said.
And it was perhaps as well that, just then, Sean O’Donnell came into the room.
Talking to people in the lobby, it hadn’t taken Sean more than a few minutes to discover all he needed to know. The mayor’s tactic of sending small detachments of policemen to individual trouble spots had been a disaster. In every case they’d been overwhelmed. It was also clear that the attacks on black people were mounting swiftly, and that he’d been right to hide Hudson. He was only having a quick look round the public rooms, in case there was anyone of interest in them, before hurrying home.
But knowing what he did about Frank Master and Lily de Chantal, the last thing in the world he’d expected was to see Lily and Hetty together. Whatever could it mean?
“Mrs. Master.” He bowed politely. “What brings you here on such a day?” He made a quick bow to Lily as well.
“I went to my husband’s counting house, Mr. O’Donnell, but he was not there. They told me he might have come here to find out what the mayor is doing about these riots.”
Sean glanced at Lily, saw the look of relief on her face, and nodded gravely.
“That’s exactly why I’m here myself,” he said. “Wherever your husband is, Mrs. Master, the wisest thing would be for you to go home. But on no account should you try to walk. Nor you, Miss de Chantal. I’ll speak to the manager and have him find you a cab, Mrs. Master. But it may take some time—most of them are off the streets.” And then, he could not resist it: “Miss de Chantal, I’m sure, will be glad to keep you company until a cab is found.”
The old clerk at Master’s counting house had had enough. He had his own family to think of, and if Mr. Master hadn’t come back by now, he reckoned he wasn’t coming this day, anyhow. The only question was, what to do about the message from Master’s wife. Pin a note on the door? That, it seemed to the clerk, would look wrong, and beneath the dignity of the business. No, he’d write him a note and place it on his desk. Master had the key to the door. If he did come back, he’d be letting himself in, for sure.
By
two thirty, Frank Master was starting to become agitated. Round the corner, at the Second Avenue armory, a huge crowd had surrounded the building. But there was quite a large body of defenders inside, and they were armed. From time to time, stones were hurled into the building, but so far the crowd hadn’t tried to storm it. Meanwhile, there were mobs appearing in one street after another. All around.
And where the devil was Hetty? Was she trapped down at South Street? Was she trying to walk back on foot maybe? Had she been waylaid? Was she hurt? If there was only some way that he could guess which route she might take, he could go after her. He hardly wanted to admit it to himself, but a terrible feeling of guilt was overwhelming him. If only he hadn’t gone away with Lily. If only he’d stayed to look after her. What agony of mind must Hetty be in, let alone physical danger? His wife’s distraught face rose up in his imagination like a nightmare. He began to have visions of her being chased by rioters, knocked down, worse.
It was his fault. His alone.
“Pa.” It was Tom. “We need to get the carriage out. We’ve got to look for Mother.”
“Yes, I think so too. See to it, will you, Tom? Then I’ll go downtown, and you guard the house.”
“No, Pa. You better stay while I go. If she gets back here and you’re gone, I don’t know if I can stop her going out again.”
“That’s nonsense, Tom, I have to go.”
“Pa, she ain’t going to stay put until she sees you. I’m telling you, it’s you she wants.”
It was after half past three when the hotel manager came to see Hetty. She had made several applications to the front desk since Sean O’Donnell had left, but to no avail.
“You’re the first in line,” they had promised her, “but we can’t get any cabs to go uptown.” Lily de Chantal had twice had to restrain her from walking. “I can’t have your blood on my hands,” Lily had cried, the second time. Though why Miss de Chantal should be so concerned about her welfare, Hetty couldn’t imagine.
“Mrs. Master,” the manager said, “there is a lady with a carriage who is going uptown, and who would be prepared to take you.” He looked a little awkward. “I must tell you, it’s the only hope of transport I can offer.”
“I see. A lady?”
“Her name is Madame Restell.”
The wickedest woman in New York sat comfortably back in the plush seat of her carriage and gazed at Hetty. She was large-bosomed and her face was strong. Her eyes, it seemed to Hetty, were those of a bird of prey.
So this was Madame Restell, the abortionist. Hetty was aware of her by sight, but she had never thought, or wished, to be so close. If Madame Restell guessed all this, which she undoubtedly did, it was quite clear she didn’t give a damn.
“Well, I found out what I wanted,” she remarked. “That mayor’s a fool.” She gave a decisive sniff. “Almost as big a fool as Lincoln.”
“I’m sorry you think the president a fool,” Hetty remarked stiffly. She might have accepted a ride, but she wasn’t going to let herself be browbeaten by Madame Restell.
“He’s caused too much trouble.”
“You are not a Republican, I take it,” Hetty said.
“I might be. They say that people should be free to do as they like. That’s what I think. But if they start preaching at me, they can go to hell.”
“I suppose it depends on what you mean by being free.”
“I help women to be free. Free not to have a child if they don’t want it.”
“You arrange abortions.”
“Not the way you suppose. Not often. Mostly I give ’em a powder that’ll stop it.”
It was evident that Madame Restell not only liked to do as she pleased, but to talk about it as well.
“Perhaps in France they do things differently, madame,” Hetty said, politely but firmly.
This, however, was met with a loud laugh.
“You think I’m French because I call myself Madame Restell?”
“I supposed so.”
“English, dear, and proud of it. I was born in Gloucester. Dear old Gloucester. Poor as church mice, we were. Now I got a mansion on Fifth. And I still think Lincoln’s a fool.”
“I see.” Hetty let a silence fall. They passed Grace Church.
“Do you know Lincoln’s wife?” the abortionist suddenly asked.
“I haven’t the honor.”
“Well, I never saw a woman shop the way she does, I’ll say that for her. I watched her at it once. She’s like a madwoman when she gets to New York—which is quite often, as you know. No wonder the Congress complain about her.”
“Mrs. Lincoln had to refurnish the White House,” Hetty said defensively.
“I’ll say.”
“Well,” said Hetty, with dignity, “I believe people should be free, too. I believe every person has a God-given freedom no matter what their race or color. And I think Mr. Lincoln’s right.”
“Oh, he may be right, dear. I expect he is. I’ve got nothing against the darkies. They’re no better or worse than you or me, that’s for sure. But there’s an awful lot of people getting killed for it.”
They had come to Union Square now, and were about to turn right onto Fourteenth when the coachman slowed up, and tapped on the window with his whip. Along the street, at the foot of Irving Place, a mob of a hundred or more was blocking the entrance.
“Go round,” Madame Restell ordered.
They went cautiously round Union Square and tried up Fourth Avenue. There seemed to be threatening groups on every street. As they came level with the top of Gramercy Park, the crowds grew thicker, and you could see across to the huge mob laying siege to the armory. At that precise moment, a hail of paving stones hit the building, and someone hurled a barrel of burning pitch through one of the windows. There was a huge roar from the crowd.
“This is no good,” said Madame Restell decisively. “Go over to Fifth,” she called to the coachman.
“I must get out,” cried Hetty. “This is my home.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Madame Restell. “You won’t be able to get to it.”
Hetty wanted to jump out, but she couldn’t deny the truth of what Madame Restell said.
They turned up Fifth. You could see that some of the houses had been looted, but the rioters had evidently turned their attention elsewhere for the moment.
“You’d better come to my house,” said Madame Restell. “I’ve got a serving boy who can worm his way through any crowd. Regular little Five Points rat. He’ll run down to your place and tell ’em where you are.”
It might be good sense, but Hetty didn’t like it. The avenue ahead was clear, and the coachman whipped up the horses. They flew past Madison Square. The heat of the day and the dust from the horses’ hoofs made the brownstone facades of the houses unclear. She felt queasy, as if she were being pulled against her will up some strange, hot river of dust. They were in the Thirties already. On her right she saw an empty lot containing a nursery garden. A brick church suddenly towered, like an affront, on her left.
And then she saw the great, fortress-like mass of the reservoir. The place where Frank had proposed. Solid, in all this heat and dust. Unshakable as a pyramid in the desert. The foundation of her marriage. She was letting herself be carried past it. I must be mad, she thought.
They’d passed Forty-second Street.
“Stop!” She pulled open the window and shouted to the coachman. “Stop at once!”
The carriage slowed.
“What are you doing?” cried Madame Restell. “Go on,” she fairly bellowed at the coachman. But too late. Hetty had already opened the carriage door and, before the coach had even halted, tumbled out into the dusty street. “You stupid bitch!” Madame Restell called down to her as Hetty, on her knees, picked herself up from the dust at Forty-third. “Get back in.”
But Hetty didn’t care.
“Thanks for the ride,” she called, and turned to walk down Fifth. She might have a bruise or two, but she felt better. A
t least she was doing something.
As the carriage pulled away up Fifth, she did pause for a moment, though, to straighten her clothes. The heat and humidity were oppressive. She glanced around. On the corner opposite was a large building. And when she saw it, she even smiled.
If the reservoir represented the massive solidity of the city’s engineering, the orphanage for black children opposite her was a welcome reminder, even on this day of chaos, that the city did have a moral compass too. For it was the wealthy people of the city, people like herself, who had paid for the orphanage, and it wasn’t just for show. Two hundred and thirty-seven black children, from infants up, were housed, clothed, fed—and, yes, educated—in that building on Fifth Avenue. Two hundred and thirty-seven children given the chance of a decent life.
If Madame Restell, or her husband, or anyone else wanted to know what Lincoln was fighting for, she thought, let them come to the orphanage on Fifth, and see the children there.
She did not see the mob until it was upon her. They came from the side streets and swept down the avenue. Men and women alike, they were carrying bricks, clubs, knives, anything they had picked up along the way. As they continued to stream into the avenue, there seemed to be hundreds of them.
They did not pause to smash windows. They did not even look at her. A single object was their sole intent. They were making for the orphanage.
As they drew close, a loud voice cried out: “Kill the nigger children!” At which the whole crowd let out a mighty roar.
And Hetty, forgetting even her dear husband for a moment, watched in horror. She couldn’t just leave. She had to do something.
Frank Master stood beside his son in front of the big picture of Niagara Falls in the dining room. Then he turned and went to the window, and stared out.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said.