On Secret Service (36 page)

“I had Andrews but he got away. He's stirring up a fight.”

“Don't seem to be much going on with the colored except the usual Saturday things. They're skittish, though. Talked to one lady at her washtub, she said all hell's gonna pop Monday and colored folk better beware.”

“There's something I've got to do now, Zach.”

“I know.” Lon had shared his plans on the trip north.

“I'll see you at the hotel. Watch yourself.”

“Oh, sure,” Zach sighed, as if he knew caution wouldn't do much good if he chanced to take the wrong street and meet the wrong white men. A patrolman in a frock coat sauntered toward him, swinging the famous weapon of the Metropolitan Police, a locustwood club. Zach moved on, a lonely figure casting a long shadow in the red twilight. Lon was on his way to Gramercy Park.

He knocked four times; waited nearly five minutes on the stone stoop. At last a firefly glimmer appeared in the fanlight. A bolt rattled. The door opened partway. Margaret raised a lamp to see him, a pepperbox pistol steady in her other hand. The dark cascade of her hair shimmered in the light. He whipped off his straw hat so she could see his face.

“Oh my God.”

“Hello, Margaret. Please let me in.” A patrolman had appeared on Lexington. He gazed around the park, bull's-eye lantern swinging. She stepped back. She wore a sand-colored dressing gown, silk or some other thin material. The lace hem of an undergarment touched her bare ankles. Lon pushed the door shut behind him.

The lamp held them in a caul of yellow. Margaret managed a nervous smile. “I don't ordinarily receive gentlemen callers at night.”

“I should imagine not.”

“Donal's in Nassau for ten days.”

“I know. I made sure.”

“How? Oh, but it's rude of me to keep you standing. Put your hat on the table. Come this way.”

In the parlor she set the lamp down and closed the draperies on the windows overlooking the park. She seemed less nervous, but wouldn't look at him directly. Lon perched on a divan, devastated by her beauty, and his feelings for her, a passion suppressed for months. She sat on the other end of the divan with a good distance between them.

“How did you find out Donal was away?”

“I'm a detective. A lot of detective work is just common sense and plodding. I looked up the McKee, Withers office in a city directory. I also found this address listed with Donal's name. I shadowed your houseman on his way home this evening. He stopped at a tavern. I bought him a whiskey. After two, he was talkative. I never expected you'd be here by yourself. I only wanted to know if you were safe down in Richmond.”

“We left Richmond in December. We spent Christmas in Savannah.”

“I escaped in March.”

“I couldn't have known.”

“Not even if you'd been there,” he agreed. “They don't advertise escapes unless they're so sensational they can't be hushed up. I literally walked out of Castle Thunder. Well, stumbled. I had help I can't tell you about.”

“Yes, we're still on opposite sides, aren't we?”

“It won't last much longer. Not after Gettysburg.” He clasped her hands between his. Her skin was chilly. Her hair seemed to breathe out a scent of vanilla. “Are you all right, Margaret? Are you happy?”

“Happy? I've never been more wretched. I made a mistake marrying Donal. In so many ways. I think he wanted me”—hesitation—“physically for a while, but the moment he got what he wanted, he began to lose interest. Now I'm a fixture, like a kitchen stove. That's Donal's idea of a wife. He feels no obligation to be faithful, I might add. I suspected most of that before I married him. I have no one but myself to blame, unless it's that damned Baker, who kept me in prison.”

The stillness of the dark house wrapped them in a compelling intimacy. He felt heat in his face as he said, “If you feel that way about Donal, leave him.”

“God, yes, I would, but for one thing. I took vows. It would be dishonorable to break them.”

He slid close to her. Their knees touched. Under the silk gown her nipples were visible. “McKee's no proper husband. You just said so. I love you. I've been in love with you forever.”

“Lon, please.”

“It's true. Nothing will change that.”

“The war—”

“Forget the war.”

“How can we? There's such a huge gulf. So much hatred on both sides.”

“Not between us.”

“Do you really think we could overcome who we are, and what's happened to us?”

“It may not be easy but we can do it. Come away with me, as soon as we can arrange it.”

“How long will you be in New York? Are you on a case?”

“Yes. One draft office started drawing names today. They'll all be open on Monday. Washington's afraid there may be disturbances, perhaps stirred up by Confederates. I was sent here to do whatever I could to stop it.”

“So we're still fighting the war. Except that I've done a pathetic job of avenging my father.”

“Maybe you were never cut out for that. Maybe you should leave it to someone else.” On the verge of mentioning her brother, he pulled back. He couldn't tell her what Miller had done to him in prison. Instead, he said, “Back in Ohio, my father was a minister. He preached that an eye for an eye leaves two people blind.” Lon realized it was a lesson he'd chosen to overlook of late.

She sighed. “Perhaps you're right. Sometimes I think I don't know myself, or where I'm going in this world.”

“You're going with me. You're going to pack and leave this house and let me take you to Washington. Do you still have your place there?”

“Oh, yes. I've thought of selling it but things have moved too fast. I've had no time.”

“When we get to Washington, we'll decide what to do next. The first step is to leave your husband.”

“I wish I had the courage.”

“You do, I know it.” He took hold of her shoulders. Her eyes were huge, dark, a little frightened. He leaned toward her. She didn't withdraw or resist. He kissed her. For a moment she didn't respond. Then, suddenly, her arms flew around his neck.

He caressed her breasts. She murmured, “Oh God, oh God.” His hand rested on her knee. He lifted the silk gown and the garment beneath. She opened her lips.

Finally the embrace ended with both of them laughing as they gulped air. Margaret leaned back, her hair disarrayed, her cheeks reddened. She loosened the satin strings that tied the collar of her gown. She opened the gown and let it fall away from deep cleavage. Her undergarment didn't reach above the waist.

“Here?” he said.

“The bed would be better.”

She left the lamp burning in the parlor and led him upward through the dark. They struggled out of their clothes, he taking longer, sitting beside her on the bed. They kissed and caressed as he dropped his shoes, his trousers, his shirt. The closed-up house was hot as a furnace.

Their arms and legs tangled. She kissed with wild ardor, stroking his hair, his naked shoulders, whispering, “I've wanted this so long. You don't know how much.” Then they were together, her legs clasping him, her back arching under him, her nipples crushing up beneath him, hard as little stones. It hardly seemed a moment until something in both of them released in one great, long convulsion. Margaret cried out, fell back, gasping.

“I love you, Lon. Oh, heaven, I do. It's sinful, it's against all reason, but I can't help it.”

“I love you, Margaret. Now and always.”

“Hold me. Kiss me. I want you again.”

Damp hair hung on his forehead. A trickle of sweat tickled his nose. “In a little while,” he said, and kissed her with consuming tenderness.

 

Much later, three in the morning, after they'd enjoyed each other a second time, they lay in each other's arms listening to a distant bell. She murmured, “What's that?”

“Fire bell. It's a long way off.” But it reminded him of Monday morning.

After a silence she said, “I must tell you something. My brother's in the city.”

“Your brother Cicero?”

“Yes, from Richmond. He doesn't know you, I asked him once.”
Lying bastard,
he thought.

“You spoke of Confederate agents,” Margaret went on. “He may be one of them.”

Castle Thunder rose up in his imagination. Cridge, Miller, the beatings. How could he tell her? Someday perhaps he could, but not now. Still, he had his job. “Where is he? A hotel?”

“He wouldn't say.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Because if everything's going to be open between us—if we're going to be close—I can't have secrets.”

He believed her. It relieved him, yet it made things more difficult, because he had secrets of his own. In a level voice he said, “Well, since we don't know where he is, we can't worry about him. If there's no serious trouble on Monday, I'll come for you Monday night, about the same time. If something keeps me away, I'll be here Tuesday night. But I promise I'll come.”

“I'll be waiting.” She kissed him.

He left in turmoil. He wished she hadn't said what she had about her brother. Now he had to search for Miller; apprehend him if possible.

Ridiculous idea. With eight hundred thousand people to hide him, he'd never be found.

But Miller was identifiable; he stood out. Suppose Lon did catch him. Could he hold back from doing what he swore to do to Miller after Richmond? It would be hard to keep from venting his rage.

He would do it somehow. He would discharge his duty, turn Miller over to his superiors unharmed, and at the same time take Margaret away to a new life.

Somehow.

Lon never cut himself shaving or trimming his beard. Sunday morning his hand slipped and the razor gashed his cheek. He bled heavily. He wondered if it was a sign.

He asked Zach to leave the city.

“No, sir. I've seen the bad looks, but I can't run off like some whipped hound. I got to strike a blow.”

In the pitiless heat the two roamed the east and west sides, finding widespread unrest, but nothing immediately threatening. They drifted back to the Bowery about four. Zach stayed outside the Roost while Lon went in.

A drunk lay in the sawdust and his own vomit. A sad-eyed boy with a huge cranium listlessly dabbed at the mess with a slops rag. At the bar Lon paid for a whiskey. A new barkeep was on duty. Lon laid three more fifty-cent shinplasters on the scarred wood. The barkeep raised an eyebrow. Lon told him what he wanted. The shinplasters disappeared.

“Yeah, he come by here. Noon or so. Bald as an egg. Tilts to port when he walks, ain't that him?”

“It is. Did he give his name?” The barkeep shook his head. “Is he staying around here?”

“Couldn't say. He spoke awhile to some of my regulars. Fired 'em up pretty good. They went off to plan things for tomorrow.”

“Plan what?”

The barkeep eyed the spot where the shinplasters had been. Lon laid out three more.

“Said there'd be a coon hunt. They'd catch coons and roast 'em.”

“What else?”

“I had to wait on trade, y'unnerstand. I didn't hear everything. They talked about Thoid Avenue. I heard the word
armory
a few times, and something about steam.”

The New York State Armory, Second Avenue at Twenty-first. The Union Steam Works nearby. Guns. Manufactured and stored in both locations. Baker had given him a list. He handed a coin to the poor idiot boy and walked out.

 

Hell boiled over in New York that hot, overcast Monday.

Lon asked Zach to cover the black slums, looking for rebs they'd already identified—Andrews, and the slim young man. Lon mentioned Cicero Miller again, on the remote chance that Zach might happen on to him. “Meet me in City Hall Park around six o'clock.”

At half-past eight, pistol in his pocket, Lon stationed himself on the corner of Forty-sixth and Third, across from the draft office. It opened at nine, but the provost's men didn't immediately draw names, as if they expected trouble. About ten-thirty, minutes after the first name was pulled from the drum, Lon heard a low roar, like an ocean surge. Behind the shimmers of heat to the north, men and women ran into Third Avenue from Forty-seventh. Lon estimated a hundred. They kept coming; he estimated three or four hundred. They filled the street. Far too many people to have gathered spontaneously.

They waved placards:
NO DRAFT
! They brandished sticks, chains, rocks, cleavers. Some shinnied up telegraph poles and cut the wires with axes. The telegraph connected Mulberry Street with thirty-two police precincts. A mob didn't attack communications without being prompted.

People swarmed around a stalled horsecar, dragged passengers off, punched and kicked them. Two rioters threw an older woman onto the horsecar steps. One held her while the other lifted her skirts and unbuttoned his fly.

Rioters piled up in front of the draft office. Others kept moving south. Lon recognized black shirts and leather fire helmets from the Forty-eighth Street firehouse. More and more people poured out of Forty-seventh; a thousand or more.

Women shouted obscenities. Men shouted, “Kill the rich!” The mob focused its rage on some sixty precinct police who came charging into them swinging locust clubs. The police clubbed men, women, youngsters, anyone who challenged them. It was a losing fight. If one rioter fell, four replaced him. Desperately outnumbered, some of the police fled. Those remaining hammered on the draft office door, and when it opened, rushed inside. Rioters followed, reappearing to shout, “They ran out the back, goddam cowards.” The mob howled.

“Torch it!”

“Kill the rich!”

“Hang the niggers!”

“No draft, no draft!”

Lon saw metal cans and bottles passed forward into the office. He'd seen the cans before. Someone tossed a match. A fireball erupted from the doorway. A man standing too near caught fire and ran around like a decapitated chicken. People laughed and let him burn.

Two women attacked a lame soldier with iron pipes. The boy's head broke like a melon. Third Avenue was a heaving sea of humanity. Fifty Invalid Corps soldiers, armed, appeared in Forty-sixth Street. Some were tough and sturdy, others pallid, not yet recovered. Their lieutenant ordered the mob to retreat. Men and women charged him. The soldiers fired into the crowd, to the sound of hideous screaming. Rioters fell. Others trampled over them, attacking and scattering the soldiers. The black-shirted firemen flailed their belts like whips, splitting faces open, putting out eyes with the brass buckles.

A rioter shoved his fist in Lon's face. “Why aren't you fighting? Kill the rich!” Lon screamed back, “Kill them all!” and pumped his fist in the air. Satisfied, the rioter went on.

Flames ate through the walls of the enrollment office, and upward to tenement rooms. Floors gave way; walls collapsed in torrents of sparks. Fire bells clanged in the cross streets, but horses and equipment couldn't pass the human barrier, nor were the firemen especially game to try.

In the two hours that followed, the mob divided many times. Roving bands in the Forties and down into the Thirties tore up tracks of the New Haven railroad at Fourth Avenue, broke into stores, carried off anything useful or desirable and set fire to the rest. Lon guessed the liquid in the incendiary bottles to be one of several concoctions called Greek fire.

Heavy clouds appeared at noon, threatening rain. Smoke from burning buildings added a second cloud layer and dropped particles of soot in Lon's hair. He roamed with his gun in his pocket, appalled, angry, guilty because one man couldn't hope to stop the destruction. Nor was he supposed to try.

Every few minutes rumors flew through the crowd. “They killed John Kennedy.”

“Dirty sod was coming up here by himself to stop us.”

“Hurrah, Superintendent Kennedy's dead!”

The head of the police force killed? Disorder was becoming chaos.

About two o'clock, Lon walked through an aimless crowd on Third Avenue, amid wreckage of carriages, drays, carts, and overturned trolleys. Someone shouted, “The armory, the armory.” Lon spotted the embroidered smoking cap of the slim young man he'd seen on Saturday. “Let's take the armory. Weapons for everybody!” Energized again, rioters surged into the cross streets, flowing toward Second Avenue.

Lon shouldered past the slower ones. When he couldn't force his way through, he showed the Colt. A burly man wearing an eyepatch stuck the point of a knife in Lon's throat; reached for the gun. “Mine.” Lon shot him in the leg.

People screamed, backed away from the wounded man. Lon had a clear path into the avenue. The slim young man saw him, started to run. The tongue of a pushcart tripped him. He sprawled on the wooden sidewalk on the avenue's near side. Lon closed the gap.

The smoking cap fell off as the slim young man sat up, pulled a derringer from his coat. Lon fired one shot to the chest, the second in the forehead. The slim young man fell sideways, out of the game.

For blocks around, stores and tenements blazed. Smoke thickened beneath the storm clouds. Now and then a phalanx of police in frock coats appeared to make another charge. Each time a few rioters fell but the police always retreated.

The mob stormed south to Twenty-first, to a five-story wooden building with a signboard reading
MARSTON
&
CO
. Lon's list said Marston manufactured carbines on the two lower floors, stored them in a third-floor drill hall along with older muskets, bayonets, and ammunition. The list also said Mayor George Opdyke was a silent partner in Marston.

The mob broke down the doors and pushed inside as another hundred police attacked with clubs. A furious melee of brass knuckles, pitchforks, bricks, and bottles ensued. Rioters choked the armory door. Some reached the third floor, kicked out window lights, threw down carbines, muskets, and bayonets.

Then someone inside set the place afire. The old building burned like paper. Flames engulfed the stairs and reached the third floor in two minutes. Trapped rioters jumped screaming from the broken windows. Those on the first floor kicked and hit and stomped their comrades to escape. A double line of coppers waited outside, beating the rioters savagely, dropping them in bloody heaps. Lon was stupefied; this wasn't warfare, it was mass insanity.

He started south and immediately ran into a slum gang moving north. “Look out, look out, the Bowery B'hoys are comin'!” Before Lon could avoid it the gang rolled over him, throwing him to the ground, kicking him, pelting him with stones. Then they rushed on, chanting, “Bowery B'hoys rule, Bowery B'hoys rule.” Lon struggled up, nauseous with pain. The reopened razor gash bled all over his tan linen suit, already a patchwork of rips and stains.

Slipping through alleys, hiding out or detouring to avoid other gangs, he traveled south through a wasteland of looted stores, broken glass, burning vehicles, wounded people sitting or lying on curbstones, others watching from rooftops, black carrion against the ominous sky. A hundred people marching north sang, “We'll hang old Greeley from a sour apple tree.”

He saw evidence of mob violence all the way to City Hall Park, which he reached at five-thirty. For an hour he wandered past benches hacked into kindling, small cannon set up to defend City Hall, temporary barracks with smashed windows. The fine municipal fountain had been knocked to pieces. Water gushed from its central pipe and formed a small lake. Where was Zach?

As if summoned by Lon's fear, Zach's head rose up behind an overturned phaeton. In his belt he carried a dirk and a policeman's club.

“You awright, 'Lonzo? You a sight.”

“You're not much better.” Zach's sleeves were in tatters, his curly hair powdered with brick dust. His left eye was almost hidden by a swollen lid.

“Spot anyone we know?”

Zach shook his head. “Ran into some of them coon hunters. Got away, though. God's mercy, 'Lonzo, I never seen nothin' like this. Over by the East River they burned a bunch of colored shanties. And did you hear they burned a Negro orphan asylum uptown? Everyone got out but one tiny little girl, they killed her. I got that from a policeman. He said people almost killed the head man on the force.”

“Superintendent Kennedy.”

“He's in a hospital, Bell-something. Stab wounds all over him. What do we do now?”

“Keep looking for the men responsible. Remember the one in the smoking hat? He's dead.”

“You do it?”

“Yes. Are you game to go back to that place on the Bowery?”

“Why not? Can't be more scared than I am a'ready.”

A fiery haze spread over the city. Dusk came early because of the clouds and smoke. Moving cautiously, hands never far from their weapons, they passed through looted streets whose gas lamps had been shot to pieces. They turned a corner and saw an old Negro, fat and white-haired, hanging by his neck from a rope tied to a lamppost. Pinned to his trousers was a placard:
NO DRAFT
! Zach cursed.

The Bowery was relatively calm. Saloons were brightly lit and busy. Lon bought two roasted yams from a vendor brave enough to keep his cart on the street. Fire bells rang incessantly; guns racketed in the distance. Lon peered in the plate-glass window of the Roost. The saloon was packed, men drinking and laughing as if it were a holiday. A shiver ran down his spine. Sometimes the cards came up all aces.

“He's in there. Eating the free lunch and celebrating.”

Puzzled, Zach cocked his head.

“Miller. This time we'll get him.”