by Ginny Dye
Shelby smiled bravely, now too exhausted to speak. She merely nodded her head weakly. Elsie planted a warm kiss on her child’s forehead, then gathered the baby close, and walked down the stairs to the basement.
Abby was the last to go before Dr. Benson followed her. She looked back for one final glimpse of the courageous woman who had let others’ hatred and bitterness endow her with strong compassion and selflessness.
Stephen already had the family assembled by the window, which he’d pried open. “We’re ready,” he called softly.
Elsie turned to Abby as they were waiting for the children to pass through the window. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry you had to be here during this, but I don’t know what I would have done without your help with the children.” She paused. “You also helped remind me that not all white people hate us. I need to remember that - and I want my children to learn it.”
Abby searched for words to express her own horror that people of her race could commit the unpardonable acts they had today. She simply squeezed Elsie’s hand warmly. No words could ever express what she was feeling.
The night was beginning to cool when Abby congregated with the family in the cluttered, trashy clearing. A soft breeze bathed their burning faces while twinkling stars seemed to assure them that not all the world was terror and violence.
“The police station is only a few blocks away,” Dr. Benson whispered. “No one says a word until we get there.”
“Will we get to eat there?” Reuben asked plaintively.
Elsie put a finger to his lips. “Hush. We’ll eat soon.”
Stephen led the way through the narrow alleys snaking between the buildings as he peered cautiously around all corners before he advanced. Abby snuggled Mabel close and followed, her heart hammering with fear and envisioning what would happen if someone saw the fugitive family.
It seemed like an eternity before they finally broke out of the last alley and saw the station standing like a sentinel before them. Abby gathered her skirts around her and dashed across the road with the rest of the family, heaving a sigh of relief when a solidly built policeman stepped forward to confront them.
“Who’s there?” he called sharply, then peered at them harder. “Is that you, Dr. Benson?”
“With my family,” Dr. Benson moved into the light from the gas lamp. “Will we be safe here?”
“As long as you don’t mind staying in some jail cells for the night,” the policeman replied. “I heard your house was broken into. It could be a little while before we get you back in there. The mayor has called for militia, but it could take them a few days to get here. We simply don’t have enough men to bring this thing under control.”
Dr. Benson shrugged. “My family is safe,” he said. “That’s what matters.”
“I’m hungry!” Reuben wailed.
Abby laughed. The little boy had been brave all day. Now that he was safe he would concentrate on what was important.
“All right, little man,” the policeman said. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”
He turned to Dr. Benson. “It will be crowded. We’ve had folks coming in all day. I’m afraid it’ll be a little uncomfortable.”
Abby thought about the misery they had endured that day on the hot roof and smiled.
The policeman turned to her. “Who are you, ma’am?” he asked courteously.
“My name is Abigail Stratton. I was visiting the Bensons when the mob started rioting.”
“Abigail Stratton?” the policeman repeated, looking thoughtful. “Are you the one Michael has been asking about?”
“Michael Livingston?” Abby asked excitedly. “Is he here?”
“No. But we’ve had a couple of communications about you. There have been some folks real worried about you. I’ll wire over to the main precinct that you’re all right.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid we can’t get you out of here tonight. It wouldn’t be safe.” His brow creased. “I’m afraid we don’t have very luxurious accommodations, but we’ve got a room off to the back of the building with a small cot.”
“I’ll stay with my friends,” Abby said firmly.
The policeman opened his mouth to argue but then shut it, seeming to realize it wouldn’t matter. He nodded. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Stratton.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Abby woke the next morning, stiff and sore from her night in the cramped jail cell. She lay quietly for a few minutes and observed the people around her. All of the jail cells were crammed full of fugitives from the mob. She reflected on the stark injustice of their being the ones contained by bars - forced to hide from the ones who really deserved to be in jail.
Abby also had to admit it was rather uncomfortable being the only white face in a sea of ebony. It was rather a new sensation to be the minority. Even though it felt awkward, she was truly glad for the experience. She had learned long ago that the only way to truly understand what a person was feeling was to experience it herself. She knew her limited time in the cell could never truly enlighten her on what it must be like to be black, but for just a moment she could feel the loneliness and insecurity that sprang from being different.
Abby heard the jangle of keys and looked up just as the officer from the night before swung the door open to the outside. His face was lined with fatigue, his eyes swollen. He clearly had not gotten any sleep. What was going on out in the city?
“Mrs. Stratton?” he called.
Abby swung her legs over the narrow cot she had been sharing with Mabel and Reuben and sat up. They stirred but didn’t awake. The long day before had left them completely exhausted. She smiled at them tenderly then looked up. “Yes, officer?”
“Michael Livingston is here for you, ma’am.”
Abby smiled in relief. “That’s wonderful!” The officer unlocked the cell and swung the door open. “What’s going on out in the city?” she asked.
Dr. Benson and his wife sat up and listened quietly.
The officer shrugged his shoulders. “It’s still early, ma’am, but it doesn’t look good. The crowds are already building up. There’s still time for you to make it out of here, though,” he said reassuringly.
“But what about my friends?” Abby protested. “When can they go home?”
The officer just shook his head. “I have no idea. I’m sorry.”
Abby hesitated, staring at the family stuffed into the cell. “Come with me,” she said suddenly. “There is plenty of room at the Livingstons’. I know they won’t mind,” she said.
Dr. Benson shook his head firmly. “We’ll stay right here until it’s safe for us to go home.”
Elsie stood and slipped her arm around Abby’s waist. “You go. We’ll be fine here. This is our home. One never learns to like it, but we are accustomed to fighting for the right to live our lives.” She paused. “Thank you,” she finished softly.
“Thank you,” Abby said gratefully. “I’m quite sure your taking me in saved me from great harm. May I come back to visit when I’m in New York again?”
“We would like that very much,” Dr. Benson said instantly. “There is much we have to discuss. I’m sorry events made that impossible.”
Abby forced a smile. “Someday things will get back to normal in our country.”
Dr. Benson shook his head. “I most sincerely hope not, Mrs. Stratton. Normal for our people would not be a step forward. No, I rather hope that when this is all over no one will be able to recognize our country. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
Abby stared at him for a moment and realized the truth of what he was saying. “Yes…,” she murmured.
“Mrs. Stratton,” the officer interrupted. “We really must be going.”
Abby hugged her new friends then kissed each sleeping child gently on the forehead. “Tell them good-bye for me.”
Michael was waiting for her in the main room. “Aunt Abby!” he cried, striding up to embrace her. “Thank God you’re all right!” He took her arm and began to lead her
toward the door. “I’m going to get you out of here before things get too heated up again. It took Paxton hours to get home. My mother has been in a panic ever since he told us what happened. I haven’t been able to get word to her that you’re all right. I’ve been working straight through.”
“You’re not in uniform,” Abby observed.
Michael shook his head grimly. “The mayor has called for militia, but it may take another day or so for them to arrive. In the meantime, there are simply not enough police to do the job. Dozens of men on the force have been badly injured or killed. The only way to come into the area to rescue them is to be out of uniform. I didn’t want to take any additional chance of having you harmed.”
Abby looked at him closely. His eyes held a mixture of both sadness and anger. His face was etched with weariness. “It’s bad everywhere?”
“It’s bad.” Michael’s lack of words told her more than if he had gone on at length.
Abby climbed into the carriage with him, then reached over, and squeezed his hand. She knew there was nothing she could say to take away the horror. The sun was just climbing over the horizon, but already people were milling in the streets.
“We had hoped it would rain,” Michael said. “Another hot day will not help anything.”
Abby gazed around quietly, noting the smashed windows and the household belongings scattered through the dusty roads. “It was the worst in the black sections, wasn’t it?”
“The workers blame the blacks for the whole draft situation. You can’t reason with a mob.” Michael urged the horse into a ground-eating trot. People glared but moved out of the way as the carriage swept toward them.
The two had almost reached the edge of the crowds when they heard a shout. “Hey, there goes one of those policemen. That there is Michael Livingston. Get him!”
Abby gasped as Michael pulled out a long whip and snapped it over the horses. “Get up!” he yelled. “Get down in the seat!” he hollered to Abby as the carriage sped forward.
Abby looked back once and saw a sea of people pressing down on them, anger boiling in their faces. Thinking quickly, she reached behind the seat and found the extra buggy whip drivers usually carried with them. Steadying herself, she uncoiled the whip and then grabbed one side of the carriage.
A man lunged out at them from the side of the road and reached for the horses’ bridle in a wild attempt to stop them. Michael cracked the whip over the horses again, which made them run even faster. At that exact same moment, Abby leaned out and snapped the whip at the approaching man. She felt grim satisfaction when the tip of the lash raked across the man’s arm. The man screamed a curse and fell back, stumbling and landing in a pile in the dusty road. Two men following his example crashed on top of him.
“Way to go, Aunt Abby!” Michael cried in admiration.
The last of the crowd melted away before the careening carriage broke out into an empty street. Michael kept the horses running for several more blocks before he slowed them and looked back. “We’re out,” he said in a relieved voice then turned to Abby. “Where did you learn to handle a whip like that?”
“Just luck,” Abby smiled, her hands shaking now that the crisis was past. “I’d never touched a whip in my life.”
Michael laughed, shook his head, and kept going. “Mother and Father will be glad to see you. I’m afraid you won’t be able to catch your boat out, though. I know you planned to leave today, but no one can get through the streets.”
“I’ll get home eventually,” Abby said calmly. “You know, there’s something about almost losing your life that gives you a new perspective on things. Whether I get home in a few days - or a few weeks, I’m just glad I’m alive to get home.”
Four days later Abby hugged her friends good-bye and stepped onto the boat that would take her to Philadelphia. She stared out over the harbor sadly as it steamed away from the dock. Thousands of New York militia had finally regained control of New York City streets. Large areas of the town had been burned and destroyed. Looters had wreaked havoc in numerous shopping districts. Bridges had been burned and transportation cars damaged. Hundreds of people - mostly blacks and police - had been killed or wounded. Order had been restored, but a sullen heaviness pervaded the air, and a kind of shame hung over the city.
The loss of life and property made up only a small part of the riot damage. Once again families were torn apart, and business relationships just beginning to prosper were soured. Hope was blasted while confidence was destroyed and insecurity fostered. The dark clouds covering America were relentless in their pursuit of innovative ways to darken men’s hearts and pull the worst from them.
Robert finished another letter to Carrie, stuffed it in an envelope, sealed and stamped it, then stood to stretch. A large pile of similar letters rested next to him. He added the last one to the accumulation. He had no idea when, or even whether, the letters would make their way to her, but he was being faithful. Captain Shoemaker had promised to do all he could to see they arrived.
Robert strode to the deck of the ship forging through the waters of the Atlantic and scanned the horizon to see whether he could catch a glimpse of land. The captain had promised him they would land in London today. He had gotten up early so he could watch England come into view. He had enjoyed his trip for the most part, but he was eager to be on land again. He had found the ship both confining and boring. The endless expanse of blue possessed a certain beauty, but his staring at the same thing day after day had wearied him.
“Anxious to be in London, Mr. Borden?” an amused voice asked.
Robert nodded, not taking his eyes off the horizon. “That I am, Mr. Olsen. That I am.” He knew Olsen would not be offended by his not turning around to speak to him. The older gentleman was his senior by almost a half century, but the two had developed a comfortable friendship from the first day of the journey. Neither was open about the reason for traveling to Europe during the middle of a war; both instinctively knew their reasons were important to the Confederacy. That was enough. Details in such a time as this were simply not important.
“I’ll be glad to be back in the old city,” Olsen said fondly, tapping his cane against the railing and adjusting his high hat. “I’m afraid I will find it much changed after almost fifty years, however.”
Robert glanced at him in surprise. In all their conversations, Olsen had not mentioned being in London before.
“I was here for a year,” Olsen said in response to Robert’s look. “When I was your age. My father thought it would do me good to expand my horizons, so I came to study.” He grimaced. “Can’t say I was too fond of it at the time. After twenty years on my family plantation, I found the city both confining and dirty. If it wasn’t blanketed in fog, it was blanketed in coal smoke and residue.”
“You don’t paint an appealing picture,” Robert said. “Surely there was something about the city you liked.”
“Certainly,” Olsen agreed instantly. “My father was right - it certainly expanded my horizons. I learned to see the world through more than just the eyes of a plantation brat. I learned to appreciate politics, art, the theater. Most importantly, I learned to appreciate the freedoms we have in America. Excuse me,” he added. “The ones we did have.” His words weren’t bitter, just matter-of-fact. “I’m afraid our country has changed dramatically since then.”
Robert said nothing. They had spent hours discussing the state of affairs in America. He wasn’t exactly tired of it, but he was anxious to get on land and get involved in resolving them. The forced inactivity was wearing on him. Discussion was fine - as long as it was accompanied by action.
Olsen was quiet for several minutes then cleared his throat. “Neither of us has talked about our reasons for going to England – for daring to run the blockade.”
Robert glanced up. Was Olsen going to confide in him? Part of him was curious to know why the old gentleman was undergoing such an arduous adventure. Another part of him rebelled against knowing - against feeling he
should reciprocate the confidence. He had appreciated Olsen’s company for the last two weeks. Robert had feared the same boring companions that had accompanied him on the Phantom. The two men were indeed on the ship, but they kept to themselves. Olsen had sought him out at the first meal. In spite of the difference in their ages, they had found much in common.
“I’m afraid that whatever our missions are, they are hopelessly futile,” Olsen said heavily. “I’ve come, carrying hope in my heart, but the closer I get to London the more futile this whole escapade seems. So why did I come?” he chuckled humorlessly, shaking his head. “Maybe to have one last grand adventure before I die.” His voice grew serious. “Our country will never be the same, Robert.” He shook his head. “We’re putting up a great fight, but in the end we will lose.”
Robert looked at him sharply. “The Confederacy has won the last big battles,” he countered.
“As far as we know,” Olsen reminded him. “A lot could have happened since we’ve been gone. But it’s no matter. The South simply has neither the industrial strength nor the manpower to conquer the North. It’s really just a matter of time.”
“If you believe that, then why are you here?”
“Like I said, maybe it’s just to have one last grand adventure. I’m old. I’m going to die soon. I wanted to once more see the country where I learned to look at life differently. Oh, I have a mission - the same as you - or I wouldn’t be here - and I’ll try to perform it - but I hold little hope it will make much difference in the end.”
Robert stared at the old man while he decided what to say.
Olsen laughed lightly. “Don’t search your mind for a way to respond, Robert. I’m not looking for one. I simply feel the need to express myself this morning.” He turned to stare out at the sea, his silver fringe fluttering in the breeze. “Things change when you get older. I used to insist on seeing the world through idealistic eyes. I scorned those who tried to dissuade me with realism. Then one day I woke up and realized the world would never be the way I dreamed it would be because it was peopled with those who were human just like me.” Olsen tapped his cane against the railing. “Don’t misunderstand me, however. My realization didn’t turn me into a cynic. It gave me more compassion and patience. I have spent my life trying to make a difference where I can, but I no longer feel I have failed if the results aren’t perfection.”