by Roy Lewis
You raise your eyebrows!
Now don’t get me wrong, my boy! I’ve never laid claim to being a hero, or a man of heroic tendencies, even. But I knew how to use a pistol and I’d spent enough time in Norfolk country houses in the old days winging partridges to be confident of my skill. And I was fully aware of the state of tension that existed in the city, and the reason why McCleester’s was virtually empty that day.
It all started with Lincoln’s Emancipation Act, freeing black slaves who had already left the South. That piece of legislation didn’t go down too well with the immigrant Irish, who saw the blacks as competitors for their menial labour. Then came the Draft Act, which led to a great deal of further resentment because Blacks, as non-citizens, were exempt, while exemption could be bought only by whites who could raise the necessary $300 to provide a substitute. You can imagine the outcry that piece of legislative folly caused: one law for the poor, another for the rich!
Quite a rallying cry. And I happened to be in Five Points that July day when the resentments boiled over.
I realized there was going to be trouble, when the saloons started emptying, and there were hordes of men and women armed with staves and brickbats in the street. I soon guessed that the trouble would not occur in the Five Points as a location: the mobs were streaming towards Broadway and Fifth Avenue. So, as McCleester’s emptied, I decided to stay where I was for the time being, and spend a little leisure time with Lizzie Williams. That’s right, the very same whore that Officer John Parker arrested after failing to protect the president some time later.
Lizzie was not a stupid drab: she had conversation, and a nice line in tassel-swinging, a skill with which she used to entertain her customers while they were getting rid of encumbrances such as knives, guns, swords, boots and pantaloons. She also kept the large toenail of her right foot longer than normal and filed to a sharp point: with that implement she could, at the height of your passion insert—
What? Sorry. I’m digressing again.
Yes, I’ll get on. Well, there I was spending an agreeable period with Lizzie – not discussing the weather exactly, although it was hot and muggy – and it was about four in the afternoon when I finally left her to make my way back to Broadway. The Five Points streets were largely deserted, but I could hear the distant hubbub of the battles that were going on up towards 3rd Avenue and 47th Street, and see the pall of greasy black smoke that drifted near where the draft office was located. I heard later they took out the draft officer and beat the hell out of him for just doing his job. I gave the area a wide berth and sought a quieter route back to my office.
Over the next few days – for the rioting went on for almost five days – the newspapers were full of reports of the carnage caused by the mobs, made up mainly of Irish immigrants hurling paving stones through windows of public buildings, killing tramcar horses and burning the cars, cutting telephone lines and looting and torching brothels, dance houses, boarding houses and tenements catering for blacks. The white owners of these establishments were stripped naked in the streets, but the occasional black who got caught by the mob was hanged from a lamp post and his body burned.
It had all started as a protest against the draft, but it soon turned to an ugly, racist riot: the Irish saw the emancipated blacks in New York as a threat to their own slim employment opportunities. And after they had burned down the Bull’s Head drinking house on that first day, they turned their attention to Protestant churches, homes of known abolitionist and Secessionist sympathizers – and then moved on in a drunken rage to the Coloured Orphans Asylum.
Yes, I see your eyes widen in surprise. But you have to realize that by that time all sense had left the minds of the mob. They were on the rampage, and their attention became fixed on the black community. As for the Asylum, well, the logic seemed to be that since it was supported by white charities it should be attacked as a privileged location. The Irish poor got no charitable handouts, so why should black orphan children be given special treatment?
Unfortunately, my route back to Broadway that afternoon, trying to avoid the disorder, landed me directly in the path of the disorderly, rampaging mob.
I had got to know the back streets of the city during my saloon-bar wanderings with Di Rudio while working for Colonel Lafayette Baker and I made use of that knowledge to good effect to avoid the noisy, violent crowds. A pall of dark smoke lay over Fifth Avenue and there was a constant noise, cheering, screaming, breaking glass, the roaring sound of pitched battles between the outnumbered police and fire-brigade men who sought to hold back the mob. When I came out into Fifth Avenue itself, I found I was able to witness the scene while skirting at the edge of the crowds. There were men and women – mainly of the lower sort – thronging the sidewalks, brickbats were flying, hammers and clubs flailing, and windows were being broken in order to assist in the looting. It was far from a peaceful demonstration against the Draft Act, I tell you!
I was managing, successfully, to sidle along at the edge of the mob until my attention was caught by the turmoil that swirled around the entrance to the Coloured Orphans Asylum. The children had been ushered outside and were standing, crying with fear, in disorderly lines under the care of increasingly frantic female orderlies who were attempting to organize them so they could be taken to safety. The doors of the Asylum had been thrown open by the mob and crowds of men and women were thrusting their way inside to loot the building. There was an acrid smell in the air, a hint of smoke, and I knew then that a fire had been started on the premises. I was edging myself carefully away from the turmoil. The children themselves seemed not to have been harmed: the mob was at least that controlled, wreaking no vengeance on innocent orphans. But when some idiot Protestant preacher cried out, ‘Leave the children, at least!’ he was savagely set upon, his clothes torn, hat ripped off his head, and when he went down on the cobbles boots went flying in as he was savagely beaten.
Then, as I edged towards the corner of 47th Street, I heard a scream.
It’s strange, isn’t it, how a single noise can draw your attention in the middle of a maelstrom of sound. The roaring of the bullyboys, the crazed yelling of termagant women fighting amongst themselves to get the best pickings, the crash of glass and the stamping of feet created a wave of furious sound about my ears and yet I still heard that single scream, and my attention was drawn to the sight of three men dragging a woman into a nearby alley. And it’s equally strange that in the middle of all that hell I caught a glimpse of the struggling young woman’s features.
Eliza Stocqueler. That’s right. Your mother.
I’ve often enough asked myself whether I would have acted as I did if I had not recognized her. Would I have plunged into that slimy, smoke-darkened alley if it had been some other woman, a stranger? Would I have overcome my natural fear and reluctance to get involved in violence, for the sake of an unknown woman’s honour?
I can’t say, and I’ve told you several times that I have never seen myself as a courageous man. Nevertheless, that sight of Eliza being dragged into an alley gave me no opportunity for thought, or discretion, or careful withdrawal. They had vanished around a corner, that struggling group, and without hesitation I plunged into the lane after them.
I cannot say, even now after all these years, what I had in mind. But there I was, recklessly running into the alley until, turning the corner, I caught sight of the group again. And a furious rush of blood surged into my head and chest, leaving me almost breathless. Two of the men were fairly young: one was holding Eliza pinned against the wall, while the other tore at her clothing with violent hands and a wolfish grin. The third man had his back to me, one elbow against the soot-stained wall, leaning casually, taking pleasure in merely watching what was transpiring. Eliza’s face was soot-blackened, she was screaming and the clothing from her upper body was already torn while the grinning man grabbed at her skirts, attempting to drag them up over her head. I caught sight of her eyes, almost crazed with terror.
I shouted.
‘Leave her alone, you damned ruffians!’
Time seemed suddenly to stand still. The two younger men turned their heads, looked at me, and then glanced at their companion, as though seeking leadership. The third man stiffened, turned his head, took his elbow from the wall and looked back over his shoulder. Then he turned further, to face me. He had a shillelagh in his left hand.
He was a man of about fifty. I can still see him clearly, in my mind’s eye. He was of my height, moose-jawed, thickset, burly and dressed in an outmoded fashion, with his tattered frock coat, gaudy neckerchief, and trousers tucked into heavy boots. His billycock hat was perched arrogantly on the back of his crop-haired head. Many roughnecks had dressed like that, twenty years earlier, swaggering the streets of the Five Points, in the heyday of the ‘Bowery B’hoys’ when they ruled the roost, fighting and drinking and gambling in the gin palaces and saloons, dressing in what amounted almost to a uniform, but those days – and that fashion – had given way to the ‘jolly fellows’. This man, with his blue-stubbled face and malicious, drunken eyes, had not kept up with the times: he still lived in that mindless, violent past, the days of his wild, knuckle-bruised youth.
He stared at me, and a wide smile came to his ugly mouth. I caught a glimpse of blackened teeth as he snarled, ‘Leave off here, little man, if you don’t want crippling.’
I was incensed. ‘Leave her alone, you filthy scoundrels!’
The ageing Bowery B’hoy straightened, squared his shoulders and casually slipped his right hand into his belt. I caught the glimpse of a knife blade as he swaggered towards me, calling out over his shoulder as he came, ‘Carry on, lads, I’ll deal with this.’ He stood some twelve feet from me, a vicious snarl on his ugly, pock-marked features as he eyed me up and down in clear contempt. ‘I’d ruther foight than fuck, any day!’ he grunted and he began to advance further upon me.
I held my ground, though my heart was racing madly. I slipped my right hand into the wing of my frock coat, swung it back to reveal the Navy Colt in my belt. It produced no effect on the big man: he continued to advance, knife in one hand and the shillelagh in the other.
I drew the revolver from my belt.
His piggy eyes widened as I levelled it in his direction. He seemed surprised but not intimidated. The sight of the Colt did not deter him in his drunken determination. He came on, swinging the club. I hesitated.
You know, my boy, if you’ve ever used an Equalizer you’ll be aware that it was never the most accurate of weapons. At a distance of six feet, I guess, you’d never miss a barn door. Beyond that it’s luck not good judgment, whatever the penny dreadfuls might write about the remarkable skills of Bat Masterson, Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. I reckoned myself a good shot, after my experiences in England, shooting at grouse and crows and pheasant, not to mention the scarce bustard. But I had never fired at a man before, though some had fired at me when I was with Garibaldi in Italy.
This man provided a big target.
As he came on, I stood my ground, levelled the pistol and his mouth opened in a violent, mindless gape as though he hardly believed I would press the trigger. But press it I did, and the sound of the shot echoed around the alley. His eyes widened further and he let out a roar of surprise and anger and then he clutched at his kneecap, staggered, fell back and went down onto his back, yelling obscene imprecations., At a distance of twelve feet I’d hit him in the right knee.
To be honest, I’d actually aimed at his belly.
As the smoke drifted from the muzzle of the Navy Colt I looked past the roaring, writhing man on the ground and saw that I had caught the attention of the two young thugs attacking Eliza. They were staring at me as though I was mad, and I could see that they were not only scared, they were impressed at what they regarded as the accuracy of my shooting. So I waved the Colt in their general direction and they rapidly released Eliza so that she slumped to the ground. I affected a bravado I did not really feel: my pulse was racing, and I was shaking at the knees. But I managed to hold the Colt steadily enough.
‘Get out of here, and take that piece of ordure with you!’ I commanded, waving the Colt shakily in the direction of the howling man on the cobbles.
Under the muzzle of the threatening Colt they complied, dragging their leader by his armpits, edging away from me, deeper into the alleyway. I could still hear him roaring in pain after they had disappeared and I went forward to assist Eliza to her feet.
She was trembling, shaken, almost unable to stand after her ordeal, and she allowed me to half lift, half carry her back into the main street. Fortunately the mob was moving on, away from the Asylum, which was now wreathed in smoke and the children were being ushered away to safety.
I knew where safety lay.
I took her back into the streets of the Five Points.
It’s odd, Joe, how things can affect you. I knew these streets pretty well, and yet seemed to have paid little enough attention to them before that day. But now, as I half carried Eliza to safety, it was almost as though I became aware for the first time of the pullulating atmosphere, rotting dog carcases in the gutter, the crust of horse manure, dog turds and pigshit baked hard under the summer sun, that the mob had further trampled into a concrete mass under our feet. I saw with new eyes the decrepit, tilting houses with the soot-stained washing hanging from broken windows, the sagging boardwalks, the scrawny pigs and chickens creeping back to forage in the slowly swirling rivulets of slimy, soiled water that trickled along the length of the gutters. I’d seen the poverty and vice of the London slums and their counterpart here in the Five Points, reeking and smoke-darkened and soiled, and yet with Eliza at my side it was as though I was becoming aware of the nature of the area for the first time. And it shamed me that men and women could bear to live in such conditions.
We were deep in the Five Points. The mob would not be rampaging here: they lived here.
I thought first of taking her to Kit Burns’s Sportsmen’s Hall where I was well known, but guessed she’d be offended by the smell of the rat pit there. Water Street was a dive location frequented by 4th Ward gangsters, but surprisingly John Allen’s saloon held prayer meetings on certain days, for whores, bartenders and musicians, but unfortunately not on that day. So we took some quiet back streets towards Paradise Park and then when we reached the south-west corner of Water Street we made our staggering way down the few steps from street level to push open the battered doors of the Crown Grocery Store.
It was not just a provisions store, of course. It doubled up as a saloon and a whorehouse in addition, like most such establishments in the Five Points. I led Eliza past the miniature mountains of cabbages, eggplants, potatoes and other commodities and found a chair for her to sit down. She stared dumbly at the upright casks of rum, whisky and brandy that ranged the walls beside her while I ducked my head under the hams and tongues, sausages and onions that hung from the festooned ceiling while I sought out Susan Crown. Her husband had been an Irish immigrant who had established what had become a neighbourhood institution: he had profited greatly but could not resist the spirits he peddled. Mrs Crown had been running the combined grocery and groggery since her husband died, of intemperance it was said, five years earlier. I found her, standing somewhat disconsolate, behind the long, narrow bar at the end of the room. It seemed the usual denizens had gone to join the rampaging fun uptown. I approached Mrs Crown and told her I needed a room, a couple of glasses and a bottle of her best brandy. She raised no eyebrows, asked no questions: she gave me a room number – one of the five or six narrow, appropriately furnished rooms on the first floor where she spuriously advertised virgins fresh from the country for the knowing and selective client – and I assisted Eliza to the designated space under the eaves, where I poured her a stiff shot of brandy.
She was still shaken, and somewhat dazed. She drank the tumbler of brandy, shuddered and sat silent for a little while. Under the warm influence of the liquor she slowly came to her senses, focused he
r gaze on me, and after a few minutes her brow cleared, she blinked, and murmured, ‘Mr Edwin James.’
I was flattered. ‘You remember me.’
‘We were introduced at the Great Exhibition. You were a famous man in 1851. And you became even more famous later. I used to follow your career, in the newspapers.’ She hesitated, her voice a little shaky. ‘How could I not remember?’
‘And I remember you from hearing you lecture at your Diorama.’
She was silent for a little while, then sighed. ‘That would have been in the same year. The Stocqueler Diorama of India at the Regent Street Gallery. It was very popular, for a while. But we made no money out of it. At least, what money we made was all spent, faster than it came in.’
She fell silent again. I considered it wise to keep her talking. I gave her another shot of brandy. She sipped it slowly, almost dreamily as her mind dwelt upon the past.
‘What were you doing, walking in the neighbourhood of the Coloured Orphans Asylum?’ I asked.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I help out there occasionally, with a little teaching. When my husband is away – which is often – time drags on me since we no longer operate the Diorama in New York: it did not prove as great a success as in London. Americans seem to have little interest in India. So I give of my time at the orphanage, since my son Edgar is also away now, gone to sea. It passes the time . . . I was working at the orphanage today, but then, when that mob arrived I thought it best to try to return home. Before I had gone a few yards I was trapped by those villains. . . .’ Her eyes widened at the memory and she picked helplessly at her torn clothes. Her cheeks began to redden with shame.