by M. J. Rose
But he was not a fan of public displays.
Perhaps he was stuck in the nineteenth century. To him, displays like today’s demoralized women and associated them with common streetwalkers. Ridiculous? Probably. Blame it on his upbringing. The attitude seemed ingrained in his psyche, and he’d not been able to shake his revulsion. Florence and Margaret laughed each time he brought up his objections and teased him about being a puritan.
Maybe he was.
But they hadn’t changed his mind. He remained adamant that it was beneath a decent, God-fearing woman to march on the streets. No matter that many of New York’s socialites would be dressed in white and parading, too.
The Mink Brigade, they’d been dubbed.
For him, it was still unsavory.
He hustled toward the subway entrance and decided to give it one more try with Florence, particularly considering what he knew now. He took the train to Union Square, where he changed platforms for the 5 to Brooklyn. The time was approaching ten thirty. He knew she planned on lining up for the march at two thirty. It took thirty-eight minutes to arrive at the Flatbush Avenue station and another three minutes to walk to Florence’s building.
He rang the buzzer and waited.
No answer.
He rang again.
Silence.
He checked his watch.
Eleven fifteen.
Four hours left.
The day was getting away from him. Maybe they’d gone out on an errand and would be coming right back? Or maybe they were already on their way to the parade, arriving early? He sat down on the stoop, deciding to give them fifteen minutes. But after less than thirty seconds, he started to pace, imagining horrible scenarios. How many people would be in the street at any given spot along that three-mile route? What kind of bomb were the agitators planning on exploding? How much damage could it do? How many would be hurt or killed?
At the fifteen-minute mark, he decided to give them another five minutes.
He was crazy in love with the widow, Florence Lennon, and had started to think of her and Margaret as his own family. He’d been married once, to his childhood sweetheart, who’d died of pneumonia early in their childless marriage. He’d never known pain like that before. Thank goodness for work—he’d thrown himself into becoming a successful criminal lawyer. He missed Helen and mourned her for the longest time. Eventually, he came to accept the loss and moved on. He’d never suffered for companionship. But none had tempted him to settle down a second time.
Until Florence.
She’d been a witness for the prosecution in one of his cases. Something about her had touched him in a way that no woman had in a long time. She was a hostess at the Suffrage Cafeteria, and he’d courted her at first by eating lunch there every day for two weeks. Thankfully, the food was excellent. But then he wouldn’t have expected anything less from Alva Vanderbilt Belmont, the social denizen who’d taken up the suffrage cause as her raison d’être. Her dozen restaurants all over New York were advertisements for the cause. Votes for Women was painted on all the china plates and stamped into every piece of silverware. Suffrage posters plastered the walls. You could not leave one of her establishments without a full stomach and the message etched into your mind.
Meal by meal he fell in love with Florence.
But it took effort to get her to go out with him.
She was a hardworking single mother who didn’t suffer fools gladly, and didn’t have much time for socializing. What spare moments she did have were devoted to the suffrage cause. She desperately wanted to change things. And not for her, but more for her daughter. Eventually, he wore her down and convinced her to try just one night out with him.
She had.
They’d shared many nights since.
And while he’d grown to love Florence, he’d also grown close to Margaret, a freshman at Erasmus Hall High School, who was blossoming into a fine young woman. He felt protective of her, and enjoyed offering her help and guidance. Not becoming her father, who was dead. But more her friend. Someone she could count on.
Like with what had happened to her the previous week.
On the Flatbush Avenue trolley, a man sitting beside her had tried to flirt. Middle-aged. Wearing glasses. With a scholar-like appearance. Harmless? Hard to say. She’d felt uncomfortable with the unwanted attention and moved away. The gray-haired man, undeterred, came closer, smiling, endeavoring again to engage her. Then he placed his hand on her thigh, leaned close, and whispered obscenities. She’d fled in fright at the next stop and found a policeman, reporting the assault. The officer caught up with the trolley a block away and she identified the molester. The man protested, calling the accusation false, claiming outrage. But Margaret, true to her tough nature, insisted that he be arrested.
Good for you, he’d told her. Well done. You might have saved a lot of other girls from harm.
And he’d meant it.
His own sister, at age twelve, had been brutally raped and traumatized. She was never the same after. He constantly worried that lapsing attitudes were encouraging men to go too far. Styles were changing. Morals loosening. Women had begun to smoke and drink in public and show their ankles, which, to him, seemed downright provocative. Worst of all, they marched. Add to that the rampant proliferation of pornography, and society was simply asking for trouble.
And it wasn’t that he was a prude.
Actually, he fancied himself quite the romantic. But men should be gentlemen, and women should be feminine and treated with respect. It was wrong for a man to abuse a woman. His revulsion was amplified when he accompanied Florence and Margaret to the courthouse for the trial and learned that the accused was Reverend Richard H. Keep. Forty-eight years old. A retired clergyman. Charged with the same crime three times before. But, being a man of the cloth, he’d not been prosecuted.
Outrageous.
The reverend had sat with his eyes closed, head bowed, hands clasped. The prosecutor called Margaret to the stand and she told the judge what had happened. Her voice stayed firm and steady, her demeanor one of an outraged victim. It would be hard not to believe every word she said. The defense lawyer stood to cross-examine her.
“Do you want to see this man of God go to jail?” Margaret was asked.
“If that is needed to stop him from doing this again.”
“Are you sorry for him?”
“I am. He is a sick person.”
“And are you sorry that you made this charge against him?”
“I am not,” she said, loud and clear. “Why I would be sorry for the truth?”
Randall had been proud to hear her not retreat. That was another thing he found appalling. How women were always expected to back down and yield to a man. The judge found the ex-preacher guilty and sentenced him to sixty days in jail.
Which was precisely what he deserved.
“What are you doing here?” a voice asked, bringing his thoughts back to the present.
He glanced up to see Florence standing below on the sidewalk, staring up at him as he sat on the stoop.
“I need to speak with you. Can we go upstairs to your apartment for a moment?”
She led the way.
Inside, with the door closed, they sat on the settee in her parlor.
“Where’s Margaret?” he asked.
“At a friend’s house. I’ll get her when I leave for the march.”
He noticed paraphernalia for the parade all around. Two banners they would each be carrying. Sashes they would wear. Celluloid buttons and feathers for their hats. Everything encouraging support for the suffrage movement.
“I am going to make one more plea that you and Margaret stay home today.”
She looked at him incredulously. “We’ve been over this. Repeatedly. You know I value your opinion. I truly do. But this streetwalker worry is ridiculous. Tens of thousands of women are going to be marching today. No one is going to associate us with women of the night.” She shook her head. “This is important to me, R
andall. Especially after what Margaret went through last week. That scoundrel wanted to blame her for his indecency. That lawyer wanted her to be sorry she brought the charges. What an insult. Today’s march is important for her—”
“It’s not about that anymore,” he said, interrupting. “I have reason to believe there is a bomb threat on the parade. It’s not safe for you and Margaret to be there.”
“A bomb threat? You can’t be serious. That’s how desperate you are to stop us from going?”
“I’m not making it up. It’s real.”
She shook her head. “For such a dear, liberal man, you are incredibly old-fashioned. No. The answer is no. We are going.”
He wasn’t surprised by how she was reacting. Over the past two weeks he’d overplayed his hand to stop her from marching, allowing his social conservatism to get the better of him. Pursuing this any further seemed pointless. She wasn’t going to believe him. But he had to say again, “I’m not making this up. There is a credible threat.”
She glared at him. “Do you have proof?”
“I heard two men talking—”
“Do you have proof?”
“You sound like opposing counsel, cross-examining.”
She gently touched his arm. “Randall, I love you dearly. But this preoccupation doesn’t become you.”
“I overheard two men talking. One might have been Samuel Morrison—”
“The publisher? Isn’t he part of the league? Why would he do such a horrible thing?”
He had no answer. “Florence, this has nothing to do with me caring how it will look for you and Margaret to be there. You convinced me that I was being ridiculous and completely prudish about that. I understand. This is different. I swear to you.”
“So Samuel Morrison, a successful publisher, is going to bomb the suffrage march? Randall, you missed your calling. O. Henry has nothing on you.”
He shook his head. How could he get her to believe him? Then something caught his eye. On the coffee table among the suffrage papers. A map of the parade route with circles on it. He pointed. “What is that?”
“Places along the way where members of the city council and government will be in viewing stands. We need to be mindful of them when we pass.”
“I am begging you—”
She stood, leaned forward, and kissed him. “I have to get ready to leave. They’re saying the parade will be over by six thirty. Mrs. Belmont is throwing a party at her restaurant. Will you meet us there?”
With no choice, he nodded.
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
He left the apartment and decided to head back to Manhattan and see if Captain Donnelly had returned to the 18th Precinct. Maybe he would have a more sympathetic ear. At the Flatbush Avenue station he hurried down the steps but missed the train as it headed off. He stood alone on the empty platform, annoyed, but there was nothing he could do but wait for the next one.
Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind and yanked backward.
The violation shocked him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted at the two men, trying to twist away from their grasp.
They were both bigger and stronger and dragged him off the platform into the shadows. One of their hands covered his mouth and prevented him from calling out. He’d yet to see their faces. He ducked his head down, wrenched his mouth free, and managed to bite one of his attackers’ hands, tasting blood. Amazingly, the man didn’t scream, or let go, or even flinch. Another hand was clasped over his mouth. Firmer. Tighter. They kept tugging him along until they had him in what looked like an abandoned tunnel.
He was shoved to the ground.
The sole of a shoe was planted against his spine, pinning him down, keeping him still while the other man bound his hands and feet with rope. He wanted to cry out, but the foot pressed harder, taking his breath away.
They rolled him over.
He saw the faces. “I know—”
A big, bloody fist whirled through the air, straight at him.
Then blackness.
* * *
He struggled to open his eyes.
The right side of his head pounded. He reached up and felt a bump the size of a walnut, crusty with blood.
“Can you hear me?” a male voice asked.
He could, but his eyes had yet to focus. Everything was blurred and swirling, like he was in a fog on a rolling boat deck.
The man sounded far away.
His body was turned over, and he felt the pressure at his wrists and ankles being released. Then he remembered. The two attackers had bound him, before slamming a fist into his head.
“Don’t struggle,” the man said. “I’m untying you.”
His arms and legs were freed. He rubbed his sore wrists as his eyes began to focus. A man in a uniform leaned over him. One of the ticket agents. Randall tested his arms and legs. Everything seemed okay, but his head really hurt.
“What happened to you?”
“Two thugs attacked me.”
“After your money, were they? Hope you didn’t have much. Why, look at that. They left your watch. Wonder why they didn’t take it?”
Randall glanced at his left wrist and noticed the time.
2:47 p.m.
“It’s nearly three o’clock?” he asked.
The march was about to start. He’d been out awhile. He felt for his wallet. There, too. Then he remembered what he’d seen right before being punched—a face he recognized. One of his attackers was the man with the thin mustache who’d been with Morrison the previous night at the men’s lounge.
The ticket agent helped him up and into a small office out of the chill, where he accepted some coffee and aspirin. He used a wet towel to clean up the cut on his forehead, then bandaged it.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“I was just takin’ a break to have a smoke and walking, as I do. Sitting in this office selling tickets for hours at a time isn’t good for my back or legs. Gotta get up during my breaks. I try to do a mile of track for every break. Sometimes I find things. A toy. A scarf. A book. Never found a man before.”
Randall fished a five-dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to the man, thanking him for the assistance.
“They didn’t steal that from you either?” Randall was asked.
He heard the train approaching the station. Time to go. “Thank you so much for everything.”
And he shook the ticket agent’s hand.
He then hurried to the platform and hopped onto the waiting train, crowded with men and women, many of whom carried banners and wore white. Not a seat to be had. His head still pounded, but he couldn’t let that slow him down. He had to get to the parade.
“Would you like my seat?”
He glanced down and an older woman pointed to his bandage.
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I laugh.” He was trying to make light of her concern. He actually wanted to sit down but was worried he might not get back up. “I appreciate the gesture. But I’ll stand.”
The woman was holding a copy of City Scope, the same edition he’d consulted earlier. But he’d only studied its front page. She had it open and was reading an article whose headline caught his attention.
SUFFRAGETTES TAKE DIFFERENT PATHS TO MAKE THEIR POINT
“Could I see that article?” he asked.
She smiled. “Of course. I’ve finished reading it. Quite enlightening, I might say. I never knew.”
He stood, holding on to the leather strap, and scanned the page. The story dealt with the vast difference between the British and American movements. The fight for suffrage started in England in 1872 but had not gained strength until 1906.
Currently, it was going strong, just like in America.
The big difference between the two was the violence.
In England, some suffragettes had resorted to extreme tactics to gain attention. Communication networks were disrupted by cutting telephone and telegraph
lines. Postboxes destroyed. Four postmen had been injured by phosphorus left in different boxes. Cultural objects had been attacked. Paintings, statues, and even the Jewel House at the Tower of London had fallen victim. Sarcophagi were defaced in the British Museum, and at Kew Gardens, a tearoom was burned down. Arson attacks had occurred at theaters, sporting pavilions, and even the homes of members of Parliament. Three years earlier, four suffragists had tried to set fire to the Theatre Royal while the prime minister was there during a packed show. Then a suffragette threw herself in front of the king’s horse and was killed. Two others, in retaliation, burned down the pavilion at Hurst Park Racecourse.
Physical attacks also seemed a regular occurrence.
One activist attacked Winston Churchill with a horsewhip. The prime minister’s car was assaulted with catapults. A suffragette plot to kidnap the home secretary and several other cabinet ministers was foiled. Just the past year, a young suffragette leaped on the footboard of the king and queen’s limousine in Scotland and tried to break its windows. The English press dubbed it perhaps the most daring act that had occurred in the history of the women’s suffrage agitation.
But the most disturbing information was the bombings.
Detonated at banks, trains, churches, even Westminster Abbey. Two railway stations were leveled. One bomb exploded at the Royal Observatory in Edinburgh. Another was planted outside the Bank of England. A three-inch pipe bomb obliterated a greenhouse at a park in Manchester. Another bomb damaged the home of Chancellor David Lloyd George.
Shouting down speakers, throwing stones, smashing windows, and burning down unoccupied churches and country houses seemed commonplace. The rallying cry of these militants was simple.
Deeds not words.
Once jailed, hunger strikes became a way to garner further sympathy and make their point. But Parliament passed what had come to be called the Cat and Mouse Act to prevent suffragettes from becoming martyrs in prison. The law allowed the release of those whose hunger strikes and being force-fed had made them seriously ill. But it also provided for their reimprisonment once they recovered. The move had backfired, though, and only resulted in more publicity for the suffragettes’ cause.