The young women open their eyes. A few of them groan and one sits up.
“Now!”
The students rub their faces.
Elizabeth runs to the window, pulls the curtains, and steps back. Down below, the torches spread out in front of the building like fireflies as far as she can see.
“Are they here for us?” Miss Emsbury asks.
Before Elizabeth can answer, a rock crashes through the window. Through the broken window the mob is louder, their voices blending into one another until they stream one loud buzz.
The students follow Miss Blackwell down the stairwell only to find the mob already inside the college, surrounded by flames. One man, standing closest to the door, sees the students and charges. She slams the door and pushes the lock into place just as the man’s body bangs into the other side.
Elizabeth attempts to exit out the back door to the alley, but the mob is there too. She latches that door and returns with the students upstairs. None of them speak. They sit on their beds and hope.
Knowing he cannot fight against the crowd, Walt weaves down several alleyways to reach the college’s back door, only to find it locked.
A man at the end of the alleyway sees him. “Did you get the door open?”
Whitman turns to face the man. He is probably in his fifties, clean-cut except for a strip of thin facial hair that wraps around his chin.
“What’s wrong?” the man says. “I asked if you got the door open.”
Walt shakes his head and slinks away to the side, but the man follows. “You’re with them, aren’t you? You work with those women doctors.”
Whitman darts the other way, away from the man, but straight into the mob, which has filled the alley.
The man calls out behind Walt: “Grab him; he’s one of them.”
Their hands are upon Whitman, from his feet to his arms, to his neck and back, and suddenly he is above them all, being passed from one end of the crowd to another.
“But I’m not one of them,” he yells without thinking. “I’m just like you.”
The farther they pass him, the more people he sees—they fill every open spot on the street in front of the college except a tiny bit of space where the alley meets the street, and it is this space that saves his life. They drop him, and he hits the ground hard.
He pushes himself to his feet and races to the front of the building, where the militia fires their bayonets into the air. The back end of the mob turns around and throws rocks. One rock strikes Sheriff Petty in the cheek, underneath his left eye. Blood appears on his face and drips into his mustache. This time, the militia fires on the mob and drops fifteen men and six women. People scream, scramble for cover.
Whitman rushes over to Sheriff Petty. “The students are trapped upstairs.”
“You’re sure?”
“That’s where they sleep,” Walt says. “There’s nowhere else for them to go.”
The sheriff and ten of his men follow Walt to the back alley where they break down the back door. The flames have spread from the dissection room to the stairway. “Up those stairs,” Walt says. “We have to hurry.”
Minutes later, the men reappear out of the smoke, dragging the students behind them.
All of them scurry away from the building, reaching a safe spot across the street just in time to watch the college crumple in on itself.
The people shout their approval and march toward their homes. As they march, they pray to God for the souls of the dissected. May you find it in your heart, O Lord, to raise the dissected, they chant. May the dissected find some peace in your kingdom.
Whitman shakes his head. These people should be ashamed of themselves. He watches them as they go, noticing some of them stopping a block away. They are forming a circle around something, and chanting, but Walt can’t make out what they are saying above the commotion.
“Excuse me, please.”
Walt pushes his way through the crowd. The farther into the chaos he goes, the clearer it is what they are saying. These people, who just burned down the women’s college, and with it everything he and the students own, are praying. Receive his soul, O Lord, they chant. He breaks through the throng, and that’s when he sees Henry Saunders’s body on the sidewalk. His chest is sliced open down the middle, exposing his gray lungs.
Stricken, Walt drops to his knees—
—he can’t breathe—
—and the world around him crashes down.
He puts his ear over Henry’s mouth, brushes his cheek and his nose—
—his face is puffy and bruised; dried blood and sludge stick to his cheek, chin, and left ear.
This cannot be happening.
His skin, a ghastly hue, is cold to the touch.
Walt cleans Henry’s face with his handkerchief. The sludge comes off with a little work, but the blood stays.
They are praying again, and all he can think is that Henry Saunders is not a goddamn Barnum exhibit. He is yelling at them now, but the din around him is so loud he can’t hear himself. The people stand wide-eyed and wide-mouthed, leaning and swaying while a light snow begins to fall.
Behind Walt, a hand touches his shoulder. He whips around and shouts for the sheriff to leave him alone.
“I need you to come with me, Mr. Whitman,” Petty says.
“You’re here to arrest me for slander, aren’t you?”
The crowd closes in, engulfing him, and a rage unlike any he’s experienced worms its way inside.
Petty, aware of the onlookers, pleads with Walt. “Let’s not make a scene.”
“Too late for that.” Walt feels like he’s teetering between sanity and madness.
He lays Henry’s head on the sidewalk, reaches for the large rock on the ground next to him—
“Please, Mr. Whitman.” The sheriff tries one more time.
But Walt hurls the rock through the shop window behind him. The horde scatters and the glass shatters, crashes to the ground, but is not louder than Walt Whitman’s own screams, which ricochet between the alleys and buildings as he leaps up and runs through the streets, the crowd sealing off the sheriff behind him.
Henry Saunders’s apartment sounds dead. That’s the best way Walt can describe it. The usual sounds swirl around him: men and women talking and yelling, animals snorting and grunting, the clomping of hooves on stone, but a dead pitch hangs over it all and inflects everything.
He hasn’t been able to cry yet. All the emotion is deep in his chest—he feels it when he breathes—but it won’t come out. He sits down on Henry’s bed, wraps himself up in the blanket, and lies down.
Walt’s mother used to make tea with honey whenever he felt sad. She would put her arms around him and rub his back, and somehow she made everything seem better. He pretends that his mother is there with him now. She wears her black housedress and has already let her hair down for the night. It has always surprised him how long her hair is—what is a tight bundle during the day almost touches the floor at night.
“You’ve had quite a day,” she says.
Growing up, Walt experienced nightmares and would often wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. Louisa Whitman would rush into his room and, after making sure the other children were still sleeping, would lie in bed with him until he fell asleep.
As she did then, she massages his back and his neck. She whistles “Rock of Ages” and tells her son all will be well again.
“Jesus,” she says, “died that all may live again, and that includes Henry Saunders.” She kisses his cheek. “Oh yes, Henry is in a better place now. A place without fear or hunger. Without violence or war, where people treat each other with dignity and respect. A place where there is no such thing as poverty. Henry has been greeted by family members who have died too. They have welcomed him home, Walt. That’s what you should believe. Henry has gone home.”
“You will see Henry Saunders again,” she says. “When the Lord God claps his hands three times, the dead shall rise, and then you will dance together forever in the clouds while the angels sing hymns.”
Chapter 28
When Walt wakes the next morning, it is the absolute stillness that surprises him. The stillness is more than the absence of sound; it comprises everything around him—the vacant apartment, Henry’s clothing that he will never wear again, the frigid morning air, the absence of Walt’s own belongings burned up in the college fire, the unperturbed snow rolling softly from the sky. He lies in bed, focusing on his breath. He holds it in and takes in the stillness of his chest. This is what he would look like dead. Images of Henry Saunders’s body flash in his mind, and tears spring to his eyes.
Walt composes himself and glances about the room, which is still in shambles. He knows Henry would prefer it tidied up, and this is enough to get him out of bed. Shivering, he removes his pants and white shirt and searches through Henry’s wardrobe for fresh clothing. He slips on a blue banyan, and the cold silk sends a chill through him.
Next, he builds a fire in the woodstove and sits on the floor next to it to warm himself. Watching the fire calls to mind the night before, the women’s college up in flames, the students trapped upstairs. He thinks of all that he lost in the fire, but nothing compares to the loss of Henry.
He stares out the window, fighting to retain the image of Henry Saunders in better times, but it has already begun to fade. Around Walt are the objects of Henry’s life: his walking cane, desk, and books, all physical proof that he was once here and is now gone.
Walt sniffs the banyan collar—Henry’s smell lingers in these things, but that too will wane. And then comes the awful realization that philosophy and religion, despite their explanations and promises, will not bring Henry back to him.
What he knows with a surety is that Henry’s body has been transported to Barclay’s workroom and, once the autopsy has been completed, will be shipped to the Saunders’s farm in northern Manhattan for burial, where Henry’s corporeal self will spiral outward through the earth forever.
But what of the soul? The question unfurls the unknowable darkness before him. Deism suggests that Walt will have to reason out his own belief in an afterlife, and Elias Hicks taught that the afterlife is now—neither doctrine brings any relief to Walt Whitman in his moment of crisis. Henry Saunders is gone from this life, which means Walt will have to live today, and every day thereafter, without him.
He pushes himself to his feet, the cold air rushing up through the open end of the banyan. Books go back on shelves, pans return to cupboards. He lifts the desk from where it lays on its side, and he folds the clothing that has been scattered on the floor. He folds his own dirty clothing, and this is when he sees Father Allen’s overcoat—a reminder of what the priest did for him, a reminder of his own status as a wanted man, the sole survivor of an elaborate cover-up.
He hangs the overcoat, and Abby Runkel’s poem flutters to the ground. He picks it up, reads:
I need you, sir, to find my sister
Who left this earth too soon
God wants her to come home to him
But needs her body too
I cry to think of her in little pieces
all about the room
Please bring her home, Mr. Whitman,
Bring her to me soon.
Walt smiles and lays the poem on the windowsill. Quite something from someone so young. He wants to help her find her sister, but the sad truth is, it is probably too late for Maggie’s body.
The knock at the door startles him. He tiptoes across the room, carefully removes the pistol from Father Allen’s coat. He stares at it as if he’s never seen it before. Another knock, louder, more determined.
Should he call out or just answer it? He steadies himself with deep breaths, and then a voice from the other side of the door calls out: “Walt? Mr. Whitman? Are you in there?”
The voice belongs not to Samuel Clement or Silas Petty but to a woman. Of course, either man might be with this woman, he reminds himself.
“Who is there?” he finally says.
“Miss Zacky, from the college.”
He wipes his face with the banyan sleeve, the light blue silk absorbing his sweat. “Are you alone?”
“Yes. Elizabeth told me where I might find you,” she says. “She’s been charged with Mr. Saunders’s death.”
Walt opens the door, pistol at the ready.
Marie Zakrzewska is alone. Her red hair is a mess, and her face tinted with charcoal streaks. Her dress too is covered in soot. “She’s in jail.”
“But the last time I saw her, she was fine,” Walt says. “I was with the sheriff when he rescued you from the burning college.”
“Yes,” she says, “and we are all grateful.”
Whitman continues. “When I left, she was with the students outside, with you—you all were being cared for by Dr. Liston.”
Miss Zacky nods. “After you found Mr. Saunders’s body, the sheriff arrested her.”
Walt shakes his head. “But—”
“Lizzy found your friend in the same position as Lena found Abraham. Whoever did it, cut him open with a bone saw to make it look as if we had dissected him. Ridiculous, of course.”
“Samuel Clement.”
Miss Zacky nods. “That’s what Lizzy said.”
Walt is suddenly aware of the flimsy banyan, and pulls it closed to cover his exposed chest. “Please come in.” He steps aside to let her pass, then does a quick check of the hallway for any signs of someone following her. He sees none. “We aren’t safe here,” he says. “Where are the other students?”
The question makes her cry. “They’ve all gone home,” she says. “They’re terrified, and who can blame them?”
“But you stayed.”
“I have to help Lizzy.”
Whitman excuses himself so he can change clothing. With her back turned, he puts on a pair of Henry’s dark trousers and a white shirt, a fresh pair of socks and his boots. Then he brews tea and cooks eggs. “So what do we know?”
Miss Zacky tosses him the morning’s Herald, and while she eats, he reads:
REPORTER MURDERED!
The dissected body of Mr. Henry Saunders was discovered last night by a medical college mob at the Women’s Medical College of Manhattan. Reports are that the body was being used under the guise of medical training to another purpose. Saunders, readers might recall, was the author of an article exposing the evils of these medical schools and their ungodly practice of human dissection. City officials surmise that the murder was the college’s answer to that article and a warning to others who might have more traditional beliefs about the human body and its sanctity in the eyes of God.
Miss Elizabeth Blackwell, who was alone with Mr. Saunders when he died, was then interrogated, but denied all knowledge of the murder. She was watched, and later removed a vial of arsenic from her dress. Suspicion of foul play was then for the first time entertained, and the Coroner, Dr. Kenneth Barclay, determined upon a post mortem examination that the stomach of the deceased was found to contain a large quantity of arsenic. The powder taken from Miss Blackwell was also tested, with like result; and the whiskey bottle from which Mr. Saunders had drunk during the night was also found to contain a quantity of the same drug. Miss Blackwell was arrested, examined, and committed to prison, to await the action of the Grand Jury.
Local officials are concerned about the possibility of more mob violence. A crowd has gathered outside the Tombs, where Miss Blackwell is being held, demanding speedy justice. The demonstrations are peace
ful as of this printing, but city officials and law enforcement are keenly aware that unless something is done with Miss Blackwell, the situation has the potential to worsen.
Whitman sets the paper on the table and watches Miss Zacky eat. She senses his eyes on her and looks up.
“It’s happening all over again,” he says.
She doesn’t say anything.
“How is Miss Blackwell holding up?” he says. “Have you seen her?”
“She’s strong,” Miss Zacky says, “but she’s terrified.”
Walt shakes his head. “Of course she is.”
“We have to stop this, Mr. Whitman. We can’t let it happen again.”
“The crowd . . . how big is it?”
“Maybe a thousand, and growing.”
Walt says, “They want a lynching.” He thinks for a moment. “We know who killed Henry. We have to present evidence that forces city leaders to acknowledge Clement’s guilt. Everything else is irrelevant.”
“We couldn’t do it for Lena. What can we do that we didn’t already try?”
What indeed? Walt thinks. He stares at the newspaper, traces the perforated top edge to its smooth sides to its black type to the name of its editor, James Gordon Bennett. “That’s it.” Whitman points to the name. “We need to put out a reward.”
“What good will that do?”
“As they did for the Mary Rogers case.”
“But they found the wrong person.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t work this time,” Walt says.
“But we don’t have any money.”
“We can raise the money by forming a committee of safety like James Bennett did for the Rogers case. He knew the only way to deal with an ineffective law enforcement was to bait the public with a reward, and if conducted in a public forum, city officials have no choice but to follow through when someone comes forth with evidence.”
Miss Zacky nods. “Whom do we ask for help?”
Walt thinks for a moment. “I’ll have to ask Mr. Bennett. He’ll probably say no, but I see no other option at the moment.” He stands. “But first we need to find another place to stay. It’s not safe here.”
Speakers of the Dead Page 18