She rises to meet him.
Whitman sees that this is difficult for her. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I won’t leave his office until Mr. Bennett agrees to help us.”
She musters a smile.
“Do you have money?”
She nods.
“Good. Get a room at Sweeny’s Hotel, and I’ll meet you after my meeting with Bennett, bearing good news.”
She doesn’t move.
“We will succeed,” Walt says, trying to convince himself as the words come out of his mouth.
“I believe in you,” she says as she leaves.
Walt watches at the window to make sure no one is following. He sits at Henry’s desk to gather his thoughts. Bennett will be a tough sell for sure, but this is their best chance, given the exigency. He glances about the room. He might not return and so he wants to record it in his mind. Under the bed, he finds a leather attaché, which he stuffs with a couple of shirts, some socks, and an extra pair of trousers. That’s all that will fit. He picks up Henry’s walking cane, then scans the room one last time before he attempts to get a meeting with James Gordon Bennett.
Chapter 29
James Gordon Bennett, who founded the New York Herald in May 1835, is known for his sensationalist reporting style and refusal to back down from any lead. Walt’s own battles with Bennett have played out in the papers, but he has never met with the man until today. In the large corner office, bookcases line the walls to Whitman’s left and right. And at a mammoth-size desk sits the man himself. The editor of the New York Herald is a hunched-over, frail-looking man with an eyepiece in his left hand and a pencil in his right. His black coat matches his black shoes, and his white hair shines in the light from the window. Mr. Bennett turns his head, and Walt sees for the first time that he is cross-eyed. “Who are you, again?”
“Walt Whitman the reporter.”
Bennett says, “I’ve never seen you before.”
“You write about me with the disdain of someone who knows me well.”
“And yet you’re still here?”
“I need your help.”
“My help? I should have you arrested.”
“Elizabeth Blackwell,” Whitman says, “did not kill Henry Saunders.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Bennett says. “I have yet to meet a guilty criminal. Next you’ll tell me her husband was innocent too.”
Walt does not point out that Bennett has confused Elizabeth Blackwell with Lena Stowe.
“I suppose you didn’t break into the Aurora and print another one of your stories after you were fired either, did you?”
Whitman says, “Perhaps I made a mistake in coming here.”
“Really? That’s all it takes to get rid of you?” Bennett is shaking his head. “I must say I’m disappointed. I had you pegged for someone more like myself, someone who will fight even when he might be wrong.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
Bennett smiles at this. “Obviously.”
“I’m trying to prove Miss Blackwell’s innocence.”
“So you say.”
“I thought you might want the story when I do.”
“If I want the story,” Bennett says, “I’ll get the story. Now, is there something you wanted to ask me?”
Walt pauses, then decides that he has nothing to lose. “I want you to organize a committee of safety as you did for the cigar-girl murder case.”
Mr. Bennett sets the eyepiece on the desk and leans back in his chair. “That was a mistake.”
“Mistake?”
Mr. Bennett glances out the window. “Mr. Whitman, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Why?”
“The Mary Rogers case; it seemed simple. The committee of safety has always been a way for the powerless to fight the powerful, and this case was the perfect scenario for such a committee. But something happened—there were more things going on than any of us ever imagined.”
“What types of things?”
“Threats against my family, friends, and business,” Bennett says.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“We can’t afford to be naïve, Mr. Whitman.”
“Elizabeth Blackwell has devoted her life to medicine. She administers to the sick and poor without any thought for herself. She’s not a murderer, Mr. Bennett. You know it as well as I. Now, please, I beg you, help me.”
Bennett considers the proposition, and it appears as if he’ll do it. But then his face changes, and he says, “I’m sorry, but no.”
“I know that the same folks on the committee of safety are some of the same folks we are fighting against. But we can create a new story with new rules, and the committee members will have to follow.”
Bennett shakes his head.
Walt stands, puts on his hat and coat, and turns to leave. At the door, he tries one last time. “Is there nothing else I can say to change your mind?”
“I’m very busy, Mr. Whitman. Please understand.”
Outside, the sun is bright and the air is mild. Walt has no idea what to do next; he can’t bear facing Miss Zacky or Miss Blackwell. He can’t bear to think about Henry’s body in the care of Kenneth Barclay.
He passes a peddler hawking hot sweet potatoes, and the smell evokes in Walt a childhood memory: a rare moment when his father was sober enough for the family to share a meal. He is struck by how far away that life is now. He moved to Manhattan to escape, and now he finds himself in the midst of crisis his writerly self could not have imagined.
He closes his eyes and tries to return home, but all he can see is a woman’s body hanging. He has to press on.
Walt realizes he’s hungry, and buys two sweet potatoes. Candied and delicious, they buoy his spirits, and he’s pondering his next move, when Bennett’s secretary approaches. “Mr. Whitman,” he says, out of breath. “I didn’t think I’d find you.” He presents a piece of paper. “Mr. Bennett asked me to give you this.”
Walt takes the piece of paper and reads:
Dear Mr. Whitman:
I’ll arrange for the meeting announcement to be run in the evening edition of Greeley’s Tribune, but I won’t lead it. I can’t have my name attached to the committee this time. There are people in high places, higher than the sheriff even, who do not want this murder revisited, and I can’t put my family in danger again. You should take care of yourself too, Mr. Whitman.
Sincerely,
James G. Bennett
Walt looks up to thank the secretary, but he is gone. No matter, he thinks. This is good news indeed, and he walks toward Sweeny’s Hotel with more energy in his movement. He can’t wait to tell Miss Zacky about the meeting tonight.
Marie Zakrzewska appears rested—she’s bought a new dress, and she’s cleaned the soot from her face and hair.
“Well?” she says. “How did it go?”
“Meeting tonight at eight.”
“That’s wonderful news.” She throws her arms around him, pulls him close. “I knew you would come through.”
This catches Walt off guard, and he realizes it is not entirely unpleasant to be held by a beautiful young woman. They stand like this for a few seconds until he lets go. He goes to the sink, turns the water handle. The spigot gurgles, then spits water into the sink. He cups his hands until they are full, and splashes the water on his face. “I noticed a restaurant in the lobby where we can have our dinner.”
Miss Zacky hands him a towel. He dries his face, and when he turns, she is near. She doesn’t say a word. She leans in, kisses him softly on the lips. “Thank you,” she says. “For everything.”
Walt can only stand there. He knows what she wants. He’s been through it before, and he’s not ashamed. But Henry—
—is gone, Walt thinks, and she comes closer.
She kisses his neck.
“Miss Zakrzewska.”
She kisses his cheek.
“I was in love with Henry.”
She kisses his mouth.
This time he does not say anything. Perhaps they can forget the events of the past weeks, the difficulties that lie ahead, and disappear into each other, even for a short time.
He removes her dress, then her corset, then chemise and pantalettes. She giggles. “I’m going to make you work for this.”
He smiles, self-conscious of the act now, until she pulls him into her and he is again lost—
But then too quickly, he returns to himself and everything around him and he’s thinking of Henry and he can’t stop crying. “I can’t,” he says.
And she tells him not to worry over and over and over.
Chapter 30
Inside Horace Greeley’s gilded mansion, it is bright and noisy and full of people, and while Walt Whitman knows most people by name, he has not personally met many of them. Mr. Bennett greets him at the door, per their agreement, and introduces him around. The men wear tailcoats and neckcloths, sipping drinks and smoking cigars, and they nod his way when Mr. Bennett calls out their names. Among others are Gerard Hallock, Henry Raymond, George Morris, and William Snowden, the very same who published Edgar Poe’s “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt.” Poe himself is hunched over in the corner, looking even worse than he did almost a week ago when Walt saw him in the Pewter Mug. Snowden sees Walt looking at his writer and pulls him by the elbow to Poe’s corner.
“Mr. Poe,” Snowden says, “meet Walter Whitman.”
Edgar Poe looks up as if awakened out of a trance. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” His voice is shaky, half-hoarse.
Whitman shakes his hand and says, “I admire your work very much.”
“Oh? Oh?” The poor author attempts to sit up but simply can’t. He’s too feeble to do more than sit where he is, and so he thanks Walt for the kind words about his work, which he discounts himself by saying, “It’s a surprise anyone takes me or my work seriously anymore.”
Walt glances at Mr. Snowden, who shoots him a look signaling that this is typical behavior for Poe.
“Well,” Snowden says to Mr. Poe, “I need to see Mr. Whitman off to his host.”
At this, Mr. Poe stiffens. He grips Whitman’s hand and pulls him close. “This is all a conspiracy.” His voice is strong and clear now. He keeps the volume low so Mr. Snowden can’t hear. “Abraham Stowe was innocent. His wife was innocent. You are correct about it all, and I will help you in any way I can, do you hear?”
Walt pulls back, awkwardly, and nods.
Mr. Snowden guides Walt to the back of the room, where he introduces him to a short man with wire-rimmed spectacles. He is bald on top, with long white hair in the back. “Mr. Horace Greeley.”
Whitman shakes his hand. “Pleasure to see you again, sir.” Greeley was a big supporter of the Stowes and held a fund-raiser in this very room for the women’s college a few months back.
“We’ve met before?”
“I am a friend of Abraham and Lena—or was, anyway.”
“Ah yes, I remember. You are the author of the temperance novel?”
“The very same, sir.”
“My wife found it instructive, but I”—he holds up his glass—“remain unconvinced.”
“Then we’ll get along very well.” Walt grabs a bourbon from the waiter’s tray and takes a drink. “An author’s life should never be confused with that of his character’s.” They clink their glasses together.
Mr. Greeley smiles. “Now, the meeting will proceed as follows: You will present your case and then we’ll vote on whether or not the committee will move forward. A simple majority rules the day.”
“Thank you for hosting this meeting,” Walt says. “It is very kind of you.”
“I’m lucky to be able to assist. It’s a tragedy what happened, and if you’re correct, perhaps we begin to set it right.”
The bourbon relaxes Walt. The whole evening has come together. None of this will bring Henry Saunders back, but he owes it to Henry to make sure Samuel Clement bears responsibility for his actions.
Walt follows Mr. Greeley to the front of the room and is just about to sit down when he sees him.
Isaiah Rynders.
Blood rushes to Walt’s face, and his stomach flips.
Mr. Rynders nods his way. His auburn hair is neatly combed, the knife scar on his forehead barely visible. Walt wonders about Azariah, and whether he is well. He makes a decision to find him when all this is over, to try and get him to safety.
Mr. Greeley sees the two men make eye contact. “You know Mr. Rynders?”
“We’ve crossed paths a few times,” Walt says.
“Let me tell you—a good man,” Mr. Greeley says. “A lot of what he does for this city goes unheralded.”
“Oh?”
“He creates jobs for the thousands of immigrants who arrive in the harbors every day. Indeed, no single man does more to maintain order in our city.” Mr. Greeley waves to Mr. Rynders. “Yes, every New Yorker owes Isaiah Rynders an enormous debt of gratitude.”
Whitman is speechless. Over Mr. Greeley’s shoulder, Mr. Rynders smiles at him, and Walt knows the entire evening is in question. How can he persuade a room full of New York’s most prominent men to go along with his premise with Rynders in the room?
“Are you feeling well, Mr. Whitman?”
“Yes,” he stammers. “Will Mr. Rynders support this meeting?”
“Oh yes,” Mr. Greeley says. “When he found out about it, he insisted on coming. Now let’s begin, shall we?”
The meeting begins with a brief welcome by Mr. Greeley, and then all eyes turn to Mr. Walt Whitman. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Whitman says. “Tonight, I ask for your help in averting another tragic event in what can already be called a disaster. As you know, my colleague, Mr. Henry Saunders, was murdered and his body found yesterday in the now destroyed Women’s Medical College of Manhattan. The young woman who ran the college, Miss Elizabeth Blackwell, is set to stand trial for his murder.
“What I am about to propose will sound grandiose and far-fetched, but please keep an open mind. As this committee knows firsthand, New York City’s legal system and law enforcement have had their challenges. Many do their jobs well, but some are corrupt. Your committee’s scathing report after the Mary Rogers murder was clear on that point and gave several compelling and accurate examples to support your conclusions. In that context, I suggest to you that Miss Blackwell’s trial is part of a larger conspiracy to protect the lucrative business of body snatching.”
Whitman glances at Mr. Rynders and takes a deep breath. He recounts the events leading up to Henry Saunders’s abduction and murder, his meetings with Frankie Clement, his confrontation with Samuel Clement at the church. “Mr. Clement made no attempt to hide the fact that he abducted Mr. Saunders. He wanted me to know. That was the whole point.”
Mr. Hallock raises his hand. “Mr. Whitman, we want to help, but what you haven’t addressed is the history of that medical college. This is the second such murder in three weeks.”
“Precisely,” Walt says. “The city hanged Lena Stowe for the murder of her husband, Abraham Stowe, and then a short time later, after Lena’s execution, Mr. Saunders is murdered in precisely the same manner as Mr. Stowe. One thing this demonstrates is Lena Stowe’s likely innocence.” Walt doesn’t want to oversell what to him is obvious, so he proceeds deliberately. “And the second thing this shows is that the same person likely committed both murders.”
The men whisper among themselves.
Whitman continues, “So either Elizabeth Blackwell or Samuel Clement committed both murders.”
“And all the evidence points to Mr. Clement,” Mr. Poe says in a wobbly voice from the back.
“Both bodies were gutted like deer,” Walt says, “not d
issected. Clearly, the murderer wanted to cast blame on Lena Stowe first and Elizabeth Blackwell second by making the victims appear dissected.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Whitman”—Mr. Rynders speaks now—“the autopsy results suggest otherwise.”
“Then they are incorrect,” Walt says. “Something we also saw with the Mary Rogers case.”
Mr. Hallock stands up. “But why?”
“Well, sir. I don’t have all the answers, but Abraham Stowe’s involvement with the Bone Bill is well known, and if that legislation passes, the body snatchers are out of business.”
Whitman pauses to give them a chance to reflect on what he’s said so far.
“As many of you probably know, I witnessed Sheriff Harris’s murder—for which, despite his clear guilt, Mr. Clement was dismissed as a suspect. Yes, Mr. Warren was there, but he didn’t pull the trigger. Nobody would be the wiser if I had not been there to do a story on body snatching.” Walt gets emotional, stops. “And unfortunately, Mr. Saunders paid the price for what I saw.”
Mr. Hallock, still standing, says: “And this committee of safety would raise funds for a reward, then?”
“Yes, for information about Henry Saunders’s murder.”
Mr. Rynders raises his hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Whitman. You haven’t stated the obvious problem with your proposal: Should this committee go forward, we will, all of us, accuse the City of New York of hanging an innocent woman in Lena Stowe. A very serious charge.”
“Yes, but we will save the city from doing it again.”
“Surely this will work itself out in the courts,” Mr. Hallock says. “Why the hurry? We don’t want to show up the new sheriff with this committee.”
Walt doesn’t bring up how the courts let Lena down. Instead, he says, “The hurry is simple: A crowd of New Yorkers has gathered in front of the Tombs. They want justice, and unless we do something, they will take matters into their own hands. Thank you for your time and consideration.”
The men then discuss the merits of the case. All of them seem to agree that Walt has made a convincing case, and that if there is no doubt of Miss Blackwell’s innocence, they should act. Most of their concerns revolve around the committee’s relationship with law enforcement. Sheriff Petty is new, and he is doing, by all accounts, good work. This committee has the potential to permanently damage the sheriff’s reputation.
Speakers of the Dead Page 19