The banging at the door startles them both. “What was that?”
The people from outside again lean into the door, the wood bowing.
Little Joe rushes to stop them but cannot hold them back. The door bursts open, and the mob streams inside, one giant mess of hands and arms led by two men wearing hoods. They say nothing; they only point at her.
Little Joe slings Elizabeth over his shoulder and rushes to the cell-block door. Her dress catches on a nail sticking out of the wall. The two men in hoods are nearly upon them now, and she screams. Little Joe yanks her hard, ripping a strip of fabric from her dress, and pulls her into the cell block, slamming the door behind them.
The prisoners bang against the bars of their cells.
“You’ve reconsidered, miss?” one prisoner yells.
“She’s just as ripe as we thought,” says another.
The metal handcuffs have cut into Elizabeth’s skin, and she’s crying. Little Joe picks her up and carries her down the hallway to her cell. “You’ll be safer in here until this passes.”
Only moments later, the mob breaks through to the cell block. The two hooded men motion for those behind them to slow down. Everyone knows they have her cornered. No reason to hurry now.
The prisoners back away in their cells and keep quiet, afraid to become leftovers.
When the mob is halfway down the hall, Little Joe joins Elizabeth in the cell, locking the door behind him. He has no choice. The two men in hoods appear at the cell door with the mob behind them. They crash into the bars, their hands and arms reach inside for Elizabeth. “Come out,” they sing. “Or we’ll come in.”
From down the hallway, she watches a man push through the mob, his rifle raised in the air. Little Joe sees him too. “What do we do?” she says.
“Stay behind me.”
The man points the gun at Little Joe. “Open the door.”
Little Joe shakes his head.
“Give her up!”
“She has the right to a fair trial.”
“I’ll ask one more time.”
The people behind the man turn silent while Elizabeth backs into the corner. Little Joe steps toward the man. “I will not.”
The shot echoes in the corridor, and Little Joe drops to the ground.
Elizabeth screams.
On the ground Little Joe thrashes. A tiny spout of blood erupts from his mouth, drips down his cheek, and pools on the floor. He lifts his head, tries to speak, then his eyes turn glassy. His head drops to the floor.
The man points his gun at her. “You’re next.”
It is happening too fast.
She closes her eyes. “Please, God.”
From behind him, a man yells, “I’ve got the keys.” He works his way to the front of the crowd and unlocks the door. Inside, he steps over Little Joe’s body and wrestles Elizabeth from the corner. He and the man who shot Little Joe lift her up and into the mob’s hands. They convey her from one person to the next, out of the hallway and through the prison’s front doors.
Outside the Tombs, the mob cheers when they see Elizabeth. They lift her above their heads and pass her down the street.
“God help me,” she says over and over until her prayers are drowned out by her sobs.
The mob marches toward an oak tree, its branches scattered in all directions. As they get closer, the mob splits, encircles the tree, and delivers Elizabeth to the ground in front of it.
The priest’s voice emerges out of the low hum that is the mob. He’s running toward them, shouting for them to stop.
His appearance surprises all who can see him, and they quiet down to hear what Father Allen has to say. “Brothers and sisters.” His voice is uneven as he catches his breath. “This is not the Lord’s way.”
“But she’s a murderer,” one of the men answers.
Father Allen stops near Elizabeth. His eyes meet hers to let her know he will do everything within his power to save her, and she believes him. “It is for God alone to judge his children,” he says. “He who judges shall be judged.”
A man standing nearest the priest says, “In the Bible, it is also written that ‘every man shall be put to death for his own sin.’”
“All I’m asking of you is to allow the legal system to determine her guilt or innocence. We’re not savages.”
Jedediah Matthews, the antidissection follower of Father Allen, shakes his head. “Your timidity remains your weakness.” He calls to the crowd. “Here is the woman!”
Down below them, the rumble rolls up through the masses. Hang her. Hang her now. Hang her. Hang her now.
Two men step forward from the crowd and hold the priest fast. He protests, but his voice disappears among thousands who chant for the woman doctor’s death.
Then they pounce on her. They hold her arms and legs down while the same man wraps the rope around her neck three times.
“Please,” she whispers. “Don’t do this.”
They lift her upright while the man tosses the other end of the rope over a high branch and pulls it tight.
Elizabeth can’t hold it in any longer and cries again, her tears warm on her cheeks.
The man with the rope steps backward.
She stands on her tiptoes as her last breath fills her lungs. While they raise her off the ground, six inches at a time, she keeps her eyes open, the faces of the men, women, and children in front of her transfixed by the moment of her death.
She remembers walking along the East River with Kenneth Barclay, the sun on her face, the touch of his hand on her arm, their conversations of the future—
She concentrates on images of Lena, of Abraham, and of her father—
The last image is of her friend Jane. She comes to her, dressed in a black dress, her hair long and flowing, and takes Elizabeth into her arms, whispering that everything will be all right. Death, she says, is the start of something new. Something different.
“What is it?” she asks.
“You have come out of the great tribulation,” Jane says. “You have washed your robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Never again will you hunger; never again will you thirst. The sun will not beat upon you, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb will be your shepherd and he will lead you to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from your eyes—”
And then Jane vanishes.
The air runs out.
Elizabeth gags, and the rope tightens.
Sheriff Petty drives as far into the masses as possible before they have to get out and walk. The first thing Walt notices as they move through the people is that the mob is no longer a mob.
The second thing he notices is her.
Elizabeth Blackwell’s body dangles from the oak tree, twirling in tiny circles, her feet pointed to the ground. Around her, thousands of her fellow New Yorkers stand in dumb silence at the spectacle they have created.
Walt’s breath sticks in his throat when he attempts to call out her name. Devastation grips him tight, and his vision blurs.
The sheriff grabs his arm, snapping Whitman to, and they rush to Miss Blackwell.
To relieve the pressure from the rope, they hoist her body on their shoulders.
“How long has she been up there?” the sheriff calls out.
“Long enough,” one of the two men says.
Then to Whitman, Petty says, “I’ve got her—you cut her down.” The sheriff holds out his knife.
Walt lets go of the body and takes hold of the branch above his head. He swings his leg up and over, then scoots above the body and slices the rope in two. The body drops into the sheriff’s arms, and he gently lays her on the ground.
Petty looks up. “We are too late.”
Walt comes down from the tree and kneels next to her.
“Elizabeth, can you hear me?” He
unwraps the rope from around her neck and winces when he sees the red welts. “It’s Walt.”
He presses his hand against her chest, then runs his fingers across her neck. He puts his cheek next to her mouth.
She has a faint breath.
Walt turns to the two men standing next to the sheriff. “Go for a doctor. Now.”
Miss Blackwell coughs.
Walt rubs her forehead. “That’s it, take your time.”
He looks up at those who have tried to kill her. Their faces stare back at him, blank and confused. One woman holds her daughter’s hand and strokes her left knuckle with her right index finger. The girl’s dark hair blows in the wind, and she meets his gaze with a smile, as if today is the most normal day in the world. How will she look back on this day? Another man braces his elderly father. Same stubby nose, same lanky frame, and same slouch. How did they come to participate in this? A glance in the newspaper, a conversation about God and dissection and justice until they foamed at the mouth—is that what made them leave their comfortable home on a cold winter day to help kill a woman they have never seen before?
Miss Blackwell whimpers.
“Doctor’s on his way,” he says.
“I’m a doctor,” she whispers.
Chapter 36
Walt and Miss Zacky keep watch on Elizabeth while she sleeps. She looks peaceful—her face is clean and her hair combed. When Whitman and Sheriff Petty first arrived at New York City Hospital with Miss Blackwell two hours earlier, she was hysterical. Dr. Liston had administered laudanum, and she slipped into a daze that soon led to sleep. Just before she did, the doctor told her she would make a full recovery, and the welts on her neck were only a fraction of the damage that her near strangulation might have caused. “You’re lucky,” he told her. “Most people would have died going through what you did.”
Miss Zacky arrived only minutes later. She hugged Walt, and it was different from before—he sensed a hesitation, a welcome development given his own ambivalence toward what happened in the hotel. She laid her head on his chest and cried.
Dr. Liston had dressed Elizabeth’s wounds with a thick white pad, then cleaned her body with a sponge. He told them about a man hanged six times using the short-drop method. Each time, they assumed he was dead until reports trickled in that so-and-so had seen the man at this or that place. They called him the Resurrection Man.
Miss Zacky asked, “What happened to him?”
“They shot him,” the doctor said. “No coming back from that one, I’m afraid.”
Now, suddenly, Miss Blackwell yawns and opens her eyes.
Miss Zacky leans forward. “How do you feel?”
“Light-headed.” She can only whisper because of the damage done to her vocal cords.
“Your neck?”
She traces her fingers along the white bandage, then looks at Walt. “You saved me.”
“It was not I alone.”
The doctor feels her head, then examines her neck. “Still doing well,” he says. “I’ll check on you again in an hour.”
Miss Blackwell waits for the doctor to leave before she says in a hoarse voice, “What will happen now?”
Whitman recounts Dr. Barclay’s confession and his willingness to testify, how once the sheriff heard that confession, he became more open to any other information Walt might have. “The sheriff is on our side now,” he says.
“It’s good news, but—” She stops.
“But what?”
“It’s just that, to know that all these people died for nothing, well—” She can’t finish.
Walt can only nod.
A knock at the door interrupts them. Isaiah Rynders and Sheriff Petty step in.
“The doctor tells us you will make a full recovery,” Mr. Rynders says.
Mr. Rynders places his stubby hand on her shoulder. His deep-set eyes suggest genuine concern for Elizabeth Blackwell’s welfare, but Whitman remains skeptical.
“On behalf of the mayor of the City of New York, I want to offer you an apology.” The long scar on his oval-shaped head twitches when he speaks. “Nothing we can say or do will offset the damage of this catastrophe, but if you’ll permit me to make an offering.” He glances first at Miss Blackwell, then Walt Whitman.
“Mr. Bennett?” he calls.
The editor of the Herald limps into the room. “Mr. Whitman. Miss Blackwell. Good evening. The committee has decided that you both should split the reward money. Five hundred twenty dollars apiece. That was the agreement, to give the money to those who helped apprehend Mr. Saunders’s murderer.”
“Did you arrest Samuel Clement?” Walt says.
“I locked him up myself,” Petty says.
“And why should I believe he’ll be prosecuted as he should?”
The men look at each other. “Allow me, gentlemen,” Rynders says. “We regretfully acknowledge our mistakes, but you’ll understand why we can’t admit it publicly. I’m very sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “Our justice system, for all its successes, does have its limitations.”
“That’s it?” Walt says. “After all the people who have died—that’s the best you can do?”
Sheriff Petty steps forward. “Mr. Whitman. Please accept the reward money as a token of our appreciation.”
“Rebuild your school, Miss Blackwell.” Rynders steps forward. “This money gives you the means to do so, and you have our full support.” He lets the words hang in the air before he continues. “This is the best any of us can do.”
Whitman’s face turns red, but he says nothing—he owes it to Elizabeth and Miss Zacky to hear what they have to say first.
Miss Blackwell closes her eyes.
Isaiah Rynders and Sheriff Petty face him.
Walt leans in. “What will happen to Clement?”
“He’ll hang for sure.”
“And James Warren?”
The sheriff nods. “Reduced sentence. Prison.”
“Mr. Bennett has your money,” Rynders says. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have more work to do tonight.”
After Rynders and Petty leave the room, Mr. Bennett hands both Walt and Miss Blackwell envelopes full of money. “This is the best we can hope for, Mr. Whitman.”
“Maybe it’s the best you can hope for.” Whitman hands his envelope to Miss Zacky for safekeeping and leaves the room. He catches up to Isaiah Rynders and Silas Petty as they exit the hospital.
“Miss Blackwell might be satisfied, but I am not.”
Rynders says, “Excuse us for a moment, will you, Sheriff?”
“I need to get back to the watch house, so I’ll say good night. Mr. Rynders. Mr. Whitman.”
“No,” Walt says. “I need to talk to the sheriff. Alone.”
“Very well,” Rynders says. “Then perhaps you’ll give me a word?”
Whitman nods, and Rynders steps away to give them privacy.
“What is it?” Petty says.
“You know that Samuel Clement killed Abraham Stowe and Henry Saunders, and you know that Mr. Rynders was in on it. Possibly the mayor.”
“What would you have me do?”
Walt has no answer.
The sheriff continues. “We’ve done all we can do. I’m sorry innocent people have died, but bringing down Rynders, or going after the mayor, won’t fix it. Your good work proved Clement is a murderer. He will get what he deserves, and life will go on.”
“Not for Henry. Not for Lena and Abraham. Not for Mary Rogers. Not for their families.”
“I’m sorry about your friends,” Petty says, “and I’m not saying you asked for it, but those articles you wrote about us—”
“But they were true!”
“Truth is a funny thing. How many more people are dead for it?”
Whitman scowls.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” the
sheriff says. “The body of that Runkel girl is at the New York University Medical College. They put her back together as best they could and are waiting for you to pick her up. Her parents are anxious to get her back, I’m sure.”
“You found Maggie Runkel?” Walt can’t conceal his surprise.
“I’m not all bad, Mr. Whitman.”
“The Runkels will be relieved. Thank you.”
“I’ll say good night, then.” Sheriff Petty tips his hat and leaves.
Whitman pauses before he turns to Isaiah Rynders.
“I know you don’t think much of me,” Rynders starts, “and I can’t say that I blame you—but try to understand the larger implications of what has gone on here. If we announce that we hanged an innocent person, we lose all credibility, and that won’t change what’s happened to your friends. Clement will hang, and that has to be sufficient. The end result is the same.”
Walt shakes his head. “You covered up what really happened.”
“This city has many more problems. The majority of citizens fear anatomical dissection, for one. It doesn’t matter what the truth is—they believe that dissection keeps them out of heaven. And how can anyone convince them otherwise? At the same time, every medical professional in the country understands that dissection is necessary for medical progress. In the future, medicine can prevent disasters like the cholera epidemic a few years back.”
“Until then, the city will hang innocent citizens?”
“Mr. Whitman, please. Body snatching has become an industry that supplies jobs, placates the public, and helps medical progress. You’re intelligent enough to see what’s at stake here. The Bone Bill would eliminate the industry so abruptly that it would take the city half a century or more to recover. Abraham made a choice, and all that has happened in the past three weeks is unfortunate but necessary, given that choice. Your friend Henry didn’t die in vain, and maybe one day—”
Speakers of the Dead Page 23