Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  As St. Clair and everyone else in the city knew, Bob Bundy was a Negro convicted of raping and murdering Elsie Styles, the twelve-year-old daughter of Frederick Styles, a prominent attorney. According to the newspapers, last November Bundy had broken into the Styles’ home on Madison Avenue believing that it was unoccupied. However young Elsie had been at home alone—the family’s servant was out on an errand. Mrs. Styles returned to find, she later claimed, Bundy fleeing from the house. “It was that Negro, I swear it,” she had testified in court. The poor woman found her daughter lying naked and dead on the floor of the hallway by the top of the stairs. Her throat had been slashed with a razor, which was, as everyone knew, a favorite weapon of the colored’s.

  It hardly mattered that another witness claimed that Bundy was with him that day hauling freight in Brooklyn. Because he was also a colored, the all-white jury ignored his testimony. After a half-hour of deliberations, they found Bundy guilty and the judge ordered him to hang. Stories soon appeared in the New York Herald, which suggested Bundy might well have been out of the city when the murder was committed. Eventually the case landed on Governor Krupp’s desk.

  As St. Clair later heard it from Frank King, however, Victor Fowler was allegedly courting Frederick Styles to become Tammany’s chief lawyer and did not want anything to upset his negotiations. It was a real coup for Fowler to have someone of Styles’ stature as one of several attorneys he could call on. In Bundy’s case, St. Clair concluded, innocence or guilt was almost beside the point. There was much more at stake. Mrs. Styles had seen the Negro leaving the family’s house and that was all there was to it. The governor ordered that Bundy be hanged.

  St. Clair followed Chapman into the prison’s huge courtyard where the gallows had been erected. Straight ahead, on the other side of the yard, was the entrance to the men’s prison, which could only be reached by a narrow stone bridge.

  “The inmates call that the Bridge of Sighs,” said Chapman with a glint in his eye, “since it’s the last walk some of them take. Sure not like the old days when you could see a hanging out on the streets. It was like a day at the fair . . . only better. They used to give the poor sod a sermon and then a grand procession from the old prison by City Hall to the gallows on the outskirts of the city. Now, it’s here in private with invited guests only. But I can tell you that the excitement hasn’t disappeared. Any time there’s a hanging, the crowds still gather outside the gates and on the top floors of the factories and shops over there.” He motioned with his head to several buildings that were higher than the prison’s walls. “You’re welcome to stay if you wish. The warden told me to tell you that.”

  St. Clair had witnessed several executions when he worked with the Times, but that was a while ago. It had not been an assignment he had particularly enjoyed or wanted to repeat.

  “Thank him for me, please,” he said to Chapman. “First I must speak with Madame Philippe.”

  “Of course, our latest and most famous inmate. Come with me this way. She has the finest room in the house,” he added with a chuckle. “Who knows? From what I hear, she might be the next one swinging up there.” He glanced back at the gallows.

  Standing on the makeshift wood platform, Reverend Ingersoll surveyed the crowd of clerks, shopkeepers, peddlers, cartmen, and sailors, along with a good assortment of rogues, thieves, grafters, and harlots. Trust Victor Fowler to assemble this mixed horde, he thought. Fowler was as good as his word—you couldn’t fault the man for not fulfilling his promises.

  He was in front of Grady’s, a saloon squeezed between a funeral parlor and a bookshop, on the corner of Canal Street and Center Street, which Fowler had designated as the gathering place for the march to the Tombs. A decade ago, Fowler had loaned the saloon’s owner, Michael Grady, an immigrant from Cork, the money to open his tavern. Ever since then, Grady was a rabid Tammany man and one of Fowler’s most vocal supporters. “You be needing anything else, Reverend?” Michael Grady asked, handing Ingersoll a mug of beer. “This in case your throat becomes parched.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, Mr. Grady,” the reverend responded, taking the mug in one hand and dusting off of his black suit with the other. “If you can get this rabble to settle down long enough for me to deliver a few words, I’d be most appreciative.”

  Grady signaled for a husky man with dark hair to come forward. It was Little Philly, one of Fowler’s shoulder-hitters.

  “Philly, the reverend needs everyone to shut up. Can you and your men handle that?”

  “I can do that, sir, if that’s what you need,” replied Little Philly.

  Within minutes, Philly and his gang, including Snake Manfred and Punk Tyler, were moving about the crowd, with thick clubs in their hands, ordering everyone to stop the talking and hollering. And as if by some sort of magic spell, they obeyed—even the tougher and more despicable-looking thieves and brawlers. Ingersoll was impressed, although he did remember that each member of the mob had been assured of fifty dollars—a generous fee Fowler would pay them once their task for the day was completed.

  “Can you hear them?” asked Ingersoll. His voice was clear and crisp. “Can you hear them?” he repeated, louder. His long flowing hair blew in the light wind and grazed the collar of his black frock coat. To anyone in this street congregation there was no doubt that before them stood a man of God.

  “I know you can,” he declared, not waiting for an answer. “That crying you hear is the sound of two mothers, young and old, who have had their daughters stolen from them by sin and Satan.”

  Several of the thieves and harlots hooted their approval.

  “Elsie Styles and Lucy Maloney. Remember those names,” the reverend continued. “For they’re the innocent victims of two tragedies, who deserve our admiration and respect. And what of Bob Bundy and Madame Philippe? One’s a colored man, who covets young white girls. And the other’s a witch who pretends to be a physician, but is in truth a murderess. Have no fear, Bundy will meet his maker at noon today.”

  A boisterous shout of approval emanated through Canal Street. “Death to the Negro,” one tough yelled. “Yeah, hang him high and burn the bastard,” screamed another. The crowd roared again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, patience.” Ingersoll, now in full stride, held up his arms. “Is there a greater evil in this world than abortion? Yes, worse I’d say even than prostitution to which it is closely allied.” He ignored the titters among several men standing close to him. “Each day in this city, countless women like Miss Maloney are victims of vile and cruel quackery. Remember, she was left dead and stuffed into a trunk. Then, there are the children. They’re not permitted to be born into this world and are disposed of like garbage. They’re cast into the fire pits or buried in a heap of dirt without a Christian prayer being uttered. In a civilized world, we must never tolerate this. That’s my message for you today.”

  Ingersoll stopped for a moment, certain that all eyes were upon him. “So I hear you asking me, what can be done about this injustice?” It was time, he thought, to earn his rewards. “I’d argue here and now that Madame Philippe . . . Madame Killer . . . does not deserve the benefits of justice, for she does not accord that to her defenseless victims. The gallows are there for Bob Bundy. Why not force the officials at the Tombs to use them on Madame Philippe as well. To the Tombs. To the Tombs,” he cried again and again.

  The crowd, which had grown to close to one hundred and fifty people, shouted and hollered. “To the Tombs. To the Tombs. Hang the Negro with the witch. Let them both hang.”

  That was the signal Little Philly and his men were waiting for. They encircled the mob and, using their clubs, began shepherding them down Center Street. Many of them pulled out guns or picked up stones. Others wielded the clubs they had brought with them.

  Assistant-Warden Chapman turned the large iron key and the heavy wood door of the cell opened slowly.

  “Madame, Mr. St. Clair is here to see you,” he announced.

  Madame Philippe was re
sting on the narrow bed and swiftly stood up. “Mr. St. Clair, I’m so delighted you’ve come. I’d offer you a cup of tea, however, as you can see, it’ll have to wait.”

  The cell, one of half a dozen overlooking Centre Street, appeared to be more comfortable than others St. Clair had seen in the prison, but he knew that such cells were available to inmates like Madame Philippe, who were prepared to pay for it. While it had daunting stonewalls like the rest, a barred window situated high above the floor provided sufficient air and light during the day and the bed appeared to have more straw and fewer bugs than most. There was even a feather pillow on the bed and a bucket for water in the corner.

  “Please sit down, Mr. St. Clair.” Madame Philippe offered him a spot on the bed.

  “I’d prefer to stand, thank you, Madame,” he said, making no attempt to hide the sharpness in his voice.

  “And your injury? Still painful?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “I’m certain you will.” She took a seat on a small wooden stool beside her bed. “Mr. St. Clair, I know this might strike you as an odd request, given our surroundings, but would you do me the honor and please tell me about your late wife.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he said suddenly overcome with guilt. This morning, his mind had been filled with erotic images of Ruth Cardaso. Evoking memories of Caroline was about the last thing he wanted to do.

  “She was a beautiful woman?”

  “Yes, she was,” said St. Clair. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he found talking about Caroline comforting. “When she was dressed for a ball or a night at the theatre, there wasn’t a woman in New York who could compete with her.”

  Madame Philippe smiled warmly. “I’m sure you miss her terribly. If this is any consolation, I do know that Madame Anna was dreadfully upset about your wife’s death—”

  “She was upset?” St. Clair interrupted. “She assured me that the procedure would be safe and like a fool, I believed her. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve regretted that decision. And the worst of it—” He waved his hand in the air. “Oh, what is the point?”

  “No, please continue,” she said softly.

  “The worst of it was,” he said with resignation, “the worst of it was that I was the one who forced her into doing it. She wanted to have the child.” St. Clair shook his head in dismay. “It was my fault. I even chose Madame Anna because a friend’s wife had recommended her. She is dead because of me. Because I foolishly did not heed the newspaper stories of other such tragedies. I trusted Madame Anna. How could I have been so wrong?” He pounded the wall of the cell with his fist.

  “It was a terrible accident, I’m certain of it. Anna is an excellent midwife. Many young ladies of the finest families in the city have utilized her services.”

  “Please, Madame, make no excuses for her incompetence. My wife bled to death at Bellevue and there was absolutely nothing the doctors could do to prevent it. And with all due respect, she has not been the only one to suffer so. Whether it’s been the harlots of Wooster and Green or the misguided daughters of Fifth Avenue families . . . the list of women, to endure tragedy at the hands of you and your kind, is far too long.” He glared at her. “I’m certain you know the sad tale of Mary Ryan?”

  “I cannot recall.” Madame Philippe looked away.

  “Let me refresh your memory,” St. Clair began. “Some time ago, she visited an abortionist, whose name escapes me, merely to obtain advice. The poor girl was stupefied with chloroform and an abortion was performed on her without her consent. She was robbed of the few dollars she had in her pockets, and then dumped in the ladies’ cabin of the Desbrosses Street ferry. Luckily for her, someone found her and she was taken to the hospital for medical treatment that saved her. What of Miss Emily A. Post? She was not as fortunate.”

  Madame Philippe remained silent.

  “Only four months ago, as you well know, she went to see Madame Van Buskirk. She paid the thirty dollars for the abortion, with the promise that her friends would pay another twenty, so that she could stay longer and recover from this ordeal. What happened next was as abysmal as the fate suffered by Miss Maloney, in my opinion. When these so-called friends did not appear with the needed funds, Madame Van Buskirk and her accomplices took the sick woman in the middle of the night and transported her to Brooklyn so they could search for Miss Post’s acquaintances. The trip took several hours and Miss Post’s health deteriorated to the point that the abortionist did not know what to do. They left her at the first precinct house in Brooklyn. The police there summoned a physician, but it was too late. She died, yet at least she had identified Madame Van Buskirk as the culprit of this horrendous crime.”

  “You’ve made your point, Mr. St. Clair,” conceded Madame Philippe. “I know that you could tell me more heart-rending stories. Despite what you might believe, I don’t have all of the answers. I do know that I’ve helped many women, abused by drunken husbands, who care little about them. What of the women with six and seven children who cannot, under any circumstances, care for another infant? What other options do they have, sir? I ask you, what other options? Are there not a sufficient number of unwanted children living in the alleyways like dogs and rats? Do we truly need more?”

  St. Clair turned his back to her.

  “It’s true, I grant you,” she continued, “that there are far too many young ladies of respectable class who visit me seeking relief, because they are either not prepared to marry the man who they have been with. Or far worse in your view, I’m certain, they do not, for any number of reasons, want to relinquish their status as single and carefree women. I ask you, however, do they not have that right?”

  St. Clair turned around. “To be a mother is the most fulfilling role they can play, is that not so?” he demanded. “Is it not their moral duty? How did Dr. Hale recently explain it in his pamphlet? Something like this I believe, ‘an abortion is a crime against physiology because it arrests the normal course of the functions of physical life. It is a crime against morality because it is murder to eradicate the receptacle of the soul. And it is crime against the law.’ I didn’t understand the true meaning of these words until after Caroline was gone and this is something that will haunt me for the rest of my days.”

  Madame Philippe walked closer to him. “Are you aware that Edwin Hale has said publicly that even if his own daughter was raped by a Negro or Indian, he would still regard abortion as murder? Surely you wouldn’t agree with such primitive thinking, Mr. St. Clair. What of your late wife? You said yourself that her personal circumstances made it impossible. Do you know why I do this work?”

  “So you may live in a mansion on Fifth Avenue?” he snidely replied.

  “The other day in the carriage, when you related to the police and Miss Cardaso the story of my life, you omitted several important aspects. Permit me to educate you now.”

  “Very well.” St. Clair sat down on the bed and took out his pad of paper and a pencil.

  “I was indeed born Anna Jacoby in Frankfurt in the Judengasse . . . Jews’ Alley,” Madame Philippe said. “My mother was a Jewess, my father a Catholic who opted to live as a Jew because he worshipped my mother. He never spoke of his own family and we never asked him about it. I don’t believe he saw them again . . . he was dead in their eyes. Do you know that it was only a decade ago when my older brother Solomon revealed that our father’s real name was von Strauss, Wilhelm von Strauss. He changed his name to Jacoby to make our lives easier.

  “The Judengasse was small, dirty and muddy-far worse than even Five Points, if you can imagine that,” she continued. “Jews were nothing in Frankfurt, lower than Negroes here. I remember as a young girl being instructed that in the streets outside of the Judengasse, I was not permitted to walk on footpaths nor play in parks. One day . . . I was likely no more than six years old at the time . . . I was with my father, who was always assumed to be a Jew. As we walked past a group of rowdy young men, one of them shouted at him in disdain, ‘M
ach mores, Jud’. . . Jew, do your duty. Without a word, my father, this proud man, a talented carpenter, removed his hat and bowed respectfully. He said nothing to me about it, yet I could see the shame on his face. I don’t relate this for your sympathy or pity, only that you should understand the world I’m from.”

  Madame Philippe cleared her throat and continued her story. “When I was ten, my mother became pregnant. She already had four children . . . I was her third. When she had given birth to my younger brother, Simon, the doctor had told her that she should never have any more children because to do so would put her life in jeopardy. Nevertheless, she and my father were careless and she became pregnant. There was a woman in a village outside of the city, who she knew could help her. But my father, stubborn and as Catholic as he had been the day he was born, forbid it. When the time came for her to deliver the baby, there was nothing the doctor could do. I watched her die in her own bed after giving birth to my sister, Clara, who has had to live with the knowledge of this tragedy.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Even though I was still young,” she said, her voice shaking, “I vowed then and there never to allow anyone else to bear such pain as I did that day.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “By the time I was eighteen, I had apprenticed with an elderly midwife in Vienna and felt confident in my own abilities. That’s why I convinced my late husband, against his better judgment, I should add, to assist me in first establishing my office. Have I become a wealthy woman from this work? I would be a liar if I said no. You must believe me, however, that’s not what compels me to continue.”

  St. Clair scribbled her words as fast as he could. He was not sure what to make of her tale. He had insisted for so long that she was a wicked woman, guilty of committing sin and abomination. Nor had his view on abortion suddenly undergone a major transformation. Admittedly driven by terrible guilt, he had taken a vow on Caroline’s deathbed, a vow to halt this immoral practice whenever and wherever he could. Still, it was difficult, if not impossible, for him to be rational on the subject of abortion.