The Banished Children of Eve

by Peter Quinn

  Bedford turned and walked toward the river. On a normal day he would be on the floor of the Exchange at this hour, appearing confident and assured, no matter what. Never give in to fear. That was the first law of the market. And of life. The opportunities were always there for those who didn’t lose their nerve. Fortunes to be made from fur, flowers, whatever was at hand. Who could know?

  Across West Street, looming over the sheds that lined the waterfront, were the smokestacks and riggings of steamboats and sailing ships. There was movement everywhere, carts, horses, coaches, wheelbarrows, people. Families of Swedish and German immigrants watched as all their earthly possessions were lifted by the arms of the rusty cranes into the hold of the Albany boat. For a moment, everything they owned in this world was suspended over the dark waters of the Hudson, and they stood in studied, prayerful silence, their eyes rising and descending with the progress of the crane.

  Bedford went up the gangplank. The boat vibrated with excitement. The purser took his ticket. Deckhands scrambled about and snarled at everyone to get out of the way, shouldering aside the unheeding. Bedford went up above to the first-class parlor. The hubbub below barely intruded through the thick red drapes and heavy carpets. Bedford had a glass of whiskey and went outside again. Everyone was aboard. The longshoreman were casting off the lines.

  A whistle blew. One of the ship’s officers cried out, “All aboard the General Schuyler!”

  The deck shook as the great paddle wheel turned and the boat backed out of its mooring into the Hudson. People waved and cheered, threw bits of paper from the decks. Bedford put the carpetbag down between his feet. With its contents he would begin again. Pay the bearer on demand. Pay him whoever he is, wherever he may be, Denver, St. Louis, San Francisco, city, village, or frontier outpost. Without these notes and the specie they represented, what was the grandest and most substantial of residences but a monument to impermanence?

  West again, Charlie! He felt gripped by the same spirit that had infused him as a boy. It had been misplaced, not destroyed.

  Off in the distance, on the northeast fringe of the city, a heavy column of smoke swirled into the sky, as though an entire block were going up in flames. People crowded the railing to get a view. Bedford felt someone pushing persistently against him. He turned to confront a short, husky, pug-faced Irishman. “Sir,” he said, “if you ask, I’d be happy to try to make room!”

  “Don’t bother tryin’ to talk to him,” a passenger on the other side of Bedford said. “He’s deef as clam, and there’s another around just like him.”

  III

  FOSTER KNEW HE SHOULD NEVER have listened to Cassidy. Took all day to get home. Waited for a conductor to provide a free train ride. When that phantom never appeared, they hitched a ride with a cartman and didn’t reach the hotel until dark. Bought a few rounds for Cassidy and the other one, whatever his name was. Wasted money, wasted time. Still no song for Daly.

  This morning, a letter was delivered to the hotel and stuck beneath his door. Dearest Brother. The usual remonstrations … the conduct of your life … the company you keep. … You are wasting your great talent … the wages of sin. But no money. Not even any mention of it. Long on advice, short on cash. Fraternally yours, Morrison.

  Foster bent over the washing bowl and splashed water in his face. He avoided looking at the mirror above the bowl, knowing what he would see: wasted eyes, wasted face, wasted everything. He dressed quickly, perspiring from the effort. Another brutally hot day. He searched about for something to write on, but there wasn’t so much as a scrap. He ripped the back of the envelope from the letter and stuck it into his pocket. He went down the stairs and through the lobby, eyes straight ahead. Wasn’t in the mood for conversation. As soon as he went out, the full glare of sunlight hit like the blast of an explosion. He groped his way along the wall until he reached an adjacent doorway that provided some relief. His legs trembled. He needed to sit. On the opposite corner, on the south side of Bayard Street, was a saloon he usually avoided, a Five Points way station filled with cutthroats and whores. This morning it looked quiet and deserted, its windows bathed in shadow, a cool retreat, a place to sit and rest. He would give himself another hour.

  The saloon was as empty as he had hoped. He gulped a whiskey, took out the nub of a pencil from his pocket, put the envelope facedown on the bar. Thick, expensive paper. White, fresh, virginal. He poised the pencil.

  The bartender came by and poured Foster’s glass full. “On the house,” he said.

  Foster saluted him with his glass. For an instant he entertained the thought of missing his appointment with Daly. Drop a note and make another date. The coward’s way out. He decided against it. Daly was a sociable Irishman, not merely talkative but agreeable, never pugnacious or threatening.

  Be direct and honest: The song is not yet done, but you will have it soon! You have my word on that! He drained the glass and walked outside, steadier on his feet than when he entered.

  The street was almost deserted, but from around the corner of Mulberry, down toward the Five Points, came a cheerful chorus of voices. A moment later a horde of cavorting children flooded the street. They jigged and twirled and twisted in a spontaneous dance, and tossed paper into the air. A ragamuffin of no more than five stopped directly in front of Foster, bent down, and laid a book open on the ground. He put his bare foot on it and with both hands ripped the spine apart, then tossed the book high into the air. The pages fluttered overhead and fell about the boy’s feet. He ran on. Foster picked up the purple cover. It was inscribed with gold lettering. The Five Points House of Industry: A Hymnal for Children. A page of music was stuck to it. “Our Gentle Savior,” by Geoffrey Graves. The bars and notes and clefs were all familiar. Foster hummed the music to himself. “Gentle Annie.” His song.

  Cheats and plagiarists everywhere. Even in the Kingdom of God. He threw the remnant of the book back down to the ground.

  There was a tug on his jacket. A small boy had his hand in Foster’s pocket. Foster grabbed the boy’s arm and pushed him away. A second boy came up from behind and tried the same trick, but as soon as Foster turned, the boy ran off. The procession continued. More hymnals were ripped apart, their pages scattered. Behind the children came a band of laborers. They carried hods, iron posts, crowbars, axes, awls, whatever tools could be used as weapons. From a window above the saloon, an old man leaned out and shouted, “Where ye off to, boys?”

  “To hang Robert Noonan!” one of the laborers yelled.

  “Don’t forget Horace Greeley!” the old man replied.

  A laugh went up, and a detachment left the parade and filed into the saloon. Up ahead, the children spilled onto the Bowery and brought the traffic to a halt.

  Foster followed in their wake. He crossed the Bowery and continued on Bayard. At the corner of Hester, a dozen Metropolitans looked about nervously, fidgeting with their locust sticks. Foster turned onto Attorney Street and followed it to Grand. The disorder was worse than on the Bowery. A barricade of broken crates and cinder barrels had been erected. A blizzard of ash sifted about the street.

  A sprawling crowd was gathered in front of the buildings along the south side of Grand. Children darted around its fringes. On the steps of the Catholic church across the street, a short man in dirty overalls harangued the crowd. “’Tis us who are the slaves!” he shouted. “If the rich man loves the nigger, let him fight to free him! And let us fight to free ourselves!”

  A gray-haired harridan in a shawl came up beside Foster. “Ain’t it somethin’,” she said, “to see such a spectacle! Word is the uptown districts is taken by the people, and the police super intendent himself been strung up! And that black devil Robert Noonan is next! The people will make sure he pays for his treachery!” She spit on the ground and danced a small jig. “The same medicine for all them doin’ the draftin’!”

  The crowd surged forward. The door of a building gave way with a loud crash. People fought to get in. A moment later the windows were shatte
red, and the falling shards of glass rained on those below. A small girl was severely cut; blood spurted from her neck. She had barely been helped away when chairs, tables, and oak filing cabinets were hurled out the windows, crashing into the street.

  Foster skirted the crowd. He made his way eastward half a block, to where Daly had his business. On the ground floor was a store with an overhanging sign in the shape of a diamond. Painted on the sign was “MOSES MEHRBACK, JEWELERS, EST. 1849.” A tall, white-haired man stood inside, guarding the door. Foster went in the door next to the jewelers, up the stairs to Daly’s. He knocked. No answer. He pounded with his fist. The door flung open. Daly stood there holding a cane above his head.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

  “The song,” Foster said. “I promised to deliver it today.”

  “Piss on the song.” Daly took Foster by the arm and pulled him in. He bolted the door. “There’s a bloody revolution going on!”

  Daly’s assistant, a girl of seventeen, cowered in the corner. “It’s all right, Maura,” Daly said. “It’s only Mr. Foster.”

  Daly went over to the window and looked out. “Just my luck. An enrollment office ten doors away. ‘Course, they was gone the first sign of trouble, and now the honest businessman is left to shift for himself.” He pointed to a table piled high with sheet music. “Taken me fifteen years to build this, Foster. Be damned before I’ll let these bloody omadhauns take it without a fight.”

  The building shook with the force of a tremendous crash. Daly stuck his head out the window. “They’re into Mehrback’s!” he shouted. He unbolted the door and dashed out. In the corner, Maura cried softly.

  Above Foster’s head, the bulbs on the gas fixture shook with the vibrations from downstairs. Glass against brass. Ping, ping, ping. There was another resounding crash, and the vibrations increased. Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping. Foster tapped his foot. A tune, but not one of his. Ping, ping, ping. One of Dan Emmett’s. Heard it first in Cincinnati, an early piece; no great success, but it was an inspiration. The morning after he’d heard it performed he sat at his desk in his brother’s office. Before him was the endless drudge of bills of lading, receipts, contracts, all to be entered on the empty pages of the ledger. Instead, he began to make musical notations, writing down what he remembered of Emmett’s song.

  Daly returned with his arm around Moses Mehrback, the white-haired man from the jeweler’s shop below. There was a deep cut above Mehrback’s left eye. Blood dripped down his face, and had stained the shoulder of Daly’s shirt.

  “Don’t stand there, Foster,” Daly said. “Give me a hand.”

  Foster pulled a chair forward. Daly lowered Mehrback into it. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the jeweler’s face, folded the cloth, put it in Mehrback’s hand, and pressed the old man’s hand against the wound.

  “Hold it there, Moses,” Daly said.

  Maura was weeping. The building shook once more with the force of another crash.

  Ping, ping. That day in Cincinnati, it had come to him. Emmett’s music disappeared. There was a silence, a space, an emptiness, and then, like the tongues of fire that had descended on the Apostles at Pentecost, the music descended on him. Ping.

  Oh! Susanna!

  He scrawled it across the ledger. It was as though the music were in the air and he were the only one who could hear it, and if he didn’t get it all, if he missed any part, it would be lost forever.

  “Christ, Foster, what the hell’s the matter with you!” Daly’s face was only inches away. Foster felt the heat of his publisher’s breath. “Wake up, man! Help me lift Moses up!”

  “Of course,” Foster said. He took one arm, Daly the other. Mehrback moaned. The blood had soaked through the handkerchief. It dripped onto Foster’s sleeve. They moved to the door. Daly left Mehrback with Foster and went back and brought Maura to the door. She was shaking.

  “Take her with you,” Daly said. “You two go down first. Keep shouting ‘Down with the draft,’ loud as you can. I’ll be with Moses right behind.”

  Foster took hold of the railing. Why had he ceased to hear the music? What had changed?

  Daly’s voice boomed in his ear. “Goddamn it, get moving!” A tongue of fire. Then a shove. Foster reached for the handrail but missed it. His legs swung out in a wide arc. His head struck the stairs, and his feet passed overhead. When the tumbling stopped, he lay still. A bearded giant with a crowbar stood over him.

  “Down with the draft!” Foster shouted.

  Before he could get up, Daly stepped over him, with Mehrback and Maura right behind. They went out the door. Foster got to his feet and followed them. There was wild melee in the street as people scuffled to grab the rings, earrings, and watches dropped or discarded by the first wave of looters. Daly pushed his way through, an arm around the jeweler. Maura hung on to the tail of Daly’s shirt. Smoke billowed from the enrollment office and rolled over the street. The crowd closed behind Daly and blocked Foster’s way. He saw the trio briefly again as they reached the corner of Pitt. Maura turned, like Lot’s wife, for a last look. Daly grabbed her arm and pulled her away. They disappeared from view.

  As the flames spread from the draft office to the adjacent buildings, the looting took on a new intensity. A table flew through Daly’s window onto the street, and was followed by bundles of sheet music. Foster sat on the far curb, watching. His ears were ringing from his fall. A large lump had raised itself on his forehead, in the very spot where once, long ago, Dr. Mordowner claimed to have discovered the nation’s most prestigious external disclosure of the Organ of Tune.

  A gaunt, poorly shaven young man in heavy woolen pants and a filthy shirt plunked down beside Foster. He smelled as if he either worked in a stable or slept in one. Maybe both. He was drinking from an almost empty whiskey bottle.

  “Da hast Du aber eine ganz schöne Beule!” he said.

  “Pardon?” Foster said.

  “Die da!” He pointed at Foster’s forehead and laughed. He offered the bottle.

  “I don’t speak German.”

  “Egal. Nun trink schon!” He offered the bottle again. Foster took a drink and handed it back. The German stood, drained what was left, and tossed the bottle into the gutter. He pulled Foster to his feet.

  Half a block away, a group of foundry workers had smashed open the door of a liquor dealer, and people were running from every direction to claim a share of the spoils.

  “Ach was!” the German said to Foster. “Lassen wir uns den spass nicht verderben.”

  A laundry wagon turned the corner onto Grand. The driver, instantly aware of his mistake, pulled the brake and hopped off, leaving his load in the middle of the street. People swarmed over it. The cargo of carefully wrapped packages was ripped apart, shirt, skirts, petticoats, and handkerchiefs unfolded and examined, some donned, some thrown away.

  The German took off his soiled gray shirt. He had a boy’s physique, lithe, lean, taut. He put on a starched and spotless silk shirt. He rummaged through another package and found a pair of white duck trousers. He took off his woolen work pants, put on the pristine trousers, and pulled his work pants back on over them. He grinned at Foster. “So bleibt Sie sauber fur seater,” he said.

  The foundry workers passed from the liquor dealer’s to an Italian tonsorial establishment. They smashed the shop window, rushed in, and commandeered the services of the owner and his staff. Half a dozen of the workers sat in the barbers’ chairs, smoking cigars and swigging whiskey, as the terrified Italians tended to their hair and beards. A crowd gathered outside to watch. They laughed as the barbers began working on each mangy-haired, stubble-faced patron, and cheered as each left the shop looking as sleek and well tended as a lawyer.

  The German hurled himself at the wall of spectators and barreled his way through. The crowd was in a happy mood and took his shoving good-naturedly. “Wait your turn, you crazy Dutchman,” one of them said.

  The German jumped into the first em
pty chair. The barber gave his hair a quick washing, wrapped his head in a steaming towel, removed it, lathered and shaved him. While the barber cut the German’s hair, a tiny Italian manicured his nails. Finally the German rose from the chair. The stringy, straw-colored hair that had hung down over his face and ears was trim and uniform, slicked back and glistening with pomade. His forehead, newly revealed, was high and well proportioned. The wafer whiteness of his shirt made his skin seem the color of bronze.

  Foster had watched through the broken window. The German came out, and they walked down to the corner of Chrystie Street and entered a lager-beer saloon that, in the interests of saving his property from destruction, the proprietor had thrown open, making the drink free to everyone.

  The German chattered away with a few of his countrymen. Foster studied him in the mirror that hung high over the bar. It gave him a view as if he were hovering above, looking down like an angel on the mortals below. He was transfixed by what he saw. A beautiful, beardless youth changed by the tonsorial art from a hostler into a Hermes. The German glanced up and saw Foster watching him.

  Foster felt embarrassed at being caught spying; he blushed. But he felt something else as well. An inner heat. Intimation of excitement. Music he alone could hear. A single line: There is no beauty to equal thy face. Where had he heard it before? Or was he hearing it for the first time?

  The crush and heat of bodies inside the saloon made the room unbearable. The German gestured to Foster that he was leaving, and they joined arms, squirming and elbowing their way to the door. Outside, a large crowd milled about, seemingly unsure of what to do next, until from somewhere the cry went up: “To the Armory! To the Armory!” Suddenly the whole mass began moving north up Chrystie, toward Second Avenue, and people flowed out of saloons and side streets, swelling the procession as it passed each block.