He straightened his back, like an actor reciting lines:
Better than honor and glory
And History’s iron pen
Was the thought of duty done
And the love of his fellow men.
Thunderous applause. Nellie felt marooned in some bizarre world and wanted to scream. The South had nearly destroyed the Union! And Gilder was calling them heroes. Didn’t these people lose loved ones in the war? Or did they just buy their way out, like so many New Yorkers she’d read about in the Pittsburg papers?
“We owe so much to our southern brethren. Speaking as a publisher, how much more national, in the best sense, our periodicals have become because of the presence of southern writers. It is well indeed for the North, well for the nation, to hear in poem and in story all that the South has to tell of her romance, her landscapes, her heroes, and yes, of her cause.”
More applause, sustained and louder. Her cause?! What, slavery? Destroying the Union? Do people really want to hear more of their cause?
“There is another explanation I would put forth of the great interest in the Confederacy these days, and that is the way of life in the Old South itself. It had its appeal, beyond question. A serenity, a simplicity, compared with our way of life now. I heard something interesting yesterday, at one of the previews we were holding for the play. We invited audience members from the local neighborhood, and I sat behind a young boy and his mother. The boy asked the mother, ‘What did the Yankees fight for?’ Now, at that moment the orchestra was striking up ‘Marching Through Georgia,’ and the mother said, ‘The Yankees fought for the Union.’ Then the young boy asked, ‘And what did the Confederates fight for?’ Before the mother could answer, the music changed to ‘Home Sweet Home.’ ”
The orchestra in the theater began playing the song. The audience, stirred at the sound of the southern ballad, cheered. The melody filled the theater with pathos.
“The mother leaned toward her son,” continued Gilder, “and said, ‘Do you hear this song? That is what they were fighting for.’ ”
“ ‘You mean they fought for their homes?’ asked the boy.”
“ ‘Yes,’ said the mother. ‘They fought for their homes.’ ”
“And the young boy looked at his mother and said with a voice of absolute determination, ‘Oh, Mother. Then I will be a Confederate.’ ”
Huge applause, now even louder and more enthusiastic than before. Nellie was disgusted. She also realized, for the first time, how dangerous Gilder was.
“We are honored to present this play. Several people made it possible, and I would like to introduce a few of them now. First is my sister-in-law, our guiding light and the granddaughter of the great General Robert E. Lee, Mrs. Lucy Coffey DeKay.”
Lucy stood up and took a bow, to heartfelt applause. Nellie was appalled that the granddaughter of Robert E. Lee, a man her father despised for prolonging the war at least three years, would receive such a reception in the North’s largest city. Watching Lucy wave gently and nod to the crowd as if they were beloved servants, Nellie recalled a story her father often told that brought a smile to his face. Before the war, Lincoln had asked Lee, the federal government’s most outstanding military leader at the time (he had led the capture of John Brown at the federal arsenal at Harper’s Ferry), whether he would remain loyal to the Union if the South seceded. Lee said yes, or at least Lincoln understood that he said yes. After the Confederate attack at Fort Sumter, when Lee resigned his commission to lead the forces of Northern Virginia, Lincoln was furious. Three years later, when the idea came up for a national cemetery to honor the Union dead, Secretary of War Stanton proposed using the Lee family estate at Arlington, which the Union Army had overrun. Lincoln approved the idea immediately and signed the proclamation that very day. As she watched Lucy Coffey, it pleased Nellie, as it must have pleased Lincoln, to think that for all time the major cemetery for Union soldiers was on land that once belonged to the family of Robert E. Lee.
“The other person I wish to acknowledge is esteemed Judge Henry Hilton, who has worked tirelessly to honor veterans on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line, sponsoring joint parades and dinners in New York City and in Richmond and generously financing plays such as this that give greater understanding and well-deserved respect for our southern brethren. Judge Hilton, would you grace us with a few words?”
All of those in the orchestra section—that is, those in white tie and tails and long gowns and diamond necklaces—applauded with exuberance. Hilton was reluctant to stand, though Nellie knew it would take very little coaxing.
“Please,” insisted Gilder, leading the applause and beckoning at the same time.
Finally, gesturing as if he was simply giving the audience what they wanted, Hilton stood and made his way to the aisle and up onto the stage. He and Gilder shook hands warmly, and then Gilder stepped to one side so that Hilton had the stage all to himself. Nellie felt her stomach knot with revulsion.
“Thank you, Richard.” Hilton spoke in that extra-loud voice that still rang all too often in Nellie’s brain. “And thank you all for being here tonight. I am so pleased with the reconciliation finally taking place among us northerners and southerners. I am particularly happy this is occurring now because I don’t like what is happening in these United States, and we need to return to what we are, who we are. Foreigners enter our shores by the hundreds of thousands. Workers and farmers engage in anarchy. Our women no longer remain in the home. Looking back, I think it is fair to say that the Confederacy, not the Union, may have been the real America, and that is why so many of us long for it now.”
A burst of applause. He’d struck a deeply resonant chord with this audience. “So stand shoulder to shoulder with me, my friends, against these corrosive elements. Do what you can to stop the destruction, the mongrelization of our nation. Urge your friends to see this play. And make those immigrants and anarchists ruining this country wish they had never set foot here.”
More applause, louder and more sustained. Hilton headed back to his seat, pleased with himself, receiving handshakes and approving nods along the way. Nellie looked over at Dale, who was every bit as appalled as she was. No doubt Hilton’s comments would find their way into Dale’s review, but his was a minority view. Most people in the audience, and in America, felt exactly as Hilton did.
Looking at this spectacle of bile, Nellie felt like she was suffocating. She grabbed her purse and stood up.
“I need some fresh air,” she whispered to Dale and hurried outside.
She raced down the stairs and out to the street. She sucked in the air as if she had been held underwater. The theater entrance was on a side street. Standing there, gasping for air, Nellie realized beyond question that Hilton had it in him to murder Emma, that he could impose his will on almost anyone he deemed necessary to carrying it out. His resources and his hatred gave him that power. Just as he and his ilk had taken over the government, he would take over the justice system as it suited him. Colonel Jackson back in Kittanning was minor compared with Hilton. Hilton could get away with murder. The matter would never even make it to a jury, though no doubt Hilton would win there, too. At first she’d thought the real scoundrel in Emma’s death had been Charles, currying the doddering older man’s favor, but now she realized that many people were more than willing to carry out Hilton’s wishes; they would be lined up to volunteer because the rewards and opportunities he could provide them were so great.
Suddenly she heard a male voice. “You’re the reporter woman.”
She looked up. A man had emerged out of the shadows. It was the burly man who had picked her up when she’d gone to Hilton’s house in Saratoga Springs.
“What are you doing here?” he asked roughly.
“I came to see the play.” Her answer was defiant, but it sounded hollow. No one else was around, and he was twice as big as she was.
“Then why aren’t you inside?”
“I wa
sn’t feeling well. I wanted some fresh air.”
He grunted. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. “And how are you feeling now?”
“Better, thank you.”
She started back inside, but he blocked her way.
“The play is about to begin,” she said.
“Then you don’t want to interrupt it.”
He looked her over with an unmistakable hunger. She knew how vulnerable she was. Hilton and his thug would have no hesitation about killing her. And even if she somehow survived, Hilton would make sure no one was punished for it.
“You know who I am. You know I work for the largest newspaper in New York.”
“Judge Hilton thinks you served your purpose.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he won’t care if you go missing.”
“Yes, but other people will.”
“They don’t matter.”
She looked around for help, but they were completely alone. He grabbed her wrist. His hands were huge. She cried out. He squeezed tighter and twisted. He was breaking her wrist.
“I want to go inside,” she said through the pain.
“I’m sure you do.”
He pulled her into an alley. It was totally dark. She started to scream, but he punched her in the stomach, and all the wind went out of her. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t cry out. He grabbed her other wrist and pinned her against the wall of the theater. She could feel his erection pressing against her. She moved her leg to knee him in the groin, but he hauled off and smacked her again across the temple, even harder. He ripped open her bodice and cupped her breasts. His hands were cold and calloused, and she winced in pain, which only seemed to arouse him more. He put a hand under her skirt and ripped at her undergarments, but there were too many layers. He couldn’t get to her flesh. She tried to turn away from him. He smacked her again across the temple, almost knocking her out, then dug a shoulder into her chest, pinning her, and slipped both hands under her skirt and tore away the underskirts as if they were paper. His hand felt around and grabbed against the hair of her pubis. He sighed with pleasure. She could feel the other hand reaching to unbutton his pants. All his weight was pressing against her. There was nothing she could do. She was blacking out, could barely breathe, and he was twice her weight. She tried to scream yet again but nothing came out.
THWACK!
She heard what sounded like wood hitting a wall. The rapist seemed to freeze.
THWACK!
He grimaced in pain. His weight fell away from her. His hand dropped from her genitals, and suddenly he was on his knees.
THWACK!
Dale’s cane smashed across the man’s face, with all of Dale’s strength behind it.
The rapist went face down on the ground in a daze.
THWACK!
The cane smashed him on the back, snapping his shoulder blade. He cried out in pain.
THWACK!
Dale swung the cane into the man’s ribs. THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Again and again and again he smashed the man’s side and chest. The rapist howled in pain, but Dale swung the cane against his head, his shoulders, his neck, bringing whimpers and then silence. The man clawed to move, but Dale raised his arm yet again, and this time came down on the head, full force.
THWACK!
The man lay there lifeless. He might be dead or seriously hurt, Nellie didn’t know which and didn’t care. She looked at Dale, who was breathing heavily from the effort.
“Thank you,” was all she could say.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. She looked down at herself. Her blouse was torn open, her skirt ripped, her underskirts strewn on the ground.
“Let’s get you home.”
Dale took the coat off the unconscious man and slipped it around her. It covered her completely. He gathered up her clothes and purse.
“I have some theater friends not far from here,” he said. “They’ll take care of us.”
“Where did you—?” She was amazed he had been able to so thoroughly dispatch the thug.
“Years of experience, Miss Bly.”
He led her out of the alley. She was shaking and in shock. She took a look back at the rapist, lying on the ground, a bloody pulp.
“I guess they won’t be getting a favorable review.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mary Hallock Foote
The next day, Nellie went to the fourth floor of the Tenth Street Studio Building, the most famous studio in New York. Her head and chest ached from the assault in Brooklyn, and every breath made her wince. Ingram and Dale had urged her to rest for a few days, but the attack and the speeches before the play only motivated her to go after Hilton with even greater vigor. Time was getting short. Hilton might never be held legally responsible for Emma’s death, but Nellie would settle for destroying his reputation. All she needed were a few facts. Hilton might be able to control a prosecutor or a jury, but he would never be able to control Joseph Pulitzer.
The Tenth Street Studio housed a dozen artists at any one time, including William Merritt Chase, Winslow Homer, and, when she was in New York, Mary Hallock Foote. Despite her romantic portrayals of the American West, Dale pointed out snidely, Foote found the Idaho winters too harsh and quietly spent those months in New York. As a first-rate illustrator and storyteller of the exotic West, as well as an inveterate charmer, she was always assured of space at the Tenth Street Studio.
Inside the large warehouse building, makeshift partitions separated the work areas and artists conversed freely. At the far end of the corridor, Nellie saw a striking, vivacious woman in her early forties holding court, surrounded by a bevy of male artists. By her uninhibited affect, denim western skirt, and siren-like effect on the male admirers, Nellie knew it was Molly Foote.
Even from afar, Nellie had never beheld anyone quite so vibrant in her entire life. Helena DeKay was beautiful and witty, but within the confines of a conventional, eastern, blueblood mold. Mary Hallock Foote’s allure was one of the spirit, of total independence and freedom, a true artist in both her manner and her work. Foote had forged her way into obscure towns in Colorado and Idaho, towns with scarcely any other women within hundreds of miles, and had written compelling stories and drawn vivid illustrations of the life there. Like so many others, Nellie was drawn to that spirit and looked forward to meeting Foote for herself.
But Nellie was also ill at ease. She had heard from Dale, and it was borne out in the writings, that Mary Hallock Foote could be extremely difficult. Her courage and talent were undeniable, but her writings conveyed an insufferably arrogant easterner. She portrayed people in the West as crude and uneducated, and while the territory itself was rugged and magnificent, its people, as presented by Foote, most decidedly were not.
Foote had made a strong point in her magazine pieces of sending her son back East for school at the nation’s oldest prep school, St. Paul’s in Massachusetts, and then on to M.I.T. to study engineering. Nellie, on the other hand, identified much more with the western settlers than the upper-crust easterners—Pittsburg was considered the Gateway to the West—and Molly’s caustic remarks rankled her. It bothered Nellie that on some level she still wanted the acceptance of these people, given all she had seen of them since moving to New York.
Nevertheless, she was there on a critical mission, and natural reporter that she was, she willed herself to put aside personal antipathies and insecurities as she approached Molly’s work area. She was struck by Molly’s latest painting, portraying a mother in her thirties carrying a baby down to a creek in a lovely mountain setting. It was done on a large canvas and somehow captured the ruggedness and beauty of both the setting and the woman. Rather than join the crowd of Molly’s would-be suitors, Nellie stayed back and admired the painting.
“What do you think?”
Mary Hallock Foote approached Nel
lie, her eyes locked on hers, demanding an answer like an impatient schoolmarm. She had a wildness about her, an excitement that was incredibly seductive, enhanced by shimmering blue eyes, auburn hair, and a nearly perfect mouth. Few men or women, Nellie saw instantly, could resist the charms of Mary Hallock Foote. Then again, Nellie had considerable charms in her own right.
“I think it is marvelous,” said Nellie. “You must love the West.”
“I love my West when I am in the East,” she said, drawing a chuckle from Nellie. Molly was pleased for both the laugh and the anticipation of continuing the conversation in a more intimate setting. “Are you a painter?”
“No. Only a reporter, I’m afraid.”
“Even better.” She perked up. “Then I am entirely at your disposal.”
“I’m not a reporter for the arts. I want to ask you about something else.”
“Ah.” Molly did not hide her disappointment. “Miss Bly, I presume.”
“I take it Mrs. Gilder spoke to you.”
“She sent a note, actually. That is our preferred way of communicating these days.” Molly Foote was the kind who placed a value judgment with every statement. That she and Helena communicated only through letters was mentioned with the irritation of a spoiled child who must follow silly rules.
“Why is that?” asked Nellie, all innocence. “You are in the same city.”
Nellie, of course, knew perfectly well the answer to the question. Alan Dale had told her the story of Helena DeKay and Mary Hallock Foote. The two had met at Cooper Union College and become intimate friends—most probably very intimate, according to Dale. Following college, they had moved to a studio apartment together in New York, where they lived for eight years until Richard Gilder came in and swept Helena off her feet. Molly had taken it hard when Helena accepted Richard’s proposal of marriage. Shattered, Molly married Arthur Foote, an engineer, weeks later and moved west with him. Helena and Molly corresponded frequently, and the Century regularly published Molly’s illustrations and writings—a good thing, too, noted Dale, because Arthur Foote was a fine engineer but his income was not dependable. Molly rarely saw Helena or Richard on her trips to New York, even though they were her editors and publisher; it was simply too painful for her to see Helena with someone else. Nellie, however, acted oblivious when asking Molly about Helena. The subject was obviously a sore one. Molly’s countenance changed immediately.
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