Starting from Seneca Falls

by Karen Schwabach

  Mrs. Stanton’s sister Harriet Cady Eaton had arrived late the night before with her son, Daniel, who was about Bridie’s age.

  Since men weren’t supposed to come to the first day of the convention, Frederick Douglass had gone off to visit friends and try to sell subscriptions to his newspaper. Mrs. Stanton had decreed that Daniel, at eleven, didn’t count as a man, and that he should come and so should Bridie, to hear the improving speeches and to understand the issues of the day.

  Rose was at school. Mrs. Post had gone out early to visit an old friend. Mrs. Stanton, Mrs. Eaton, Daniel, and Bridie set out together. Everyone was laden with books and picnic baskets.

  Daniel and Bridie followed behind, while the adults walked along and talked.

  “What if no one comes?” said Mrs. Stanton.

  “Someone’s bound to,” said Mrs. Eaton. “The notice was in all the papers.”

  “I only sent it to the Courier.”

  “But all the other papers picked it up. All the way to Rochester.”

  Bridie was impressed. That message she’d carried, the one that Davey had set in type (except for the word Rights, which was Bridie’s) had gone out for miles and miles, starting from Seneca Falls.

  “Well, someone is bound to show up, I suppose,” said Mrs. Stanton. “And what if it’s a crowd? I’ll have to speak in front of all of them. I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “You’re worried that no one will show up and you’re worried that everyone will show up,” said Mrs. Eaton, sounding amused.

  “I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Mrs. Stanton admitted.

  They crossed the bridge and walked up the steep slope. As soon as they turned onto Fall Street, they saw the crowd.

  From here, they could mostly see wide skirts and top hats.

  Top hats?

  “The men weren’t supposed to come today! It was in the notice! Men were only invited for the second day.”

  “Calm down, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Eaton. “I’m sure if we—”

  “Remember what happened in Philadelphia!”

  “This is Seneca Falls,” said Mrs. Eaton.

  “What happened in Philadelphia?” Bridie asked Daniel. He seemed like a bookish sort of boy who might know.

  “A women’s anti-slavery society met, and some men came and attacked them and burned down the hall,” said Daniel.

  “But they weren’t men in top hats, I’m sure,” said his mother, giving him a quelling glance.

  They had reached the Wesleyan Chapel. Everyone was standing around, fanning themselves and looking far too warm in their wool and linen clothes—they must all be anti-slavery folks, Bridie thought, and was grateful for her cotton poorhouse dress.

  Still, she’d never thought before about the cotton being grown by slaves.

  “The door’s locked,” said a man.

  There were a lot of men. Dozens. And even more women. Two hundred? More? They filled the sidewalk and spilled over into the street.

  Mrs. Mott came hurrying down State Street from the train station. “Does thee not have the key, Lizzie?”

  Mrs. Stanton shook her head.

  “I can climb in the window,” said Daniel. “I found one that’s unlocked.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Mrs. Mott, her voice ringing out through the crowd, “please be mindful of the rules of the convention. Since you are here, we will be pleased to admit you—”

  “Admit the gentlemen? To a meeting where only ladies will speak? Unheard of!”

  “—but we ask that you please remain silent until tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “They’ll never do that,” a woman muttered.

  A man beside her looked affronted.

  Bridie and Daniel managed to work the unlocked window upward with their fingernails.

  “Hoist me up,” said Daniel.

  Bridie wanted to climb in, but she couldn’t in her dress and stockings, not in front of all these people. So she made a step with her hands. Daniel put one foot into it and shoved off. Just for a second he was very heavy, and Bridie winced at the gritty shoe leather biting into her palms. Then he was through the window.

  A moment later he had the door unbarred, and people were pouring into the church. It was a large, plain building, all one room, with whitewashed walls, a balcony around three sides, and a pulpit at the front. The crowd filled the rows of wooden pews.

  “Women’s rights indeed,” said one of the men, stowing his top hat under the pew. “You see how women take up twice as much room as men?”

  “That’s because of these ridiculous petticoats on top of petticoats on top of more petticoats,” said the woman beside him, sounding annoyed. “We all look like dinner bells! If we could wear sensible clothes…”

  She unfolded a fan and began fanning herself.

  The pews were so crowded that people were beginning to go up to the balcony.

  “A bit warm in here, isn’t it?”

  “Someone open the windows.”

  People were fluttering fans and newspapers and anything they could find that would make a breeze.

  Bridie went up to the balcony to help open windows. It was tarnation hot up here. And yet there were women and a few men filing into the pews, looking earnest. They must really want to be here.

  Or else they were here to cause trouble. Bridie thought of what Daniel had said about Philadelphia.

  Speaking of trouble…Bridie put her head out an open window and looked up and down the street for Kigleys. No Kigleys in sight.

  When she came back downstairs, Mrs. Stanton, Mrs. Mott, and the McClintock ladies had gathered at the front by the podium. Mrs. Stanton was digging through her papers.

  “Here’s my speech. I suppose I’d better begin by making it.”

  She looked nervous. The other women encouraged her.

  “Thee will do fine, Lizzie.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Remember thy temperance speech, thee did that—”

  “What if this whole idea is ridiculous?” Mrs. Stanton said.

  “Thee sees this crowd here, they don’t think it’s ridiculous.”

  “They’re here to hear you, Lucretia. I can’t find it!” Mrs. Stanton pawed frantically at her papers.

  “Thy speech? It’s right there.”

  “No, no, the Declaration of Sentiments! It’s gone! Did any of you bring a copy?”

  The other women looked at each other.

  “Thee was going to write in the changes we suggested, and make a fair copy, Lizzie.”

  “I did that! It’s not here!”

  “Perhaps thee left it home.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Stanton brightened. “Yes, I must have. I’m as nervous as a mule on an icy towpath.” She looked around and saw Bridie. “Run home and get it for me, please, Phoebe. It’s on my desk and says ‘Declaration of Sentiments’ at the top. And hurry. I’ll need it by the time Mrs. Mott finishes her speech.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bridie went, making her way through the church with all the people talking to each other and fanning themselves.

  Bridie knew she had to hurry. It was a long way back to Mrs. Stanton’s house. Still, she had time. She figured Mrs. Stanton’s opening speech would be long. And then Mrs. Mott would speak; she was a famous speaker and the crowd would be eager to hear her. Most people considered long speeches prime entertainment.

  Bridie stepped out the church door…and ran smack into the Kigleys.

  Bridie crashed right into Mrs. Kigley and Lavinia.

  They hardly seemed to notice Bridie. They pushed right past her and hurried on up Fall Street.

  Mr. Kigley wasn’t with them. Bridie noticed that Mrs. Kigley still had that hand-shaped mark on her face, and Lavinia had welts on her arms, as if she’d clawed
through a patch of nettles. Or been hit by a belt.

  Bridie stood staring after them. Lavinia turned and looked back at her, and then pulled her mother’s sleeve and said something.

  Well. Bridie needed to hurry to get Mrs. Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments. She dodged across the street, between horses and wagons, narrowly missed stepping in a pile of manure, and trotted down toward the bridge.

  She wasn’t going to worry about the Kigleys. So what if they thought Bridie belonged to them? Mrs. Stanton, who had read all those law books she had in her house, said that Bridie did not belong to them.

  She crossed the bridge, gazing down at the islands covered with houses and factories. The factory where her mother had worked was a tall stone reminder on the opposite shore.

  A duck pecked its way along the shore, followed by a bobbing row of yellow-and-black ducklings.

  Bridie didn’t know how long Mrs. Mott would speak—an hour probably, but she’d better not count on it. She speeded up.

  On the other side of the river, Bridie turned left onto Bayard Street. Something made her look back, and she saw Mrs. Kigley and Lavinia standing on the bridge, watching her.

  Bridie didn’t like this at all. But she was tired of living in fear of Kigleys. She walked on.

  When she reached the house, Nancy was in the kitchen making dinner, and Kit and Gat were outside crawling among the cabbages in the garden, pretending they were in a forest.

  Bridie found the papers on the desk and started back down Locust Hill. She’d probably taken too long already. As she hurried along Bayard Street, she thought she saw the Kigleys standing in the doorway of a dry-goods store. But she ignored them and took a shortcut up Seneca Street toward the factory catwalks.

  As she walked, she read the Declaration. It was hard to make out the words. Schools nowadays taught swooping, graceful, beautiful penmanship, but Mrs. Stanton had evidently not gone to that kind of school. Her handwriting was loose and urgent and hard to decipher, even in the bright sunlight.

  Bridie figured out that the Declaration included a list of rights that women should have but didn’t. And then, written in the margin, where it would have looked like an afterthought if it hadn’t been in such strong, stern letters, was this:

  Resolved, that it is the duty of the women of this country to secure to themselves their sacred right to the elective franchise.

  Bridie couldn’t figure out what this meant. But it looked like it had been added last. She wondered if it might have something to do with how nervous Mrs. Stanton had been this morning.

  When Bridie got back to the church, Lucretia Mott was speaking. People had stopped fanning themselves and were leaning forward eagerly. Tiny Mrs. Mott had a strong voice and spoke in rolling, ringing tones that filled the hall up to the rafters.

  Bridie hurried to the front and handed the Declaration of Sentiments to Mrs. Stanton.

  “Thank you, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Stanton. “Just in time. I think Lucretia’s train of thought is approaching the station.”

  It occurred to Bridie that now that she’d decided not to hide from the Kigleys anymore, she didn’t need to be called Phoebe.

  But it would be awkward to explain this, especially right now with Mrs. Stanton already heading toward the podium. Besides, it was Rose’s mother’s name, and Bridie knew it was an honor to have been given it and it ought not to be lightly tossed aside. Besides-besides, Bridie kind of liked it.

  Mrs. Mott finished speaking. Applause rippled, then rolled across the room.

  A wooden apple crate had been set behind the pulpit for Mrs. Mott to stand on, Bridie saw. Mrs. Mott got down from it. Her sister Mrs. Wright came up and said, “Thee spoke well, Lucretia.”

  Mrs. Stanton mounted the apple crate, put the papers Bridie had brought in front of her, took a deep breath, and began to read her Declaration of Sentiments.

  “ ‘When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one portion of the family of man to assume among the people of the earth a position different from that which they have hitherto occupied…’ ”

  Bridie went and stood against the wall to listen; there were no empty seats.

  She knew family of man meant everybody, whether they were men or not. This had always seemed strange to her, and it was especially confusing when you knew that Mrs. Stanton was talking about women. Bridie looked at the people in the long rows. They were leaning forward just as they had for Mrs. Mott. They weren’t just here to hear a famous anti-slavery speaker. They were here for this, too.

  “ ‘The history of mankind is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations on the part of man toward woman, having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over her. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world,’ ” said Mrs. Stanton, her voice ringing in the big room.

  Several of the men in the audience looked uncomfortable, but that could have been the heat.

  “ ‘He has not ever permitted her to exercise her right to the elective franchise!’ ”

  Everyone started talking at once. To Bridie’s relief, a lot of people were saying, “What’s that mean?”

  “Vote,” said a man near Bridie. “It means vote.”

  “What! Women, vote? This is ridiculous!”

  A few people got up and walked out, the door slicing a beam of sunlight across the floor as they left.

  Bridie slid into one of the newly vacant seats. Everyone was talking, louder and louder.

  Mrs. Stanton turned to Mrs. Mott, who said something to her that Bridie couldn’t hear.

  “If you’ll kindly wait,” said Mrs. Stanton, shouting to be heard over the hubbub, “we’ll have a discussion of each of these points after the reading.”

  People quieted down, and Mrs. Stanton went back to reading. “ ‘He has taken from her all right in property, even to the wages she earns.’ ”

  “This is all a bit hard on men, what?” said a man near Bridie.

  Someone shushed him. Bridie didn’t hear what Mrs. Stanton said next. She was too busy thinking about what had just been said, right here in this church in front of hundreds of people.

  Even to the wages she earns.

  If that hadn’t been true, if that weren’t the law, Bridie’s mother might have still been alive.

  * * *

  There was a break for refreshments, and everyone headed outside. A woman was selling lemonade from a cart.

  All the adults were standing around talking, filling the wooden sidewalk, forcing passersby to step, scowling, into the dusty street. Bridie stood in line to buy lemonade. It cost five cents, and Bridie had money, because she’d been paid. Money of her own, that she’d earned by working and had been allowed to keep. This had never happened to her before.

  Rose appeared beside her. “What’s going on?”

  “The convention.” Bridie gestured. “How come you’re not in school?”

  “Mr. Davis sent us all home because he had the headache.” Rose looked worried about this.

  They were at the head of the line. “Two lemonades, please,” said Bridie, proud to be able to treat her friend. You could do that sort of thing when you had a job.

  Provided you were allowed to keep what you earned, that is.

  The bucket of lemonade had a big chunk of ice floating in it, melting fast in the afternoon sun. The woman plunged a dipper in and filled two tin cups. “Ten cents.”

  Now came the confusing part. Bridie handed over an English shilling. The woman counted out Bridie’s change in pennies, some English, some American, and one that Bridie didn’t know where it was from. Rose watched carefully and gave a slight nod; there had been no funny business.

  You had to know a lot of arithmetic to work out the hodgepodge of coins, and yet most people hardly learned any.

  Beads of condensatio
n formed on the outside of the tin cups. The girls wrapped their hands around the cool metal and went around to the side of the building. They squeezed into a narrow strip of shade and sat down.

  Mrs. Stanton’s nephew, Daniel, came and found them and gave them ham sandwiches, and then he went away again.

  The ham sandwiches were exactly salty enough, and the cool lemonade was just the right amount of sweet and sour.

  Bridie told Rose about seeing the Kigleys and about them seeing her.

  “Did they say anything?” asked Rose.

  “No, but I think they followed me.”

  “Maybe they want help.”

  “Help?” Bridie looked at her to see if she was joking. “From me? Mrs. Kigley and Lavinia?”

  Rose, the Underground Railroad agent, shrugged. “They might need help.”

  “There’s no way that…” Bridie thought of the bruises on Mrs. Kigley’s face, and the welts on Lavinia’s arms.

  Well, it wasn’t her problem.

  “I hope Mr. Davis’s headaches don’t make the school board get rid of him,” said Rose.

  Bridie hadn’t thought Rose was especially fond of Mr. Davis. “You said they’re probably going to get a new teacher anyway, right? One that can fight the big boys.”

  “The new one might not let me in the school. Or might not let me study arithmetic.”

  “Oh.” Bridie didn’t know what to say to this.

  She picked up Rose’s arithmetic book and read a problem from it aloud. “ ‘Adonibizek said, “Threescore and ten kings, having their thumbs and their great toes cut off, gather their meat under my table.” How many thumbs and toes did Adonibizek cut off?’ ”

  “Two hundred and eighty,” said Rose. “Read the one about baking a dead body to remove nine-tenths of its weight.”

  “Ugh. No thanks.” Bridie wrinkled her nose; arithmetic was disgusting. She was glad to have escaped it. Even boys didn’t start studying it till they were ten or so, and Bridie hadn’t had much time for school since then.