Dark Chaos

by Ginny Dye

  His voice grew stern. “Secrecy is what will keep us alive. There will be absolutely no light on the ship to give away our position.” He nodded at the oldest man. “Mr. Stanford, I’d like you to extinguish your cigarette. There will be no more smoking until I have given the order.”

  Mr. Stanford complied silently, his face white, his lips set.

  “You may go below. You’ll be safest there,” Bueller continued and then waved their dismissal.

  Robert bit back his disappointment and turned away. He hated to miss the excitement, but he would do nothing to upset the order of the ship.

  The captain drew him aside as he was going down the stairs. He waited until the other two men were out of hearing; then he said in a low voice. “Care to join me on the bridge? Or would you rather hang out with those stuffy men?”

  Robert grinned. “Lead on, Captain.”

  Captain Bueller was silent as they made their way to the bridge. Robert could feel the change come over the man. The confident bearing of the shoulders was still there, but gone was the cocky arrogance. He was all business. Robert understood why his men trusted him even though most of them were years older. Bueller was a commander who inspired confidence.

  “Move her out,” he ordered quietly.

  Robert stared up at the sky as the boat glided smoothly toward the mouth of the inlet. The sky had been startling clear earlier. Now he noted with satisfaction that a thick layer of clouds had blocked out all light. There was not even the dim glow of the new moon to betray their presence to patrolling Union boats.

  Soon the silence was penetrated by a dull roar. Robert leaned forward expectantly, knowing they were reaching the mouth of the Cape Fear River. Soon they would make their way through booming surf into the Atlantic. His heart pounded right along with the approaching breakers. The powerful boat eased through the surf effortlessly, any engine noise completely obscured.

  The wind picked up, whipping Robert’s hair and causing him to squint into the salt-laden air. Excitement coursed through his body as he gripped the railing and peered through the darkness. Suddenly he stiffened. A massive, dark outline loomed just to their right.

  “Straight ahead,” Captain Bueller muttered into the speaking tube to the pilot. “They don’t even know we’re here.”

  The Phantom glided by noiselessly. The Union blockader remained still and silent. Robert let out his breath as Bueller chuckled quietly. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

  Robert tensed again as another boat came into view.

  “Port.” Bueller instructed. “Port. Hard a-port,” he said urgently.

  Robert gripped the railing again as the Phantom swung to the port and eased by yet another boat, almost close enough to touch it. His pulse hammered, his breath coming in quick gasps.

  A sudden call split the night. “Heave to, or I’ll sink you.” Lights flashed on the Federal boat as the engines came to life.

  Captain Bueller threw back his head and laughed defiantly. “Full speed ahead!” he shouted, all need for silence gone. “Now the game begins!” he called gaily.

  Robert looked at the man in fascination. He was actually enjoying this!

  Shouts could be heard from the Union boat as the Phantom leapt forward, her engines roaring at full speed. Robert grabbed for the railing again and threw his head back in exhilaration. Suddenly he laughed loudly. “Yahoo!” he hollered.

  “Show ‘em what we got, boys,” the captain hollered, his commanding figure casting an impressive outline against the sky.

  Boom! Boom!

  Robert looked back in alarm but then laughed louder as the shots of the pursuing boat fell far to the rear and the right.

  Boom! Boom!

  The next shots were even farther behind them. Robert relaxed, knowing the Union warship didn’t stand a chance of catching them. The Phantom advanced at full speed for close to thirty minutes before Captain Bueller spoke into the tube again. “Half-speed, Billy boy. We showed them our heels again,” he chortled. Now that they were safe, his cocky arrogance was back. “Score another one for the Phantom.” He winked at Robert. “Take us on to Nassau, boys.”

  Abby Stratton leaned against the railing of the passenger boat carrying her from Philadelphia to New York City. She never tired of coming through the Narrows on her way to the grand city. Dawn was just lighting the sky, casting a rosy hue over the white mansions lining both sides of the waterway. Green trees towered over sweeping emerald lawns. In the distance the city emerged from the bay, church spires mingling with the masts of anchored ships. The city stood in stark contrast against the water, spotlighted by the morning sun.

  “Beautiful!” she whispered to herself, pushing back a strand of soft brown hair flecked with silver, her gray eyes flashing with excitement. She was traveling alone this trip and was finding it quite enjoyable. She had only been to New York City a couple of times since she had lost her husband several years ago, and always with a friend. Her heart pounded with excitement as she envisioned the freedom of exploring the city on her own.

  “I find I never get tired of the sight myself.” Abby started as a voice behind her spoke.

  She turned and smiled at the elegantly dressed man behind her. “I don’t know how one could get weary of it. It’s so exciting, so...,” she searched for the right word. “Alive!”

  “That it is,” the man chuckled. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Marcus Clipper.”

  “Hello, Mr. Clipper. My name is Abigail Stratton.” She turned once more to the view. “Is New York your home?”

  “Since I was just a boy,” he replied. “Has it been long since you’ve visited our fair city, Mrs. Stratton?”

  “At least three years.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll find our city much changed,” he said sadly.

  Abby stared at him curiously. “That doesn’t sound very positive.”

  Marcus shrugged his stooped shoulders. “I shall always love the grand city, but I’m afraid she’s outgrown herself. The population has boomed out of control. Poverty is rampant - in spite of the grandeur you see from here,” he said, waving his hand toward the opulence they were gliding through. “There are still parts of New York that are as luxurious and artistic as Paris. Too much of it, though, seems to have been surrendered to barbarian types.”

  Abby hid a smile as he sniffed disdainfully. It was obvious which part of New York he hailed from. “Surely it can’t be as bad as all that.”

  Marcus tipped his hat and moved from the railing. “I will allow you to make your own judgments,” he said casually. “You are obviously a lady of fine breeding and taste. If you are traveling alone, I urge you to exercise all possible caution. I’m afraid our city has become quite dangerous, especially for lone women.” He smiled. “Welcome to New York City, Mrs. Stratton.”

  Abby looked around her in astonishment as the carriage that had met her at the wharf wove its way through the packed streets. She had always loved the hustle and bustle of New York, but a strange urgency and tension in the air gripped her and made her uncomfortable.

  She leaned forward to talk to the driver, Cyrus Paxton. “Please do bring me up-to-date on the city,” she asked graciously. When he nodded pleasantly, she settled back. It would take them quite a little while to meander through the city. Paxton had already told her that Mrs. Livingston, the friend she was visiting, had been called away to a meeting but would return by dinner. They were in no hurry.

  “The city is changing faster than most of us can keep up with,” Paxton began his narrative. “The population is booming. The completion of the Erie Canal, the railroads going west, and cheap transportation from Europe has made it easy for folks to come here. Once they’re here they just seem to stay.”

  Paxton turned the carriage. “The people with money are moving farther out. The fancy shops and restaurants are following them.”

  “It doesn’t look that much different,” Abby observed. “Just more crowded.”

  “We’re in the b
etter part of the city,” Paxton agreed. “You’ll be wise to stay out of the lower wards. That’s where all the trouble is.” He spoke softly to the horses to calm them as children ran shrieking in front of them before he turned back to her. “They call that area the “great workshop of the city.” There are factories and manufacturers everywhere you look. Most of the city’s industry is packed down there. So are most of New York’s people.” His voice was grim.

  “Doesn’t that make living conditions rather tight?” Abby asked. Philadelphia had some of the same problems, but instinctively she knew New York’s were considerably magnified.

  “You could say that,” Paxton said angrily, then apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that.”

  “Do you have family down there?” Abby asked quietly.

  Paxton nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Most of my family lives down there. I’m lucky. I have a place with the Livingstons. I was the first of our family to come over from Ireland about twenty years ago. I was fortunate enough to get a job as a driver for the Livingstons. I saved my money to help the rest of my family get here.” He shook his head. “I almost wish I hadn’t. Even though the potato famine would have killed them. At least they would have died in their own country.” His voice was bitter.

  Abby realized they had drifted far from a narrative of the city, but she was intrigued by their discussion and filled with compassion because of the pain in Paxton’s voice. “Is your family ill?”

  Paxton clucked to the horses again and maneuvered around several wagons stopped in the middle of the street. “They’re living in squalid poverty down there. At least in Ireland they had space and fresh air. They’re no better than rats in a sewer down there in the East End. Irish and Germans are coming to New York in swarms - looking for an opportunity to make a life for themselves.” His voice became hopeless. “But they don’t have any skills and can’t make enough money to improve their situation. I’ve been to London and seen the rookeries there. They don’t have anything on New York slums.”

  Paxton looked back. “If you’re a friend of Mrs. Livingston, I guess you’re one of those women who care about people.”

  “I certainly am,” Abby agreed firmly.

  “You want to see how New Yorkers really live, you go down and look at some of the places they have the gall to charge money for. People are crammed in tiny, dark rooms like so many roaches. Some of the buildings are seven or eight stories high. Back behind them, you’ll find a whole row of stalls they call lavatories. They aren’t ever cleaned - filth is everywhere! The roofs leak whenever it rains. They’re freezing cold in the winter and suffocating in the summer.”

  His voice grew hoarse. “I have little nieces and nephews growing up in those pig holes!” he said angrily. “There aren’t any sewers down there. The filth just runs in the street and poisons the water supply.” He was forced to stop to wait for an omnibus to rumble past. “Have you ever heard what they give the children to drink down there?”

  Abby, already horrified at what she was hearing, was almost afraid to ask. She shook her head mutely.

  “They call the stuff pure orange county milk,” he said disdainfully. “It comes from spavined old cows stuck in dirty, dark stalls. Those cows are fed on swill, the residue of grain left from the distillation of whiskey. When they milk them they get this sick, whitish fluid, so they fix it up a little by adding starch, plaster of paris, chalk and magnesia. That’s what they call pure orange county milk!”

  “That’s terrible! Surely the city is doing something about it,” Abby protested.

  “Maybe,” Paxton shrugged. “But I think there is going to be trouble before the city does anything to help. I have a feeling it’s too late.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Paxton lowered his voice before he answered her. “I’ve heard some of the fellows talking. They’re real angry. Have you heard about that Conscription Act, Mrs. Stratton?”

  “Of course,” Abby responded. Who didn’t know about Lincoln’s controversial decision to draft eligible men into the army? She understood the bill was needed if the North would continue fielding an army, but it was a radical departure from the long American tradition of voluntarism. Distrust of standing armies and centralized power ran so deep in the American mind that conscription inevitably aroused strong opposition. Loud protests were being heard all over the Union. There were strong charges being made that Lincoln was converting the North into a grand military dictatorship.

  “Did you also know that a fellow with enough money can get out of the draft? They can either provide a substitute, or they can pay three hundred dollars. Either way, those with money don’t have to serve.”

  “I remember reading that,” Abby acknowledged.

  “Well, it isn’t fair!” Paxton burst out. “All the rich boys will stay home while the men whose families need them for survival will be sent off to fight that war. Three hundred dollars is more than some of them make in a whole year. And you know the worst part of it?” he spat. “We’re going down to fight for those colored slaves who are coming up here to take our jobs. Can you beat that?” He was getting wound up. “If it weren’t for those coloreds, we wouldn’t even be fighting this war. Now they’re coming up here to take our jobs and drive wages down.”

  Abby stared at him and was appalled at the hatred she saw in his eyes. She chose her words carefully. “You do know that Mrs. Livingston is actively involved in fighting for the emancipation of the slaves, don’t you?” She couldn’t imagine her friend’s employees would be unaware of her intense involvement.

  Paxton sobered quickly. “I’ve been talking too much,” he said, urging the carriage down the road at a faster clip.

  Abby looked around, relieved to see they were out of the business district and climbing Gramercy Hill. She knew it was known as the most aristocratic quarter of the city. It still amazed her that her direct, down-to-earth friend lived here. Her husband, Wallace, had done extremely well in real estate. And they had bought a mansion on the hill several years earlier.

  “Are you going to tell Mrs. Livingston what I’ve been saying?” Paxton asked anxiously. He shook his head. “I know better than to run off at the mouth like that. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. I guess it’s my Irish blood,” he said ruefully.

  Abby knew adding to his fears wouldn’t help the situation any. “I don’t think it necessary to tell Mrs. Livingston of our conversation,” she said steadily. She wasn’t content to leave it there, though. “Do you really carry such intense hatred against the coloreds, Mr. Paxton?”

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Sometimes I get so much anger built up inside myself that I feel like I’m going to explode.”

  “And they’re a convenient people to explode on?” Abby didn’t wait for him to answer. “Wouldn’t it be better to take that energy and figure out a way to improve things, rather than wanting to take your anger out on a people who are struggling as hard as you are?”

  “It’s not that easy,” Paxton said stubbornly.

  “I don’t recall saying anything about it being easy,” Abby retorted. “Anything worth having is worth fighting for.” She paused. “We’re not really so different, Mr. Paxton. I realize I have more money, but you have the vote. There are many things you take for granted, which because I’m a woman I can’t have or do. I’m sure if I looked around, I could find someone to take my anger out on. I find I prefer trying to force change.”

  Just then the carriage rolled up in front of a huge brick mansion with large white columns and a sweeping drive. Paxton pulled the carriage to a halt and stepped out. He stood silently for a long minute but then looked at her steadily. “I see what you’re saying, Mrs. Stratton. I’ll think about it.” He paused. “I sure appreciate your not saying anything to Mrs. Livingston. I’d sure hate to lose my job.”

  The front door opened. “Abby! It’s so wonderful to see you.”

  “Nancy!” Abby cried. “I thought you were in a meeting. I wasn’t
expecting you to be here.” She smiled fondly as her petite, blond friend hurried to give her an embracing hug.

  “They canceled it at the last minute. I hurried home so I could meet you.” Nancy turned to Paxton. “Please carry Mrs. Stratton’s things up to the blue room on the second floor.” Then she turned back to Abby. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “With the exception of several more lines in my face,” Abby retorted. “You look wonderful. Being wealthy becomes you,” she teased.

  “Hogwash!” Nancy snorted then laughed. “Still know how to get me riled, don’t you?” She grabbed Abby’s arm and pulled her forward. “Do come in. I have tea ready for us. There is so much to talk about.”

  Abby followed, trying to push away the heavy feelings she felt after her conversation with Paxton. People were predicting trouble over the Conscription Act. Would it be here in New York City?

  Abby finished her cup of tea and set the fine Dresden china down carefully. “I want you to tell me all about the meeting of the Loyal Women of the Nation in May. I was sick that I couldn’t attend, but my business demanded I stay there. I can’t believe it’s been over a month.” She shook her head then leaned forward eagerly. “I hear wonderful things happened.”

  Nancy reached for a piece of paper on the table beside her. “Let me read you what Elizabeth Stanton and Susan B. Anthony wrote. I’m sure you will agree it bears their unmistakable imprint.” She cleared her throat and began to read.

  “At this hour the best word and work of every man and woman are imperatively demanded. To man, by common consent, is assigned the forum, the camp and field. What is woman’s legitimate work, and how she may best accomplish it, is worth our earnest counsel with one another... Woman is equally interested and responsible with man in the settlement of this final problem of self-government; therefore, let none stand idle spectators now.”

  Abby smiled. “They have a way with words,” she agreed. “I understand hundreds of women came.”