by Ginny Dye
Wallace picked up the paper once more. “I want to read something else to you. I wish you and Nancy could have heard the governor’s speech on the Fourth of July.”
“I understand he was quite eloquent,” Abby replied.
“Yes. Here is an article about his speech.” Wallace cleared his throat.
“Governor Seymour is a strong Union man, as he has just proved by the vigorous measures just taken to hurry our militia units down to meet Lee’s invasion of Pennsylvania. He is also a firm Jeffersonian Democrat with a passion for civil liberties. His voice is calling out for the North to unite and help the war effort. But, he said, this can never be achieved while the Republicans are trampling on individual rights. The administration is pleading the necessity of strong action to obtain victory.
Seymour’s response was direct. “Remember this, that the bloody and treasonable and revolutionary, doctrine of public necessity can be proclaimed by a mob as well as by a Government.”
Wallace looked up briefly. “I have fervent hope that he is not also a prophet.” He continued reading.
“Pointing to the dangers of military dictatorship, Seymour called on his audience to maintain and defend the principles of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. The Federal government should be obeyed as long as it does not clearly transgress its constitutional powers. People must do their duty. They must also insist that the government do its duty: uphold states’ rights, freedom of the press, and the independence of the judiciary.”
“I understand he and his cousin, the former governor of Connecticut, are calling for a cease-fire and negotiations for national reconciliation,” Abby recalled.
“Yes.”
Abby was thoughtful for several moments. “It sounds so wonderful,” she said regretfully.
“But it’s too late for that now,” Wallace said bluntly.
“Yes, I’m afraid the lot is cast. I’m afraid this crazy war will have to burn on until the end.”
“I just hope it doesn’t destroy everything in its path,” Wallace said grimly.
A heavy silence descended on the room. A slamming door in the distance broke it. Abby looked up, grateful for the reprieve, when Michael walked into the room.
“Got enough food there for a hungry policeman?” he asked cheerfully. “I haven’t had a decent meal since yesterday.”
“If the police force knew how to take care of its men, you wouldn’t be starving,” Wallace growled, then looked at Abby apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the force works their men such crazy shifts that some of them go almost twenty hours with little to eat. I don’t know how they expect men to do their jobs efficiently.”
Michael just shrugged and grinned. “It’s interesting to find out how most of our country lives.” He waved his hand toward the table with dishes spread bountifully before him. “I guarantee I’m the only one on the force who comes home to meals like this. Not that I’m complaining,” he added lightly, piling his plate high.
He looked up after several large mouthfuls. “The force seems to be keeping everything under control.” He looked at his father. “Remember my telling you they were taking the draft down into the lower wards on Saturday?” He shoved another bite in, talking around his food. “Things went smoothly. The captain sent a strong regiment down to protect the draft officers. There was some mumbling and complaining, but no one tried to stop the proceedings. The draft callings went on all day. At the end of the afternoon, the workers simply closed up shop and went home.” He stretched as a mighty yawn escaped from his mouth. “I guess all those predictions of trouble were a lot of hot air. There is another draft picking today. The captain is certain there will be no trouble.”
Abby breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad. This country has quite enough violence without it erupting in the cities as well.”
“Yeah.” Michael stood and stretched again. “I’m going to bed. I’ve been dreaming of sleep for the last day. I’m about to indulge my fantasies.”
Abby fondly watched him go. “You must be quite proud of your son.”
“That I am,” Wallace said heartily. “Once he has this policing bug out of his blood I fully expect he will come to work for me.” He smiled slightly. “That boy is the light of mine and Nancy’s life.”
Paxton was waiting for Abby when she emerged from the Livingstons’ house and walked lightly to the waiting carriage. “Where to, Mrs. Stratford?”
“I’m going to visit a new friend downtown on Roosevelt Street,” Abby replied. “I’m expected there for lunch. I have some shopping I would like to do on the way.”
Paxton frowned heavily. “I don’t think you’ll be wanting to go down there today, ma’am.” His eyes held a hint of fear.
“Why ever not?” Abby asked, trying to hide her amusement.
Paxton shook his head, still frowning. “There’s going to be trouble down there,” he insisted. “I heard the boys talking. The fire laddies are upset because some of their members got notice of the draft. They think they ought to be exempt just like the city firemen. They’re not going to just take it.”
“The fire laddies?”
“They fancy themselves to be firemen,” Paxton said sardonically. They are really little more than gangs. They link up with political groups, and then they look for exposure and excitement by putting out fires.” He shook his head. “You should see it down here when there is a fire. A wild mob rushes through the streets with the engines, bellowing and screaming at the top of their lungs.”
“Well, at least they put out the fires,” Abby smiled.
“Depends,” Paxton snorted. “Those boys care more about winning a race with another company than putting out a fire. I saw a bunch of them one time. They didn’t have a pump that would throw a stream high enough to put out a fire in a store. They refused to make way for another engine that could have done the job.” He shook his head. “Those boys have been known to break in and ransack buildings near fires. Some have been known to start the fires themselves, just to have a little excitement.” He turned in his seat and fixed Abby with a frightened stare. “They aren’t anyone to be messing with, Mrs. Stratford.”
“Nonsense,” Abby said crisply. “The police are more than competent to take care of any trouble. I intend to go visit my friend. Please take me to the Lord and Taylor store on the corner of Grand and Chrystie. I need to buy a few things to send home. Then we’ll proceed on to Roosevelt Street.”
“Roosevelt Street?” Paxton muttered reluctantly. “I’m not sure I’m familiar with that.”
“It’s down in one of the black sections of town,” Abby said casually. She held up a sheet of paper. “I have directions.”
Paxton whitened. “Please, Mrs. Stratford. Don’t go down there today. Especially not into the black section. If there’s trouble, it will be worse there.” Sweat broke out on his forehead. “It won’t be safe for anyone down there.”
“Oh, what utter nonsense,” Abby said merrily. “I appreciate your concern, Paxton, but I simply must insist you stop this. Michael assures me the situation in the city is quite under control.” She stepped into the carriage. “May we please go now?”
Paxton looked as if he were going to refuse but then abruptly nodded his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered under his breath.
Abby smiled, then leaned back, and breathed in a deep draught of fresh air. Here, above the city’s industrial smoke, the air was crystal clear, the sky blue and sparkling. It was a day to be glad one was alive. Abby thought back over the last two weeks. Her time with the Livingstons had been wonderful, and she had made many new friends among the city’s abolitionists. One was Dr. Benson, the black doctor she would visit. She had talked to him just a few minutes several nights before at a local meeting. Now she would meet his family.
There were dozens of barrels of supplies already on their way to Rose in the contraband camp. The wealthy people of New York had opened their hearts, their purses and their closets
when she described the plight of the camps to them. Rose would be thrilled. Tomorrow Abby would leave to return to Philadelphia. She was eager to get to work on the petition signing project. Her time in New York had both refreshed and inspired her.
She thought of engaging Paxton in conversation, but his grim face told her he probably wouldn’t be interested. It really was a shame he was allowing his fears to get the better of him. Abby had finally triumphed over the uneasy feelings she had experienced on coming to the city. Michael’s assurances had done much to help her.
Now that her earlier fear had been dispelled, New York in war didn’t really seem much different from New York in peacetime. As the heat had intensified, more of the wealthy had fled the city and headed for Newport, Cape May, or Saratoga. Along the Bowery, the crowded beer gardens and theaters pulsed with the sounds and sights of the Vaterland. Jewish clothing stores stood like sentinels along Chatham Street with their clothes flapping in the breeze along the walkway. Only the throngs of men wearing Union blue, the army hospitals in City Hall Park, and the placards bearing war news outside the newspaper offices on Nassau Street bore witness to the furious struggle going on far south of them. If one tried hard enough, she could almost convince herself nothing had changed.
It was almost ten o’clock when Abby emerged from Lord and Taylor, her arms laden with gifts. She smiled brightly at Paxton when she climbed back into the carriage. “I had an idea.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
The idea had come to her while she was selecting a crystal bowl for her hosts. “I would like to go down to where they are picking the draft today. I believe Michael told me it would be on Third Avenue.” She settled her dress around her.
“What?” Paxton asked in a shocked voice.
“I realize it’s rather an odd request,” Abby acknowledged, “but the draft is a momentous thing for our country. I would like to see firsthand how people are responding to it - how they feel about it.”
“I can tell you how they feel,” Paxton muttered angrily. He sat silently for a few seconds; then he turned to her. “You’re crazy to want to go down there,” he said firmly. “I realize I’m just a driver and that I could be fired for talking to you this way, but it’s the truth. You don’t have any business being down there.” His expression grew more obstinate. “The Livingstons will have my job for sure if something was to happen to you.”
“Oh, come now,” Aunt Abby countered merrily, battling her irritation at his refusal to do as she requested. “The Livingstons know how independent I am. They are used to my crazy escapades. They will certainly not blame you if something happens to me because of my own willfulness.” Her voice became firm. “I quite understand how you feel about this, Paxton. Now, will you please take me down there?”
Paxton stared at her for a moment, gave a deep sigh of resignation, and then nodded his head. Without a word, he picked up the reins to the carriage and urged the horse forward.
Abby sat back, satisfied to have won that victory, before she frowned slightly. Why was she suddenly feeling so uneasy? She finally decided it must’ve been the fear shining from Paxton’s eyes when he had acquiesced. Well, she certainly wouldn’t let fear stop her from doing what she wanted to do. She had learned that lesson long ago. Words a friend had spoken years ago popped into her head suddenly. “Abigail Stratford, there is a difference between courage and obstinacy. Courage is a wonderful mixture of bravery and wisdom - obstinacy is just plain stubborn determination to have something your way.”
Abby stared out of the wagon thoughtfully. Was she being courageous or obstinate? Only time would tell.
The first hint of trouble came when they rounded the corner on Twenty-Eighth Street. A large group of men, shabbily dressed, were milling in front of a building. As the carriage drew closer, Abby identified the building as an iron works shop. She tensed when she saw the men’s angry expressions. Some of them clenched crowbars and heavy sticks. They turned and scowled at the ornate carriage, then turned back to stare at the building.
As the carriage rolled by, they let out a lusty cheer. Abby turned and watched as perhaps a hundred more men poured from the lot behind the building. Yelling loudly, they surged down the road toward them.
Paxton looked back. His face whitened even more as he urged the horses to a faster trot. “Get on!” he cried.
Abby felt an uncomfortable knot in her stomach but then pushed it down. “There are no laws against peaceful demonstrations,” she said calmly.
“Peaceful demonstrators don’t need crowbars,” Paxton growled, looking over his shoulder anxiously.
As Abby glanced back, a song drifted to her on the breeze. She strained to catch the words the mob was singing.
We’re coming, Father Abraham,
Three hundred thousand more.
We leave our homes and firesides with bleeding hearts and sore,
Since poverty has been our crime, we bow to the decree;
We are the poor who have no wealth to purchase liberty.
Abby stared at the marching mob thoughtfully. Were they right in their assessment that this was a rich man’s war - but a poor man’s fight? How would she feel if she were in their place, asked to leave home to fight a war she had no desire for? Most of the men in the lower wards of the city were recent immigrants - Irish and German. Where was their motivation to suffer and die for the Union? They were too busy suffering and dying in their own fight for survival. Abby shook her head. The war’s boiling cauldron showed no favoritism in its hunger for destruction.
When Paxton looked back down at her, she nodded firmly for him to continue, ignoring his look of frustrated fear. She was more determined than ever to witness for herself the calling of the draft. These were human beings who were having their lives turned upside down. Just because it didn’t touch her personally was no reason for her not to understand what was happening.
There was an atmosphere of eerie expectancy around the draft office when Paxton pulled the carriage to a standstill. The streets were crowded with throngs of people. Just as Abby craned forward to see if the process of pulling the draft had started yet, a cordon of police rounded the corner, their faces set and unsmiling. The crowd erupted in angry muttering, but they sullenly divided to let the men through. The police took up their positions near the building.
Abby could just see the drafting barrel - a large hollow wheel mounted on a stand. Stuffed inside were the names of the men enrolled for conscription. One of the clerks was blindfolded while a handle was attached to the wheel. When the clerk stepped up, the muttering of the crowd dissolved, and they strained forward to listen.
“Patrick Jones at Forty-Ninth and Tenth Streets,” the clerk called out loudly.
Someone in the crowd cursed. A nearby lady broke into tears.
“Clancy O’Brien,” rang out next.
Abby watched and listened as scores of names were called out. Expressions of anger and dismay, fear and sorrow, surrounded her. Her heart ached for the people whose lives had been changed forever by the turn of that wheel.
“They’re coming!”
Abby twisted her head as a hoarse shout rang above the clerk’s voice.
“They’re coming!” the cry was repeated then multiplied as person after person picked it up.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Paxton cried urgently. “The Black Joke fire laddies are on their way. They’re going to destroy this place. I thought maybe they had changed their mind, but they haven’t. They aren’t gonna let anything stand in their way.”
Abby was struck by something in Paxton’s voice. She hesitated, torn between her desire to stay and the sudden hammering of her heart that told her it was time to leave. Finally she nodded.
Paxton whirled around and picked up the reins. “Get up,” he urged.
Suddenly there was nowhere to go. The crowd had increased and was now pressing closer to the building, completely ignoring Paxton’s yells for them to move. All of them were craning to see what would happen
when the Black Joke arrived.
Abby, her heart pounding, stood up in the carriage to see how they could break through the mob. All she could see in every direction was a mass of bobbing heads. A solid sea of humanity pressed around her. Suddenly she realized how foolish she had been. Her friend had been right. There was indeed a fine line between courage and obstinacy. She reached forward and touched Paxton’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she yelled above the noise.
Paxton nodded briefly, obviously in no mood to talk. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a break. “I’ll get us out of here,” he finally muttered.
Just then a Black Joke hose cart pulled up in front of the draft office. Abby could see a large pile of stones inside the cart. She ducked instinctively as a loud pistol shot rang above the tumult of the crowd. Suddenly a flurry of stones flew through the air, crashing through the windows of the draft office and shattering glass in a million directions. Abby gasped and ducked down in the carriage as an angry cry rose from the crowd.
“Down with the draft!”
“You ain’t gonna send our men off!” a lady screamed
“How are you now, Old Abe?” a rough looking man hollered defiantly.
The fire laddies leaped from the cart and stormed the building. Abby watched in horror as the police fought to hold them off. She could just make out the draft officials scurrying to protect their papers. Slowly the police were beaten back. With a triumphant yell, the angry men rushed into the building, smashing everything in sight. It looked like one man was splashing something around the building.
“They’re going to torch the place!” Paxton yelled.
Flames of fire began to lick from the door, smoke seeping through the shattered glass, swirling defiantly toward the sky. The angry cries of the crowd increased, fueled by the flames.
“Get out of the way,” Paxton yelled again, cracking his whip, trying to get the crowd to move. Several moved toward him threateningly.
