by Ginny Dye
Moses stared at both of them over Felicia’s heaving shoulders. “Thank you,” he said again. “Be careful,” was all he added. He knew they were doing what they believed they had to do.
Robert stepped forward and rubbed his hand on Felicia’s back. “Take good care of her,” he whispered.
Peter was seething with frustration. “I can’t believe no one is doing anything to stop this!”
“As far as I can tell,” Crandall said angrily, “every white man coming down here to supposedly quell the unrest is simply using it as an excuse to kill as many blacks as possible.”
“General Stoneman gave orders for Captain Allyn to protect the blacks with his troops,” Peter burst out as he saw another black man running for his life, his bloodied face testimony to the fact he had already been beaten. “Where are they?” he asked grimly.
“Wait!” Crandall exclaimed, pointing north toward the Beale Street market. “Here they come.”
Peter moved up onto the stairs of a nearby store so he could get a better view. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Captain Allyn at the head of about forty heavily armed infantrymen marching toward them. Riding alongside the group was Sheriff Winters. “Nice of Winters to finally make an appearance,” he snapped.
Peter understood the confused expression on Winters’s face as he looked around from the back of his horse. “He’s been hearing about black rioting all morning,” he muttered. “I’m sure he wonders where it is. It’s about time someone came down to learn the truth.” He felt a twinge of hope, but he was still too angry at all he had witnessed for it to make him feel any better.
“Let’s follow them,” Crandall urged.
Peter nodded and joined Crandall in the street. He watched as the crowds of whites who had come down to simply experience the riot glared at the troops with angry faces. He knew they were disappointed that anything was happening to stop the violence. As far as he was concerned, the onlookers were just as guilty as the policemen and other citizens who had done the beating and shooting. They had cheered it on and done nothing to stop it. Their cheering had died away to indignant muttering as they watched the soldiers, but no one left. He knew they were hoping the troops would pass on and leave them to their entertainment.
The first violence they encountered was when the troops turned onto South Street.
“Shoot him! Shoot him!” The cry rang through the air that grew silent as the troops passed. A crowd of whites, oblivious to the troops’ existence, was calling for the death of a black man being led toward them by a policeman and another white citizen. “Shoot him! Shoot him!” they hollered again.
Sheriff Winters rode forward quickly, his horse scattering the crowd as the soldiers followed him. “Stop!” he called loudly, lifting his rifle as he spoke. The look on his face said he suddenly realized the truth of what was going on. “We are here to preserve order and protect innocent parties. We will arrest anyone, white or black, who disturbs the peace.” His voice rang through the street as he squared his shoulders and stared at everyone watching.
The crowd fell silent as they regarded him belligerently before they began to edge away while casting him baleful looks.
Peter stepped closer as Sheriff Winters dismounted and took custody of the black man from the policeman.
“You are dismissed,” the sheriff said curtly.
Peter read disappointed indignation on the policeman’s face, but he released his prisoner’s arm and moved back. The sheriff spoke briefly to the man whose bloodied face was full of frantic relief and then escorted him to a cabin fifty yards away. He knew from the man’s desperate nod that Sheriff Winters was telling him to stay inside. The terrified man cast one more desperate look at the crowd before he opened the door to his shanty and disappeared.
More armed men arrived.
Peter and Crandall exchanged a glance. Were these men here to kill more blacks?
Sheriff Winters immediately took control of them and directed them to patrol the streets. “We are here to preserve order,” he barked. “Create trouble and I will arrest you.”
“Thank God,” Peter said quietly. “I believe he actually means it.” He caught sight of Chief Garrett and Mayor Parks talking on the sidewalk. Moving slowly so he wouldn’t attract their attention and make them aware they were being listened to, he made his way close enough to hear the conversation.
“It’s over,” Garret snapped. “We have to get the policemen out of here.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mayor Parks responded, his words slurred as he swayed slightly. “I guess we’ve done all the good we can.”
Peter scowled but remained silent. He watched as Garrett rounded up the police and marched them back toward the station house. When they were out of sight, Peter hurried to catch up to Sheriff Winters and Captain Allyn who were approaching a crowd of whites congregated at the corner of Main and South.
“Go home!” Sheriff Winters called. “It’s over.” Many of the crowd stared at him defiantly, but when the soldiers lifted their rifles they began to melt away. When they had dispersed, he urged his horse onward.
Peter and Crandall continued moving forward, tensing when they reached Hernando Street and saw Winters break into a gallop. They ran forward to make sure they didn’t miss anything. They reached the corner and watched as Winters surged toward a group of ten men who had surrounded four black men. They were beating one of them viciously on the head.
“Stop!” Winters ordered, pulling his horse to a stop and aiming his rifle at the group. “You will desist immediately and release those men.”
The men growled and turned toward him menacingly, only gradually becoming aware of the infantrymen advancing toward them, rifles at the ready.
“Release them,” Winters snapped angrily.
“Why doesn’t he arrest them?” Crandall demanded as the crowd melted back, leaving the black men staring up at Winters with wild hope in their eyes.
Peter shook his head, watching as Winters directed two of his men to escort the blacks to a tract of woods in the distance. He didn’t look away until he saw the blacks turn and disappear into the woods at a run. He turned around then to see what Winters would do with the white men who had been beating them. He was stunned to see them moving slowly up the street, some of them laughing as they talked about their exploits. “He’s letting them go,” he said in disbelief. “He’s really just letting them go.”
Matthew had seen Peter and Crandall with Winters’s posse and the squad of soldiers. He had also seen Garrett and Parks depart with the policemen. He hoped he and Robert were safe for the time being and was also quite certain the rioting would stop now that the police were gone. A sudden movement caught his attention as another group of armed men led by a lieutenant from the fort rounded the corner, leading two men they had obviously arrested. “Let’s follow them,” he said urgently. “Lieutenant Clifford is from Fort Pickering.”
As they followed the arresting party down the street, they saw black faces peering from windows but all the doors stayed securely closed. They could hear crying children, but the mob of whites had melted away. The streets were empty until they reached the intersection of Main and South and found another crowd of whites clustered around a tall man on horseback.
Matthew moved closer, recognizing the city recorder. “Surely Lieutenant Clifford is not handing over those men to Creighton,” he muttered.
“Who is he?” Robert asked.
“He’s the city recorder,” Matthew said dismissively. “He records the minutes of city meetings and makes them public. He has no authority, but he tries to make people think he does. Eaton tells me he has a violent hatred for the black citizens of Memphis.”
“I have prisoners,” Clifford said crisply.
Creighton stared at the two men. “They are policemen,” he said gruffly.
“Do you accept custody of them?” Clifford asked. His face revealed his relief that he had found someone authoritative-looking to pass them off to.
Matthew watched as Creighton waved his hands, ordering the immediate release of the policemen, who sneered at Clifford’s back and turned around to grin at Creighton. Matthew clenched his teeth with fury, reminding himself that no one was getting away with anything because he was going to make sure every bit of this was in the country newspapers.
Creighton stared after Clifford with a smug expression and then rose in his stirrups to address the crowd. “Our policemen are free,” he called. “I promise you that no man brought before the Memphis courts for carrying a weapon will be punished.” His face settled into hard lines as he stared coldly at the soldiers watching from a distance. “It’s not over,” he yelled. “I’m going to kill every nigger I can find!”
Matthew watched Clifford stare at the crowd and then turn away. Fury pulsed through his veins, but he also realized Clifford’s small unit of soldiers could not defend themselves against a crowd this size if they were to turn violent again.
By one o’clock, the streets were calm and completely empty. The blacks, fearing for their lives, refused to come outside.
Matthew breathed a sigh of relief, but he still started at every noise, peering around the streets for renewed signs of violence.
“It’s not over,” Robert said bluntly, reading his thoughts.
“No,” Matthew agreed. “It’s not.” He stared around the streets. “But it seems to be calm for now. Let’s go find Eaton and tell him what we know. I also want to send out some telegrams while things are quiet.” He turned toward downtown, still aware of the pressing weight of hatred swirling in the air around him.
Moses climbed to his place on the wall and stared out over the city. Felicia had finally fallen asleep, watched over by a neighbor woman who stepped forward to care for her the minute Moses led her into the barrack housing the refugees. Emma, a petite woman with sorrowful eyes, had pulled Felicia into the midst of her own four frightened children. Her husband was one of the members of the Third. He had risked his life to go out into the city to bring them back. He had been one of the lucky ones.
Everyone was more relaxed now that the gunfire had stopped, but Moses was still tense. He leaned back against the wall, staring down into streets that were totally deserted. He could only hope the residents would stay sequestered in their homes.
Now that things were calm, at least for a while, he had time to think. His mind traveled back to the fire at the schoolhouse. He thought about all the things Rose had said afterward and how hard he had fought against her belief he was meant to be a leader. He thought of all the years of abuse as a slave. His mind filled with images of men slaughtered in battle, their bloated corpses staring up at him. He had fought for freedom. He had paid the price. Now he just wanted to run the plantation, be with Rose, and raise his children.
Then had come the invitation to accompany Matthew to Memphis, followed by his compulsion to stay in the fort. The last several days had given him a clear understanding of what he and every black in the country was going to be up against now that they were free. His massive fists clenched as he realized there was not one black in the South who was truly free — every one of them was bound by hatred and contempt. They were bound by men determined to keep them in the same condition they had endured as slaves.
Rose’s words from the night of the fire haunted him. You’ve been a leader from the day I met you, but I never saw it quite so clearly as I saw it tonight. Our people need you, Moses.
He also remembered his response that night. “I don’t want to be needed,” he whispered into the somber air, knowing somehow that it no longer mattered what he wanted. His people needed him. Equally important, he needed to know he was not merely standing idle while other people fought the battle for his rights. He wanted to someday look John and Hope in the eyes and assure them he had fought for them to have a better life. The war had been a series of battles — the rebuilding of their country was going to be another long series of battles. Somehow he knew it was going to last much longer.
It had been a lack of leadership that allowed this riot to happen. It had been a lack of leadership that denied protection to thousands of freedmen the government had pledged to protect. It had been a lack of leadership that allowed hundreds of police and rampaging white men to take control of Memphis. It had also been a lack of leadership that resulted in scores of black people venturing forth from their homes to their own massacre. No one wanted to step forward and claim control because it meant even more risk.
You’re meant for more, Moses.
Moses no longer questioned the truth he felt flowing through his soul. He simply accepted it. As he looked down on the streets still littered with dead bodies — people were too afraid to come out to move them — he realized he and his family might pay a heavy price for his decision to become a leader for his people, but he was no longer fighting it.
By the time he climbed down from the wall, he had made another decision as well.
The first fire began at two o’clock. A black schoolhouse was burned to the ground. An uneasy silence settled on the city for several hours. Violence erupted again at ten o’clock. Clusters of white men roamed the city, intent on arson and destruction. Bands of soldiers, woefully undermanned, were unable to squelch the violence.
By the end of the long night, every black church and school had been burned. Dozens of black homes and shanties had been scorched. More dead bodies joined those already beginning to bloat in the streets.
When the sun finally rose on May 3, 1866, the Memphis riot was over.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Carrie couldn’t resist bouncing on her bed in excited anticipation as she waited for Janie to finish dressing. A warn breeze flowed through the window, carrying the odd mixture of coal-laden fumes drifting up from the city and perfume from the flowers that were now in full bloom around the house. She had gotten used to it, but it still made her long for the pure air of the plantation. She had been up since dawn, dressing carefully in the soft yellow gown Abby had insisted would be perfect. Ever since the telegram had arrived from Robert telling her everyone was safe, she had been able to relax. She was horrified by the riot in Memphis, but her relief that all of them were safe had erased her fears.
Their first nine days in New York had passed in what seemed to be a blur. After four cases of cholera had been reported, there had been a surprising reprieve, with no one else falling sick. While no one believed the city would get off so lightly, the Metropolitan Board of Health was taking advantage of the opportunity to continue sanitizing every area they could. The warm weather was delightful, but it would also make the spread of the disease that much easier.
Carrie and housemates, along with the rest of the medical students who had come to New York, spent long hours accompanying students from the New York Medical College for Women as they attended classes, toured their hospital, and met with the few open-minded male physicians in the city. She knew Dr. Benson’s influence had made much of that happen. Her head swam with all she had learned, but the stimulation was thrilling. Instead of ending each night exhausted, she simply wished for longer days so she could learn even more.
She smiled softly as she thought of the day Abby had arranged for her, Janie, and the rest of her new friends to have a long dinner with Dr. Clemence Sophia Lozer, the charismatic woman who had founded the New York Medical College. This trip had convinced her that Abby must know every woman of influence in the country.
Carrie had sat fascinated as Dr. Lozer spoke of being orphaned at age eleven, married at seventeen, and then widowed at twenty-four, suddenly left on her own to care for her little family. She had opened a school for young ladies, drawing her clientele from families of the highest social standing in New York. Her passion for medicine led her to close the school and overcome many challenges to earn her doctor’s degree and open the college
so other women could follow in her footsteps.
As Carrie gazed out at the early morning sky, cumulus clouds piled on the horizon, she hoped her own passion would push her through any obstacle that got in her way, but she was also acutely aware of the massive sacrifices made by women over the last two decades that enabled her to be in school at all. She prayed that what she was doing would help open the doors wider for the women who would follow in her footsteps. The very idea that there were women who would follow after her was both exhilarating and terrifying. She longed to create a legacy worth following.
Swinging away from the window, she stopped bouncing and looked at Janie. “You look beautiful,” she said, suddenly impatient to get on with the day. She could hardly believe she was attending the Women’s Rights Convention. “Let’s go!”
Janie smiled patiently and continued to position her blue, feather-festooned hat. Her matching eyes twinkled merrily. “Bouncing around on the porch won’t get us to the meeting any sooner,” she said calmly. “Paxton said he would pick us up at eight o’clock. We still have almost an hour. I see no reason to hurry. Nancy said breakfast would be served in thirty minutes.”
A sharp rap on the door made Carrie spring up, thrilled to have a distraction. “Florence!” she cried when she opened the door, pulling the laughing redhead into the room before she had a chance to open her mouth. “You look beautiful.”
Florence raised her head and pretended to float around the room, her soft green dress rustling around her. “I prefer to think I look like a woman who deserves the right to vote,” she said loftily.
Carrie waved her hand. “Every woman on the street of New York looks like that,” she announced. “We just have to get these hard-headed men who think they are superior simply because of their sex to realize it. Surely it will happen soon.”
Abby sailed in the door just in time to hear her. “Don’t count on it,” she said matter-of-factly. “The battle for abolitionism was drawn out much longer than I would have ever imagined, but I believe the battle for women’s rights will take even longer.”
