by Ginny Dye
Matthew turned off Canal Street and walked quickly to the hotel that loomed over St. Charles Avenue. He and Anderson wove their way through the crowded street, both of them breathing a sigh of relief when they entered the cavernous lobby that provided instant relief from the blazing sun. Matthew thought about claiming a table in the restaurant, reconsidered, and then headed down the hall toward his room.
He was grateful for the slight breeze blowing in through his screened-in window as he pulled two chairs forward and waved Anderson into one of them.
“This feels rather clandestine,” Anderson remarked with amusement.
Matthew was too hot and tense to bother with small talk. “This city is getting ready to explode,” he said bluntly.
Anderson grimaced. “Do you think we’ll ever have some time together when something dire isn’t happening?”
“I hope so,” Matthew said sincerely, “but that time is not now.”
“No,” Anderson sighed, “I’m afraid you’re right.”
Matthew thought about all he had learned, focused on his conversation with Ralph. “Is the military going to protect the convention on Monday?”
Anderson answered his question with one of his own. “How much do you know about the convention?”
“Enough. The city of New Orleans has created a chaotic political mess, helped along by Lincoln’s desire to use them as an example of reconstructing the nation, even if they did it poorly, and exacerbated by President Johnson’s ridiculous policies that have made the South believe they have full rein in how they deal with the freedmen. During the war, the Unionists had political clout because the city was under Union control. They have lost all that now, and the former Rebels have taken back almost complete control of their city.” Matthew took a breath, thinking through what he had learned. “The Rebels are determined to keep the freedmen from having any freedoms at all. The Unionists have decided the only way they can hope to regain political control is to ensure the blacks have the right to vote.”
“Do you believe the convention is legal?” Anderson asked keenly.
Matthew shrugged. “I’m not sure that anything happening here is legal. I know the Democrats believe the convention is illegal, but the Republicans, using the theory that Louisiana ceased to exist as a state because of their choice to secede, believe they can press the results of the convention by appealing to Congress.”
“Do you agree with them?”
Matthew couldn’t quite read Anderson’s expression. “What I believe about the convention is irrelevant,” he said impatiently. “What I know is that there is going to be violence on Monday. If the convention meets, and if the blacks turn out to support it — which they will — there is going to be a riot.”
“Like in Memphis,” Anderson observed.
Matthew nodded. “You don’t want that here.”
“How bad was it?” Anderson asked. “I read your articles, but it’s hard to believe things like that actually happened in America.”
“Believe it,” Matthew said gravely. “I wrote what I saw. There was a lot I didn’t see.”
“What is being done for the people of Memphis?”
Matthew struggled to control his anger at what he had learned in Memphis during the few days he was there on his way to New Orleans. “Nothing. Oh, there is talk about compensating the blacks for their losses, but all anyone is doing is dodging responsibility. There have been commissions that have taken testimony from hundreds of witnesses, but…”
“But what?” Anderson pressed when his voice trailed off.
“But it is ultimately going to end up on President Johnson’s desk, and I don’t believe he will do a single thing about it,” Matthew answered bluntly, not really certain whether Anderson shared Johnson’s beliefs about Reconstruction. “He will put it back into the hands of the city and nothing will be done.”
“And you think that is wrong?”
Matthew was running out of patience. He was glad to see his old friend, but he felt like he was being interrogated. “I think it’s criminal,” he said flatly. “President Johnson’s policies are turning back the clock to an America before the war. They are making the four years of war almost pointless. Most of the men in this city are conspiring against the United States, turning their nose up at every protection put in place for the blacks, and they believe they can do it because President Johnson’s policies have let them believe it. Freedom for the slaves means nothing if they are not allowed to live in freedom, but the danger for Northerners is just as real as it is for the blacks. When the violence explodes, it will not be just toward the freedmen — it will be toward every person who doesn’t wholeheartedly believe in white supremacy.”
“You don’t care much for New Orleans, do you?”
“No,” Matthew snapped through gritted teeth.
“Good,” Anderson said as he leaned back in his chair.
Matthew stared at him. “What?”
“I’ve been in this city almost since the end of the war. I totally agree with your analysis,” Anderson said calmly, only his eyes showing his disgust. “I was fairly certain how you would feel about things, but I had to be sure.”
“So, now you know.” Matthew supposed he could understand, but he was still frustrated that Anderson had played this game with him.
Anderson read his expression. “I’m sorry not to just answer you directly, but twelve months in this city has taught me to be cautious.” He leaned forward and stared into Matthew’s eyes. “You do realize speaking so bluntly could make you a target, don’t you?”
Matthew battled his impatience again. “I don’t care. I have very few people in this town who will listen to reason, so why bother? They tried reason in Memphis. It didn’t work very well. Not I’m trying blunt truth,” he said grimly.
Anderson smiled. “I’m glad you haven’t changed,” he said warmly.
Matthew slowly relaxed, taking a long drink from the water glass at his elbow. He decided it was safe to go back to his original question. “So is the military going to be at the convention?”
He was dismayed when Anderson shook his head. “Why not?” he pressed. “Haven’t you been listening to me?”
“Yes, and I agree we should be there, but unfortunately I’m not the one in charge.”
“General Sheridan doesn’t understand the danger?” Matthew asked. “Could I meet with him?”
Anderson grimaced. “You could if he was in the city. He is in Texas reviewing troops on the Rio Grande. He suspected there would be trouble, but he left.”
Matthew stared at him with disbelief. “The military commander of Louisiana and Texas left?” he finally managed. “Now? Who is in charge?”
Anderson answered only his last question. “General Baird.”
“The officer who heads up the Freedmen’s Bureau?” Matthew shook his head. “Is he aware of the danger?”
“He has been warned,” Anderson said slowly. “I received notice this morning that trouble is expected, but his hands are tied. Baird has done what he can. He has put both regiments on alert. He ordered a steamboat to maintain a head of steam all day tomorrow in case it is needed to ferry troops. He also ordered a tug to be kept ready at the wharf here in the city to provide rapid communication with the troops.”
“Let me guess…” Matthew said bitterly, knowing that the barracks were three miles from the city. He envisioned the damage that could be done before the soldiers could receive word and reach the Institute. “He received a telegram from President’s Johnson’s office telling him to not interfere with the state or the city politics.”
“I’m sure that will come, if it hasn’t already,” Anderson agreed, “but it was actually General Sheridan who ordered him to not place any soldiers around the Mechanics Institute. Sheridan wants to avoid the appearance that the military is supporting the convention. General Baird has been ordered to keep the troops in their barracks. They are only to be used in case of a civil disturbance.”
“The b
arracks are miles downriver,” Matthew protested. “How can they possibly get here in time to stop what is going to happen?”
Anderson shook his head heavily. “If I was the one in charge, I would do it differently, Matthew.” He leaned forward and stared at him intently. “How can you be so certain there will be violence? The Mayor has put out orders to the city for everyone not connected with the convention to stay away. Baird has told him that if a riot breaks out, New Orleans will be placed under martial law. I don’t believe anyone here wants that.”
Matthew thought about Moses’s certainty there would be violence in Memphis even before the riot had started. He had accepted it, even if he hadn’t understood it at the time. Now he understood it. “I can feel it,” he replied, understanding when Anderson’s eyes narrowed. “If you had been in Memphis you would understand. After it was over, I realized I had felt it in the air even before it began. There is a feeling that wraps around you when there is so much hatred and prejudice raging through people. I’m not sure how to describe it.”
“Are you sure it’s not just humidity?” Anderson asked lightly. He frowned. “I know what you’re talking about,” he admitted. “It’s almost as if there is a weight bearing down so hard you have trouble breathing.”
“Yes,” Matthew replied, relieved Anderson understood, but also dismayed because Anderson’s agreement abolished any lingering hope that he might simply be overreacting.
Anderson looked out the window thoughtfully, staring down at the crush of carriages and pedestrians crowding St. Charles Avenue. “My understanding is that Mayor Monroe is going to use the police to maintain order.”
Matthew groaned. “God help us!”
Anderson looked at him sharply. “I know Mayor Monroe is a radical Democrat, but—”
“You said you read my reports about Memphis?”
“Yes, but the police department here is different,” Anderson protested, stiffening as he stared at Matthew’s face. “What have you learned?” he asked quietly.
“When Mayor Monroe took over the office a few months ago, he got rid of almost everyone in the police department with a Unionist bent and replaced them with Confederate veterans who are rabid supporters of white supremacy,” Matthew replied, his gut twisting as memories of Memphis flashed before him. “He has a very clear agenda.”
“The New Orleans policemen are not armed,” Anderson replied, his left eye beginning to twitch.
Matthew knew his friend’s eye only twitched when he was nervous. “Neither were the Memphis police,” he said sarcastically. “Until the riot started.” He let his words hang in the air. The only sound was the buzzing of flies and mosquitoes against the screen for several minutes. “I’ve been on the streets since early morning.” He told him about the black man who had given him the warning.
“That’s only two policemen,” Anderson protested weakly, but his eye continued to twitch.
“Do you know who Lucien Adams is?” Matthew asked, desperate to make his friend understand the urgency of the situation. When Anderson shook his head, he continued. “He was a veteran of the Know-Nothing movement before the war. He basically served as a bully for the American Party that was so opposed to immigration.”
Anderson nodded thoughtfully. “I remember President Lincoln wrote a letter about them in 1855. He said if they ever took power, the Declaration of Independence would have to be amended to say all men are created equal, except Negroes, and foreigners, and Catholics.”
Matthew scowled. “He added that he would rather live in Russia, where despotism is out in the open, then live in such an America.”
“What’s that got to do with New Orleans?” Anderson asked with confusion. “The Know-Nothing Party died out right before the war started.”
“True, but the thugs they hired to use strong-arm tactics during elections haven’t gone anywhere. When the Know-Nothings used them, they could be counted on to intimidate, beat, or even murder a man to keep him from voting. Their party collapsed, they served in the war, and then they started looking for jobs.”
“Lucien Adams?” Anderson guessed.
Matthew nodded grimly. “Your Mayor Monroe used these thugs effectively during his previous term as mayor, before he was escorted out of the city when it was under Union control. He used them again during the recent balloting when he was re-elected.”
Anderson stared at him. “You’ve learned a lot in your two weeks here.”
Matthew shrugged. “It’s my job. Anyway, Lucien Adams is one of the worst. He fled New Orleans to escape being tried for murder in the fifties. General Butler threw him into prison during the war for sedition, but he escaped prosecution when Butler was recalled. His reputation is so bad that Adams, your chief of police—”
“Related?” Anderson asked sharply.
“No,” Matthew clarified. “For which I’m sure he’s very relieved. Anyway, Chief Adams refused to place him on the police force. Mayor Monroe went ahead and made him a sergeant. He now commands the First District substation on Pecaniere Street.”
Anderson sucked in his breath. “I didn’t realize…”
Matthew just looked at him, knowing Anderson was powerless to stop what was going to happen. The thought made him sick. “I want to talk to General Baird,” he said urgently.
Anderson shook his head almost helplessly. “I’ll try Matthew, but General Sheridan and President Johnson have virtually tied his hands.”
Matthew was suddenly anxious to return to the lobby where he could listen to men boasting about their plans. It was important he have as clear a picture as possible before the convention convened. He quickly made plans to have dinner with Colonel Anderson that Wednesday night and then escorted him from the hotel.
Anderson grabbed his arm when they hit the street. “Are you going to be there?” he asked urgently.
Matthew nodded silently.
“If you’re right about what you’ve told me, it’s far too dangerous!”
“The life of a writer,” Matthew said lightly, but the mass of tension growing in his chest told him it was going to be very bad. Still, it was his job to be there.
Matthew walked back into the hotel, stopping by the front desk before he went into the restaurant. He was smiling when he turned away, an envelope in his hands. When he was seated at a table in the midst of the chaos, he opened the letter.
Dear Matthew,
I love reading your letters about life in New Orleans. I dream of going there one day. I will also admit I am quite worried about you. From everything you tell me, the same thing that happened in Memphis could very well happen in New Orleans. Please be careful! If I wasn’t so worried, I could almost laugh when I write that. I already know you are always in the middle of the trouble. My prayers are with you.
Medical school continues to absorb all my time, but I’m happy to say I love it! On a more somber note, cholera is spreading through the country. New York missed the brunt of it, but it didn’t stop it from spreading. Cases have been reported in Baltimore, Cincinnati, Savannah, Chicago, Galveston, Little Rock, and Louisville. The cases that concern me the most, though, are the ones that have been reported in New Orleans. Please be so very careful. New Orleans is not following the protocol that New York City is. The first cases have just been reported. I pray you will be out of there soon.
I hope you are coming back to Philadelphia when you leave. It’s hot here, but not as dreadfully hot as you describe New Orleans to be. And so far we have been spared from cholera. We’ll be ready with apple pie and fried chicken when you return. My Yankee housemates used to turn their noses up at our southern fried chicken. Now they love it as much as we do!
All the girls send their love, as do I.
Sincerely,
Janie
Matthew had been writing Janie regularly since he had left Philadelphia. She would not have received the latest letters he had sent. He knew that when she had received them they would only concern her more, but he so appreciated having someone he co
uld write the truth to. The one night he had spent with her after the Fourth of July parade had opened his eyes to what an amazing woman she was. After years of only being able to think of Carrie, Janie’s warm vibrancy had captured his heart. He was eager to return to Philadelphia to spend more time with her, but he knew that he couldn’t leave until after he had covered the convention.
Matthew smiled and gently folded the letter before he shoved it into his pocket. He would add it to the others he had received. If everything went as planned, he would be on the train to Philadelphia by the end of the week.
A harsh, hushed voice grabbed his attention. “It’s quite true that the New Orleans police have a special interest in what happens tomorrow.”
Matthew snapped to attention, trying to maintain a relaxed posture so he wouldn’t alert the speakers that they were being listened to. He shifted slightly until he could see who was speaking. The two men huddled at the table next to him were obviously wealthy. Both of their faces were red with anger.
“If that convention is successful,” the older of the men continued, “it’s likely they will establish qualifications for public office that would prevent our Confederate veterans from serving as a police officer. I would say the prospect of a losing a job that pays eighty dollars a month, in a city with such high employment, should give our police added incentive to make sure the convention does not convene.” His voice dripped with satisfaction.
“But how will Chief Adams let them know if there is a disturbance? I heard Mayor Monroe was making them stay in the station houses,” the other man asked.
“Oh, there will be trouble,” the older man predicted confidently. “We’re making sure there are enough whites there to start up a little trouble. Even if the niggers want this to be peaceful, they’re not going to get their way.”
Matthew clenched his fists under the table as he forced himself to breathe evenly so that he wouldn’t miss anything that was said.
“Chief Adams is using the fire-police telegraph system to get word out if there is any trouble.”
