by Ginny Dye
Matthew stared at him, knowing the military was probably just receiving word of trouble. It would be hours before they would arrive. “Don’t count on it,” he muttered.
“What do you mean?” Ben asked, his eyes glued to the set of double doors.
“They won’t be here for hours.” That was all Matthew had time to say before the police gathered outside tried to force the doors open again. There was a black man holding on to the handles with all his might, but when it became evident he couldn’t hold them closed, he turned and rushed back to the railing area.
J.D. O’Connell, a former state senator during Union occupation, stepped forward bravely, both hands outstretched, a white handkerchief in one hand to signify surrender. “I implore you men to cease firing,” he called. “These people do not wish to fight, and they have nothing to fight with. Every person in this room is prepared to surrender if the police will protect them.”
Matthew allowed himself a flicker of hope when the police officer and O’Connell shook hands. Would it end with all of them just being arrested? He watched as the former senator helped clear the chairs that were blocking the doors. His hope withered as he saw the cold calculation on the faces of the policemen who filed silently into the hall and formed a solid line across one end of it. He opened his mouth to yell a warning, but he was too late…
“We have them now, boys!” the officer yelled. “Give it to them!”
Once again the policemen opened fire, advancing further into the hall, emptying their revolvers as they came. More black men slumped to the ground, but the onslaught also ignited the decision to fight back. If they couldn’t surrender, they weren’t just going to sit on the ground and be massacred.
One man jumped up and used a heavy stick to club down an officer who had advanced almost to the rail with his pistol. A few of the spectators pulled out their own weapons and returned fire. Many more jumped up, grabbed broken chairs, and rushed toward the officers, their defiant yells filling the hall. The police withdrew quickly, stumbling down the stairs toward the vestibule.
Several members of the convention, still desperate to be saved, followed the police onto the landing. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
The response was almost immediate. An avalanche of bullets poured in through the windows. Matthew covered his head as shards of glass flew through the air. He knew more of the police must have taken up positions at the nearby Medical College to give them the vantage point. Most of the bullets went high and passed through the hall, but men still continued to fall.
Ben crawled over to Matthew, blood streaming from cuts on his face. “The military really isn’t coming?”
Matthew shook his head. “They were told to stay in their barracks. They’re probably on their way here, but it will take them hours to arrive.” He watched as one of the white spectators grabbed the United States flag standing by the platform, tied a white handkerchief to the tip of it and thrust it out through one of the shattered windows. His effort to signal surrender was greeted with another volley of gunshots.
“They aren’t going to let us surrender, are they?” Ben asked heavily, his face twisted with pain.
Matthew stared at him, not willing to abolish whatever lingering hope Ben still had. His eyes widened suddenly as he saw a spreading mass of blood on his colleague’s shirt. “You’ve been shot!’
Ben nodded. “They got me a few minutes ago,” he revealed through gritted teeth.
Matthew remained huddled against the desk as he pulled off his shirt. He tied it firmly around Ben’s torso, grimacing as he groaned in pain. “I’m sorry. We have to slow the bleeding,” he said grimly.
Ben nodded. “I thought once I made it off the battlefields I was safe from gunfire,” he gasped. “I figured being a reporter would be safe.”
Matthew managed a tight smile, recognizing the look of shock beginning to glaze Ben’s eyes. He bit back a groan as the double doors to the hall were forced open again. He pulled Ben under the protection of the table as the policemen rushed into the hall again.
This time it was the white minister, Reverend Horton, who stepped forward with a white handkerchief waving. All around the hall, people took out handkerchiefs and pieces of white cloth to signify surrender. Reverend Horton stepped forward bravely. “We surrender. We are peaceable. Don’t fire. Take us prisoner, but don’t fire.”
Matthew watched in numb agony as the policeman raised his pistol and fired twice. Horton fell to the ground, blood pouring from his arm, but then struggled to his feet. A few of the spectators returned fire with their few remaining bullets. When a policeman at the door slumped to the ground, the rest retreated.
“They ain’t gonna let us surrender!” one of the men yelled.
“We can’t just stay here until they kill all of us,” another hollered.
“We have to get out of here if we are going to survive,” another cried.
“We have to escape!”
The cry rose up from the remaining black men standing angrily among their fallen comrades. Matthew understood their frantic desire to escape the slaughter, but he also knew their options were limited. He watched as the white leaders quietly discussed their options. He could tell by the looks on their faces that they had reached the same conclusion. Escape was their only hope of staying alive.
“Is there a way out of here?” Ben asked between gritted teeth.
Matthew shrugged. “Most of the exits will just lead them right into the mob outside. I don’t know the building well enough to know how best to get out of here.” He supposed he should have been prepared, but even in his wildest imaginations, he had not imagined this. The only way the policemen could continue to do what they were doing was if they were confident they would kill anyone who could identify them. That meant everyone in the hall. The sounds he heard out on the landing told him they were preparing for another assault.
The sound mobilized many of the convention-goers. He watched as men darted up the stairs to the fourth floor, and he saw more disappear down a back stairway that he supposed led to the back of the building. He grimaced when he saw men jump from the window to the street twenty feet below. Whether they made it or not, he understood they had to make the attempt.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Ben grunted.
“We won’t make it.” Matthew did his best to sound calm. He knew Ben was too badly injured to escape.
Ben closed his eyes as a fresh wave of pain swept through him. His eyes flew open when it had ebbed. “You’ve got to leave me, Matthew!”
“I don’t think so,” Matthew replied, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what to do. As his eyes flashed around the hall, a man who had been sitting on the floor slumped to one side and crumpled to the floor. His eyes widened as he realized what he was looking at. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
He rose to his feet, staying stooped over as far as he could to avoid the bullets still flying in the windows. “Come on!” he urged, pulling Ben up with him. Ben gasped with pain but struggled to follow him.
Matthew rushed forward, pulling Ben into the narrow cavity he had spotted under the platform just as the doors were bashed open again. He tugged Ben back, holding his hand over his mouth to contain his cries of pain and then stopped, hoping he had pulled both of them far enough out of sight. “Be still!” he hissed. When Ben slumped against him, Matthew knew he had passed out from the pain.
Matthew pulled his legs in tightly against his chest, praying bullets wouldn’t penetrate the platform. He had given them the best chance he could.
He could hear men talking in low voices above him, but he couldn’t identify the hushed voice that suddenly became clear enough to be heard. “We have to get out of here. I expect to be killed. My only regret is that I don’t have anything to defend myself with.”
Matthew suddenly realized he was sitting in front of a narrow slit in the platform wood. He pressed his eye to the crack, his dismay growing when he saw the rows of men lining the lan
ding outside the hall. Their clothing revealed they were not policemen, but members of the mob acting in concert with them. Anyone seeking to escape the building must pass through their gauntlet to reach the street. Suddenly he was thankful for his hiding place. Ben’s breath was shallow, but he was still alive. All he could do was hope the military would arrive before Ben died, or before they were captured.
Matthew watched through the crack as convention-goers began to move bravely toward the door. Once they passed the exit he was not able to see them anymore, but the cries of pain and the thuds he heard told him exactly what kind of beating they were being subjected to. He shuddered, forcing himself to swallow the bile of terror threatening to choke him.
He should have never come. His determined stubbornness to report this story could mean it was the last one he would ever tell. When he closed his eyes, for the first time in six years it was not Carrie’s vivacious face that filled his mind. Janie’s soft blue eyes gazed at him with sympathy and understanding, her hand reaching out to grasp his. He felt his breathing slow as an inexplicable peace filled him. Mistake or not, he was here. Silently, he began to pray.
More than two hours passed while Matthew huddled under the platform. The sounds drifting up through the window told him the riot had intensified. He fought to control his fear as he heard the never-ending pop of gunfire, followed by cursing and screams of pain.
The hall had cleared of people that were not dead or too wounded to move. His determination to know what was happening had disappeared. For the first time since his career as a reporter had begun, he was no longer hungry to tell every aspect of a story. He had thought living through the explosion of the Sultana had finished his thirst for journalism, but he had been driven forward by his belief that the stories must be told if change were to happen. As horrible as Memphis had been, he had felt satisfaction that his articles would make a difference. This was different. For the first time, he no longer had hope things would change.
He was sure he would never lose the images of cold hatred and calculating murder he had seen in the eyes of the police as they opened fire on unarmed, peaceful men — both white and black. Their only crime had been a belief in the black men’s right to freedom. He had spent two weeks in a city full of such furious hatred and unreasonable fear that he no longer believed anything could change it. The Congress might enact laws, but who would enforce them? The United States military, even after four years of brutal war, had been held back from supporting what they had supposedly fought to accomplish.
Hundreds of men were rampaging through the streets, killing and maiming every black person they could find. Matthew didn’t have to be out there to know it. He had seen it in Memphis. This was far worse.
Ben remained unconscious. Matthew was almost glad because it gave him an excuse to stay under the platform. When he glanced at his watch again, he saw it was after three o’clock. More than two hours since the violence had exploded, and the military was still not here. It made him sick to think of how many people had been killed and injured during that time.
He stiffened when he heard pounding feet on the landing again. The crack revealed a group of policeman as they swept into the hall. They began to work their way systematically through the room, nudging fallen men with their boot.
“This one ain’t dead yet,” one of the policemen said casually, and then laughed as he raised his pistol and fired. “He is now,” he said just as casually.
Matthew’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as the police roamed through the room, killing any man who was still alive. He no longer cared if they found him. He was quite certain he didn’t want to live in a world filled with the type of men who could do what they were doing. Only the image of Janie’s shining eyes and Ben’s unconscious body kept him quiet.
Once they had killed everyone, the officers began to break up the room. Any remaining chairs were splintered against the floor, and then they moved forward to smash the tables and podium on the platform. Matthew sat numbly as the sound of boots hammered through his head. When he heard a vicious ripping sound he realized they were tearing the United States flag.
“That will teach those abolitionists,” Matthew heard one of them growl. When they were done, he heard them stomp from the room. He dared to stretch out his cramped legs, but he knew better than to come out of his hiding place. He didn’t know how long he would have to stay there, but he was certain it wasn’t safe to come out now. He owed it to Ben to give him a chance to live. His fellow journalist’s breathing had become shallower, but he was still holding on.
It was almost four o’clock when Matthew heard footsteps again. He peered out of the crack again, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw a group of soldiers walk through the doors, their eyes wide with shock when they saw the dead bodies and the destruction.
“There can’t possibly be anyone still alive in here,” he heard one of them grunt. “Let’s go back outside where we can do some good.”
“Wait!” Matthew called, his voice weak from dehydration and heat exhaustion.
The soldier spun around. “Did you hear that?”
Matthew realized he was wedged into the opening by Ben’s body. “Here!” he called. “Under the platform.”
Moments later, two soldiers were kneeling in front of the opening. “Who are you?” one of them asked sharply.
“Matthew Justin. I am a reporter for the Philadelphia Tribune. This is Ben Conrad. He is a reporter for the Boston Globe. He has been badly wounded. He needs medical assistance.”
“You sure he’s still alive?” the soldier asked doubtfully.
“He’s alive,” Matthew said grimly. “He’s one of the lucky ones.”
The soldier stared at Ben’s chalky face. “If you say so,” he muttered, reaching forward to pull Ben’s body toward him gently.
“How bad is it out there?” Matthew asked, more out of habit than because he actually wanted to know. Neither one of the men answered him, but the looks they exchanged told him everything. “Will you be able to get Ben to the hospital through the riot?” he pressed.
“We’ll do the best we can,” the soldier answered as he pulled Ben free from the platform hiding place. “Our squadron is waiting outside. More than five hundred of us arrived in the city a while ago.”
“We’ll get him there,” the other soldier vowed, sympathy radiating from his eyes. “My name is Charlie. I’m sorry for what happened here.”
Matthew crawled out behind Ben just as three policemen entered the room. Their eyes narrowed with hatred as they spotted him.
“Who you got there, soldier boys?” one of them called.
“I’d say that is none of your business,” Charlie called back.
The policeman continued to advance. “Why sure it is. You soldier boys were just called in to keep the peace. You can’t do that as long as these convention-goers are left to create havoc. We’ve been trying to create peace ever since the first blacks started firing at us. Why don’t you let us take charge of these two?”
Matthew bit back his sharp retort, waiting to see what the soldiers would do. They exchanged uncertain glances, but moved to form a barrier in front of him and Ben. Another voice at the door made him close his eyes with grateful relief.
“What is going on here?”
The policemen whirled around when the sharp voice filled the hall. They straightened quickly. “Hello, Colonel,” one of them called confidently.
Colonel Anderson advanced into the room, his eyes locked on the three officers. “Get out of here,” he said flatly.
“Hey, you can’t talk to us like that!” one of the police officers protested.
“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be talking to you at all,” Anderson barked. “I would just haul you off to jail and lock you up for the rest of your life. Or maybe I should just follow the fine example you set here today and shoot you.” His eyes narrowed with anger. “The Institute is now under the control of the United States military. Get out of here before I
change my mind and do what I want to do.”
The three policemen, their eyes blazing with fury, turned and stalked from the room.
Only then did Colonel Anderson step around the barricade his men had formed. His eyes widened with shocked surprise. “Matthew!”
“About time you got here,” Matthew muttered, needles of pain shooting through his legs as they came back to life. “Ben needs help. He’s a reporter for the Boston Globe.”
“What happened here?” Anderson demanded.
“I’ll tell you later,” Matthew replied. “Please just get Ben to the hospital. He was shot in the side.”
Anderson nodded to his men. “Pick him up and carry him downstairs. There is a wagon right outside the door.”
His two men exchanged uncertain glances. “What if someone tries to stop us?” one of them asked.
“Shoot them,” Anderson said bluntly. “Aim to kill. It’s time we sent a message.” He watched his men carry Ben out of the hall and then turned back to Matthew. “Do you need to go to the hospital?
“No,” Matthew assured him faintly, the reality of everything swarming through him now that he and Ben had been rescued.
Anderson’s eyes blazed as they swept the room. “My God!” he whispered. “How did this happen?” He shook his head and looked down at Matthew. “Do you need help?”
“I’ve been cramped up under the platform for a few hours,” Matthew admitted. “My legs are still deciding if they want to work.”
Anderson leaned down to peer under the platform, taking note of the blood pooled where Ben had been lying. He knelt down next to Matthew, wrapped an arm around his waist, and helped him stand, supporting him when Matthew swayed.
Now that Matthew was not limited to what he could see through the crack, he couldn’t control the vomit that rose in his throat as the sight of bodies, already bloated from the heat and covered with flies, filled his vision. He leaned forward as his body expelled the horror he had experienced for the last three hours. Anderson held him firmly and then handed him a canteen full of water. Matthew reached for it gratefully, drinking until the canteen was empty.
