Mr. Hallock calls for the vote. The man nearest them, George Morris, is the first.
“Aye,” he said.
“Mr. Snowden?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Rynders?”
Isaiah Rynders makes eye contact with Whitman before he speaks. “Nay.”
Mr. Hallock writes the results in a notebook with a silver pencil. “That’s one for no. Mr. Raymond?”
“Nay.”
The rest of the vote is split right down the middle, which leaves Mr. Greeley as the deciding vote. When it is his turn, the room goes silent, and all eyes are on him. He recounts the numbers on the paper, makes a few notes, then says: “Before I cast my vote, I have a few questions.”
“Questions?” Whitman can’t contain his surprise.
“You want us to humiliate New York law enforcement by essentially taking the law into our own hands,” Greeley says. “I want to be sure of the facts before making my decision.”
He continues. “This plot you’re suggesting—it’s so elaborate. Why would this Clement dissect his victims as you suggest?”
“A clumsy attempt to frame Mrs. Stowe and Miss Blackwell,” Walt says.
“Yes, yes,” Greeley says. “Fair enough, but what about the Mary Rogers case? Our committee did not lead to its resolution. Indeed, it may have done more harm than good with regard to public perception of law enforcement. You yourself are here tonight under the pretext that New York law enforcement cannot do its own job.”
“With regard to the Mary Rogers case, most New Yorkers believe Abraham Stowe is responsible for her death.” This is difficult for Walt to say. “In that sense, many would say the committee did work.”
Mr. Poe groans from the back of the room.
“Mr. Whitman, what you are suggesting sounds so obvious that, if it’s true, then the conspiracy is so broad and far-reaching that—” Greeley pauses.
“The mayor himself might be implicated? Make no mistake, Mr. Greeley, this fact is not lost on me,” Walt says. “This is why the committee must act—it is only as a body that we can confront such corruption. We, as citizens, have to take the law back. So, please, I implore you. Vote yes.”
Mr. Greeley strokes his chin, holds up his glass. “Congratulations. It appears as if you’ve convinced enough of us.”
Chapter 31
After the vote, a hat is passed around the room, and the men pitch in amounts ranging from $25 to $75. Later, Walt, Mr. Hallock, and Mr. Greeley each count the money, and when they all sign off on the same amount, $1,040, Mr. Greeley stores the reward money in his personal safe.
Whitman is elated. The sadness is there too, but he forces it deep inside where it will have to stay for now. He has to focus on his next task, and that is proving Elizabeth Blackwell’s innocence. As he crosses the street in the direction of Sweeny’s Hotel, a black carriage pulls alongside him and stops. The door opens to reveal Isaiah Rynders. “Mr. Whitman, a word?”
Walt glances inside the carriage and sees no one else.
“I assure you, it’s safe.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” Whitman turns to walk away but is stopped by what Rynders says next.
“I know what you’re thinking, but I had nothing to do with your friend’s death. Sometimes the people who work for me do things that I myself do not approve of, and I’m left covering for them. Please. I want to explain how we might all move forward.”
Walt opens his mouth to respond, but Rynders holds up his hand.
“If I’d wanted you dead, Mr. Whitman,” Rynders says, “believe me, you’d be dead.”
After Walt climbs into the carriage, neither man speaks for a moment.
Rynders clears his throat. “I’m glad you changed your mind.” Mr. Rynders smiles. “That was quite a presentation tonight,” he says. “You had much of the room convinced.”
“Not you.”
“You can hardly be surprised.” Mr. Rynders draws in a deep breath. “Besides, I’m not the one you need to convince.” He folds out a small panel in the seat next to him, causing Walt to jump up.
“Relax, Mr. Whitman. Just trying to be hospitable.” From the space behind the seat, he pulls a bottle of scotch. “Drink?”
“No, thank you.” Walt sits back down.
“Very well.” He pours himself a drink in a small glass from the compartment and takes a sip. “Warms the insides.”
“With all due respect, sir, why did you want to see me?”
“Yes, yes.” He takes another sip, sits back, and crosses his legs. “Since our altercation at Mr. Emerson’s speech, I’ve taken to learn all I can about you. I studied your Democratic rally speech in the Evening Post; I read your novel Franklin Evans and your stories “Death in the School-Room” and “Wild Frank’s Return.” And I have followed your editorials in the Aurora. You have a promising career as a writer.”
He pauses to give Whitman a chance to respond, but Walt doesn’t.
“I also know about your father’s poor business habits.”
Panic grips Walt at the mention of his father.
“He has trouble hanging on to his money, doesn’t he? And he might also benefit from reading your temperance novel.”
“How dare you involve my family?!”
“I see now, how to get your attention.” Mr. Rynders continues. “This committee you stirred into action tonight—well, to be frank, it won’t work.”
“You don’t know that,” Whitman says.
“You think you’re after Mr. Clement. Or even me. But we’re not the people that matter.” He coughs. “The people you’re after—they have already shut down your committee.”
“What people?”
“What do you know about the French Revolution, Mr. Whitman?”
“You said the committee won’t work. Why?”
Rynders ignores him. “The common misconception about the French Revolution is that when the lower class overthrew the ruling class, the ruling class went away.”
“Who will shut it down?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Rynders says, “if you’d only listen. The ruling class did not go away; they simply retreated from the public eye. Yes, they had setbacks. But they didn’t stay down long in France, or here, for that matter. You won’t see any of them—or rather, if you did, you wouldn’t know it. They are the ones who run everything in the country, and they shut down your little committee as soon as it was formed.” He snaps his fingers.
“So why tell me this now?”
“They want to offer you a way out.”
“A way out?”
“Drop this nonsense. Leave the city for a while, and it will go away.”
“What about Miss Blackwell?”
“You can’t save everyone, Mr. Whitman. She’ll die whether you agree to this or not.”
“If you think I’m going to stand idly by while the city hangs another innocent woman—”
“But you have nothing to do with it. Do you realize how egotistical that sounds?” He strokes his chin. “The citizens of this city want blood, and they want her. You don’t have to die too.”
“No!”
“Think about it. No need to answer now. They’ll be watching, and if they see you leave town, they’ll know your decision.”
“And if I don’t?”
“They’ll know that too.”
“What about the members of the committee?”
“They’re good men who do their best to represent their communities. They want to believe they can make a difference. When the committee doesn’t work, they will feel good inside because at least they did something. As far as the reward money goes, it will be given to anyone who comes forward with evidence.” He sips his drink. “But I can assure you, no one will come forward.”
“How can you allow this to happ
en?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Mr. Rynders takes another sip of his drink. “Nobody understands what I do, but everybody depends on the results.” He shakes his head. “Do you know how many immigrants arrive each day?
“What does this have to do with anything?”
“My point exactly. Hundreds, sometimes thousands, come to our city daily. They all want a chance at a better life but we simply cannot accommodate them all. In fact—” Rynders knocks his cane against the carriage ceiling. “I want you to see. Driver?”
The carriage slows to a stop. A man wearing a top hat opens the door. “Sir?”
“Take us to the wharves.”
The driver bows and closes the door.
Rynders turns to Walt. “When you see what I’m up against, perhaps you’ll begin to understand,” he says. “You’re an intelligent man.”
“You are the center of corruption.”
“What do you think happens to immigrants after they come off the ships? Do you suppose they become productive members of our society without assistance?” The carriage stops and the door opens. “Come, Mr. Whitman,” he says. “It won’t take long.”
Walt follows the shorter Rynders outside, where the wind springs off the water and bites into his exposed skin.
Rynders sees him wince. “Colder out here by the water, isn’t it? Just think how they feel.”
Whitman’s gaze follows Rynders’s outstretched hand into the pockets of shadows and light that line the walls and streets and crates. He sees scores of men, women, and children, huddled up like animals. A few of them sleep, but most of them merely sit there, their eyes open and blank.
“Who are they?”
Mr. Rynders sighs. “They are what’s left over from the ships today,” he says. “There isn’t enough room for them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Whitman. There are too many foreigners for this city to handle, but they come anyway. Many of the children will be dead by morning. Some of the men will find work; some won’t. The women have the best chance once they find the bars and brothels, but I’d hardly call that success. Tomorrow, the ships come in and this starts all over again.”
They pass a family in a rickety one-horse wagon. A man sits on a low board in front, driving, and a gauntish woman perches by his side with a baby well bundled in her arms, its little red feet and lower legs sticking out directly toward them as they pass. In the wagon behind, they see three crouching little children. It is a queer, taking, sad picture.
“What will happen to them?” Walt says.
“The children in the wagon are not well, and unless one of the parents can find employment, it is only a matter of time. Add to that the risk of disease, or crime, or the weather, and you see what these folks are up against.”
Whitman considers his words carefully. “Why doesn’t anyone do anything about this?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Mr. Rynders climbs back into the carriage. “I am doing something. I’m not the person you think I am. In my own way, I am trying to make the world a better place. I’ve set up shelters; I create jobs; I supply food. I can’t help everyone, as you can see, but we do help many of these people.” He pauses. “The world is a messy place. When you help one person, you hurt another—give one man a job and starve another man and his family. It’s tragic, but we trudge on, trying to make a difference.”
Walt shakes his head. “The Blackwell proceeding remains unjust.”
“Miss Blackwell will die,” Rynders says. “If you stay, you will die too. It’s that simple.”
“Three of my friends are dead,” Whitman says, his hands trembling. “Am I supposed to just forget about them?”
“To be honest, Mr. Whitman, it does not concern me. People die every day, and I’m trying to reduce that number.” He sighs. “Now, are you coming along? I’ll drop you at the hotel where Miss Zakrzewska is staying. Or you can walk.”
The mention of her name startles Walt. Rynders knows—
“Well?” Mr. Rynders says.
Whitman climbs into the carriage and shuts the door behind him.
Then Mr. Rynders taps the ceiling with his cane until the driver spurs the horses. “My guess is that you’ll do something unwise and end up dead anyway. And then life will go on without you.” He straightens in his seat. “The one mistake we all make is to think we’re irreplaceable.”
As the carriage rushes through the streets, Walt stares out the window. The buildings race by in a blur, the lights in the windows melting into one continuous stream. He has done everything he can, exhausted every idea. He failed Lena Stowe, he failed Henry Saunders, and now he can’t save Miss Blackwell, either. He remembers Lena’s execution—the ropes around her legs, wrists, and waist. The minister read her last rites, but nobody in the crowd could hear because of the wind. Then the sheriff counted to three, and her body dropped.
The carriage slows as it approaches the front of the hotel.
“Remember you can’t save the world, and no one expects you to, either,” Mr. Rynders says. He taps on the ceiling again, and the carriage stops. “We’ll be watching.”
“You’ll be watching,” Whitman says. “Listen to yourself. You help some folks, yes, which means you hurt others. That’s not a strategy. That’s a justification. I’ve seen firsthand the damage you’ve done, and maybe one day you will too.”
“Clearly, we share a difference of opinion.”
“A difference of opinion? Who knows how many people are dead because of you? The Stowes. Henry. How many innocent people were shot the other night? And throw in Elizabeth Blackwell while you’re at it. Jesus! Add to that what you’ve done to Azariah.”
This seems to catch Rynders off guard.
“And he defends you. Disgusting.” Whitman steps outside and the carriage speeds away.
He shivers and looks up at the moon—it has rotated thirty degrees or so, which means it must be close to ten. There is only one other person he can ask for help. He takes a deep breath, and instead of going into the hotel, he walks the other way.
Chapter 32
Edgar Poe is drunk when he answers the door, and this fact, along with the late hour, leads to a predictable outcome: Mr. Poe slams the door in Walt’s face. Walt knocks again. Nothing. And again. Nothing. And again. Mr. Poe is properly pissed off this time and engages in a one-sided shouting match until Walt shoehorns this in: “We met at the committee meeting tonight! You told me about the conspiracy! I need your help!”
The anger slips away now, and his voice softens. “Why didn’t you say so?” He opens the door and steps aside so Whitman can pass.
The room is fastidiously arranged and sparsely decorated—a rug in the center of it, colored deep red and gold, a sofa and chair atop it that have been arranged perfectly, and between the sofa and chair, a table and a lamp. A fire flickers in a stone fireplace. Above the hearth is a portrait of Virginia: her long black hair and eyes, and her pale skin. A writing desk sits in the corner near the fireplace. Each neat stack of books and the papers thereon suggest purpose, a trademark very much unlike his prose, Walt reflects.
Whitman sits on the red sofa, Mr. Poe in the indigo chair. He strikes Walt as a sickly sort, clearly intoxicated, and yet full of wit and intellect. His dark hair is wild, and his breathing is short and labored as if the man is out of breath.
“Nobody believed me,” Mr. Poe says. “Nobody until you.”
A voice calls out from the other room. “Edgar? Can you bring me my toddy?”
“But of course, dear—be right there!” Mr. Poe smiles at Walt. “I’ll return shortly.”
Whitman notices the spring in his step as Mr. Poe excuses himself. While he is gone, Walt stands and has a look around. He stops at Poe’s desk, where he notices that among the papers and books lays a copy of F
ranklin Evans. He picks up the novel—his novel—and shakes his head. Henry was right. It is not good. He thought it was good—indeed, it was the best he could manage at the time, but he knows now he was simply trying too hard to write something that a lot of people would buy. As he holds the book, he feels ashamed of his efforts. And now the manuscript of his follow-up, The Madman, has burned up in the fire. Perhaps for the best.
He thumbs through the latest edition of Snowden’s Ladies’ Companion to Poe’s third installment of “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt.” In the story, C. Auguste Dupin, the main character from “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” never actually solves the murder; he only tells the reader how the murderer might be found, something Walt finds strange. He turns to the last page of the story and discovers handwritten notes on Abraham Stowe’s innocence and a list of names including Mayor Morris and Isaiah Rynders. Walt sets down the magazine when Mr. Poe returns with a bottle of whiskey.
“She’s comfortable now,” he says, “the poor thing.”
“I hope she regains her health soon.”
Mr. Poe nods slowly. “You’ve read my ‘Marie Rogêt.’ You know what I believe.” Mr. Poe appears more at ease now and sits down again in the indigo chair. “What is it that I can help you with?”
“You set out to solve the Mary Rogers murder with your story.” Walt takes his place on the couch again.
“Yes.”
“And yet the story offers no solution.”
“I began that story thinking I knew enough to ratiocinate the solution, but the more I studied the murder, the more dead ends I encountered. I know Abraham Stowe did not kill Mary Rogers. Her body was staged at the murder scene to appear bludgeoned, but she died long before the bludgeoning. I consulted with a number of doctors who all confirmed my suspicions. We exhumed the body, and they reexamined it, and they all agree that the cause of death was likely a botched abortion. But the questions remain: Who ordered it, who performed it, and why is it so important to cover it up?”
Speakers of the Dead Page 20
